The Final Twist

Shaw thought, Oh, yeah, Ashton Shaw would have loved this woman.

Mary Dove gave a soft smile, and gentle wrinkles folded around her mouth and eyes. “Did Russell say anything about a family?”

“Said he didn’t have one.”

There was a pause as Mary Dove’s eyes fixed on a sunlit peak. “Did you ask him about visiting?”

One never evaded, much less lied, within the Shaw family. “I did. He said he couldn’t. An assignment. Important.”

“It’s his job and his life.”

“He’s hard to read but I could tell he’s content.”

Leaving another thought understood, but unstated: both she and Ash had made the right decision in plotting out and executing the most difficult task in the world: their children’s upbringing.

His mother said, “I’ve got to get dinner going. Venison with blackberry glaze. It’s been soaking all day.”

Her habit was to steep the meat in buttermilk, which eliminated the gamey flavor.

Motion in the corner of Shaw’s eye. A nighthawk jotted above the field in his buoyant, erratic path. These particular birds have among the most complicated markings of any avian — their camo makes them virtually invisible during the day, but now, in approaching dusk, they’re easily spotted as they hunt for flying insects. They’re easily heard too: they issue a repetitive, raspy creek-creek when on wing. Colter had once been attacked by one when he had unknowingly trod too close to a nest. Both man and bird disengaged unharmed.

Looking away from the spirited bird, Shaw said, “Have a thought. What do you say about the three of us hiking Echo Ridge tomorrow.”

“Lovely idea,” said Mary Dove.

“Sounds good to me,” Victoria said. Then after a brief pause she turned her head slightly and squinted. “But I think it’s going to be four.”

Shaw glanced at her and noted she was looking past him. Both he and his mother turned.

A figure stepped from the dirt road onto the driveway. The man was dressed in black and wearing a stocking cap. He carried a duffel bag in one hand, and a backpack was over his right shoulder. He paused, looking at the house and, seeing the trio on the porch, he brushed at his long beard with the back of his left hand and continued in a slow lope toward them.

“My,” Mary Dove whispered, a hint of uncharacteristic emotion in her voice. She stepped off the planks, into the grass, to greet her eldest son.