“I like him.”
She followed his nod to where Grandpa Jess stood in the same place Addie had left him, in the same vested suit and polished brogans he’d worn to her graduation. Like a rock he was, in a stream running cold and warm, swift and slow, season upon season, but that somehow never budges.
“He’s putting on a brave face, but I know he’s devastated. Did he tell you they’d been married sixty-two years?”
“Wow.”
“In all that time I don’t think they spent a single night apart. I’d also bet he never once mopped a floor or made a bed or washed a load of laundry. On the other hand I’ve seen him buck hay and shoe horses and split a cord of hardwood. And that was well into his seventies.”
They watched together as Jess nodded and chatted and even smiled at the occasional anecdote or rib-digging reminiscence shared with his old friends and neighbors. Never, Addie noted, moving more than an arm’s length from the casket.
And that’s when she saw him, standing with her father. He wore a faded brown jacket and blue jeans and brown cowboy boots. His hair was short now, but there was no mistaking the slouching posture or the easy laugh she could read in quarter-profile even as the sound of it was lost in the burble of other voices.
Her father’s glance over Colt Dixon’s shoulder, the judgment in it, pierced her like an arrow.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Come on, let’s look at pictures.”
She steered Bradley to another table on which more photos were arrayed along with some yellowed newspaper clippings.
“I know this isn’t the time,” she said, “but I learned something this morning. Archer-Mason is drilling wells on our grazing allotment. There’s a new pad up on the mesa, plus a road and some sort of pumping station.”
“I know.”
“What do you mean you know?”
“Jess told me all about it. That well you probably saw is part of the drilling unit Archer-Mason wants to down-space. I don’t know about your father, but your grandfather’s against it.” He slipped his phone from his pocket and showed Addie the image. “He thinks the vented gasses are harming his cattle.”
“They’re Daddy’s cattle,” she said, frowning at the photo, “but it’s still Grandpa’s ranch.”
“And Grandpa’s minerals. Did you know he owns the entire estate on a quarter-section of land that sits atop the McElmo Dome?”
“He does?”
“That’s not all. As a mineral rights owner he’s entitled by statute to written notice of any down-spacing application. Under Colorado law, that opens a seven-day window in which to request what’s called a local public forum. They’re almost never held, because nobody bothers to read the regulations. Also because the regs are set up in a way that makes citizen recourse all but impossible. But a hearing like that, right here in Cortez, could be our key to the mint. It’s the perfect vehicle to rally opposition not just to the down-spacing application, but to Archer-Mason’s entire play.”
“Okay …”
“But there’s a catch. Jess can’t request the forum on his own. It has to come from the county commission acting on his behalf. What’s more, they have to do it immediately. Or at least no later than Wednesday.”
“Why?”
“Because like I said, the regs are stacked in favor of industry.”
Addie turned to study the room, her eyes sweeping past her father and Colt Dixon in the way a phonograph needle skips a scratch in the vinyl.
“Montezuma County has three commissioners. You see those two by the door?”
She nodded toward a fleshy man in a Western-style suit and a shorter, jug-eared man beside him. Both were addressing a circle of attentive listeners.
“The big man is Mr. Hawkins. He owns a ranch up near Cahone. He was president of the Cattlemen’s Association when I won their senior class scholarship. The man with the ears is Bud Wallace. He runs an oilfield services company.”
She watched as Bradley took their measure. Hawkins did most of the talking while Wallace, as though heeding some silent alarm, slid his eyes in Bradley’s direction.
“What are you thinking?” she asked him.
“That the oilman’s a tough sale, but the rancher could be an ally. Like your grandfather says, cattle and compressors don’t mix. Who’s the third commissioner?”
“Mr. Holcomb. He owns the movie theater in town.” She scanned the room, which had grown even more crowded. “I don’t see him here, but I went to school with his daughter. Brenda is her name. She actually married my old boyfriend.”
Her glance toward the casket was reflexive. Her father was leaning forward now, listening to an older woman who’d taken hold of his coat sleeve.
Had Colt already left? Was she wrong about why he’d come here in the first place?
“Maybe you could introduce me.”
“What?”
“To Hawkins. I’d like to know where he stands.”
“Okay, but wait a minute.” She moved in front of Bradley. “You said Jess owns some mineral rights. What might those be worth?”
“Hard to know for certain, but at today’s prices I’d say in the range of several million dollars.”
Addie was flabbergasted. Nobody—not her father, not her grandparents—had ever so much as hinted at such a thing.
He asked, “What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s just … you said Jess is opposed to the down-spacing. Are you sure he understands what he’d be giving up?”
“I am, but go ahead and ask him yourself. Meanwhile, what about our Mr. Hawkins?”
“Okay, but look. Even if Jess is on our side, do we really need to be bothering him or his friends on the day he’s burying my grandmother?”
“Of course not.” Bradley placed both his hands on her shoulders. “That was thoughtless of me. But let’s not forget that seven-day window. Today is day three, and tomorrow is Sunday. That leaves Monday and Tuesday to bring at least two of the commissioners on board.”
“I know, but—”
“And the forum doesn’t have to involve Jess. We’d be raising issues on behalf of the entire community. Water quality, air quality, public health and safety. All the cattlemen will be affected, as will the farmers.”
“I understand that, but—”
“Good.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Just think of all the good we can do.”
“Hello, Addie.”
She blenched as from a spark. Colt Dixon’s proximity—his adult face in close-up—sent a bloom of warmth to her face.
“Hey. Hey, you! What a nice surprise.”
They embraced awkwardly, then she stepped back to regard him. There were crows’ feet at his eyes and furrows spanning his brow. His once-long hair, sun-bleached and curly, had darkened to the color of sand. Features that had seemed sculpted of clay by a slippery hand—his cheekbones, his chin—now appeared chiseled and of a piece with his broader shoulders. He looked wind-burned and rugged in that infuriating way young men managed to age, and she wondered reflexively if the years had been as kind to her.
“Colt Dixon,” she said, drawing a breath, “this is my friend Bradley