Free Shots Fired by C. J. Box Page A

five-pound can of Folgers under the sink, and set about making a pot.
    While it dripped and the aroma filled the kitchen, she came out of the bedroom wrapped in a blanket so long it brushed the floor. He glimpsed her thin brown feet and painted nails, and looked up to see her naked shoulder, a valentine-shaped face, bed-mussed black hair. Her eyes were obsidian pebbles perched over her cheekbones. He had yet to tire of simply looking at her.
    â€œDid you hear that big plane last night?” she asked.
    â€œI heard a roar. I thought it was me.”
    She smiled. “You did roar, but earlier. You were sleeping when the plane came over us. It seemed really low. I felt you tense up when it came over, like you were going to jump out of bed and grab a gun.”
    Nate didn’t respond. She padded over and put her hand on his shoulder.
    â€œDo you know who is in the plane?”
    He shrugged and said, “I’ve got an idea.”
    â€œAre you going to say?”
    â€œNo, not yet.”
    â€œYou drive me crazy,” she said.
    â€œYou drive me wild,” he said, putting his own hand over hers.
    â€œI’ve got to take a shower,” she said, slipping from his touch and reaching out to hook a strand of his long hair over his ear. He liked the intimate familiarity of the gesture. “I’ve got to get to school by seven-thirty. Playground duty.”
    â€œI’ll bring you a cup of coffee when it’s done.”
    â€œThat would be nice,” she said, and left.
    Alisha taught third grade and coached in the high school. She had a master’s degree in electrical engineering and a minor in American history and had married a white golf pro she met in college. After working in Denver for six years and watching her marriage fade away as the golf pro toured and strayed, she divorced him and returned to the reservation to teach, saying she felt an obligation to give something back. Nate met her while he was scouting for a lek of sage chickens for his birds to hunt. When he first saw her she was on a long walk by herself through the knee-high sagebrush in the breaklands. She walked with purpose, talking to herself and gesticulating in the air with her hands. She had no idea he was there. When he drove up she looked directly at him with surprise. Realizing how far she had come from the res, she asked him for a ride back to her house. He invited her to climb into his Jeep, and while he drove her home, she told him she liked the idea of being back but was having trouble with reentry.
    â€œHow can you find balance in a place where the same boys who participate in a sun dance in which they seek a vision and pierce themselves are also obsessed with Grand Theft Auto and Call of Duty: Black Ops?” she asked. Nate had no answer to that.
    She said her struggle was made worse when her brother Bob intimated that he always knew she would come back, since everybody did when they found out they couldn’t hack it on the outside. She told Nate that during the walk she had beenarguing with herself about returning, weighing the frustration of day-to-day life on the reservation and dealing with Bobby against her desire to teach the children of her friends, relatives, and tribal members. Later, Nate showed her his birds and invited her on a hunt. She went along and said she appreciated the combination of grace and savagery of falconry, and saw the same elements in him. He took it as a compliment. They went back to her house that night. That was three months ago. Now he spent at least two nights a week there.
    Nate was tying his hair back into a ponytail with a rubber band when Bad Bob Whiteplume entered the kitchen from outside without knocking. Bad Bob was halfway across the kitchen before he saw Nate in the doorway.
    â€œI smelled coffee,” Bad Bob said, squinting at Nate and looking him up and down. “You’re here again, huh?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBoinking my