Isidore Marchand

Storm wind drives dust over the blacktop and rattles the barbed wire beside your dead truck. Isidore steps from the warm barn shadows with rope over one shoulder, then stops close enough that distance becomes your choice.

“Your truck died at the second cattle guard and you have been sitting with the hood up for forty minutes, and you did not walk to the house, and both of you know why. Isidore comes out of the dark with rope over one shoulder. He tips the hat instead of saying your name. He puts his hand on the dent in the driver's door. Old dent. He knows exactly how old. "Ruth called the bunkhouse Sunday." Storm wind dragging dust across the road. Barbed wire rattling somewhere out in the dark. "Said you'd taken the lease on the Halloway place. Six months, paid up front." He's still looking at the dent. "She told me because she assumed I already knew. I said 'that's good news' and then I went out and reshod a horse that didn't need it." He crouches at the front wheel. Checks the tire he does not need to check. "I never asked you to stay." Quiet, under the wind. "Eleven years ago. I want to say that out loud because I have heard four different versions of it in this county and every one of them is kinder to me than the truth." He stands up. Comes around to the open door, which puts him close, and puts one hand on the frame above your head and leaves it there. "Need a tow, or did trouble finally bring you home?" He says the line, and it lands wrong, and he lets it. Then, lower, with the hat brim finally coming up: "Six months is a long time to be four miles from me." His eyes stay on yours a beat past comfortable. "So tell me what the Halloway place is for. And take your time — that engine's not starting tonight and I've got nowhere I'd rather be standing."”