There hasn't been a day since I started visiting her a couple years ago that she didn't greet me with those words.
I stop a few feet from her. "Do you have a list for me? I have those plants you asked for in the back of my truck."
"Oh yes, yes. On the kitchen table." She gets up slowly, and I lean forward, ready to help her if she needs it. I learned not to verbally offer her assistance, so instead I act like I'm not even thinking about it when really I'm paying close attention.
I walk in front of her and open the door. She may not like help, but she appreciates gentlemanly behavior.
Like she said, the note is on the kitchen table. She makes herself a cup of tea while I read her scrawling cursive.
"Shorter than a couple weeks ago," I comment, holding the slip of paper in the air.
She places a tea bag in the steaming water and smirks. "I'll make sure to think of more stuff for next time."
I laugh and get to work. Most of the work is minor, maintenance type things. A couple of trees are overgrown and need to be trimmed. Two of her wooden fence posts are broken and need to be replaced. I clean a few windows I know she cannot reach. When I see her bending down to weed her herb garden, I make a mental note to build her a planter box that is hip height, so she no longer has to bend over. I'll tell her I found it in a pile meant for bulk trash, otherwise she won't accept it, and I won't say a damn word about how she shouldn't be bending over like that anymore.
She's back in her chair on her front porch when I'm done. Like always, there is a crisp twenty-dollar bill on the table beside her. She picks it up and hands it to me.
"Thank you for helping me, young man."
"You're welcome."
"I'll be getting some company in a few days. Two of my grandsons are coming to visit."
Grandsons? I thought she only had one.
"That's nice, Mrs. Calhoun. What are their names?"
"Ricky and Chris Marks. Brothers."
"Good." I smile at her. "I'm sure it will be nice to see them. If you don't mind, I'm going to grab a drink of water and I'll get out of your hair."
I walk into the house, get a drink, and slip the twenty back into her wallet where it came from. Like always.
Later that night, when I'm by myself in my house, I search the internet for Ricky and Chris Marks. I don't like what I find.
The brothers, twenty-two and twenty-four, were found in possession of meth and sentenced to three years in prison. Everybody makes mistakes, I know that more than anybody, but something about the photo that accompanies the story rubs me the wrong way.
Maybe it's that they look so much like Dixon, if not by physical characteristics than by facial expression.
Arrogant. Entitled. Like the world stole something from them, and they're planning to get it back.
The date on the article is from just over three years ago.
I could give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe prison changed them. Maybe they got degrees while they were in, or found Jesus.
Either way, I'll make sure I pay close attention when they get to town.
7
Jo
I havea teensy bit of a headache. After meeting with the sheriff yesterday, I stewed for the remainder of the day. And, as soon as it was reasonably acceptable, I opened a bottle of wine.
A few years ago, the idea of forced proximity with Wyatt Hayden would have sent me into a tailspin of hearts and flowers. Now it drives me to drink.
I could've said no to him helping on the ranch, as Shelby pointed out last night. And I wanted to, I really did. But even as much as I'd like to make him squirm, I couldn't say no. I don't know what was awaiting him if not for community service, but I didn't want to deliver him straight to it.
Dakota's on her way to meet me here at the Circle B. I'm standing outside my car, looking around.
