At dawn, I crept from the bed and across the room, pulling on my boots and a jacket, not planning to go much farther than my back deck. It needed to be refinished and if snow really was on the horizon, I wanted it done soon. As I left the room I caught a glimpse of the painting I’d begun the night before, the picture of Georgia’s graceful back and my head bent above her. I would do more. I would fill my walls with paintings of us, if only to convince myself that she was mine and I was hers. Maybe then I would lose this sense of dread.
The morning was cold, colder than the day before, and I considered going back inside for gloves. I considered too long, though, and my hands were already two steps ahead of my brain. I dove in, working quickly to escape the chill, my breath puffing out around me as I got started on the deck, the smoothing out of all the rough spots strangely therapeutic. The sun rose without warmth, peering above the eastern hills, slinking over the shadowy valley and drawing my eyes from the deck to watch her slowly climb. A rooster crowed belatedly, and I laughed at the shoddy effort. I heard a horse whinny in response to the rooster and looked across the grassy field to see Georgia’s horses gathered a little ways off. Calico separated herself from the others and whinnied again, tossing her head and stretching her legs, as if she knew I was watching her. She galloped across the field and then turned and galloped back, shaking her mane and kicking up her heels as if she was grateful for the sunrise. Sackett joined her, nipping at her, nudging her playfully, and I smiled again, remembering how I’d compared the Palomino to Georgia once upon a time. I watched them prance and play for several minutes when my eyes were drawn to something I hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was because my attention had always been riveted on Georgia when she worked with the horses, or maybe it was because the only time I’d gotten close to Calico she had stood at my back, but Calico had a brand on her hind quarters that was different from Sackett’s.
I set down the bucket of stain, laid my brush across the opening, and made my way across Gi’s backyard to get a closer look. Sackett and Calico watched me come, and though Calico tossed her head and trotted in a circle, neither of them ran from me. Progress. But when Calico drew up beside the fence between us, I stopped short. Calico had a circle A brand on her left flank—an uppercase A inside a circle. Like the circled A on Molly’s math test. Like the Circle A truck stop that bordered the field where Molly’s remains were found. I felt the hair rise on my neck and the knot in my stomach increase in size. Eli kept showing me Calico, right from the start. And I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it than just his very real affection for the animal.
I considered going inside and waking Georgia up, but pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped in Tag’s number instead, hoping he would hear it ring at seven a.m. on a Tuesday morning and actually answer it. He was not always an early riser.
“Mo,” he answered on the third ring, and I could tell he’d been up for a while. He had that amped up ring to his voice that he got after spending a couple of hours pounding on someone in his gym.
“Tag.”
“Now that we got our names out of the way, what’s up?”
“Calico, Eli’s horse, has a brand on her butt that’s different from Georgia’s other horses. Why would that be?”
“They bought her from someone after she was branded,” Tag said simply. And I nodded, though he couldn’t see me doing it.
“Calico has a circle A brand, Tag. A circle with a big A inside it.” I waited, trusting he would know the significance.
Tag was silent for several long heartbeats, but I let the silence stretch without filling it, knowing his wheels were turning.
“It could just be a coincidence,” he said at last, but I knew he didn’t believe it. In my experience there were no coincidences. And Tag had spent enough time with me to know that.
I swore, using one of Tag’s favorite words, and I heard the fear and frustration echo the exclamation.
“What’s going on, man?” Tag asked.
“I don’t know, Tag. I’ve got my dead mother sending me freaky dreams, more dead girls popping up on my walls, a son trying to tell me something that I am clearly not understanding, and a woman in my bed that I’m terrified of losing.” I scrubbed at my face, suddenly tired, wishing I’d just stayed in bed with Georgia. I couldn’t lose her if I never left her side.
“What’s Eli showing you? Besides the horse.” I was grateful Tag didn’t comment on the woman in my bed. I knew he wanted to. I could practically hear his restraint crackling across our connection.
“Everything. Anything.” I sighed. “He shows me everything.”
“But most of all, what is he showing you?”
“Calico, Georgia . . . freakin’ Stewy Stinker and the Bad Men.”
“Who’s the bad man?” Tag shot back sharply.
“No. It’s not that. It’s a book Georgia would always read Eli.” But even as I said it, I wasn’t so sure. I walked as I spoke, making my way back across the yard. Georgia stood framed in the opening of the sliding glass door, a cup of coffee wrapped in one hand, trying to keep the quilt from my bed secured around her with the other. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders and her face was still soft from sleep. It was enough to make me weak in the knees and chase all the bad men from my mind.
“Gotta go, Tag. The woman in my bed is awake.”
“Lucky son-of-a-bitch. Later, Mo. And don’t forget to ask her where she got the horse.”