“I could call the state police,” the mayor proposed, “and see what they say.”
Based on the frowns aimed at her, Edith’s proposal was not received well. Fillmore County folks never like outsiders to poke into their business and that includes state troopers. After some more discussion, it was decided to let things ride, everybody was to keep their eyes open, and we’d see what we’d see. The gathering then turned to planning the Independence Day celebration and I took my leave. As I walked out, I saw a shiny silver sport utility vehicle, no doubt a hybrid, turning onto the main highway. The Green Planeteers were taking off.
I chased down Jeanette’s list, loaded up Bob with barbed wire, nails, and some groceries, then came back to the bar for an early beer. I ordered a Rainier, put my boot up on the brass rail, then drank it with the quiet satisfaction of a cowboy with no present responsibilities.
A dainty foot went up beside mine. The mayor’s. Our legs briefly touched and I got a mild thrill although our affair had been over for more than a year. “A Rainier for the lady,” I told Joe the bartender.
Joe delivered the beer and Edith and I went over and sat at a table. “You look good,” I told her, which was the truth. If I wasn’t mistaken, she’d unbuttoned the top button on her blouse since the meeting. I could almost smell the perfume I knew she had dabbed between her breasts.
She appraised me with her gentle, blue-gray eyes. “Thanks, cowboy. You’re not looking too bad yourself.”
“Why aren’t you in the meeting?” I asked.
“When Jeanette’s in the room, she takes over. They don’t need me. It’s good to see you, Mike. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too. How are you doing?”
Edith picked up her Rainier and took a thoughtful sip. “Ted and I are doing OK these days,” she said with no real conviction.
This I took as a signal she had no interest in revving up our affair so I shifted the conversation. “Those two enviro boys could have got hurt this morning.”
She smiled a sad smile. “I’m not surprised at the reception they got. Change isn’t going to come easy to this county.”
“Change doesn’t come easy anywhere,” I said. “But I don’t see the ranchers ever going along with any of this environmental stuff. They figure they’re the best environmentalists, anyway, because they take care of the land and all the critters inside their fences.”
Edith gave me a hard look. “Mike, the days of ranching in the West are over. All the federal government has to do is change a few rules and every one of those folks in that room would be gone. They have no friends in Washington, D.C., not one.”
“How about Senator Claggers?”
Edith responded with a grunt of derision, had herself another swallow of beer, then said, “The ranchers are their own worst enemies. They hunker down here, keeping to themselves, and think they can keep the future away. But it’s coming, Mike, and it’s going to destroy them. The environmental groups have been shoveling money to the politicians like slop to pigs and now they have lawsuits to glue public land together to create a huge bunch of nothing out here. Monument land will be combined with the BLM and the CMR. Every ranching lease will be canceled. All oil and gas exploration will stop dead. Most of it already has. Let the angels rejoice, it’s going to be buffalo and wolves as far as the eye can see. And you know what? I don’t much care anymore.”
Edith was not a rancher’s daughter. Her parents had tried to make a go raising pigs and chickens on a little five-acre farm down in the southern part of the county. When she was in high school, her mother committed suicide and Edith had run away, washing up in Denver as a waitress. Eventually, she’d gotten her GED, latched onto some kind of scholarship that got her a B.A. in Education, and come back to Fillmore County as a grade school teacher. After that, she’d married Ted Brescoe, the local BLM agent, and started dabbling in politics. Now, she was mayor of the county seat. Pretty good for the daughter of a pig farmer in cattle country. I’d always admired Edith, even before we’d started bouncing the bedsprings.
“Do you miss us, Mike?” Edith suddenly asked.
“I try not to think about it,” I answered honestly.
“We had some good times, didn’t we?”
I recalled them as mostly quick times, me sneaking into her house at night when husband Ted was out of town and I had an excuse to drive to Jericho. Sometimes after we’d made love, she’d weep while snuggling into my arms. I never asked her why because I guess I didn’t want to know. Our last time together, she’d pulled away and said we couldn’t do this anymore. I didn’t argue with her. I just got dressed, kissed her on her cheek damp with tears, and walked out of her bedroom without saying a word.