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and threads of white salted his yellow hair. Today, instead of wearing a silk necktie like the other men, Uncle Autry cut a swell in a western bolo: a thin rope of braided leather with metal tips and a clasp that looked like a giant green beetle . . . wiggled its legs like a giant green beetle . . . and was , in fact, a giant green beetle.
    If the Flying Cattleheart was unlike other ranches, Uncle Autry was equally unlike other ranchers. There wasn’t a cow, sheep, or horse on Autry’s land. Autry O’Connell was an insect wrangler. Once known east to west and north to south as the man to call for the really, really big bug problems—and the really, really big bugs—his savvy gave him sway over all manner of creepy crawlies. Though, these days he mostly worked from home doing small jobs: raising ladybugs to ship to gardeners, or helping the people in Sundance keep ants out of their kitchens.
    I remembered Mom sighing over a holiday picture postcard sent from the ranch the previous year. For our family’s holiday photo we’d all stood smiling in matching red sweaters. The O’Connells’ card had a photo of three-legged Bitsy looking up at an enormous pink-toed tarantula sitting on her head. In the picture, the tarantula wore a Santa hat and waved an unusual ninth leg at the camera.
    â€œYour brother should’ve called his place ‘The Misfit Ranch’ instead of naming it after some butterfly,” Dad had said, looking over Mom’s shoulder at the picture.
    â€œTom!” Mom scolded Dad playfully. But she’d sighed again when she looked back at the picture. “Why didn’t Autry send us a picture of the twins?”
    â€œI prefer the spider,” I offered with an unapologetic grin. All my life, complaints about Marisol and Mesquite O’Connell had earned me the same lecture I got then:
    â€œThe girls lost their mother when they were born, Ledger. Autry’s done his best as a single father, but—”
    â€œBut his girls are a pair of wild horses,” Dad finished for her.

    â€œPapi? Are you coming?” two teen-girl voices rang through the nearly empty glade. I held my breath, wishing my mom’s savvy would wear off as fast as it had in the van. The twins were the last people I wanted witnessing my predicament.
    Mesquite and Marisol were like the two knobs of an Etch A Sketch—Marisol in charge of up and down; Mesquite, side to side. Working together they could lift and move objects without having to lift a finger. And, for some reason, maybe because they were twins, they’d been doing it since they were five . Now, at fourteen, they’d had a lot of practice. And whenever we met, they’d practice even more—sticking a spoke in my wheels any chance they got, finding gut-busting delight in humiliating me. I was glad the two girls were vegetarians, or they might’ve eaten me alive long ago. But if Marisol and Mesquite realized I was a sitting soy-bean now, I’d probably be upside down or in a tree in three seconds flat, lucky if they didn’t pinch my shoes or pants me in the process.
    â€œPaaaapi! Let’s go join the party!”
    â€œ Be right there,” Autry called to his girls, smiling as they began stacking chairs, lifting only a finger—or two. In a voice too low for the twins to hear, Autry asked, “Do you want me to wait with you, Ledge?”
    â€œNo, thanks,” I answered through clenched teeth. The last thing I wanted was a babysitter. “I’ll just sit here and take in the view.”
    Autry winked, then looked out across the ranch, his eyes lit with quiet pride.
    â€œIt is pretty spectacular, isn’t it? This land’s been in the family for generations. Your mom and I used to come here when we were kids, long before the deed passed to me.” A sudden frown altered his features and he murmured, “I never thought I’d be the one to sink it.” Autry