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served five nights a week. Since Missy had arrived, it had been cut down to once during the week and on Sunday.
    They sat down at the table in the seating arrangement that had come about since they moved to the ranch. Bud no longer sat at the head of the table. His old chair was now occupied by Missy. The only explanation for the change was a single throw-awayline by Missy earlier in the summer, saying, “I need to be closer to the kitchen door so I can help Maria serve.” But, as far as Joe could tell, Missy had never helped Maria do anything exceptprovide tips on her makeup. Not that Bud Sr. seemed to care about the power shift. That was one thing about Bud, Joe thought. He was so in love with his bride of one year that he was blind to everything else. He had conceded authority with almost giddy enthusiasm.
    “Where’s Bud Jr.?” Joe asked.
    “In his room,” Bud Sr. said, spearing a thick steak with his fork and sliding it onto his plate. “His back’s hurting. He says he may never walk again.”
    Lucy looked up in alarm.
    “Not really, darling,” Bud Sr. said. “That’s just how Bud Jr. is. Everything’s a big deal.”
    “It’s called creativity,” Missy said softly.
    Eduardo, Maria’s husband and one of the ranch hands at the table, described driving out to the fence line that afternoon to retrieve Bud Jr. He found him lying on his back in the cheater grass, moaning. He brought him home.
    “Shamazz, eet look like he was dead,” Eduardo said in a heavy accent. Pascal, the other hand, tried to disguise a sudden bout of laughter by coughing into his hand. Pascal made no secretof his contempt for Bud Jr.
    Missy seemed distracted, and had hardly looked up. Joe had to admit how attractive she was for her age, and she looked especiallygood tonight as she sat there and picked at the tiniest portions possible of everything on her plate. She wore a charcoalcashmere sweater and a thin rope of pearls, dark lipstick. Her hair was perfect, not a strand of gray. When she caught Joe watching her, she glared back for a second before breaking the gaze.
    Joe wondered what he had caught her thinking about.
    “You’re dressed up,” Marybeth said to her mother. “Are you going out?”
    “I’ve got a meeting in town tonight,” Missy said dismissively.“Just the county arts council thing.”
    “My little artiste.” Bud Sr. grinned and reached over and stroked Missy’s shoulder. “Don’t you want some more steak?”
    “No, thank you. You know how I feel about red meat.”
    Bud shook his head. “She’s as tiny as a bird, my little artiste.”
    Now Sheridan coughed in her hand. Marybeth shot her daughter a look.
    “Good steak,” Joe said.
    “Damned good steak.” Bud Sr. nodded. “Real food.”
    “ Ees good ,” Eduardo said, and Pascal agreed.
    Marybeth looked at Joe, her eyes saying, Get me out of here.
    On the way back to their house, Joe shone his flashlight on the path and everyone followed him holding hands in a line: Joe, Marybeth, Sheridan, Lucy.
    “Come along, my little ducklings,” he said.
    “Come along, my little artistes,” Sheridan said. “My tiny littlebirds.”
    Joe laughed.
    “Sheridan,” Marybeth said sternly. “Don’t mock.” Then: “Joe, you’re not helping the situation.”
    “Sorry.”
    The stiff grass had a sheath of beaded moisture. It would frost tonight, Joe thought.
    “Look,” Sheridan said after a moment, “you don’t have to say anything about what happened today at school. I know I screwed up. I never should’ve taken the bait from that ass Jason Kiner. I’ll never do that again, not because he doesn’t deserve a good ass kicking, but because it embarrassed me and it embarrassedyou. I’m better than that. Okay? Can we drop it now?”
    Joe waited for Marybeth to answer. This was her department.
    “Okay,” Marybeth said in a way that made it clear the discussionwas over.
    “She said ‘ass’ twice,” Lucy whispered, and Joe laughed again. Luckily, so did