Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
Danny bought the girl Zita an ice cream and sat with her at one of the small tables beneath an umbrella in front of the store. He and Amé came here every now and then, and she always ordered the same thing: a single-scoop strawberry cone. She liked it well enough, but said it wasn’t as good as the paletas of her youth. She claimed that Vic Ortiz, who worked at the jail, had managed a small paletería many years before, and made a point of stocking her favorite, mango con chili. Amé said he used to drive over to Ojinaga once or twice a week to buy the paletas for his store, bringing them back in cardboard boxes packed with ice. It was hard to imagine the dark-eyed and quiet Vic—forever drinking one of his cups of strong black coffee and reading the paper in the jail office—selling popsicles to kids, but she swore it was true. It was harder still to imagine Amé herself as that little girl, like Zita.
Zita had ordered a strawberry cone, too, and Danny didn’t know what to make of that, if anything at all.
Across the street, the sheriff and Amé and the man claiming to be her uncle walked beneath a row of lemon trees, their images reflected over and over again in the windows of the stores that lined Main Street. They were out in the open, casual, and the uncle in his faded chinos and flannel shirt and straw hat looked no different from any of the other older Mexicans who lived and worked around Murfee or the Big Bend. He could be Vic Ortiz or Javy Cruz or anyone at all, and maybe that was the point. If the old man was worried about being seen, he didn’t show it. He moved slow, though, with a slight limp, and Danny wondered how and when he’d gotten that injury—a consequence of the life he’d lived and the things he’d done. The sheriff suffered the same damaged walk, not only from his old football injury, but from the shooting at the Far Six that had nearly killed him. Now he was walking beside the very man who may have ordered it.
At this distance, they could be mirror images of each other—more hazy reflections lost in the windows around them.
Danny shook his head, turning back to the girl next to him.
“Do you like it? The ice cream?” He raised his own uneaten vanilla cone, struggling for the word for “ice cream” he’d heard Amé use before. “Um, helado. Helado?”
Zita smiled, nodded, but didn’t answer. She didn’t understand any more English than he did Spanish, which he supposed made them perfect companions right now.
Neither of them really knew what the hell was going on.
TWENTY-ONE
The face meant nothing to Chris.