Free Way Down on the High Lonely by Don Winslow Page B

high as twelve thousand feet, were a blend of the darkest—almost black—green, and purple, with patches of gray stone and bright yellow spreads of wildflowers.
    Cattle dotted the landscape. Most grazed in small herds far from the road, but a more adventurous few explored the grass along the roadside, stopping to stare indignantly at the truck as it passed by. Steve had to stop once or twice for cows and calves that were standing in the middle of the road.
    “Most of what we’re on now is Hansen Cattle Company land,” Steve explained. “Hansen owns most of this part of the valley. In fact, my spread is about the only piece he hasn’t bought up the past few years.”
    “Does he want to buy you out?” Neal asked.
    “Oh, I suppose he would if I ever left, but he doesn’t seem to mind my puny presence. Bob Hansen’s a good guy, which is a good thing, seeing as how we’re each other’s only neighbors. His son Jory and my daughter Shelly are the hot item at the high school right now.”
    The truck lurched down into a particularly bumpy old wash. A jackrabbit, its big ears twitching with anxiety, broke out of the sagebrush and sprang away with long jumps at amazing speed. A skinny coyote appeared at the edge of the road, gave the truck a thanks-a-heap glare, and trotted back into the brush.
    They drove for another forty minutes or so before coming to the Mills place. It was a big, two-story log house that sat about two hundred yards east of the road, on the left side of the dirt driveway. An enormous hay bam just to the west almost dwarfed the house. On the side of the barn was an open shed, with two tractors and some other agricultural equipment that Neal didn’t recognize. About fifty yards north of the house was a corral made of metal piping. Three horses pricked up their ears at the sound of the truck, saw the vehicle, and trotted to the edge of the fence. There were two other, smaller livestock pens and then another barn beyond that.
    “It’s beautiful,” Neal said as he got out of the truck.
    He meant it. The Mills place seemed to stand alone in the sagebrush, the only building within sight in the beautiful valley, framed by the mountains. The stillness was at once soothing and alarming.
    “Yeah, well, it has its moments,” Steve said. “Of course, it’s under about two feet of snow from October to April, then you’re knee-deep in mud until sometime in June, then you got your dust until September, and autumn lasts about an hour and a half until it snows again. But goddamn if I don’t love it. Speaking of which, here’s the missus.”
    The “missus” was maybe five feet three on tiptoes. Her black hair, cut short just below her ears, framed her strong cheekbones, strong nose, strong jaw, and wide eyebrows. Her face wasn’t pretty. It was handsome, and its beauty wasn’t diminished by the laugh lines and worry lines etched by twenty years of crazy on an isolated ranch twenty miles from nowhere.
    She was wearing a red shirt tucked into trim blue jeans over white sneakers. Her sleeves were rolled up and the whole effect was one of energy, efficiency, and strength.
    She kissed her husband on the cheek and offered Neal her hand.
    “I brought home a stray,” Steve said to her. “This is Neal Carey.
    “I’m Peggy Mills. Welcome.”
    If she was surprised or annoyed at having a strange guest sprung on her, she didn’t show it. Neal had the feeling that he wasn’t the first stray that Steve had ever brought home.
    “Thank you.”
    “Has Steve been showing you the sights?”
    “Some of them.”
    “I’ll bet. Come on in.”
    She led them into the kitchen and sat Neal down at a wooden drop-leaf table. The kitchen was small but uncluttered. Pots, pans, and spoons hung from a metal ring above the sink. Checkered contact paper covered the counter.
    “Where’s Shelly?” Steve asked her.
    “Riding around with Jory Hansen. She should be back soon.”
    Steve chuckled. “Jory’s old man won’t like him