The president said, “We’re counting on you, Arlo. And it could be tough. Now let me ask you one other thing . . .” He glanced at his watch. “What do you think of Ham Peterson?”
Ham Peterson was the former governor of Nevada and head of Homeland Security. The calculator in Goodman’s head began to churn. “He’s a good guy, but he’s had some problems . . .”
“He steps on his own dick every time he turns around,” the president said. “I’ll tell you, Arlo, we won’t fire anybody right after the election. Leaves a bad taste. But Ham should retire back to the ski slopes. Why don’t you bone up on Homeland Security? I’ll have Bill Danzig send you some materials . . .”
A half hour later, the president was talking to Danzig, and said, “Send that Homeland stuff over to Arlo.”
“He bit?”
“Like a ten-pound bass,” the president said. “He’ll bust his ass during the election, finish out his term, and then . . . he’ll just go away.”
“He’s not going to like that,” Danzig said.
“We have an old farm saying in Indiana that covers the situation,” the president said. “Fuck him.”
Jake sat on top of the horse, one knee curled up over the flat saddle. Madison sat one horse over. Jake said, “I feel like an asshole. These pants, these boots . . .” He was wearing knee-length riding boots and jodhpurs.
“You look terrific,” Madison said. “You’d look even more terrific if you’d get rid of that ridiculous cowboy hat.”
“That won’t happen,” Jake said, touching the hat. “My grandfather gave me this hat. He wore it on the Old Chisholm Trail.”
“Jake, you bought it last week in New York,” Madison said. “At a gay boutique in SoHo. I was with you.”
“Oh, yeah.” Good hat, though.
“Eventually, if I can teach you to jump, you’re going to land on your head and kill yourself because you’re not wearing a helmet,” Madison said.
“Maybe I could rent some stall space from you,” Jake said. “Put in a couple of decent quarter horses. Get a real saddle.”
Across the fence, a dozen head of black angus drifted along, grazing down the spring grass, like inkblots on green baize. Cows liked to watch people; Jake had, on occasion, wondered if they were plotting something.
Madison asked, “How’re we doing?”
Jake thought for a moment, then said, “We’re doing better than expected.”
“Expected by who?”
“By us,” he said.
“You trust me yet?” She asked it in a light voice, but she was serious.
He bobbed his head. “I do. It’s not like I figured something out. I trust you in my gut. I trust you like I trusted my guys in Afghanistan.”
More angus drifted by, chewing.
“I’ve fallen in love with you,” Madison said. “I didn’t expect to, but I couldn’t help it.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he said, “Jeez.”
She said, “If I’m going to have kids, it’ll have to be soon. I’m getting on in years.”
“I’d like a few kids,” Jake said. “I’d be good at being somebody’s old man.”
“We oughta start working on it, then.”
“Fine with me. As long as I can keep my hat.” He touched the horse with his heels, moving down the fence line.
She called after him, “So we have a basis for negotiation.”
“Yup.” He turned in the saddle to look back at her and caught a quick flash of teeth. “Made you smile,” he said.
• • •
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John Sandford, Dead Watch
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