Page 4 of The Killing Plains

Colly shook her head. “I didn’t bring one—Uncle Russ said this house was fully furnished. Go brush your teeth and get your sun-sleeves and hat. I’ll look around.”

The boy tossed Colly his shirt and raced for the stairs.

Colly rummaged through closets, then headed for the kitchen. It was an old-fashioned, cheerful space, with World War Two–era enameled countertops and white curtains festooned with cross-stitched cherries.

Colly checked the pantry and cupboards. “Wonderful. Guess I’m improvising.”

She set a heavy stock pot on the stove to heat, then layered several dish towels on the countertop.

A few moments later, Satchel entered the kitchen, still shirtless but with his backpack slung over a skinny shoulder. He wore a floppy bucket hat and in one hand clutched two dark strips of nylon that looked like a pair of women’s stockings.

“What’re you doing, Grandma?”

“Ironing.”

“With a pot?”

“It’s hot metal. What’s the difference?” She finished pressing the shirt and inspected it. “Good enough. Take off the hat, buddy.”

She popped the t-shirt over his head, then helped him slide the nylon sleeves onto his arms.

“I look dumb. Everyone’ll laugh.”

“You wear them in Houston.”

“People know me there.”

“They’ll get to know you here, too.”

In his pack, she found the tube of prescription sunblock, which she massaged briskly into his face, neck, and the backs of his hands as he grimaced and squirmed.

“Be still for the teacher when she does this today. She’s got a lot of kids to deal with.”

“It’s all gross and greasy. She’ll hate me.”

“Aunt Brenda explained things to her.” Colly dropped the tube into the pack. “Put on your jacket—we’re running late.”

“What about breakfast?”

“You can eat a granola bar in the car.”

“Why do I even have to go to school here?”

“It’s just for a couple weeks.” Colly rummaged in her purse for keys. “I don’t want you to get behind. Besides, you can’t stay here alone. I’ll be working.”

Satchel kicked the doorframe. “You said you retired. You promised.”

Colly sighed. “Uncle Russ needs my help. Nothing bad will happen. Let’s go, Mr. Worry-Wart.”

The town of Crescent Bluff lay only five miles to the west, but it took Colly twenty minutes to reach it over the rutted dirt roads that wound through a patchwork of wheat fields and undeveloped scrubland. Other than the addition of a twelve-pump gas station and adjoining Starbucks out by Highway 208, the place had changed very little since the first time Randy brought her home. As she drove down Market Street, with its antiquated Western-style storefronts, each landmark reminded her sharply of him. She felt her jaw tightening, and she forced herself to relax.

Ten minutes later, Colly parked in the elementary school lot and glanced in the rearview mirror.

Beneath the brim of his hat, Satchel’s face was white. “What if the other kids ask why I live with my grandma?”

“Satchel, I’m just forty-six. They’ll probably think I’m your mom.”

His eyes widened. “With white hair and wrinkles?”

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