“My work schedule is pretty tight—”
“A beer then? Maybe Dad told you some stories I haven’t heard. I’d love to have something to look forward to after long days arguing with my sister over who gets his favorite saddle.”
It didn’t sound half-bad to Beth to have a night off from Lana either. “I’ll think about it.”
He grinned, and Beth caught a flash of the gawky kid he must have been, before the tailored suits and high-priced haircuts.
“Martin.” A sharp, cultured voice summoned him from the edge of the crowd.
“Duty calls,” he said. “I’ll be in touch. Thanks.”
He turned and walked into the line of fire of Diana Whitacre. Beth faded into the crowd, watching the blond woman retie Martin’s Windsor knot.
*
Jack wandered around the ranch, relishing a moment away from the cold war between her mom and grandma. It was sunnier on the north bank of the slough. It felt closer to the sky than the water. She imagined Mr. Rhoads’s kids growing up on the ranch, mucking out stalls in the morning, then jumping on horses in the afternoon to gallop out into the tall grass.
She reached the barn and poked her head inside, cautious at first, then stepping in all the way once she realized no one was around. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, the cool quiet in contrast to the crowd and sun bouncing off the asphalt outside. She could smell the memory of horses in the air, a mix of grass and sweat and cedar.
There weren’t any animals in the barn anymore. Just junk. Lots of it. Other than a shiny red fire extinguisher at the door, everything was gray, grubby, and stale. One stall was packed with horse blankets, saddles, bridles, and branding irons. Another was dusty with hay bales and pitchforks. Jack could see remnants of a plant nursery, peeling boxes of pesticides stacked at odd angles threatening to topple to the ground.
At the back, there was a stall full of old sports equipment and toys. Kid stuff. Dad stuff. Jack picked up a weathered bow missing its arrows and thumbed the string, imagining for a moment what it would be like to have a dad instead of a mom. She’d met her father only once, when she was seven and they ran into each other at a mini-mall while she and her mom were in Los Angeles visiting Lana for Passover. All she could remember was a wispy mustache over skin as dark as hers, her mom clutching her hand tight as they exchanged a few stilted sentences.
Jack put the bow down, balancing it on an old electronics set. She turned and headed back toward the open barn doors. Before she reached them, she pulled up short. There, lofted in the corner, was a kayak. It was a two-seater with an ombré design, yellow on the bottom turning cherry red on the sides, with the words “Kayak Shack” stenciled in purple spray paint on its hull. There was a paddle propped against the wall. And hanging on a hook next to it, a life jacket. The kayak didn’t have a number on it, so it wasn’t used for tours. But it was one of theirs.
What was Paul’s kayak doing in this barn? Boats were expensive, and while Paul was loose with a lot of things, he was a hawk when it came to keeping his kayaks in order. Last year, he’d taken two out of rotation, for personal use, he’d said. Was this boat one of them? If it was, what kind of personal use was it fulfilling hanging here?
Even if someone up here was going to have a kayak, this barn seemed like a weird place to keep it. Access to the slough had to be half a mile down the hill, through a maze of boggy marshland. You’d probably sink knee-deep in the mud multiple times before you got to the water. You could drive the kayak down to the marina, but at that point, why not just rent one or get a boat locker at the docks? It didn’t make sense.
Jack took one last look at the lofted boat before she left. She’d overheard her mom and grandma’s argument the night before about her going back to work at the Kayak Shack tomorrow and giving Detective Ramirez a tour. Even if it was risky, she wanted to do it. She had to do it. That boat hanging in the barn looked innocuous, all bright colors and plastic, but it wasn’t kayaks she had to pay attention to. It was the people in them. Especially that detective.
*
Lana spotted Jack first, emerging from the barn and blinking in the sunshine.
“Jack!” Beth called. “There you are. Time to go.”
By the time Jack slid into the back of the Camry, Lana was already buckled in the front, seat angled back, eyes half-closed. The earlier tension seemed to have thawed a bit with the sunshine and the wine. Beth started down the dirt road back to the highway, trying to avoid the ribbon of dust peeling off the pickup truck in front of them.