He laid food on a paper towel in front of her. “What do you want me to sing?”
She sipped the coffee, then set the cup down and picked up the cracker that Farrell had prepared for her with cheese and meat. As she began to eat, she felt her husband’s knee against hers, a light touch. For some reason, she looked at him, and at that moment, it dawned on her that she had not looked at him, really looked at him, for a long time. Something warmed in her stomach. Was it desire? She set the food down and looked away, but he seemed to know. His hand reached for her leg; his fingers gently pressed upon her. Amy Raye wanted to cry for all that they had lost, for all that she had taken from them, for all they might have been. His other hand reached for her face, touched her chin, stroked her jawline, moved toward the back of her neck, beneath her hair that hung below her hat. His fingers gently massaged her muscles. But she could not look at him, as if she were afraid she might discover just how much she still felt for him, and once again fail the only one she had ever loved.
His hands pulled away, and Amy Raye wanted to tell him everything. Wanted to tell him she was sorry. She turned to face him, but this time he wasn’t looking at her. Instead his eyes stared straight ahead.
“Is it too late?” he asked.
Amy Raye remained silent.
Farrell scooted out his chair and stood, and as he did he extended his hand to his wife. Hesitantly, she clasped his fingers, let him lead her away from the table and over to the cot. He let go of her hand just long enough to remove his coat and lay it on the mattress. Then he sat on the edge of the small bed, unzipped his wife’s jacket, wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed his head against her abdomen.
Instinctively, Amy Raye held his head in her hands. She removed his hat, let it drop onto the floor, ran her fingers through his thick, mossy hair, her breathing deepening into a longing for him she had not allowed herself for some time.
Biting into the fleece of her shirt, Farrell lifted it away and tucked his head against her skin. “I didn’t come to take pictures of the mountains,” he said, the warmth of his breath creating shivers along her flesh. “I came to the mountains to take pictures of you.”
“People take pictures of those things they may not see again. They take pictures to remember.”
“I know,” Farrell said. His lips grazed her skin. His hands reached for the waistline of her jeans. Amy Raye did not resist. She let him unfasten her jeans, slide them down her legs.
Amy Raye removed her jacket, pulled her shirt over her head, stripped down till her entire body was exposed to the cool air and to the eyes of her husband, because she wanted at that moment to make things right, because she wanted to give her husband something for all the things she had taken away. Farrell then removed his clothes, stood before his wife, and Amy Raye became filled with grief and a terrifying confliction. Farrell stepped toward her, reached for her hips.
PRU
It was late in the morning, around ten, the ground covered in a fine layer of snow, the sky a deep, smooth blue. I had just finished writing up a ticket for a hunter out of Wyoming who’d failed to retain evidence of gender on the deer carcass he was carrying in the back of his Dodge pickup. His license tag was for a buck, except the head and genitalia were gone. I’d put in a call to the Division of Wildlife to have the carcass withheld, but there were no DOW game wardens in the area, which meant I’d have to haul the animal to town in the back of my Tahoe. It was times like these I wished the government had given me a pickup. The Tahoe was for Kona’s sake. He generally rode in the back with the gear: GPS maps, first-aid kit, extra clothing, spotting scope, rope, come-along, a couple of tarps.
The hunter smelled of campfire and body odor. His soiled cap read Cowboys do it better.
“Fine, take the animal.” The tailgate of his truck was down. He grabbed hold of the deer’s legs and, with one hefty pull, yanked the animal out of the bed and onto the ground, staining the dusty layer of snow dark brown. “Go ahead,” he said. He leaned his flat hips against the tailgate and spit a stream of tobacco juice just inches from my black hiking boots. He obviously didn’t think I could lift the animal. He didn’t know I had a come-along.
I spread the blue tarp over the cargo floor, draped its end over the Tahoe’s bumper, laid out the come-along, and then tied it to the seat belt anchor with nylon rope. I hooked the payout line to the deer’s left back gambrel and began pumping the come-along lever like a jackhammer, slowly hoisting the bloody carcass into my vehicle. The cowboy didn’t budge an inch, though the smirk on his face seemed to loosen its cement grip. He spit a couple more times, slammed the tailgate of his truck shut with both hands, and walked around to the driver’s side.