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?
Though he liked to argue with himself that he was nothing like Sheriff Stanford Ross, for most folks . . . the Royal Moodys of the world . . . that wasn’t a winning argument. Hell, that wasn’t even exactly true, not anymore.
Maybe he and Mel had remade the world by having Jack, but Chris wasn’t convinced he’d made the Big Bend one damn bit safer by being its sheriff.
A lot of blood had been spilled on his watch—far too much—and in that way, Chris and Sheriff Ross weren’t that goddamn different at all.
Chris wadded up the blank paper into a tight ball and tossed it against the far wall. Rocky chased it down, brought it back, and dropped it at his feet.
The dog sure had Mel’s personality.
He roughed up Rocky’s fur, then went back to the bedroom to watch his son sleep some more.
THIRTY-FOUR
She had Fox Uno walk several steps in front of her, the gun trained on the small of his back.
It was slow going, the old man taking his time. It was his age, or his limp, or a way to buy himself a few extra minutes to think. It didn’t matter. America would walk all day if she had to.
For this, she had all the time in the world.
—
THE SKY TURNED PEARL behind them.
America thought she saw a coyote skulking away, avoiding the light.
She definitely spied a great búho, hairy tufts rising high above its head and its yellow eyes regarding them as it flew past in a long graceful arc. It was bigger than any she’d ever seen, the wide space beneath its wings and across its chest far paler than the ruddy feathers across the rest of it.
It flew so softly, so gently, it made her think of snow falling.
They walked through a herd of cows, which moved aside at their approach. They stank—thick and unavoidable—and it reminded her of Duane Dupree driving her out to the Comanche cattle auction with his windows down.
The cherry glow of another one of his endless cigarettes, his eyes all over her.
Fox Uno stumbled, fell, but she didn’t make a move to help him. He struggled, his pants and hands muddy or covered in cow shit, but he finally stood again.
She didn’t have to tell him to keep moving.
The sky went whiter and whiter with the day’s dawn.
Then they were there.
—