Montana Sky

only been grief and rage that had caused him to want to bring them pain, as he had pain. But now he’d put that solidly at the old man’s door, where it belonged.
    He’d left a sign there too, one that had made him weep and laugh all at once.
    Now it was time for bigger game, so he hunted the redheaded whore.
    He picked her up in Bozeman, a twenty-dollar street hooker he didn’t figure would be missed. She was bone-thin and dumb as a post, but she had a mouth like a suction cup and knew how to use it. When they were in the cab of his rig and her face was buried in his lap she worked off the first twenty, and he ran his fingers through her long red hair.
    It was probably dyed, but that didn’t matter. It was a fine bright color, and it was clean. Dreaming of what was to come, he laid his head back, closed his eyes, and let her earn her keep.
    “You’re hung like a bull, cowboy,” she said when it was done. “I shoulda charged you by the inch.” It was her standard line after a blow job and usually earned a quick grin if not a modest tip. She wasn’t disappointed when he flashed his teeth and bumped his hips up to reach for his wallet.
    “I got another fifty here, sweetheart. Let’s take a little ride.”
    She was cautious, a woman in her profession had to be. But her gaze latched greedily on the dead president he held between forefinger and thumb. “Where to?”
    “I’m a country boy, towns crowd me. Let’s find us a nice quiet spot and we’ll set the springs in this old rig creaking.” When she hesitated, he reached out, twirled her hair around his finger. “You sure are pretty. What’d you say your name was?”
    Mostly johns didn’t care about names, and she liked him better for asking. “It’s Suzy.”
    “How about it, Suzy Q? Want to take a ride with me?”
    He seemed harmless, and she did have the loaded twenty-five-caliber pistol in her bag. She smiled, her thin face going sly. “You gotta wear a slicker, cowboy.”
    “Sure.” He’d no more have dipped his wick into a street whore without protection than slit his own wrists. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
    With a wink, he watched his fifty disappear into her shiny vinyl handbag. He started the engine and drove out of Bozeman.
    It was a pretty night, and the road was clear, tempting him to push the gas pedal to the floor. But he drove moderately, humming along with Billy Ray Cyrus on the radio. And as the dark became country dark, he was a happy man.
    “This is far enough for fifty.” It made her nervous, the quiet, the lack of light and people.
    Not far enough, he thought, and smiled at her. “I know a little place, just a couple miles up.” Steering with onehand, he reached under the seat, amused at the way she shrank back and reached for her bag. He pulled out a bottle of the cheap wine he’d doctored. “Drink, Suzy?”
    “Well . . . maybe.” Her johns didn’t usually offer her wine, or call her pretty, or use her name. “Just a couple more miles, cowboy,” she said, and tipped back the bottle. “Then we’ll ride.”
    “Me and my pal here are more than ready.” He patted his crotch, turned up the radio. “Know this one?”
    She drank again, giggled, and sang along with him and Clint Black.
    She was a little thing, barely a hundred pounds. It took less than ten minutes for the drug to work. He nipped the bottle neatly from her limp fingers before it could spill. Whistling now, he pulled to the side of the road.
    She was slumped in the corner, but he lifted an eyelid to be certain, then nodded. Climbing out, he dumped the rest of the drugged wine out, then heaved the bottle, sending it in a long, flying arc into the dark.
    He heard it shatter as he walked to the bed of the rig and got out the rope.
     
    “Y OU DON ’ T HAVE TO DO THIS , WILL .” ADAM STUDIED HIS sister as they walked their horses through a narrow stream.
    “I want to. For you.” She paused, let Moon drink. “For her. I know I haven’t come to her grave very often. I let other things get in the way.”
    “You don’t have to go to our mother’s grave to remember her.”
    “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I can’t remember her. Except through you.”
    She tipped back her head. It was a gorgeous afternoon and she was pleasantly tired, her shoulders just a little achy from unrolling wire and hammering fence.
    “I didn’t come, very often, because it always seemed morbid. Standing there, looking down at a piece of earth and a