Black Hills

table. He turned something over, casually—too casually—as she stepped in.
    A photograph, she thought, from the brief glimpse.
    “I can make a sandwich,” she said. “That’s about all I have time for. I want to go take my shift outside.”
    “I picked up a pizza in town. It’s in the oven on warm.”
    “Okay. That works, too.”
    “I’ll finish up here. We’ll grab a slice together, and take first shift.”
    “What are you working on?”
    “Couple of things.”
    Annoyed with the nonresponse, she simply walked back to the kitchen.
    There, on her table was a vase filled with yellow tulips. Because they made her eyes sting and her heart soften, she turned away to get plates down. She heard him come in as she dealt with the pizza.
    “The flowers are pretty, thank you. They don’t fix things.”
    “Pretty’s good enough.” He’d had to nag the woman who owned the flower shop to open back up and sell them to him. But pretty was good enough. “Do you want a beer?”
    “No, I’ll stick with water.” She turned with two plates and nearly rammed him. “What?”
    “We could take a break tomorrow. I could take you out to dinner, maybe a movie.”
    “Dates won’t fix things either. And I don’t feel right being away too long. Not now.”
    “Okay. Once the system’s up and running, you can make dinner, and I’ll rent a movie.”
    He took the plates, carried them to the table.
    “Doesn’t it matter how mad I am at you?”
    “No. Or it doesn’t matter as much as the fact that I love you. I’ve waited this long. I can wait until you stop being mad at me.”
    “It might be a really long wait.”
    “Well.” He sat, picked up a slice. “Like I keep saying. I’m not going anywhere.”
    She sat down, picked up a slice of her own. “I’m still mad—plenty—but I’m too hungry to bother about it right now.”
    He smiled. “It’s good pizza.”
    It was, she thought.
    And, damn it, the tulips really were pretty.

22
    In his cave, deep in the hills, he studied his take. He imagined the watch—decent, high middle-range—had been a birthday or Christmas present. He liked to imagine good old Jim opening it, expressing his pleasure and surprise, giving his wife—also very decent if she looked like the photo in the wallet—a thank-you kiss.
    Six months, maybe a year down the road, he could pawn it if he needed some cash. Right now, thanks to good old Jim, he was flush with the $122.86 he’d taken out of Jim’s pockets.
    He’d also scored a Swiss Army knife—you could never have too many—a hotel key card, a half pack of Big Red gum, and a Canon Pow ershot digital camera.
    He spent some time figuring out how to work it, then scrolling through the pictures Jim had taken that day. Mostly scenery, with a few shots of Deadwood, and a couple of the not-shabby Mrs. Jim.
    He shut it off to preserve the battery, though Jim had considerately brought along a spare in his pack.
    It was a good-quality pack, and brand-spanking-new. That would be handy down the road. Then there were the trail snacks, extra water, first-aid kit. He imagined Jim reading a hiking guide, making himself a checklist for what he should take on a day trip. Matches, bandages and gauze, Tylenol, a little notebook, a whistle, a trail map, and the hiking guide, of course.
    None of that had done Jim any good, because he was an amateur. An intruder.
    He’d been meat.
    Spry though, he mused as he munched on some of Jim’s trail mix. The fucker could run. Still, it had been so easy to herd the bastard along, to push him farther off the trail, to move him toward the river.
    Good times.
    He’d gotten a good shirt and a new jacket out of the match, too. A shame about the boots. The bastard had good Timberlands. And really small feet.
    All in all, it had been a good hunt. He’d give Jim six out of ten. And the take was prime.
    He’d considered the rain a bonus. No way the half-assed cops and rangers, the hayseed local yokels, would find any sign of good old Jim with the rain washing out the tracks.
    He could have, he and those who’d come before him. Those who owned the holy ground.
    It had saved him the time and trouble of backtracking, brushing out tracks, laying false trails. Not that he minded doing all that. It was part of the job, after all, and carried some satisfaction.
    But when Nature offered you a gift, you took it with thanks.
    The problem was, sometimes the gift was a booby prize.
    Without the rain, the flooding, old Jim