Free Children of the Earth by Anna Schumacher Page A

on inside the glove box, illuminating a single, folded county map. He took it out and spread it across his knees. “It’s Carbon County. So what?”
    Vince cut his eyes from the road. “Take a look right there.” He tapped the map, making the paper crackle on Doug’s knees. “See that spot?”
    Doug squinted. Dusk was closing in outside, the sunset obscured by a heavy blanket of fog. “It’s the Peyton land. I know, Dad—you want it back. That’s why you started that lawsuit.”
    “
Screw
the lawsuit!” Vince slammed his fist hard on the wheel. “That damn lawyer’s taking too long—and charging by the hour at that. That’s not how the Varleys do things. We’re men, Wyoming men. We take action.”
    “Okay, Dad.” Doug rolled his eyes, but he secretly liked the way his dad said
Varley men
, his voice swollen with pride. It made Doug feel like they still meant something, he and his dad, even if the rest of the town didn’t realize it. “So what’s the plan this time?”
    “That spot.” Vince jabbed a thick finger into the map. “See where the western border falls?”
    “Uh.” Doug scratched at his perpetual stubble. “That’s in the scrubland, like, at the base of the mountains. Right?”
    “Mm-hmmm.” Vince nodded. “And guess who owns the land just over that border?”
    “I dunno.” Doug squinted at the thin red line. “The Forest Service?”
    “No, son.” Vince hit the turn signal, maneuvering the Buick onto a narrow dirt road. “We do.”
    “Huh.” Doug looked from the map to his father and then back again. “So?”
    “So, that land is right next to where those damn Peytons struck oil. It was
all
ours, until my great-granddad turned around and sold that parcel to the Peytons for a dollar, like a fool.”
    “So you think there might be oil on our land after all?” Doug asked hopefully. Striking oil would solve all their problems. They could finish the house, and his mom would stop hounding him about getting a job, and he could finally send Janie to a shrink or something, get her the help she obviously needed.
    “No, son.” Vince sighed heavily. “You know the only oil in town is below Floyd’s land—and don’t think half this town isn’t looking. But the reserves on the Peyton land: Now those are deep. Way deeper than they’ve drilled for.”
    “Huh.” Doug squinted out the windshield. He didn’t know what his dad was getting at, but he bet Vince would give it up soon.
    “So you see,” Vince continued, “if we open up our own rig on this land here, on
our
land”—he jabbed at the map again, his finger poking into Doug’s thigh—“if we do that, we can run a pipeline down to
bel
ow
Floyd’s well. We’ll pump it out of a rig on our land, call it Varley oil, and make a mint.” He laughed gruffly. “Oh, it’ll be beautiful, all right. We’ll drink from Floyd Peyton’s milkshake, and justice will be restored.”
    “Hey.” Doug sat back against the leather seat. “That’s not a bad plan, Dad. That’s actually pretty fucking genius.”
    “Language!” Vince snapped automatically. But he was grinning, the thrill of a newly hatched plan glowing in his eyes.
    He brought the Buick to a slow stop below the old motocross track parking lot, cutting the motor and letting the car tick into silence.
    “So, uh, what’re we doing here?” Doug asked. The motocross track still gave him the creeps. Sure, it sucked to see his brand-new dirt bike, the one he’d only ridden once, gathering dust in the garage. But it was worth it to never have to go back to the track. There were too many bad memories there: his best buddy, Trey, dying in the race against Owen that Doug should have run himself, his wife thrashing and writhing in the firelight, about to give birth to a hideous dead thing that should have been his son. Thinking about that night made something small and hard clench inside of him. He’d run away from her that night, powerless in the face of birth, absent in