But I also knew Kona hadn’t been looking for elk or tracking lion scent. And when we’d first come upon the cache, it looked no different than a mound of snow. We’d needed Breton’s trained eye to find this cache site.
There was no hard evidence to warrant tracking the lion, but without anything else to go on, we were leaning in that direction. Perhaps if we were looking at a female, we might have had more reservations. The vicinity we were searching fell within unit twenty-one of the state’s hunting areas. Hank said that Colorado Parks and Wildlife had set the mountain lion harvest quota at thirteen for that area. Only four lion had been harvested from that unit the year before, and for the current year, no lion had been harvested to date. Colm and Hank had to make the call. The very fact that this lion had been spotted made them uneasy. Lion were rarely seen, especially with all the traffic we had during the search.
“We need answers,” Colm said.
Breton said he would bring his dogs, three hounds, and set them loose at dawn the next day. Weather reports predicted clear skies until Wednesday. He said he also had a mule he would ride so that he could stay with the dogs and cover more territory.
And so we made the hike back to our vehicles, unstrapped our packs and our snowshoes. I opened the rear hatch for Kona to jump in. Then Colm and I climbed in up front. We were tired and ready to get home.
About a mile out, Colm said, “It’s pretty up here.”
“Yeah, it is,” I said.
The afternoon sun beat through the windshield. I lowered my visor. Colm did the same.
He’d turned quiet. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
“Just thinking about how pretty it is.” A few minutes passed, and then Colm said, “Look at the way the light shines through those pinyons up there. Makes everything look like gold.”
“It is pretty,” I said.
“You know that big acre lot across from my house? There’s some sandstone and pinyon. A couple of box elder, too. Sometimes I’ll sit out on my front stoop. I’ll just sit there and stare out at the trees. It looks a lot like this on a clear day. But no matter what the light is, it’s a pretty sight.”
I let the quiet stretch out between us. The rhythmic rocking of the truck over the uneven terrain had a lulling effect. Then Colm said, “I was coming home the other day and there was a sign on that lot. They’ve put it up for sale. Suppose someone’s going to be building on it before long.”
“So that’s what all this deep thinking is about. You’re worried about someone building on that lot,” I said.
“Worried I won’t be able to see the trees anymore,” Colm said.
“You could buy the lot. Who owns it, anyway?”
“Moyer. Had it in his family for years.”
“How much is he asking for it?”
“Suppose I could find out. But me buying the lot, that would mean something.”
“It would mean you didn’t want anyone building across from you,” I said.
“It would mean more than that. It would mean I was staying.”
“Are you thinking about leaving?” I asked.
I knew Colm wasn’t from Rio Mesa. And with the divorce and all, maybe he was thinking about moving.
“Not thinking about leaving, not thinking about staying, but if I buy that lot, I’m going to have to think about it,” Colm said.
I’d never thought about Colm leaving. I’d just assumed he’d always be around, and so I told him so. “Don’t know that I’d like you leaving,” I said. “Where would you go?”
“I could move back to Kansas. I have a couple of brothers living there. My folks are getting up in their years.”
I was quiet then, uneasy with the thought of Colm not being around.
“You ever think of moving back to Missouri?” he asked me. “Ever think of raising that boy closer to home?”
“I’ve been gone a long time,” I said. “Guess I think of this as home now.”
AMY RAYE