Two words, quiet as something that cost something. Then she stood, walked to the bedroom. The latch clicked. Cole sat there. Two words for what he'd said to Braddock, for something that was, in his assessment, the bare minimum a decent person would do.
He hadn't thought about it. He just said the thing that was true. And to her apparently, that was worth thank you. He sat with that for a long time. Day 11, Sheriff Kade.
Pruitt Cole had been expecting this. Dustfall ran on talk and talk had been running hot since the week before and Pruitt was a man who moved at the speed of institutional discomfort. Not fast, but inevitable. He came mid-morning. Alone, which was a good sign.
Official expression, which was not. Pruitt was 52, weathered in the way of men who'd spent decades managing situations they hadn't created. He'd been sheriff since before Cole arrived and would likely be sheriff until the county got absorbed by something bigger and bureaucratic. Not corrupt. Not cruel.
Just the weight of things pressing down through him. "Morning, Cole." "Sheriff." Cole leaned against the porch post. Didn't invite him in.
Pruitt took his hat off, turned it in his hands. "You know why I'm here?" "I can guess." Pima County has a record keeping requirement for non-settler residents. There's a registration process through the county seat and until that's completed, my wife, Cole said.
You're talking about my wife. I'm talking about the process that applies to Apache people living on private land they have a legal right to. Pruitt put his hat on, took it off again. Cole. I'm not looking for trouble.
I'm telling you how things stand so you can manage accordingly. What does managing accordingly look like? A pause. A careful look at the barn, the garden, the stable. Taking in what the ranch had become in 11 days.
Paperwork, Pruitt said. Submitted to the county seat in Tucson. If you've got a marriage certificate, Apache ceremony, witnessed by the chief, that's going to be a harder argument. I imagine it is. They looked at each other.
Pruitt with his hat in his hands, Cole on his porch, not moving. "I've got 72 hours," Pruitt said, "before I have to follow up with something more official." "I understand that," Cole. Something shifted in his voice, something older and more tired. "I've got nothing against her personally.
What I understand," Cole said, "is that you're giving me 3 days. So, I'll use them." Pruitt nodded, mounted, rode toward Dustfall. Cole stood on the porch until he was gone, then turned around. Kaya was in the doorway.
The exact position that gave her full view and full sound of everything. She looked at him. He looked at her. She'd heard all of it. The words, the tone, the thing Pruitt hadn't said, which was the most important part.
"I'll ride to Tucson tomorrow," Cole said. "I'll talk to whoever needs talking to." She said nothing. "You're not leaving," he said. "That's not happening."