Free New Way to Fly by Margot Dalton

outcrop of land was one that Brock Munroe seldom visited unless he was searching for lost stock or needed to repair the fence. It was also the highest point on his property, and the closest to any neighboring ranch buildings.
    In fact, from his vantage point Brock could gaze right down into the Gibson ranch yard, see the houseand the comings and goings of its occupants. He watched from behind his bank of dusty greenery, feeling vaguely uneasy as Luke Harte strolled down the back steps and started off in the direction of the corrals, thumbs cocked into his belt loops, rolling cowboy walk clearly discernible even from this distance.
    Mary appeared in the doorway and called something to the young man. He paused, turning to reply. Brock could see Luke’s teeth flashing white in the sunlight against his sun-browned face and dark mustache, and hear Mary’s gentle voice rising on the wind before she vanished back inside the house.
    Thoughtfully, Brock settled back against the gnarled tree trunk behind him and munched on an apple, his face troubled.
    He didn’t like the idea of Luke Harte living down there at the Gibson place with Mary. Even worse, Brock hated the idea that a few local people were already beginning to whisper about the situation, speculating rudely and joking about what might be going on in Bubba’s absence.
    â€œGoddammit anyhow,” Brock muttered aloud to his dog, who had his nose buried deep in the recesses of the soup bone and was gnawing ecstatically. “People just plumb make you sick, don’t they, Alvin? If they have half a chance they’ll gossip aboutanybody, and not even give a thought to how mean they’re being.”
    Brock watched his fat dog devouring the meat on the big bone. He shook his head, still thinking about Mary Gibson.
    Mary had always been so kind to Brock Munroe, the closest to a mother that he’d had for most of his life. He could hardly bear the way she’d been suffering, first at Bubba’s unfaithfulness, then his disgrace, and now the whispers and slurs from a few of their more uncharitable neighbors.
    Of course Mary needed someone to help her run the ranch, Brock mused. She was a proud independent woman, but too gentle and unskilled to do it all alone. And she stubbornly refused to accept offers of ongoing help from the neighboring ranchers, knowing that they were all busy with their own places and her husband might not be coming home for a long, long time.
    If ever, Brock thought, remembering the grim look on Mary’s face last time she’d mentioned Bubba, or Al, as she always called him, refusing to accept his lifelong nickname. In fact, Mary was the only person Brock knew who called her husband by his given name.
    Brock wondered if Mary would let Bubba come home again when he’d served his time, or if she’djust give up on everything, sell the place and go live with her daughter in Connecticut.
    Maybe she’d be forced to do that, he thought unhappily, remembering some whispers he’d heard about Bubba’s debts, troubles with the bank and several defaulted loans.
    â€œPoor Mary,” Brock muttered aloud. “ Damn, I wish I could…”
    But he never finished his thought. At that moment, a small bright red vehicle rounded the stand of live oak trees near the windmill and pulled up in front of Mary’s house. Brock took one startled look at the little car and its driver. Then he dived into his truck, rummaging beneath the passenger seat for his hammer and pliers.
    At last he found them, snatched them up and moved out into full view on the hilltop, pounding carefully on the stretch of fencing and glancing surreptitiously at the woman in the ranch yard far below, who was now leaning into the back seat of her little car and pulling out many pink-striped boxes and bags.
    Brock stretched the wire and pounded staples automatically, gazing with hungry intensity at the view that was being offered him. He saw a