toward us.
“I’m Veronica McKinney,” she said, and shifted the hat to her left hand, and then extended her right. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Mr. Hope. Sunny, go play with your dolls.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Sunny said, unfolding her long legs and getting to her feet.
“You should be,” her mother said.
“Nice meeting you,” Sunny said, and crossed the room and went up a flight of stairs leading to the second story of the house.
“I see she’s offered you some refreshment,” Mrs. McKinney said.
“Yes, she has.”
“What is that? Tea ?”
“Yes.”
“God! Oh, well. Don’t you find it hot in here? My daughter keeps turning off the air conditioning and opening every door and window. She has a theory about—well, never mind.” She went back to the front door, closed it, and then adjusted a thermostat on the wall. Her movements, unlike her daughter’s, were liquidly smooth and effortless. Her voice sounded a trifle breathless, not quite the voice of a heavy drinker (which might never have occurred to me if she hadn’t expressed dismay over the tea), but husky nonetheless. She was altogether an entirely beautiful woman, and when she turned to me with a smile on her face, she quite took my breath away.
“The new hand tells me we’ve got a dead cow out on Buzzard’s Roost Hammock,” she said. “I’d like to take a look, mind if we talk while we ride out there?”
“Not at all,” I said.
“Might be a bit muddy, all this rain,” she said. “Too bad you didn’t wear boots.” She looked at my shoes. “Jeep’s out front,” she said, and turned and walked out of the house.
The Jeep was red and marked M.K . in black on its side panels. A .22-caliber rifle with a telescopic sight rested on the front seat between us. She started the engine, backed out of the dirt driveway, and said, “That’s our horse barn there. We keep five horses,don’t need more than that for a ranch this size. We usually figure at least two horses to a cowboy. The small house is where the manager lives, the mobile home is for the new hand and his wife. We’re not a big operation—we run a thousand head, more or less, on four thousand acres. I know a man who runs twenty thousand head, has a ranch as big as the state of Rhode Island, out closer to Ananburg. We’ve got five pastures here, run a herd of two hundred cows on each of them. Buzzard’s Roost is out this way.”
We were driving north on a muddy road flanked with fenced-in pasture land. The Jeep bounced and jostled along the ruts. Brown water splashed up against the side panels as Mrs. McKinney maneuvered the vehicle through the puddles.
“The pastures were already named when my late husband bought the ranch. Historical names, all of them, I have no idea where they originated. Well, Buzzard’s Roost is an easy one. More damn buzzards out there than you can shake a stick at. That’s why I want to see that dead cow. Buzzards are a nuisance. They’ll swoop down to eat the afterbirth whenever one of our cows calves, and sometimes they’ll attack the newborn calf as well. That dead cow out there is going to attract a lot of them. The other pastures—who knows?” she said. “One of them’s called Mosquito Jam, must’ve been a breeding ground for them before the state started its control program. Still got plenty of them there, but that’s native pasture. We’ve got a thousand acres of native, and three thousand improved now. Back in 1943, this was all native pasture. Been a long job planting it in Pensacola Bahia, and keeping it up. One of the pastures is called Sheep Run Hammock—somebody must’ve raised sheep there long ago. You know what a hammock is, of course.”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s a sort of canvas bed you hang between two trees.”
“That, too,” she said, smiling. “But the word’s Indian for a copse of trees. Here on the ranch, it’s usually oak. So,” she said. “From what you told me on the phone, I may have to
“I’m Veronica McKinney,” she said, and shifted the hat to her left hand, and then extended her right. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Mr. Hope. Sunny, go play with your dolls.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Sunny said, unfolding her long legs and getting to her feet.
“You should be,” her mother said.
“Nice meeting you,” Sunny said, and crossed the room and went up a flight of stairs leading to the second story of the house.
“I see she’s offered you some refreshment,” Mrs. McKinney said.
“Yes, she has.”
“What is that? Tea ?”
“Yes.”
“God! Oh, well. Don’t you find it hot in here? My daughter keeps turning off the air conditioning and opening every door and window. She has a theory about—well, never mind.” She went back to the front door, closed it, and then adjusted a thermostat on the wall. Her movements, unlike her daughter’s, were liquidly smooth and effortless. Her voice sounded a trifle breathless, not quite the voice of a heavy drinker (which might never have occurred to me if she hadn’t expressed dismay over the tea), but husky nonetheless. She was altogether an entirely beautiful woman, and when she turned to me with a smile on her face, she quite took my breath away.
“The new hand tells me we’ve got a dead cow out on Buzzard’s Roost Hammock,” she said. “I’d like to take a look, mind if we talk while we ride out there?”
“Not at all,” I said.
“Might be a bit muddy, all this rain,” she said. “Too bad you didn’t wear boots.” She looked at my shoes. “Jeep’s out front,” she said, and turned and walked out of the house.
The Jeep was red and marked M.K . in black on its side panels. A .22-caliber rifle with a telescopic sight rested on the front seat between us. She started the engine, backed out of the dirt driveway, and said, “That’s our horse barn there. We keep five horses,don’t need more than that for a ranch this size. We usually figure at least two horses to a cowboy. The small house is where the manager lives, the mobile home is for the new hand and his wife. We’re not a big operation—we run a thousand head, more or less, on four thousand acres. I know a man who runs twenty thousand head, has a ranch as big as the state of Rhode Island, out closer to Ananburg. We’ve got five pastures here, run a herd of two hundred cows on each of them. Buzzard’s Roost is out this way.”
We were driving north on a muddy road flanked with fenced-in pasture land. The Jeep bounced and jostled along the ruts. Brown water splashed up against the side panels as Mrs. McKinney maneuvered the vehicle through the puddles.
“The pastures were already named when my late husband bought the ranch. Historical names, all of them, I have no idea where they originated. Well, Buzzard’s Roost is an easy one. More damn buzzards out there than you can shake a stick at. That’s why I want to see that dead cow. Buzzards are a nuisance. They’ll swoop down to eat the afterbirth whenever one of our cows calves, and sometimes they’ll attack the newborn calf as well. That dead cow out there is going to attract a lot of them. The other pastures—who knows?” she said. “One of them’s called Mosquito Jam, must’ve been a breeding ground for them before the state started its control program. Still got plenty of them there, but that’s native pasture. We’ve got a thousand acres of native, and three thousand improved now. Back in 1943, this was all native pasture. Been a long job planting it in Pensacola Bahia, and keeping it up. One of the pastures is called Sheep Run Hammock—somebody must’ve raised sheep there long ago. You know what a hammock is, of course.”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s a sort of canvas bed you hang between two trees.”
“That, too,” she said, smiling. “But the word’s Indian for a copse of trees. Here on the ranch, it’s usually oak. So,” she said. “From what you told me on the phone, I may have to
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