The Law of Moses (45 page)

“What’s Eli showing you? Besides the horse.” I was grateful Tag didn’t comment on the woman in my bed. I knew he wanted to. I could practically hear his restraint crackling across our connection.

“Everything. Anything.” I sighed. “He shows me everything.”

“But most of all, what is he showing you?”

“Calico, Georgia . . . freakin’ Stewy Stinker and the Bad Men.”

“Who’s the bad man?” Tag shot back sharply.

“No. It’s not that. It’s a book Georgia would always read Eli.” But even as I said it, I wasn’t so sure. I walked as I spoke, making my way back across the yard. Georgia stood framed in the opening of the sliding glass door, a cup of coffee wrapped in one hand, trying to keep the quilt from my bed secured around her with the other. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders and her face was still soft from sleep. It was enough to make me weak in the knees and chase all the bad men from my mind.

“Gotta go, Tag. The woman in my bed is awake.”

“Lucky son-of-a-bitch. Later, Mo. And don’t forget to ask her where she got the horse.”

Georgia

ELI NEVER HAD A FAVORITE COLOR. He could never decide. Every day it was something new. Orange, apple red, sky blue, John Deere green. He stuck with yellow for a whole week because it was the color of sunshine, only to change his mind and declare that brown was the best because Calico, Eli and I all had brown eyes, just like dirt, and he really loved dirt. Whenever someone asked what his favorite was, he said something different, until one day he answered “rainbow.”

Last year, on the anniversary of his death, I bought fifty big balloons in as many colors as I could find, rented a helium tank so I wouldn’t have to transport them, and let them loose out in the corral, in my own private little ceremony. I thought it would make me feel better, but as I released the balloons and watched them float up, up and away, I was overcome with grief, seeing the fragile little bubbles, all that joyful color, floating away beyond my reach, never to return.

This year I didn’t know what I would do. I liked the idea of planting trees, but it was the wrong time of year. I liked the idea of donating to a charity in Eli’s name, but I didn’t have much extra to give. Moses had incorporated Eli into the mural in the barn—Eli rode the white horse as it climbed into the clouds, his head flung back, his little arms raised, his bare feet curled against the haunches of the magnificent creature. Moses was almost done, and it was spectacular. My parents hadn’t said a word about it, but I’d caught my dad standing, looking at it in wonder, tears streaming down his cheeks. My dad still blamed himself for Eli’s death. There was plenty of blame to go around. But the way he looked at that picture, smiling through his tears, made me think he was letting it go. And maybe that was enough. Maybe the fact that we were all moving forward, that Moses was back, maybe that was enough. Maybe we didn’t need any grand gestures to telegraph our remembrance.

As I left Moses that morning, insisting that I could walk around the corner without an escort, he pulled me to him, kissed me softly, and told me he would miss me. And then he watched me walk away as if I were the balloon and he was the one wishing he hadn’t let go.

“Georgia!” he called suddenly, and I turned with a smile.

“Yeah?”

“Where did you get Calico?”

It was such a random question, so at odds with his longing-filled gaze, that I stared at him for a couple of seconds, my thoughts temporarily tangled.

“We got her from Sheriff Dawson. Why?”

Georgia

THE HOUSE FELT UNUSUALLY still as I slipped in the door, padded down the hall to my room, and got ready for my day. The door to my parents’ room was closed, and at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning, that was pretty unusual. But I didn’t question my good fortune, not wanting to defend myself or the fact that I hadn’t come home the night before.

The conversation would come, and there were decisions to make. But not yet.

I had a busy morning lined up. I had a two-hour session with my autistic kids from ten until noon and after that, an exploratory interview with some military higher-ups from Hill Air Force Base who were interested in using Equine Therapy for airmen and their families struggling with PTSD. Hill AFB was in Ogden, two and a half hours north of Levan, and I wasn’t sure yet how I would make that work if they wanted me on base several days a week. But I was willing to explore it, and I was starting to think it might be a Godsend. Plus, Moses had a place in Salt Lake, which was only thirty minutes from Ogden, making the commute a few days a week much more doable, making life a whole lot easier for Moses if we wanted to be together. Levan was a great place to live, but not for Moses. I couldn’t imagine him wanting to move into Kathleen’s old house and spend the rest of his life here, painting pictures and watching me train horses and teach people. But maybe there was a way for us to do both.

At three o’clock, Dale Garrett was coming to get Cuss. The ornery animal was sufficiently house-broken and I was looking forward to showing Dale his improvements. But when three rolled around, my classes and meetings done for the day, Dale didn’t want to talk about Cuss. In fact, he arrived in his pick-up, pulling his trailer, clearly prepared to take Cuss home, but then he sat in his cab on the phone for a good twenty minutes, making me wait and wonder. He held up a finger when I finally approached his truck, indicating for me to hold on, and so I stood with my arms folded, waiting for him to finish his call, more than a little irritated. When he climbed out and I greeted him, turning immediately back toward the barn where Cuss was waiting for his riding demonstration, Dale didn’t waste any time letting me know what was on his mind.

“Did you hear about the Kendrick girl?”

I stiffened but kept walking, the conversation I’d had with Moses last night, running through my mind. We talked about a Kendrick, but somehow I didn’t think she was who Dale was referring to.

“Lisa?”

“Yeah. That’s her. The little blonde, seventeen or so?”

I cringed inwardly but kept my face neutral. “Yeah. And no. I didn’t hear.”

“They found the van she drives, door hanging open, pulled off the side of the road just north of town. She left her boyfriend’s house in Nephi last night and never came home. Her parents realized this morning, called the boyfriend, called her friends, called all the neighbors, and eventually called the police. Whole town is in an uproar.”

“Oh, no,” I breathed.

“Yeah. Unbelievable.” He looked at me steadily. “People are talking about you again, Georgia. And it’s a damn shame. But your name is forever going to be linked with his.”

I raised my eyebrows and pursed my lips. “What are you talking about, Dale?”

“Nobody’s waitin’ around on this one. Word is out that they already dusted the van for prints. Just preliminary stuff. And someone leaked out that Moses Wright’s prints are all over that van.”

Moses

I FELL ASLEEP. That was all. I’d finished sanding the deck, my eyes straying to Georgia’s corrals and outbuildings throughout the morning, catching a glimpse of her now and then, which helped me relax and eased the nagging worry I could not shake. When my back started to scream and my arms were sloppy with fatigue, I took a break, fixed myself some lunch, and climbed into the big brass tub Georgia had occupied last night, making me miss her and contemplate how I was going to get her there again as soon as possible. The heat and the lapping water soothed me, and I hadn’t slept at all the night before. My eyes grew heavy and my thoughts slowed, and I finished my bath in a muggy stupor, sluggishly pulled on some jeans, and fell across my bed on my belly, my face sinking into the pillow Georgia had slept on the night before.

I was asleep instantly.

I woke up with a gun pointed at my head.

“THAT WAS TOO EASY. I didn’t know how this was all going to go down. I thought I’d have to shoot you straight up when I came through the front door.”

I wondered why he hadn’t, and then decided shooting me in the back while I slept would be harder to explain. And he was going to have an explanation, I was convinced of that. He was dressed in his uniform, dark brown pants and dress shirt ironed and tidy, so official. And I had a feeling I was officially dead.

“You here to arrest me or kill me, Sheriff?” I asked conversationally, my hands in the air as he ushered me down the narrow stairs, his gun at my back. I didn’t know where we were going, but my feet and upper body were bare and I wasn’t dressed to leave the house. I wasn’t dressed for the narrative he might have in mind.

We walked through the kitchen and stopped.

“Grab one of those knives. In fact, grab the whole block,” he instructed, nodding toward the new, black handled set of knives I’d purchased for the house.

I stared at him, unmoving. I was not going to help him kill me.

He fired the gun, burying a bullet in the cupboard near my head. His eyes were flat and his shooting hand was steady.

“Take the knife!” he repeated, raising his voice, his finger on the trigger, just waiting for me to comply. I considered him for a moment, my heart racing, pulse pounding, adrenaline making me want to grab the knives, just like he said, and start hurling them toward him. I reached toward the block and drew out the longest, sharpest knife of the bunch and held it loosely in my hand. The sheriff obviously hadn’t talked to his nephew about my appreciation for knives.

“You want me to throw this at you, Sheriff? Maybe cut you a little, so it all looks like you had to do it? You’re just here to arrest me for something, I’m not entirely clear what, and I come at you with a knife, so you have to shoot me. Is that your plan? Shouldn’t you be reading me my rights or telling me why I’m under arrest?”