The Last Ranch (46 page)

Kevin sent the wounded out first with half his squad at the edge of the LZ perimeter covering the lift-off. When the loaded chopper went airborne, Kevin carefully scanned for movement across the LZ. All was still.

He called in another chopper and when it landed, he zigzagged across the LZ behind his men, expecting all hell to break loose. It wasn't until everyone was safe and in the air on the way back to the base that he remembered the butterfly. Once upon a time, he'd been saved by a mosquito bite. This time it had been by a beautiful orange butterfly that had floated to him through the light. Who in the hell would believe that story?

Everybody survived, including the kid with the hole in his gut.

Ten days and a wake-up before he was due to rotate out, a general from Saigon flew up and pinned the Silver Star on Kevin's chest. His squad leader on the extraction team got the Bronze Star with a V for valor, and the rest of the men received commendation medals also with V devices. The wounded had already received their coveted Purple Hearts. Colonel Rutherford also got a medal for directing and commanding the successful operation from the safety of his command bunker. It was all a little ridiculous in Kevin's mind, especially Rutherford's decoration.

Later in the day, when he told his platoon the colonel's medal
was richly deserved it earned him a big laugh. His platoon sergeant remarked that he didn't know until that very moment the lieutenant had a sense of humor. Smiling, Kevin promised it wouldn't happen again.

He expected to spend the last few months of his tour pushing papers somewhere in Saigon, but a big surprise came with orders promoting him to first lieutenant and sending him home early. Kevin figured a general's eager young son sporting new second Louie bars badly needed to qualify for a Combat Infantry Badge before the war wound down.

He couldn't care less.

He decided to wait to call his folks until he was safely out of the country. That night before turning in, he packed his gear and tore up his short-timer's calendar. In the morning he'd leave for Tan Son Nhut Air Base, the first stop on his way home.

He thought about the clear blue skies of the Tularosa and the vast landscape of desert and mountains that always filled his senses. He thought about the peace and solitude that awaited him, and the soft, lazy days ahead with family and friends. He was alive.

He fell asleep dreaming of butterflies.

Playing soldier and building forts in the woods with my friend Max after the war. Helping Sonny and Shirley, who lived on the next farm over, bale hay. Taking care of Maggie's chickens long after they stopped laying eggs. Watching Leroy threaten to fall out of the tree and then couldn't do it. Frustrating Mrs. Morris, who tried to teach me how to square dance in a three-room schoolhouse and couldn't. Riding my one-eyed blue roan pony to school. Seeing the smoldering ashes of the big country house where we'd once lived.

Living in town and palling around with Joe Maggio; Skip Kinsey; Tommy Tom; Darlene Fox; Christine Lipinski; Linda Quick, the sheriff's daughter; and sweet Lorraine. Later in the city with Michael M., Chris, Kerry, Fred, Nancy, Jane, Josh Jr., Beverly, Isabel, Brandon, Leslie, Natalie, Mavourneen, and all the other rising young stars chasing fame long before it got made into a movie.

On the line in army green with Tony and Fred: two buddies who always had my back. Also Sug the lady-killer, Sergeant Toms, and the major who wanted me to reup and become a lifer. (Not the one with the cute daughter I tried to fall in love with.)

At UNM getting schooled by Hanrahan, Thygerson, Zudi, Bob Morgan, Sidney Rosenblum, and Jim Ruddle while partying with
Jim and Sally and Johnny, my roommate, who drove the coeds crazy. Tom McKenna, my navy vet buddy; Squirrel, who did a mean iron cross on the rings; Dee from the Hub City; Helen; Almut; and all the other party girls. For Gerry, who went CIA straight out of grad school; Mark, who died too young; Charney, who was way too wild; and Tony Hillerman long before he got famous writing mysteries. To Maxie Anderson at Ranchers Exploration and Development, who funded a start-up educational publishing company that rescued me from unloading freight cars for Railway Express at the Albuquerque rail yards and got me started writing.

In San Francisco during the first glimmer of the hippie movement thinking maybe I should become a cop. In Los Angeles for Hollywood nights with Penny and Hugh; Frank and Judy; Vernon, the best-dressed social worker in East L.A.; the beautiful Joann with the flaming red hair. Brian the neighborhood dealer; and Bruce, his sidekick. Steve the primo shrink at the L.A. Free Clinic and his lovely wife, Carol. And Jimi Hendrix's knockout social worker girlfriend, and sweet, motherly Henrietta who remembered the good old days in Southern California. Also Leslie, who wanted to be a movie star and did a TV furniture-polish commercial before vanishing forever. Living among the hippies in Sierra Madre Canyon watching Watts burn and El Monte riot. And our neighbor, Lanny G., another vet buddy now entrenched in Mexico making art. Marching against the war with other vets down Hollywood Boulevard, and that one hot summer night when the detectives from the Hollywood Precinct, who looked and dressed like movie stars, grilled me for a murder on my doorstep that I honestly didn't commit. And to our guardian angels: Dot, a true Southern belle and her husband, Vic, a streetwise taxi driver who pulled the night shift just for the fun of it.

Back in New Mexico, to my old friend Dave Hernandez, who
thought I'd make a good cop, and Bev, Ron, Roger, and Judy, four really good cops who did their jobs with pride. To Eddie Ortiz, one of the Santa Fe good guys. His funeral packed the cathedral.

Before that in grad school at Iowa City with fellow student Hildegard and my adviser Katie Kruse. Dr. Robert S., the kindhearted shrink who took a hard fall; Jim Styles; and Carol and Chuck in Cedar Rapids. And Flakey, wherever he may be; lovely Linda who sashayed off to Puerto Rico and back to Santa Fe on her way to who-knows-where; and F. Robertson, lost somewhere in Albuquerque shrinking heads.

A hand salute to Mark, a combat vet with a Bronze Star and an ace buddy who bounces back from fuckups at the speed of light. To MIA friends Bill and Peggy, Cliff and Inez, Perk and Alice, Tony and Connie, Brian and Judith, and Marty and Marti.

For good friends Elias and Susan, Bill and Debora, John and Jann, Joe and Valerie, Danny and Fala, Lucy and Roberto, Luis and Carmella, Wes and Maura, the irrepressible Betsy Reed, Terri and Polly, and the infamous St. Charmay of the Good Works. Also artist Peter Rogers, aka De La Fuente, and his lady, Beth; our great neighbors Lisa and Jim; and the unstoppable Dorothy Massey from Collected Works, who helps make literature and books blossom in Santa Fe.

For Robert, Marie, James, Richard, and Waldo, who all tried real hard not to be crazy but never quite made it, and to Cowboy Bob—in his day the best shrink in Santa Fe. To the brilliant Jeff Sloan, gone but not forgotten, and the equally brilliant Richard Bradford of
Red Sky at Morning
fame, also departed much too soon. You guys always made me think and laugh. To Carol, who moved away to Arizona to get happy. For George, the courtly lieutenant colonel with the Silver Star, and sweet, sassy Miriam at the Department of Health, who joked she taught me how to write. For
Carla Muth, who gave me a job when I needed one, and Larry Martinez, who thought my attempt to be a writer was cool.

But long before that, for Sammy, Betty, Judy, Bill, Johnny, Vicky, Mabel, Lucille, and Evangeline, who haunted the Santa Fe barrios with me back in the day when we tried to salvage glue-sniffing kids who didn't think anybody cared. And those few schoolteachers who really did care, especially Mary Ann, Dolores, Sue, Kathy, and Mary.

For Hilary Hinzmann, a classy guy and brilliant editor who thought maybe I could learn to write. For Di Bingham, my Aussie mate who runs our website from ten thousand miles away. And last, to Emily Beth, my sweetie and best friend these many years. Truly, every book has been because of you.

MICHAEL McGARRITY
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
Backlands
,
Hard Country
, the Anthony Award–nominated
Tularosa
, and eleven other bestselling Kevin Kerney crime novels. A former deputy sheriff for Santa Fe County, he also served as an instructor at the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy and as an investigator for the New Mexico public defender's office. He lives in Santa Fe with his wife, Emily Beth.

Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!