Whoever named this Big Sky country sure had it right. Nowhere else could a terrain with such a vast expanse of clear blue skies and gently rolling hills make a person feel so humbled by beauty that owed nothing to humans. And so trivial and insignificant.

Well, maybe the Gobi Desert… though considering his job at that time he'd had little appreciation for any of the landscapes around him.

I'm surprised you ended up in New York City; thought you'd get a cabin in the woods…

Reese sighs, dropping his gaze and closing the door to the ancient pickup…as always, not too hard since the glass rattles in the frame at the slightest of jarring. He rolls his shoulders and stretches, slowly working the stiffness out of his back.

While the old truck sports an engine that runs - and sounds - like a Singer sewing machine, its shocks joined the window weather stripping in auto heaven long ago, leaving a ride akin to that of a springless buckboard. Pulled by a pair of camels.

Driving over a miles long chessboard of potholes along with yesterdays work schedule has done a number on his back muscles, with the ache in his side and leg reminding him of the scar tissue still embroidered on the skin.

He scans his surroundings. The town is almost deserted, though that's not unusual. The community's 200+ souls have to work hard to stay above the poverty line in this area, with most of its residents laboring dawn to dusk on nearby ranches and game preserves.

Still, he automatically makes note of the three vehicles parked outside the Café & Saloon, the saddled horse tied to the post by the drug store - dozing as it swishes its tail to ward off the ever present flies - and a dog of an indeterminate breed scratching its fleas outside the barber shop.

Quiet. Just like it should be. Just like he likes it. Really.

In fact, the only time the place shows any big city activity is during its few yearly events. Like the Art Walk in summer. The Gopher Hunt in fall. And the yearly Spring Roundup…a three day event that draws tourists like flies to manure, some of whom pay dearly for the privilege of participating in a drive to herd horses from their winter pastures in the hills to nearby Mantle Ranch.

The events fill the local hotel and strain the dining capacity at the small Café & Saloon, bringing in the outside world with cell phones and cameras. Reporters. He always makes certain to stay out of town during those times.

Stepping off the sidewalk into the feed store he removes his sunglasses, taking a quick step to the right - out of the line of sight in the doorway – and casually surveys the large room. No windows. Back door is closed. Three people, plus the proprietor. Two workers he recognizes, the other a senior citizen he knows lives at the hotel.

This is a new life…but old habits die hard.

Sooner or later both of us will probably wind up dead…

"Well, John! Haven't seen you here for a while. What's it been? A month or so?" The storekeeper waves at him from the cash register counter, his shock of white hair a beacon in the dusky interior. "Gabe doing OK?"

"He's fine." The ex-op replies, walking to the counter. Pulling a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket he hands it to the older man. "Busy with a foaling right now."

"Hurrmph. That old geezer should retire! Get his kids out of the big city and come help run that place." He quickly scans the list. "Good thing you came along. He needed some one with younger muscles to help with the chores."

"Don't think his kids are interested. And he's stubborn."

The shopkeeper chuckles. "You got that right! The place is barely keeping him in groceries, but I suspect he'll die on that ranch." He waves the paper at John and says, "I'll have this put together in a jiff."

Then turning, he shouts at the back door. "Joey! Need some help here!"

Reese watches as the battered door opens and reveals the shop owners twenty-something son, the young man's almond shaped eyes, flat profile, and thick neck disclosing his genetic condition. He braces himself.

From their first meeting the boy…man…had for some unfathomable reason taken an instant liking to the ex-agent. Had thrown his arms around the taller man like greeting a long lost friend. The shopkeeper's worried expression only slowly dispelled when John merely accepted the embrace and then gently pried himself loose with a few soft words.

The relief on the fathers face at the time was a sad testimony that not all strangers readily accepted his son's condition with such compassion.
And from that day forward, John had a friend for life.

So now he calmly awaits the customary hug. This time however, the young man merely smiles, waving cheerfully at John as he comes forward to accept the scribbled note. Reese waves back.

"The wire is in the shed, the T-posts outside," the father instructs. "And don't forget to put on your gloves." The older man watches as his son walks with purpose to the back door.

Then turning back to Reese, "So you're building more fences. Wouldn't think Gabe could invest any more money in the place till later this year. I know he's got some yearlings to sell, but that's a ways off yet."

"He's doing fine."

The shopkeeper shakes his head. "Pigheaded old man. I'll add this to his tab, but he's got to know there's going to have to be a limit on how long I can carry him."

Reese nods and pulling out a wallet from his well worn jeans, replies, "Not a problem. I've got the money for the fencing. And a payment on the tab."

He hopes the man won't question how an old rancher with an uncertain income can now suddenly pay several thousand dollars on a long standing debt. But if he does, well, Reese knows he's very adept at convincingly lying through his teeth.

I know they encouraged a certain moral flexibility when you worked at the CIA, but I like to think we're reaching for a higher standard...

"Well, now! That's good. That's good," replies the silver haired shop owner with a smile, accepting the large wad of bills. His eyes are speculative, but he says only, "Come back to the office and I'll get you a receipt."

Rounding the counter he leads the way to the back of the store, Reese following silently behind, past the horse halters, the dog paraphernalia, the various pest products and bags of fertilizer. Past a sign marked "Postal Service" and into a small office containing a single desk, a file cabinet, and cardboard containers of various sizes.

"Sorry. Can't offer you a seat. Only have room for one chair here, now that the postal delivery just came."

He slides around the desk and lowers himself into the chair, one that Reese calculates has probably been around since the state joined the Union.

"Sure used to be nice when we had regular postal service. Now everyone has to come in here to get their deliveries. Or at least those that don't fit in the letter box."

Opening a desk drawer the older man pulls out a small pad and starts filling out the receipt. "So should I make it out to Gabe…or you?" he asks, throwing a shrewd glance at the rancher's normally taciturn employee.

But there's no answer. The man before him is staring at the wall behind the desk, a wall lined with packages and boxes awaiting pickup by their intended recipients.

The shopkeeper turns to follow the tall man's line of sight, focused as it is on a small wire container balanced on a tower of large boxes.

"Oh, that!" The old man chuckles and turns back to his task. "Your neighbor's young wife likes to order stuff off the internet. And the old fool just lets her. Last week she got a shipment of ladybugs. For her garden she says. Hundreds of them crawling around in a mesh baggie of some sort."

He shutters as he rips the receipt from the pad. "Like we don't have enough bugs of our own around here."

But his audience of one is still solely focused on the boxes lining the wall. So he glances around again, wondering what is so fascinating about the creature in the cage. Turning back to John, he hands the receipt to the silent man.

"Pretty little thing, isn't it? Came in a kind of ventilated box. Poor thing was scared to death, so I put it in one of the smaller chicken pens." Studying the entranced man before him he continues, "Never seen one like that around here. Wonder what it is…"

Reese continues to stare at the cage, watching the small bird hop from one side to the other, feathers the color of ripened wheat outlining smooth black wings, its darkly coifed head turning this way and that, black beady eyes flitting about as it takes in its surroundings.

And suddenly he feels despair stealing over him again...despair he's been fighting for the better part of a year now...

He replies softly, "It's a finch…"

...

To be continued...