She waved as she passed Frankie's Bar thinking of the good times and the bad times she had had there, and wondered about the times she had forgotten to remember the next morning.

She thought of the old adage that said we only regret the things we didn't do. Randi knew it wasn't true. The possibility of regret usually fired her into action. She recalled how she could not wait to get a tattoo on her ankle so she could talk about how sorry she was for doing such a foolish thing. The remorse had been so complete she had added a butterfly to her butt.

When Randi drove by the Y she noticed Crystal Howard jogging around the track on the roof. In days past Randi might have honked, or yelled, but lately she seldom talked to Crystal. Even though they were married to kin, they didn't travel in the same circles anymore.

There had been a time when Frankie's Bar didn't come to life each night until Randi and Crystal stepped through the door. Most evenings they wouldn't have to buy a single drink.

But that was before Crystal had married Shelby Howard, an old oilman with a huge house just outside of town and the dozen oil wells pumping nothing but money. A few weeks later Randi had married his nephew, Jimmy, settling for the younger, poorer Howard. He'd been a good husband and, for a while, a good lover, but like everything else in Randi's life, she figured it was time to run before he yelled "Last call."

The thought of starting over at thirty-three was frightening and she wasn't getting any younger. It was time she left Jimmy to follow her dreams.

That was one thing Randi decided she was proud of-no man had ever left her. She'd never given them the chance. When Jimmy got home tonight, he'd wonder where she was for a while or, more likely, where his supper was. Then he'd check the closet and notice she'd moved on.

She doubted he'd even try to find her and knew he wouldn't take off work to come after her. In a few years, if they crossed paths, they'd remember the good times and laugh. It hadn't been a bad marriage, just one that had ended, as everything does. Seems like most folks thought their relationships were going either forward or backward. Randi felt hers and Jimmy's had just got stuck in neutral. They had some good times. They had some bad times. Now was just the goodbye time.

Randi glanced in her rearview mirror at Crystal. She would have liked to have said goodbye, but that would just complicate things, and Randi had to get busy and untangle her life.

Crystal Howard watched the familiar red Jeep turn into the trailer park gate as she circled the west end of the running track. She lifted her hand to wave, then reconsidered. It was almost eight o'clock. Randi must be running late for work. If Crystal had caught her attention and she had backed up to talk, even for a few minutes, there would be trouble with her boss at the plant.

Slowing to a walk, Crystal began her cool down. Randi would only have told Crystal how lucky she was, no longer having to punch a time clock. Crystal would agree, letting Randi believe that at least one of them was living the dream of marrying rich. Randi didn't need to know about the pain of the cosmetic surgeries, or the two-hour workout each morning, or the overwhelming feeling of living in a world where she didn't belong.

Crystal grabbed her water bottle and sat down on the club's only lawn chair. She told herself that Shelby made her life bearable in this town. Shelby would pick her up and dance around the room with her, yelling that he had the prettiest girl in town. Then, she would forget about the surgeries and the workouts.

He might be thirty years older than she was, but he knew how to make her feel special. He told her once he didn't care about all the other men she had in her life just as long as he was the last.

A breeze cooled the thin layer of sweat on her skin. Crystal shivered. She would be glad when this day was over. There was an uneasiness about it. Shelby would laugh at her if she mentioned her feelings, but she sensed calamity rumbling in with the upcoming storm.

In the early oil boom days of Clifton Creek, Texas, a bell was erected on the courthouse porch. When an accident happened in the oil fields the bell sounded and, within minutes, was echoed by churches and schools. Silently, the children would pack their books and head home…past the clanging… past men rushing to help.

They did not need to be told. They knew. Someone's father, someone's husband, someone's son was dead amid the manmade forest of rigs.


October 11

9:45 a. m.

Montano Ranch


Anna Montano cleared away the breakfast dishes and poured herself the last of the coffee. She collected the letters she had picked up a few hours before and relaxed, finally having time to read. From her perch on a kitchen bar stool she could see all of what Davis called "the company space" in their home. The great room with its wide entry area at the front door and ten-foot fireplace along the north wall. An open dining room filled with an oversize table and ornate chairs, never used except when Davis paid the bills. And the breakfast nook, almost covered over in plants, where she ate most of her meals, alone.

Carlo's familiar honk rattled the morning calm. In the five years they had been in America, Carlo had become more and more Davis's foreman and less her brother. She had grown used to him walking past her to speak to Davis, or inviting her husband to go somewhere without including her.

Anna heard Davis storm from his office, hurry down the hall, and bolt out the front door. She knew by now he would not bother to look in her direction, or say goodbye. She was no more visible to her husband and brother than a piece of the furniture. He did not bother to inform her why he had returned to the house after leaving almost an hour before. She had not bothered to ask.

She watched as Shelby Howard's truck plowed down the road toward the oil rig he was building on their land. She had only met the old oilman once, but he drove like he owned the land he leased. Another car followed in his dust, but Anna could not see the driver. From bits of conversations she had heard Davis having over the phone, Anna knew they needed more money to drill deeper for oil. She guessed the men were having a meeting this morning on the site.

She finished her cup of coffee, enjoying the quiet of the house once more. The sun had been dancing in and out of clouds all morning, making it impossible to trust the light in the back room-the only room in the house she dared to call hers.

Soon after she had arrived as Davis's bride, she began to paint again just as she always had during her lonely childhood. Between the horses and her painting, Anna continued to pass the hours.

Anna watched the horses in the north corral for a while before climbing off the bar stool and washing her coffee cup. When she turned to put away the cup a sound, like a hundred rifles firing at once, thundered through the house, shaking the walls with fury.

By the time the cup had shattered on the tile floor, Anna was at a full run toward the door. Nothing in nature could have made such a sound.

She fought with the latch on the heavy front door, her heart pounding in her throat. When the door finally swung open, yelling came from the barn and bunkhouse. Men raced toward trucks and pickups, shouting at one another to hurry.

Anna held her breath, watching them, trying to figure out what had happened. The very air seemed charged with panic.

Then she saw it. Black smoke billowed from the oil rig site that earlier had been no more than a dot along the horizon.

Carlo's pickup sprayed gravel as it swung around the drive. "Stay here!" he yelled at her.

Anna stared at the smoke blackening the white-clouded sky, like ink spilling onto a linen tablecloth. "Where is Davis?" she whispered as Carlo raced away. He did not bother with the dirt road that ribboned toward the site. He bobbed across the open pasture directly toward the rising fury.

Anna huddled on the first step of the porch and watched the flames dance in the smoke as every hand on the ranch rushed to the fire. She did not need an answer to her question. She knew Davis must be there, somewhere in that smoke. Somewhere near the fire.

In her mind she paintedthe scene, closing her thoughts away to the tragedy unfolding before her eyes.


10:24 a.m.

Clifton Creek Courthouse


Helena Whitworth stared out the second-floor window of the Clifton Creek courthouse conference room, watching the Texas wind chase autumn into winter. She had seen pictures of places in New England where fall blanketed the landscape with brilliant hues and piled color in vibrant heaps like haystacks on an artist's palette. But here, as the leaves began to turn, gusts ripped them from their branches and sent them northeast toward Oklahoma before the metamorphosis of color was given a chance to brighten the gray landscape.

Clifton Creek was rich in oil and cattle and sunny days, but sometimes, when the scattered patches of green dulled to brown, she felt washed out all the way to her soul.

The town of six thousand reminded her of a mesquite tree spreading out over the dry land, offering little in comfort or beauty. Even the streets were drawn out like points on a compass, north to south, east to west. No curves, no variance, and no tolerance for change. She had lived here all her life, sixty-three years so far, and she always dreaded autumn.

Slowly, Helena straightened bony shoulders beneath her tailored suit and faced the rest of the city council members. "Gentlemen, it may be years, maybe even beyond our lifetimes, before we see the importance of building even a few small parks. But, mark my words, we will see it."