Page 22 of Backtrack

“To check on Joellen?”

“No,” Cutter said. “To arrest our outlaws.”

“I know it’s not up to me,” Mim said. “But I wouldn’t mind if Lola went with you.”

“I’ll let her know it’s your decision that she go.”

“Ha ha,” Mim said. “Just so I’m clear, whyhasJoellen kept your last name?”

“Convenience, I guess.”

“Maybe,” Mim said. “And how many times has she contacted you since the divorce?”

Cutter thought for a minute, whispering numbers like he was adding them up. Mim punched him in the arm.

“How many?”

“Let’s see …” Cutter said. “There’s today and … that’s it.”

“Yep,” Mim said. “You should definitely go.” She lifted a leg and wiggled her toes. “Come on,” she said. “The kids will be arguing about how to set the table for the next fifteen minutes. Pretty sure this wasn’t part of your fantasy.”

“Rubbing my pregnant wife’s feet?” Cutter asked, incredulous. “Are you kidding?” I dreamed of this every day.”

Mim grinned, slyly raising a beautiful brow. “And other stuff.”

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Cutter.” He scooted in close and put a hand on her belly. “I was sixteen years old when we met. I dreamed about other stuff all the time.”

“I imagine so,” she said. She lay a hand on her stomach beside his. “I’m not sorry about this baby … but I do feel bad we didn’t have more of a honeymoon.”

“You’ll get no complaints from me,” Cutter said. “No, ma’am.” The baby stirred inside her. His baby. He was suddenly seized withthe notion that this was all too good, too much—and he was bound to lose it.

Mim piped up, saving him once again from his natural melancholy. “I almost forgot. Speaking of Ursula, your mother dropped off a pair of baby socks your Nana Cutter made for you before she passed. Kind of cool to think about our little girl wearing something your grandmother made with her own hands. Wish I could have met her.”

“Me too,” Cutter said. “Grumpy talked about her so often, it feels like we grew up with her in the house.” Cutter collapsed against the pillow with a groan, his head alongside Mim’s. He could feel the tension flowing out of his bones. “I remember this particular evening when I was still in grade school, Grumpy took a couple of days off to take us fishing, and then we built a big fire in the backyard pit. He usually steered clear of expensive luxuries like soda, but that night he’d brought home a six pack of Frostie Root Beer for me and Ethan. Usually, he’d quiz us on geography or science or some such, but that night, he’d taken a rare drink of whiskey. He just sat there and stared at her photo, big tears rolling down his face in the firelight. I was ten—so that would have been the tenth anniversary of her passing. It was the only time I ever saw him break down like that. Ethan cried, I cried …”

Mim turned on the pillow to face him. “Ten years old,” she whispered. “That must have been scary.”

“Nope.” Cutter gave a long, shuddering yawn. “It was beautiful.”

CHAPTER 9

TEXAS, 1977

8:20 p.m.

The high beams of Wayne Cutter’s patrol car played across the dusty white caliche as he turned off Green Branch Road five miles north of Weatherford. A chocolate-brown wolf spider the size of his hand hustled across the two-track as if on an urgent mission, casting a long shadow in the headlights. Cutter tapped his brakes and nudged the wheel to the left, avoiding the furry monster.

He’d done enough killing for the day.

He turned up the lane that led to the small red-brick house nestled on a low hill among a thicket of live oak trees. Wheels grumbled over the cattle guard, crunched and popped on the gravel. A dozen Black Angus cow-calf pairs stared at him in the gathering dusk. His horse, a muscular claybank gelding, grazed on what was left of the pasture grass a dozen yards from the cattle, hardly glancing up. It knew his patrol car.

A flock of guinea hens squawked like rusty bedsprings from atop a nearby toolshed. The speckled gray birds were better than any watchdog, with the added benefit of keeping ticks and snakes at bay. Cutter rolled down the window a couple of inches and then killed the ignition. The guineas fell silent as quickly as they’d erupted. Cutter sat in the car for a long moment, listening to the chirp of insects and a distant whippoorwill through the oak trees. The songlikely came from a relative of the whippoorwill called a chuck-will’s-widow, but Lucy called them whippoorwills, so whippoorwills they became.

Too many hours bent over shoeing horses to help make ends meet—not to mention years of sleeping on the ground in Special Forces—made him want to groan when he finally opened the door and climbed out. He fought the urge. His poor wife was going through hell with her cancer. He could keep his puny aches and pains to himself.

Two cur dogs, one red and one yellow, scrambled to their feet and trotted to the edge of the wooden porch when he approached. The red one growled. They figured out soon enough it was him and didn’t bark. Lucy fed them, so he guessed they were here until they got a better offer. Cutter didn’t mind the concept of dogs. He just didn’t have the time for one at the moment, let alone two bony refugees some idiot had dumped on the back roads.

The sound of Lucy’s violent coughing carried out through an open window. Cutter wiped a tear from his eye with the heel of his hand and kicked off his boots, carrying them in. He’d walked through hell today and didn’t want to drag any of it back to his wife. Hand on the knob, he took a deep breath and did his best to paste on a smile before going inside.