Page 33 of The Killing Plains

“I didn’t actually see which door she used. I just assumed, since she came down the hall from that direction. She was wearing thick glasses. Maybe she missed the sign.”

That’s one mystery solved, Colly thought with a sigh, leaning back in her seat.

The light was deepening to a golden haze as they rumbled over the cattle guard beneath the Newland Ranch archway. Passing the track that led to the stock pond, they continued northeast on a paved lane that rambled through the scrubland for several miles.

Images from her last visit churned through Colly’s mind—of standing in the grass beside two red mounds of earth, hunched against the winter wind and trying to ignore the sidelong glances and rigid backs, the murmuring voices that hushed when she looked their way. She felt her palms begin to sweat and her mouth go dry.

“How do you deal with this all the time, Brenda?”

“With what?”

“The family, the judgment, the guilt. What the hell am I doing here? I feel sick.”

“I tell myself it’s for the kids. And if I don’t say anything regrettable while I’m here, I reward myself with a very large martini when I get home.” Brenda paused, apparently waiting for a laugh. Getting no reaction, she laid a hand on Colly’s arm. “Iris may blame you for what happened to Randy and Victoria. But remember—you’re here because she needs your help. Iris is very transactional. She may slip in a barb here and there, but for the most part she’ll behave till the case review’s finished.”

“And then?”

“Then all bets are off. It’ll depend on what you conclude about Willis.”

Chapter 9

The big house on the Newland Ranch, a two-story structure with a long plank porch and a half-dozen gabled dormers, was known in town as “the Mollison Place,” and by the family simply as “Mollison.” The name derived from Iris Newland’s grandfather, Henry Mollison, who had built it in 1927. The precocious son of a Crescent Bluff barber, Henry fought bravely in World War I but was discharged with a Purple Heart after losing an arm in the Battle of Belleau Wood. Upon recovering, he told his father that, since he couldn’t earn a living with his hands, he’d have to live by his wits. At twenty-five, Henry boarded a train for New York to try his luck on Wall Street. He returned three years later with a Yankee wife, a baby, and enough money to buy an 8,000-acre ranch and 500 head of cattle.

Henry’s run of good luck was short-lived, however. Two years after moving his young family onto the new homestead, he lost his investments in the Crash and was forced to sell the ranch, at a greatly reduced price, to Claud Newland, a prosperous grocer from Amarillo who wanted to get into the cattle business. With few options, Henry took work doing odd jobs in his father’s shop. He consoled himself with bathtub gin and gambling, and, in 1938, having betted away the proceeds from the ranch, he put a shotgun in his mouth, leaving his wife and young son destitute.

This ancestral humiliation soaked deep into the psyche of Henry’s granddaughter. Iris Mollison grew up poor with a fierce determination to reclaim her birthright, and it was no secret in town that when, in 1970, she married Bryant Newland, grandson of Claud and heir to the ranch, it was for that purpose.

Iris never regretted the decision. Bryant, though a cruel and abusive husband and father, was a shrewd businessman. He foresaw the potential for wind power in West Texas and built a turbine manufacturing company that transformed him from moderately successful rancher to biggest employer in the region.

“Your mom’s such a strong woman. Why does she put up with your dad’s crap when she could walk away?” Colly had asked Randy early in their relationship.

“Momma’s married more to the ranch than to Dad. She’ll never leave it,” was Randy’s blunt reply.

“She’d have plenty of money in a divorce.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about winning back what the universe took. In Texas, what matters is land.”

Randy had been right. For forty years, Iris had waited quietly in the shadows, controlling what she could and enduring what she couldn’t. And, in the end, her patience was rewarded. With Bryant’s death a decade earlier, the universe had folded its cards and walked away from the table, leaving Iris to her patrimony.

Although her son Lowell, who had worked under Bryant for years, continued to oversee the turbine plant’s day-to-day operations, Iris was the undisputed head of the Newland family and the legal owner of both ranch and business. She’d paid close attention from the sidelines to her husband’s professional dealings, and now, to everyone’s surprise, she insisted on the final say in all major decisions. Under her direction, Newland Wind Industries invested in major upgrades and was on track to expand its business greatly. Recently, the deaths of Randy and Victoria had caused Iris towithdraw a bit, and in her grief, her attention to the business had wavered. But according to Russ, his mother was beginning to show an interest once again.

Bryant had been a tightfisted man. During his lifetime, Mollison had fallen somewhat into disrepair. But after his death, Iris poured resources into the place, adding a pool, tennis courts, and guest annex, and remodeling the original structure into a showpiece that had been featured in style and architecture magazines.

Now, riding in Brenda’s van up the juniper-shaded avenue that climbed the hill to the house, Colly felt the familiar mixture of intimidation and dull resentment tightening her throat. Even before Randy’s death, she’d experienced the burden of Iris’s judgment.

“Why does your mom dislike me?” she’d asked as they lay in bed one night after a holiday visit to the ranch.

“It’s nothing personal. I’m the only one of her boys she hasn’t wrangled back to Crescent Bluff.” Randy caressed Colly’s shoulder, letting his fingers drift down her arm. “If I hadn’t met you, she thinks she could’ve lured me home.”

You’re home now, my love, Colly thought as Mollison’s gabled roofline appeared above the junipers.But not the way your mother wanted. Not the way any of us wanted.She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.

Brenda glanced over. “You okay?”

“So-so.”

“At least it’s a school night. We’ll have an excuse to leave early. Just stay off politics or we’ll never get away. Lowell’s drinking is worse, and he’s turned completely rabid on immigration—though half the ranch hands are undocumented. Wonderful people, and so hardworking. But self-awareness isn’t Lowell’s strong suit.”

The sun was slipping behind the distant mesas as they pulled onto the gravel drive in front of the house. Alice’s hatchback wasthere, as well as Russ’s SUV and Lowell’s truck with the company logo on the door. Off to the side stood a black Cadillac that Colly didn’t recognize.

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