Amy Raye continued to follow him. A half hour passed, then an hour, then two. The rain fell steadily. Up until that point the elk had stayed in the timber, its blood trail protected by the shelter of the evergreens. He was losing more blood, and he was slowing down, leaving larger pools as he rested. But the terrain had reached an opening where the trees stopped. And there, Amy Raye lost the trail. The elk might as well have vanished. Rain had fallen for hours, had completely drenched the exposed grassy clearing, and it wasn’t letting up, nor showing any sign that it would. Amy Raye leaned her bow against a tree and removed her quiver. She pulled the bugle and cow call over her neck, took off her pack, and stored the tools inside. Then she lowered herself to the ground, crouched on the balls of her feet. The tree’s branches sheltered her from the rain. She drank water, ate a couple of pieces of jerky. In that moment, she felt everything—life, death, the tangy sweet smell of pine, the freshness of the rain. It was the immensity of those feelings that drove her mad at times. These were the moments when she would wonder about it all.
Farrell had thought this time would be good for her. And yet it was her love for him that might drive her away. Leaving Farrell would be the most honest and decent thing she had ever done. But to leave him would mean leaving the children. Being a mother was the one thing in her life that she felt redeemed her. She would still have time with Trevor, but Julia was her stepdaughter, and she worried about the time she would lose with her.
Her love for Farrell had been a selfish one, she knew that, mixed-up and needy. How could she ever explain it to anyone, especially to her husband? Still crouched beneath the boughs, she watched the rain drizzle from the tips of the branches and thought about how her life had gone so wrong.
There were the games when she was young; at least to Lionel and Nan, that was all they were. “Open your mouth wider, don’t use your teeth.” But Nan was always chosen. Nan was the better one. And so Lionel would fuck Amy Raye instead, that was what he said. Her grandparents would have already turned in. And her father would continue to bring her to the farm on the weekends, and she began to crave the things that she was too young to understand were not good for her. That’s how it was for three years, until Lionel left, went to college, and Nan stopped coming to the farm, and Amy Raye found someone else.
It was the middle of summer. She was home alone. The neighbors next door were having a deck added on to the back of their house. They’d hired a carpenter who worked alone. Amy Raye had watched him come and go—a good-looking man, tan and strong, at least ten years older than she. She imagined the taste of his skin, imagined him aroused, and her power over him.
She was wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a tank top, was barefoot. She poured a glass of ice water, left the house, and brought the water to the man. He was bent over a piece of wood that was supported on two sawhorses. His jeans hung low off his hips. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Sweat glistened on his back. He startled when Amy Raye said, “Hey.”
She handed him the water. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
“Thanks.” He took the water, gulped it down.
They were standing behind the garage. No one could see. She ran the toes of her right foot up the backside of her left calf, pushed her hair out of her face. She watched the man drink the water. When he lowered the cup, she stepped closer, reached for his belt, and with all the deftness in the world undid his buckle, unzipped his pants.
There was another time she had stopped at an auto parts store in Fayetteville. One of her front high beams had burned out. She bought a replacement. She knew how to change the bulb herself, but there was vulnerability on the face of the man behind the counter, and she liked his subtle lisp. “Could you show me how to replace it?” she asked him.
He was glad to. She’d parked at the back of the store, under the shade of a large elm tree. And as he stood in front of the car and began to lean over beneath the hood and try to place his hand on the old bulb, Amy Raye pressed against him from behind and reached around him. It was all so easy, and the power was all hers.
She was careful in whom she selected. She’d watch the men before she’d approach them. And only once had she gotten it wrong, had things gotten out of hand. Saddle had been with her that time. After the man had struck Saddle with a limb, and Saddle had lain unconscious, Amy Raye had sworn to herself that she’d had enough, that she would turn her life around. And she did, for a few months, until everything started up again. And one other time, but that one hurt her in a different way.
Before Farrell and Amy Raye married she would go through periods of emotional withdrawal. The first time was after they’d dated for three months. She’d run into some hard times and he’d wanted her to move in. But she didn’t want to move in. She couldn’t see herself settling into a relationship, if for no other reason than she knew she would fail him. And there was something else, the stench of conformity. Instead she left Farrell, moved away without a word. “Not even a postcard,” he’d said to her when she finally called after four months had passed.
“Where are you?” Amy Raye had asked, hearing the noise in the background.
“Buffalo’s.”
She heard him take a swallow of his drink, heard the ice cubes clink against the glass. “What are you drinking?”
He told her he was drinking scotch.
“I thought you preferred Jameson.”
She wanted to tell him about the man she’d seen at the Center Store, and again at the Golden Saloon, the one who looked like Farrell. She wanted to tell him how much she’d missed him.
“I need you,” she said. She was crying then. “Something bad has happened.”