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336 pages, Hardcover
First published May 27, 2014
When he first met Hallie - which hadn't been that long ago, but seemed like a lifetime, like he'd always known her or been waiting to meet her - it had been clear that she didn't need anyone. It had also been clear that she could use help, whether she knew it or not, and he'd done his best to deliver. She'd appreciated it, but she didn't look for it. Over the last few months, they'd achieved an understanding about whom to talk to and whom to look for in a crowd, and whom to call when something happened. In a way, last night felt like they were back where they'd begun. He was pretty sure that if a challenge came along, say, this afternoon, Hallie would do her damnedest to keep him away from it. Not because she didn't trust him or believe that he could help. Not even - he didn't think - because she wanted to protect him, though she probably did; he knew he wanted to protect her.
She wouldn't keep it from him because she didn't trust him. She'd do it because she didn't trust herself. (p. 140)
He drove out of West Prairie City and headed south. He’d swing down past the ranch, though he’d already been that way earlier. It pulled at him, that ranch, so that he always knew where it was in relation to where he was, like magnetic north or homing pigeons.
Three cars passed him on the long loop, enough traffic so at this hour—three in the morning in the middle of the week—he watched them close. A cold dry wind blew out of the northwest. A tumbleweed bounced onto the road, hit the side of the car with a hollow scratch, and was gone somewhere behind him. A half mile later, he slowed to turn back onto the county road, no lights out here other than the stars and his own headlights. There was something ahead, a shadow in the twilight at the edge of his high beams. He slowed. Coyote. Another one. He tapped the brakes. Light from the coyote’s eyes reflected straight back at him, sharp and otherworldly. It trotted toward him along the road. When it drew parallel to the car, it turned its head and seemed to look directly at him before it angled across the old pavement and disappeared back into the night and the prairie.
Boyd idled his car. A vast nothingness surrounded him. Darkness and grass, wind and cold. He put his foot back on the gas, put a hand up to check the set of his collar, smooth the flap of his shirt pocket, brush nonexistent dust from the yoke of the steering wheel—so automatic, he barely noticed that he did it.
He felt a familiar tug as he passed the end of the drive up to Hallie’s ranch, like something real, like a wire. He didn’t answer it. It was past three, he was on duty, and he wasn’t that guy. The one who signed in, picked up his car, then drove home to sleep a few hours when he was supposed to be on patrol. He would never be that guy. Though he’d met guys like that—one or two—in the five years he’d been a police officer, met them at out-of-town trainings where they bragged in the bar after class. He didn’t understand—understood the pull, but didn’t understand—couldn’t—the dereliction. Because it was a promise, not to the job, but to the people in the towns and on the ranches. A promise that he would be where he said he was and that he would be ready. People said he was a Boy Scout, all honor and duty and service.
And he was.
So, there wasn’t any question when he passed Hallie’s drive that he would drive past.