In the days that followed I continued to learn how to work the ranch. I fixed more sections of fence, fumigated prairie dog burrows, collected eggs, fed chickens, weeded the planting beds, tended the greenhouse, and finally learned to milk cows (which turned out to be far more mechanical than I’d previously thought). It was hard work, the kind that settled into the bones, leaving me sore and ready for bed at the end of every day.

  The problem was that even learning these new forms of work I’d never tried before didn’t occupy my mind enough to keep it off the things that tortured me. Self-doubt and guilt became an almost external tormentor, something that trailed me like a shadow.

  Your father joined the Air Force and later became a firefighter. He was a hero. What have you ever done?

  In time I gave my tormentor a name, “The Thorn of Then,” or simply “Thorn.”

  Thorn continued his pale refrain, dredging up memories long past even as I tended to my duties. I’d be in the middle of pulling weeds from the planting beds when Thorn would whisper in my ear:

  Recall that day, when you were ten-years-old? It was your job to walk your sister home from school. She was only five after all. Too young to be left alone. What did you do?

  What choice did I have? I argued. Every time I tried to pull her along she started to scream and fight me. We were new in town, and people looked at me like I was trying to kidnap her.

  So, you abandoned her there.

  I did what Dad told me to do. Sweat trickled down my brow, and I wiped it away on the back of my glove. Soil smeared across my forehead, the damp scent lingering in my nostrils. It had happened once before, her refusing to come home with me. That time I waited with her, and it was over an hour before she decided she was finally ready to go home. When we got there, I explained the situation to Dad. He yelled at me for what felt like an eternity, and told me that next time I needed to tell her that I was going home and she could get in trouble on her own.

  Thorn sank his barbs in further, So, that’s why you abandoned your sister there at the school? The same spot where locals said they spotted a mountain lion? You left your sister where predators might have gotten her. Noticing a theme yet?

  It’s what he told me to do!

  The knife twisted in my side. And when he asked you where your sister was?

  I told him just that. Told him I was following his advice.

  I could still remember my father’s face, nostrils flared, a vein popping as he struck me across the cheek. Memories of the pain still stung, and I found myself wishing I could pop back into that moment and drive a knife between his ribs.

  So, you knew, said Thorn. You knew that turning it around on him was just going to make him mad. That’s why you did it that night. So that you could have an excuse to kill him. Keep telling yourself it was self-defense, but you baited him. You’ve been looking for an opportunity to kill him for years!

  I tried to disengage from the conversation, focusing on the weeds that had gathered near Lloyd’s sugar beets. But it’s hard to ignore something, or someone, who’s already in your head.

  Admit it! said Thorn. You’ve been hoping he’d give you an excuse to murder him since you were a child. You dreamed of the opportunity. Those late nights, when you couldn’t sleep because he was shouting at your mother, you fantasized about going downstairs and shooting him dead with his own gun. Those times when your mother was away and he berated you for your bad cooking? You imagined poisoning him.

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  Shut up! I snapped back.

  You even put a drop of ammonia in his mouthwash once, hoping it might be enough to at least make him sick. You hated him. You’re not a victim. What you did was the very definition of pre-meditated murder.

  “Enough!” I said aloud.

  Unlike the last time I yelled at Thorn, I was not alone. A gasp behind me alerted me to Derek’s presence. In the days since his injury, his cracked ankle had recovered.

  “Having a rough time?” Derek asked, gesturing toward the soil before me.

  “What?” I looked down, my pulse still pounding in my neck against the remnants of bruises. “Oh, yeah. It’s just frustrating that these things keep coming back. You can rip them up roots and all, but new seeds find their way into the soil.”

  “We’re gonna add a little weed killer,” said Derek. “My dad doesn’t like to use that stuff, but he’s agreed to do it this time.”

  “Why doesn’t he like to use weed killer?” I asked.

  “A lot of reasons,” said Derek as he made his way over to me. “The stuff’s expensive, it weakens the soil, and when we can market crops as ‘organic’ they sell for more money. But I agree with you. This is getting out of control, and we need to do something about it.”

  “Thanks,” I said, brushing off my gloves against the coverall pant legs. “So, we’ll go get some?”

  “No, he’s bringing it here.” Derek glanced back over his shoulder, toward the garage in the distance. “Listen, I got to ask you something.”

  Dread gripped me at the trepidation in his tone. I held my hands together to hide that I was crossing my fingers. When I was a child, my friends told me that crossing your fingers improves your luck. I’d stopped believing that a long time ago, but something about that simple gesture eased the pressure in my chest.

  Derek continued, “When you found me, you had a pistol on you. What happened to that?”

  “I still have it,” I confessed. “I keep it in the loft with me at night.”

  He stared a good long while, both of us totally silent. I imagined it wasn’t something he wanted to hear, that the near stranger his father had taken in, the person he’d just caught talking to himself, had a gun. The last thing I wanted to do was make him feel unsafe in his own home.

  “You can have it,” I told him. “If you want it.”

  I hated the thought of surrendering the weapon to anyone. The thing had saved my life, but it was also a temptation. “He who lives by the sword dies by the sword.” I imagined that applied to guns too.

  “Maybe,” said Derek, his eyes scanning over me with inquiry. “You know, I had a lot of down time when I was recovering, and I spent some time on the internet. I read about a gas station robbery over by Lake Tom. Three fellas came in, two with handguns and one with a shotgun. They were wearing ski masks, and they took everything from the register and drove off in three separate vehicles going three directions.”

  I wanted to say, “That’s awful!” but the words wouldn’t form. Anyone could see he wasn’t just bringing this up as a story to tell.

  “We don’t get a lot of crime out here,” said Derek. “The county sheriff’s department mostly deals with DUIs and domestic violence. So, that robbery’s got folks pretty shook up.”

  Still unable to speak, I gave a nod.

  “So, I have to ask,” Derek cleared his throat. “Were you one of those men? Is that why you had the gun?”

  “No,” I said.

  He squinted at me, no doubt searching for any signs of deception. “You swear?”

  “I swear. I had nothing to do with that robbery.” Part of me considered telling him that Lake Tom is in the opposite direction from where I was coming from, but I decided to keep those details to myself. If he knew what direction I came from, he might well discover that my crime was a lot worse than armed robbery.

  After a few more moments of silent scrutiny, he said, “Good to know. I suppose it’s a silly thought.” He shrugged. “Why would a man on the run from the law stop and help a stranger?”

  “Yeah,” I said with a chuckle.

  “I mean, seems to me a sure way to get caught,” said Derek.

  “Yeah,” I said. “A criminal like that would have to be a real idiot.”