Kindness Goes Unpunished (Walt Longmire, #3)

by Craig Johnson

I had warned her that lawyers shouldn’t marry other lawyers, that it only led to imbecile paralegals.

I drafted Vic before she could get out of the office and told her it was a chance for us to say goodbye before I left; of course, we could also be shot by the matching set of .308s with which Omar and Myra usually held their domestic disputes.

“You gonna stand?” “I don’t think I’ve got any choice if I want to get Vic in.” He shrugged. “I’d vote for her, but I’ve got the weakness.” Lucian was referring to his habit of addressing Vic’s chest as if it had an identity of its own. “The rest of Absaroka County is another question. Now, you can make sure she’s the next sheriff, but it’s gonna cost you a year or two of your life.” I made a face. “But then, I didn’t know yer life in office was so damn bad.” His gaze dropped back to the board. “Check.” I looked at the assembly of courtly pieces and placed a finger on my king, casually toppling him over to premature death. “Yep, well…no act of kindness goes unpunished.”

“Thinking you’re not in trouble and not being in trouble are two different things.”

Dog immediately jumped into the driver’s seat, another gentleman’s agreement broken, and we both watched as the big Indian casually crossed the sidewalk past the federal-style lampposts, mounted the steps, and disappeared behind the dark oak doors. People who were walking by stared at Henry, then at Lola, Dog, and me. I waved, but they didn’t wave back; so much for the City of Brotherly Love.

“When they’re little, you wonder what they’re going to be, and when they grow up you just want them to be happy.”

“We call it mugging. Out where I’m from, if you’ve got a horse with too much spirit, you just tie it to a mule for the night. When you come back the next morning, you’ll have a different horse.”

“No, I was just thinking. I do that, sometimes, before I talk.” Lena smiled, this time with her entire mouth. “Not me, robs the evening of all its spontaneity. A little wine, a little truth, and pretty soon you’ve got a real conversation on your hands.”

I’m sure I looked surprised. I’ve been punched in the face numerous times, sometimes on purpose and sometimes not. Henry had had the best shot when he popped me one in grade school but, other than that, a blow to my face has never been anything more than an irritation and a nuisance. Whatever it was that he had been expecting, it wasn’t me leaning in closer and whispering. “You do that again, and I’m going to pinch your head off.”

Like a lot of things in my life, I’d just about worn it out, but it was worn out with love, and that’s the best kind of worn-out there is. Maybe we’re like all those used cars, broken hand tools, articles of old clothing, scratched record albums, and dog-eared books. Maybe there really isn’t any such thing as mortality; that life simply wears us out with love.