The high desert sun had soaked up the puddles by the time I drove back to the ranch, leaving dried mud and silt in patches on the road. Pulling into the parking lot, I climbed out of my rental and headed for the lobby, my steps in rhythm with the mournful cooing of the doves.
Theta Halloway let me have the key to Clint’s room. I wanted to sit among his things, smell his presence, ask his advice about what I should do. I needed time to think.
Letting myself in, I felt an immediate emptiness that dragged at the corners of my heart. But as I ran my hands over the comb and aftershave he’d left on the granite slabbed bathroom counter and saw the jumble of shoes and clothing scattered on the unmade bed, I began to feel a slight lift in my chest.
Clint was gone. But he had been here. Alive on
