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?
At least they were trying, like he was here trying, with Eddy Lee Rabbit.
The old single-wide was worth about five hundred dollars, with a two-million-dollar view. Bits of junk gleamed here and there: old bikes and cans and beer bottles and engine blocks and rusty pieces of rebar that were out here for no reason at all. An old refrigerator. But it commanded the flats of Delcia Canyon, with desert stretching into the distance and river gorge walls rising south to the horizon; dark striations of sandstone, quartz, and gypsum that changed color with the season and the sun.
Across the desert floor, after the recent rains that had swollen the river for three days, Danny could pick out more splashes of color: bloodred ocotillo, the yellow of desert marigold, white and purple Texas sage, and the sunset fruit of the prickly pear—the tuna. Most people dismissed the desert as a dry, desperate place. Colorless and lifeless. He’d learned that it was neither.
Although Danny Ford wasn’t a native either, that didn’t mean he hadn’t come to love the Big Bend and the Chihuahuan Desert in all its moods and seasons, even if he didn’t always understand them.
Maybe Eddy loved it, too, in his own way. Maybe.
Danny was about to hammer on the door when it opened, revealing Eddy with something in his hand. Not a Colt .380 or a Buck Woodsman or a Louisville Slugger—all plausible options—but just an old iron skillet, like Danny’s mom used to own back in Sweetwater. Eddy was forking what appeared to be scrambled eggs out of it—eggs and chorizo—and keeping the door open with a scabbed knee. He was shirtless, his dirty, thin hair shadowing his eyes, calmly eating his goddamn breakfast.
King of his castle.
But . . . those eyes were bright, too bright, bouncing up and down and all around . . . popping . . . barely staying still in his skull. He’d been on a meth bender and his skin shone with its acid sweat.
“It’s too goddamn early, so what the fuck you want?” Eddy asked around a mouthful of eggs and chorizo.
Danny hadn’t woken Take-Out up, not even close. He’d probably already been awake for a couple of days.