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?
The girl kissed the boy and then walked around to the driver’s side and got in. She had the window down, and she was laughing as they drove away.
She was happy, free, and America knew exactly how she felt.
As they disappeared up the road, America could see reflected in the window of one of the stores behind them—the librería—a thin young man in a dark leather coat, with longish hair. He was staring at her, looking right at her, and even in the fading light, he was familiar to her. He matched Marco’s description of the man who’d asked questions about her in Earlys, questions that had prompted the sheriff to move them out to the Far Six. But it was more than that. All she had to do was think back, imagine the man in the window glass younger still, wearing a hooded sweatshirt instead of a leather jacket . . .
Lying flat in the back of his Ford Ranger, watching clouds move.
Sharing another endless cigarette, laughing.
A couple, like the pair who’d driven away.
Even good memories . . . could be just as hard to heal from . . .
Caleb.
Marco and Vianey walked up, blocking her view, and by the time she got up from the bench, nearly pushing past them, the young man was gone.
Danny was right next to her, too, asking her if she was okay. After Fox Uno, he was always on guard, always watchful. She still woke up sometimes to find him pacing, checking the windows and doors, and then she had to go to him, hold him, and pull him back into their bed.
Now he was scanning up and down the street, hand unconsciously on the gun at his hip, trying to see what had taken her attention.
Caleb.
She took one last look, shaking her head, and after a gentle touch to the Saint Michael pendant on her neck—reminding herself that Ben would always be there, too—she laced her fingers tight in Danny’s, turning him back to the lighted window of the ice cream shop.
Back toward Zita and Marco and Vianey, who were watching them both, trying to figure out what was going on.
She laughed and told them all it was okay.
It was nada.
She just thought for a moment she saw someone she’d once known long ago, but that was impossible.
It was only the lengthening shadows of a brand-new night, and those fading memories of the sun going down.
It would come up again tomorrow.
It always did.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’ve spent nearly a decade wearing a badge in the Southwest, and I’ve seen the best and worst from both sides of the border. If you shared a couple of beers with me now, you might come away thinking those years have left me somewhat jaded—cynical—and you wouldn’t be wrong. Maybe there is no way they couldn’t.