The current song, Dolly Parton’s “Jolene,” ended and Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line” came on next. Suddenly, the guy grabbed Carly by the wrists, pulling her to a stand, saying, “Hey, I dance the line.” He awkwardly swayed her around and between tables, despite her resistance, and to Lindsey’s obvious embarrassment. Finally, Carly managed to yank herself free. “Don’t desecrate Johnny Cash, you idiot. And don’t humiliate your girlfriend.”

Tina was already on her feet. “Smarten up, Eric! Do you want your mother—or your uncle—to hear about this?”

He gave her the finger, and Carly felt even more outraged, but didn’t dignify his rudeness with a response of her own, merely sending Lindsey a sympathetic look. As they left, she asked Tina who this creep was. Eric Worth, she told her.

“You mean Eric Worthless,” Carly muttered. “And who’s his uncle?”

“That would be Eli Garrett—Sheriff Eli Garrett.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE NEXT MORNING, Carly asked permission to observe Shallie, Cord and the Lewises, who were already involved in their horse session. This time they focused on Annie, on expanding her confidence and teaching her some simple commands—walk, stop and stand, allow her face to be stroked. She was equally responsive to all four people (no doubt, Shallie thought, enjoying her new life). Cord said he was satisfied with everyone’s progress, including Annie’s.

Shallie could tell that Carly had enjoyed the experience; she, too, had connected with Len and Mary Jean, and they agreed that once their session had ended, they’d all get together again, either here or in Missoula.

At four, Shallie—feeling her life was just as scheduled as it’d been when she was working—left to visit Russ at the Painted Pony Motel. She brought some snacks, which Tina had helpfully provided, simple things like cheese and crackers and some cut-up veggies with dip. She knew he’d have liquid refreshments aplenty.

When she arrived, she was surprised to find him waiting in the office. Shallie made herself comfortable as he suggested—which was a challenge in that place. She would’ve preferred the floor to the ancient, hard-backed guest chair. He’d taken the only other one, a worn-out desk chair that still had a little padding. He’d placed the snacks and a bottle of bourbon, some brand she’d never come across, on the desk beside his laptop, which he’d moved there since her last visit, then poured her a partial glass, throwing in half-melted ice from a small dented bowl. He topped up his own drink.