Saturday High Noon,

      March 20

      Broken Wing Ranch

      Three signs were tacked eight, six, and four feet high on a pine tree in the front yard. In succession they read party’s on the back patio, park here, and first beer’s below. A large arrow pointed down from the bottom sign to a large ice cooler filled with Miller Lite at the foot of the tree. If you wanted a different brand of beer at Tom and Susie’s home, you had to bring your own. Cars were already parked everywhere: on the side of the dirt road, in front of the house, even under the tall pines towering over Tom’s new caboose. The gathering of the clan had started, celebrating the end of winter and serving as a pre-family reunion in preparation for the June blowout at Port Aransas. Fifty-plus family members and friends from all over Grimes County joined in the revelry. Kids romped in the open field, a couple of the fathers had their youngsters at the catfish pond, country music blared from large speakers at the far end of the patio, and laughter was heard everywhere.

      The Piper Cub glided in over the trees, touched down at the east end of the runway, and slowed to a stop about a hundred feet in front of the celebrating crowd. Tom cut the engine, unlocked the horizontal door, and let it swing down. He stepped out, moved to the passenger seat, and unbuckled a precious cargo. Like a coiled spring, six-year-old Holly fell into her grandfather’s arms. Adopted in Russia along with her older siblings, Grant and Caroline, Holly had more zip than a zipper factory. Remnants of an accent were long gone for the little Texan.

      “Let’s go again, Grampaw. Let’s go again.”

      “Maybe we can go again tomorrow.” Tom had to negotiate. “But for now, how about an ice cream cone?”

      End of discussion. Holly darted toward Paige screaming, “Mommy, Grampaw says I can have ice cream.” She disappeared into the throng.

      Holly was the last rider of the day, giving Tom permission to drink his first beer. Neither Tom nor Susie had to worry about personally entertaining anyone. No one needed any coddling in this gang. Laughter, music, and the aroma of shredded pork barbecue and fried chicken permeated the landscape.

      “Got seventeen rolls this time. Mighty good for this early in the year.” Cyril Diller, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, spoke of their agreement: Tom traded hay for the ability to jog through Cyril’s property. The specifics called for Cyril to cut the hay often enough to ensure that the ranch looked well groomed. As for the runway, Tom manicured it after “Serial Killer” gave it the rough cut.

      Cyril’s eyes, averting Tom’s, looked off into the distance. His mannerisms—from the shifting eyes, to the hands in his pockets, to his low whispering voice—gave Susie an eerie feeling about their neighbor. She once dubbed Cyril Diller as “Serial Killer” and it stuck like glue. Family and friends came to call him, with affection, by his nefarious nickname, though not to his face. No matter his eccentricities, everyone liked Serial Killer. He’d probably helped half the people of Grimes County at one time or another. Shifty eyes; not many teeth; dirty as a mongrel; good friend.

      Tom answered Serial Killer. “I thought it would be a good spring. Being this early, you might get seven cuttings this year.” He tipped his beer. “Here’s to a good crop and some fat cattle.”

      “Hi, Cyril.” Susie, along with Paige, walked up next to Tom. “How’ve you been?” She looked him in the eyes, to no avail.

      “Cyril, I’m Paige. I inherited Tom as my father.” She stuck out her hand.

      He looked everywhere but directly at either of them. He failed to shake hands with Paige, barely answering Susie’s friendly question. “Been good. Lot of heat for this time of the year.” He looked down at his can. “Better get me another beer.” Serial Killer was much like a Dachshund, comfortable with only a select few. Susie wasn’t one of the few. Apparently Paige wasn’t either. He put his empty hand to the bill of his cap and walked away.

      No sooner did Serial Killer leave than Randy and Jeanie Rouse, neighbors who owned five hundred acres west of Richards, Texas, came up.

      Looking at the beer in Tom’s hand, Randy said, “I see you’re finished flying for the day. Now what’s Rachel going to think?” He and Jeanie smiled at their granddaughter heading over to join Holly at the ice cream trough.

      Tom watched Rachel, already laughing at something funny Holly said. Tom pointed at Rachel and answered, “I think I’m off the hook. And speaking of hooks,” Tom gestured slightly toward Paige, “I meant to tell you that your work on the whip hose paid off. Ed Harvey told me that the computer models sold the jury completely. I don’t know what the judgment will be, but our side did its duty and your work was dead-on.” Once again Tom and Paige had pulled off a forensic coup.

      Paige, strikingly pretty with dark brown eyes and a straight Seiler nose, smiled at her father. Memories of a little girl building balsa wood bridges in Tom’s office played in her mind. Grin on her face, Paige started to respond, “Well, let’s get ready for—”

      A horn honked on the highway. Tom, the Rouses, Susie, and Paige looked over just in time to see Delana’s taxi pass behind some trees along FM 1486. Betsy the Cadillac trailed the taxi by two car lengths. Two minutes later Don, Cindy, Elam, and Delana walked between the office building and the main house.

      “How you doin’, ole man?” Don’s youthful smile broke across his face. He crowded the beer and cane in one hand and shook Tom’s with the other.

      Delana and Cindy each gave Tom a peck on the cheek. Friends and family came over to say hello. Most had not met Delana, but all had heard about her and wanted to see her in the flesh. Her inhibitions evaporated in the smiles and friendliness of these people. Tom and Don told some good stories about her life as a taxi driver and her meeting the likes of Sonny Bono, Brooks Robinson, and Denzel Washington. She was also the only person they knew who had ever been held up with a knife to her throat. Nancy, the oldest sibling in the Seiler family, thoroughly enjoyed meeting the taxi driver who was so close to her brothers. After a while Nancy pirated Delana into joining her on the porch. In the hour before Delana had to leave, Nancy told some interesting tales of Tom, Don, and their deceased brother Jack.

      Tom emerged from the edge of the pines with a small gaggle of the partygoers. He circled his arm, enticing the women to join the group.

      “Nancy, Delana. Come on with us. I want to show you my latest toy.” Tom escorted them to the antique train caboose—not a model, but the real thing. Built in 1971 for the Burlington Northern Railroad, the caboose was painted a beautiful deep red on the outside. A bright thin