I’d met Butch Anderson a year ago when his stepson, Greg, introduced us.  I’d been dating Greg for nearly three years since the O’Connor trial, a famous case that Harry and I defended some years ago that put Harry’s name on the globe of hot-to-trot lawyers.  Greg was the cameraman from CNN assigned to cover the trial, and it was love at first sight.  Two years ago, Greg accepted a free-lance investigative reporting position with National Geographic.  About the same time that Greg switched jobs, he brought me to northern Wyoming on a camping trip, which is when I met Butch and Beth.  Greg is Beth’s son from a previous marriage, but since Butch was a foster child himself, he welcomed Greg into his home like he was his own kin.  Beth and Butch later had a son together, Wyatt, whom I had not yet met.  Greg hinted that he and Wyatt were “different” and that they didn’t enjoy each other’s company much.   I understood sibling rivalry all too well, so I never pushed Greg much for information about Wyatt.  I was perfectly happy in love with Greg – a man who understood what it was like to lose a father at a young age, as I did, as well as how difficult it was to integrate into a new family.  Greg seemed to understand every nuance of my feelings, and his openness and generosity in listening told me that he was the man with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.  We talked often of getting married, but with our hectic schedules, it seemed like we didn’t have time to iron out the details.  Greg was on assignment in South America and I was busy packing my apartment in Jackson. 

For a year, in an effort to expand our law practice, Harry had wanted me to open a satellite office of the firm elsewhere in Wyoming, although we weren’t quite certain that we had enough business to justify the expansion.  Recently, Harry and I had agreed that I would relocate to a community skirting the Powder River Basin so that I could be lead counsel in a new case he’d agreed to take.  As I carefully wrapped framed photographs of my family and friends, I thought about what it was going to be like to move to the town where Greg grew up.  I also wondered what it would be like to be in charge of a law office.  I’d never been anyone’s boss before, and I contemplated the responsibility of managing others.  I hoped to hire people that I respected and who respected me.  

From the moment Harry first started describing the case, I felt an uneasy sensation growing in my stomach.  He told me that he’d received a call from a lawyer in Sheridan whom he’d known for a long time.  Chance Baker called Harry and explained that he’d been handling a legal matter for Butch and Beth, but that the situation was heating up and it was outside the reach of his lawyering expertise.  Chance and Harry went to law school together at Stanford some decades back, and Chance mainly represented landowners with oil and gas lease issues.  He also served as lead counsel to the Powder River Basin Resource Council, helping community members protect and preserve their most valuable asset – land.  Chance told Harry that it was Butch’s idea to hire us.  I assumed that Greg recommended me, and I was flattered.  Chance explained the vastness of the case and the complexity of the issues involved, and suggested that I move from Jackson Hole to Sheridan for the duration of the lawsuit.  The recommendation fit in nicely with Harry’s plan to open a satellite office within the state, so Harry willingly offered to relocate me.  And I willingly accepted.  In all truthfulness, I wanted to move from Jackson. 

Jackson Hole is one of the most beautiful places on the planet, in my opinion, and I loved living there.  I enjoyed exploring the Teton Mountains and had met many nice people.  However, Lela, my legal secretary, had been murdered there last year and after Lela’s death, I needed a change of atmosphere.  Also, I’d been working for Harry for nearly a decade in Jackson and it would be a great challenge to head up my own office. So, I packed my bags and drove my new Chevy Equinox over several mountain passes east of Jackson Hole until I ended up in the beautifully quaint western town of Sheridan. 

Sheridan reminded me a lot of Jackson – nestled close to the Rocky Mountains and surrounded by picturesque beauty only glossy postcards capture.  The downtown Main Street has more original late-nineteenth century and early twentieth-century buildings than any other community in Wyoming.  Flanked by historic brick buildings that have withstood a few centuries of old-west style gunfights, Main Street today sports new facades worthy of modern-day latte shops, bookstores and western wear.  The old and the new blended well and the spirit of the friendly people exuded the warmth and openness one might expect from a small town.   But, small towns have a way of operating under a thick microscope, and large personalities that might go unnoticed in the city were front-stage performances here.   I would meet some of the saltier townsfolk soon. 

I can thank Chance Baker for what would turn out to be a thrill-ride through the torrents of debased landscape.

* * *

Butch Anderson and Chance Baker thought that the best way to introduce me to the issues of coalbed methane gas production in northern Wyoming was to attend a Powder River Basin Resource Council meeting, so we agreed to meet at the local library where the meeting was held.  Butch recognized me immediately as I stepped out of my Chevy Equinox and waved me over in his direction.

“Howdy, Miss MacIntosh,” Butch said, extending his right hand.  “You are a tall drink of water, aren’t you?  Last time we met I think you were sitting down.  You must be near five foot ten.”  I nodded and shook his hand.  “And your hair was pulled back in a pony tail, I think.  It looked brown then.”

“Auburn.  You saw me after three days of camping in the Cloud Peak Wilderness.  I’m sure it was dirty!”  Butch chuckled, exposing his large, yellowed teeth.  I’d forgotten that we met Greg’s folks after our camping trip.  I’m sure I looked a little earthy then.

“Well, you clean up real nice.  Real nice.”  He looked me up and down and nodded again before he led me toward the library entrance, where he opened the door.  “I can honestly say that Greg has good taste in the ladies.  You’re downright pretty.  And smart too.  Just like my wife.”  Butch introduced me to several ranch folk as we settled into the crowd.  As he chit-chatted and made small talk, I listened in on the conversations around me.  Ranchers complained of the drought.  Their wives complained of the methane company semi trucks speeding along rural highways.  Environmentalists discussed their regrets about the saline wastewater laden with mineral toxins that had been pumped into huge containment pits.  I meshed the conversations in my head, thinking of the irony that in a time of drought, water could be worthless. 

Irony intrigued me.  Like watching people order Big Macs with large fries and a small Diet Coke.  Or spanking a child for hitting his playmate.   A larger paradox occurred to me as I daydreamed and eavesdropped:  environmentalists were teaming up with ranchers who, in previous years, had probably supported energy development in Wyoming as the best way to make jobs in the bucolic landscape befit with the boon and bust of energy development from coal mines.   Life was like that.  As a survival tactic, creatures aligned themselves with causes that suited their current needs. 

Butch mingled through the crowd and I followed.  It was early in the evening, about seven o’clock, and the sun was just beginning its descent behind the Big Horn Mountains.  I glanced out the window onto Brooks Street.  The warm summer sun cast long blue shadows from neighboring two-story brick buildings.  The light in the room was fading a bit, but the conversation was heating up.

“I want to introduce you to Greg’s best friend.  I’m sure he’s told you all about Sherman Todd,” Butch said.  I nodded as I spotted his long, curly blond hair bouncing around as he spoke with emphatic zeal.  Sherman, a bleeding-heart liberal who lived on granola and yogurt, had been Greg’s best friend since the first grade.  I’d met him before and recognized him amongst a crowd of fellow tree-huggers, ranting and raving at the damage the methane gas developers were doing to the splendor of Wyoming’s landscape.  We joined his group as Sherman pounded on the podium in front of him, screaming of the “landwhores sucking the life out of Wyoming soil like She were one big-milked tit.  They’ll suck her and suck her until she runs dry, then leave the excrements of their project for the ranchers to deal with.  That Superfund that the federal government set aside for toxic waste will be long gone and we Wyomingites will be left with pollution, effluence, toxic waste, smog, greenhouse gasses, and every other kind of contaminant known to man.  I’d like to nuke every last one of them sumabitches.”  Sherman stepped away from the podium with wet eyes and a dry conviction that no matter what he said, the big money from the mineral stealers like MethZap would continue to pave the pockets of politicians.  He probably sensed that his efforts and speeches would simply add to the toxic waste around him.

After Sherman’s outcry, the meeting was called to order.  One rancher after another took to the podium like an actor to the stage, professing his or her quandaries with coalbed methane plays on their land.  Their words were runny, like egg whites sliding from the shell, as tears filled their eyes with each phrase.  Yet, none seemed to lose their sense of humor.  One man told of his experience.  “I started to get methane in my water after they started drilling.  Is that a coincidence?  I think that common sense says no.  We’re all on wells out here in the Basin.  Most folks are on water wells, unless you’re in the subdivisions of town.  In my well, the methane got so bad that the hose that I used for filling the horse tank with water would blow out of the tank unless I held on tight to it.  And I can tell you one thing:  You never wanted to flush the toilet while you were sitting on it.”  The group chuckled as the cowboy grew serious.   “I know it sounds funny, and we must keep our sense of humor in life, but when the state officials told my wife not to light a match near the faucet, somehow it didn’t seem so comical anymore.” 

An overweight lady stood in the back of the room.  She was wearing an apron over her smock, as if she dropped by in the middle of fixing supper to tell her story.  “The dreadful noise generated by a compressor station near my kitchen window was so loud that Ginnie, our black Labrador, was too frightened to go outside to do her business without a lot of coaxing.  Now I don’t know about you, but there ain’t nothin’ sadder than a dog afraid of takin’ care of her own business.”  The crowd laughed, while the dog lovers in the audience nodded their heads.

We listened to story after story of fourth and fifth generation ranchers whose land was being destroyed.   Their down-home wholesomeness, coupled with their lack of arrogance, made them genuinely believable and honorable.  Of course, I was viewing them as probable witnesses in our case.

Not all of the attendees were against the methane gas development, and some were equally venomous in their outcry favoring productive use of land and the need for economic growth.  A studious-looking man in a business suit stood to make his point.  His nametag read:  Gardner Fox, President, Sheridan Chamber of Commerce.   “You people just don’t get it, do you?  Don’t you remember the ‘80’s, when half the coalmines around here were layin’ off people and half of the blue-collar population didn’t have jobs or medical insurance?  We have to balance!”   This, of course, started yet another round of shouting from both sides.  By the time the meeting was adjourned, Sherman Todd looked like the blood vessels in his face were about to burst.

But as we filed out of the meeting, I noticed that the ranchers drove off in their brand-spanking new Chevy or GMC or Ford or Dodge pickup trucks.  I mentioned it to Butch and he responded.  “All them folks complain about the damage to their land, but they’re the first in line to cash their royalty checks at the end of the month.  Natives are downright embarrassed by their newfound riches around these parts.  New log cabin homes are replacing the ranch houses of the past.  I just don’t know how to weigh up the mess we’re in, Mary.” 

“Call me Mac.”

“Mac seems like a sandwich or something.  I prefer Mary,” Butch said.  As I climbed into his aging Chevy Silverado crew cab, I wanted to tell him that my dad called me Mary and that he died in a car accident when I was four and that I preferred that men call me Mac.  But out of respect for him as a client and my boyfriend’s stepfather, I kept my mouth shut and just nodded.  I fastened my seatbelt and brushed the lint off my navy jacket, unsure as to the direction this lawsuit would take and unsure of the comfort I felt in representing Butch and Beth.  As if Butch sensed my trepidation, he started up a conversation.

“I was talking to some of the folks at the meeting and they’re glad that I’m suing MethZap.  They think it’s about time that someone stood up to them.  We all agree that we have to be good stewards of the land and our ability to earn a living in the ranching business is being threatened by irresponsible oil and gas development.  Some of them would like to join in on our lawsuit.  Is that possible?”

“You mean like a class action?” I asked.

“I don’t know what that is, but what I’m thinking is that we can all sue together, share the costs.  Chance Baker told me that it was going take a good bundle of money to fight MethZap.  Some of the ranchers you met tonight get fifty thousand dollars a month in royalties from the gas.  I haven’t seen a dime yet.  So, I’m thinking that it might be good to have some other money involved.”

“I’ll have to talk to Harry about a class action.  That would change the dynamics of this case quite a bit.  But it might make sense.”  I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts.  “Why don’t we drive out to your ranch and take a look.  How long before it gets dark?”

“Stays light in the summer pretty late.  We’ve got plenty of time.  Besides, Beth is anxious to see you again.  It’s been awhile.”

* * *

Some of the most gorgeous plains country in Wyoming lies along U.S. 14, east of Sheridan, on the quiet scenic road that curves through mile after mile of ranchland and amber waves of winter wheat.  The road meandered alongside cottonwood-bordered Clear Creek as we passed through small towns called Ucross and Clearmont and Leiter.   After Leiter, we parted ways with Clear Creek and I noticed that I missed the ebb and flow of a river directing us.  Twilight was setting in and the sky was fading from a purple-pink to a dark shade of blue, making it more and more difficult to see the beautiful purple lupine flowers that clustered near the banks of the river.  About eight miles down the road, we came to a bridge with a sign reading, “Powder River.”  Butch took a hard right after the bridge.  I looked back at the sinuous flow of water as we climbed through rugged hills and down a long green valley filled with fine ranches and modern homes. 

In the tiny town of Arvada, we came to the first stop sign I’d seen since we’d left Sheridan. Butch beckoned the truck to his right through the intersection by tipping his hat and giving a one-fingered wave.  I watched the beat-up Dodge drift by, reading the mass of bumper stickers pasted to the tailgate.  “Honk if you’re Horny.”  “Vehicle Protected by Smith and Wesson.”  “Save Your Horse – Ride a Cowgirl.” 

I allowed my eyes to wander to the right, catching the rays of sun illuminating the peaks of the Big Horn Mountains.  The purple mountains were majestic in their own right.  To me, they looked like an old cowboy lying down on his back at the end of a hard day’s work.  The peaks formed what looked like a cowboy hat, followed by a forehead, sharp nose, and a chiseled chin.  I could understand why the Sioux Indians fought so hard to keep this country out of white hands.  Butch must have read my mind.

“The Big Horns are imposing, aren’t they?  The Indians called Cloud Peak ‘Ahsahta,’ meaning ‘The Big Horns,’ after the Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep.”  I nodded with interest. 

I smiled as I thought about my camping trip with Greg.  He told me many campfire stories about growing up in the area and how well his stepfather knew the history of the land.  “Greg told me that you know more about this part of the country than anyone.”

“I don’t know about that, but I sure love this place.”   Butch looked around for a moment and paused in thought.  He was a handsome cowboy – the kind that could have posed for one of those Marlboro ads in his younger days.  He knew the road like it was the back of his hand, hardly looking ahead as he maneuvered around each turn.  “It’s getting too dark to see anything on the ranch tonight.  What’d ya say we stop by the ranch, pick up Beth and head to Spotted Horse for a steak dinner?” 

I hesitated before answering, which caught Butch midstream.  “Well, assuming you don’t have other plans tonight, that is.”  I didn’t have any plans worth keeping.  I planned on unpacking boxes and feeding my cat, Ted.  Ted and the boxes could wait a few hours.  I’d moved to Sheridan less than a week ago and had only unpacked some clothes.  My kitchen was a disaster still and I hadn’t planned on cooking.   “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?  ‘Cuz it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you were — being that you’re Greg’s gal and all.  He takes that physical fitness stuff to an extreme.  That boy was raised on beef.  Don’t know why he don’t eat it anymore.” 

“I eat red meat.  So does Greg.”

“He didn’t used to.  Wyatt, his brother, gave him a real hard time about that one.”

“From the way Greg describes it,” I said, “Wyatt and Greg give each other a real hard time about most things.”

“They’re . . . well, let’s just say that the two of them are so doggone different.   Black and white.  Night and day.  Wyatt’s a chip off the old block, if you know what I mean.  Greg, . . . well, Greg is more like his real father,” Butch said in a beseeching fashion, as we drove over the cattle guard and passed his horse arena.  “Don’t get me wrong.  I love Greg like he was my own.  Always have.  He’s just hard for me to get sometimes.” 

Butch pointed out the improvements he’d made to the place since the last time I was here.  In the dim light, the red barn looked dark brown.  He honked the horn as we pulled up to the ranch house.  His black and white sheep dog came running in our direction and I could see Beth waving at us through the kitchen window. 

As I jerked the handle of the pickup door, my purse dropped to the floorboard of Butch’s truck, and so I bent over to pick up my purse.   Suddenly, I heard a loud crack as the window of the passenger door shattered.  Shards of glass scattered in every direction and I could feel the rush of cold air warn my cheeks of the danger.  I felt my heart stop – then it started to pound again, in my throat, my wrists, my knees.  The hair at the nape of my neck stood on end.

“Get down!” a voice yelled from behind the arena.  I couldn’t see who yelled my way, but I ducked down nevertheless.  I crawled up on the seat of the truck like a turtle into its shell and pulled my knees to my chest.  Butch grabbed his rifle from the rack in his truck and jammed bullets into chamber. 

“Don’t move,” Butch said as he pushed my head down lower onto the bench seat of the truck. 

“What’s going on?” I whispered.  He motioned for me to be quiet and snuck around to the front of the truck.  I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I heard voices.  Beth was yelling at Butch, and another man’s voice was yelling at Beth to get inside.  I heard another loud crack, like a bolt of lightning striking at close range. 

“Don’t shoot in that direction Butch!  You’re going to scare Mocha!”  Beth yelled at Butch and he yelled back, and I knew from the tones of their voices that there was a great deal of tension between them.

I looked at the other rifle on the gun rack in the back window of Butch’s truck.  I studied the inscription:  Remington 870 SPS-T.  The rifle was camouflage color and had markings like that of an oak tree.  I studied the contour and shape of the rifle, wondering whether I’d know what to do with it if I had to load and fire it.  Before I became a lawyer, I attended the police academy in Boulder, Colorado.  The reason I left the academy was guns.  I hated guns.  I could fire a handgun if I had to, but I didn’t have experience with hunting rifles.  Either way, guns frightened me.

“It’s okay,” Butch said.  “You can come out now.  But come out my side.”  Not sure whether it was safe to do so, I slid under the steering wheel and crawled out of the truck as gracefully as I could in a skirt.  I ran to the front of the truck trying desperately to see from where the shot was fired.  I was in the police academy long enough to have extensive training on bullet trajectory and casing analysis.  In fact, my expertise in forensic crime investigation had been one of the reasons Harry had hired me fresh out of law school.    I scrambled to the passenger door window and peered through the hole that had perforated the glass.  Based on the shatter pattern, I hypothesized that the perpetrator had fired at a fairly close range – say three hundred yards away.  The .357 Mag. slug was lodged in the carapace of the garage door. 

I instinctively reached for my cell phone and started to dial.  “What are you doing?” Butch snapped.

“I’m calling the police.”

“No cops.  I ain’t havin’ a bunch of cops snoopin’ around my ranch.  Put the phone down.”

“Someone just tried to kill us.  I’m calling the police.”

“I mean it, Mary.  Put the phone down.  This is my ranch and I refuse to subject myself or my family to interrogation.  That sheriff would just love an opportunity to snoop around this place without a warrant.  You are my lawyer.  I insist that you not call the cops.” 

I was surprised by Butch’s paranoia, but I was even more perplexed by his lack of concern about the gunshots.  My hands were shaking and my adrenaline was still pumping hard, yet he seemed unreasonably calm.  I had ten years of criminal defense under my belt and had seen my fair share of cop-haters.  Butch didn’t fit the bill of the typical cop-hater.  He was a law abiding citizen and a respected businessman.  What did he have to hide?  Before I could finish dialing 9-1-1, Butch stammered, “I . . . I guess I should have told you –”

“You didn’t tell her?” Beth hollered.  “Butch –”

“I was meaning to.  We just never got to the topic.”

“What topic?” I asked.

“The topic of why Chance Baker backed off from being our lawyer.”