Vickie Goowin
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1 (August 12, 1997)
As I drove the 1989 Toyota Corolla north on the two-lane highway out of Grainville, Wyoming, pain pulsed through my head with each heartbeat as exhaustion weighed on my shoulders pressing me into the seat. The windows were down to allow some ventilation, yet the car was still hot enough to bake bread. Every few minutes, I reminded my hands to loosen their death grip on the steering wheel. The day started out so well, but ended with the meeting from hell.
The acrid smell of hogs was overwhelming a mile south of the farrowing site lagoon. A pickup pulled out onto the highway in front of me—license plate, HCP1—Tim Morton’s truck. Seemed late for him to be working. Maybe trouble in pig city?
The truck turned at the road to Tim’s ranch, leaving me alone again. It was 10:30 p.m. with the temperature still in the nineties.
Maybe I should move to the North Pole—much cooler there—now that my stupid husband was off with his new girlfriend. Of course, there was the problem about what an environmental organizer would o in the Artic. Too cold for pigs. Hey, I could work on polar bear habitat.
Something tickled the back of my neck. I jerked and slapped on the area with my hand. Not a spider or a fly; sweat. God it was hot. Maybe I should move to the North Pole now my stupid husband was off with his new girlfriend.
I reached the interstate and stepped on the gas pedal. The car sped up to 75 miles per hour. Sighing, I reminded myself that people were pretty much the same everywhere. Whether it was swine, polar bears, or coalmines, frustrations run high when people lose control of their quality of life. Disastrous meetings like the one I tried to facilitate in Grainville happened when folks were scared.
My mind flashed back over the day. The sunrise had painted the sky with pinks, blues and oranges. I watched the shadows evaporate, the soft light becoming harsh and intense through the left car window. A yellow ball of fire, sky of dazzling blue, and rolling prairie hills of tan, brown, and sage green provided the 8 a.m. backdrop when I pulled in Susan Pederson’s home.
I shuttered at the memory of flies caked on Susan Pederson’s home. It reminded me of some horror film where flies mutate and carry off small children and dogs. Unfortunately, the flies couldn’t carry off hogs or their corporate owners.
I jolted back to the present. Brown bodies beside the road, glowing beads capturing the light. Deer. And there he was, a large four-point buck meandering across the interstate. My foot slammed down hard on the brake and I missed him by inches but laid some rubber. Heart pounding, breath coming in gasps, I checked the mirror for traffic. Seeing none, I took a steadying breath and eased the car back up to speed. The near accident got my full attention and I focused on the last thirty miles home.
As the lights of Douglas began to light up the road into town, my heart hurt. I dreaded pulling into the driveway of the house and seeing the darkness. I sat for a minute, fighting the tears. Home, where Ken no longer waited for me, no longer left the lights on so I didn’t have to climb up the dark steps to the front door. Home, where I now lived alone with my calico cat. No hugs awaited me, no one to spoon up next to in bed, no one to cook for or eat with or listen while I whined. Home. No longer a place of solace.
Tears mingled with the sweat on my cheeks. Ken lived with Lisa, the husband-stealing bitch. Somehow losing your husband of fifteen years to a woman he met at church felt so wrong
I unlocked the front door and my cat, Spice, came bounding up, only to stop three feet away, stare at me, arch her back and hiss. What the…? I reached down to pet her and got a whiff of myself. The reek of hogs that permeated the air in Coyote County had come home with me.
Pulling my blouse over my head, I stripped off my clothes and hussled naked to the utility room. I shoved every stitch into the washing machine, chose the hottest settings, put in too much soap, and started the appliance. Then rushed upstairs to the shower, shampooed my hair twice and scrubbed my skin to the color of apples.
I slipped into comfy pajamas and went downstairs. I took a new bottle of chilled Chardonnay from the kitchen fridge, popped the cork and poured a tumbler full. I’d earned it. I deserved it. Taking both the glass and the bottle to the recliner, I sat down and put my feet up. Spice forgave the earlier stinky encounter and curled up on my lap in that comfortable way felines do. I stroked the cat and sipped the wine. As my mind relaxed, a disconcerting thought forced its way in.
Why was Morton out so late? It was common knowledge he had a big event with the Governor and several legislators. They left about 8:30 in the evening. Lucinda Mills, one of our members, was a caterer for the event. She stopped by as the meeting was breaking up and mentioned that Tim joked around with the caterers for a few minutes and said he was going home to bed.
But at my meeting some cowboys—I couldn’t see who-were railing about the hog lagoon and teaching Tim a lesson. God, I hope they didn’t do something stupid.