"No, it isn't," she answered, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

"What do you mean?" But she wouldn't answer. He let her snuggle there in her silence, the only sound the swish of the windshield wipers blowing away the snow. Neither spoke until the lights of Montrose glowed through the snow.

"Shipton was an ass. Don't let him continue to bother you now that he's gone."

"I don't want to talk about it," she answered. "I don't want to answer any questions. Please, don't even ask me any questions." She looked up at him. "I just want you to love me."

When they reached the airport it was snowing heavily, but the accumulation here was far less than in Ouray. Much to their dismay, the incoming plane for Cynthia's scheduled flight had been diverted to Grand Junction, sixty miles further away. They had no alternative but to drive the additional distance. After a call to Fred at Bird Song and the necessary schedule changes, they once again boarded the Jeep for the one-hour ride. Dean suggested Cynthia try to catch some sleep as it was nearly dark as they passed through Delta, Colorado and the open stretches of desert-like country beyond. Surprisingly, she did so, as he could tell from her measured breathing. Cynthia was still sleeping when a speeding Ford Explorer passed them and Dean caught sight of Donald Ryland, with his son Donnie sitting beside him. There was no sign of Edith.

After a kiss and a hug, but no further conversation of consequence, Cynthia boarded the plane for the first leg to Denver. Dean pitied his wife, knowing the grueling trip that lay before her over the next several hours, not knowing what awaited her landing.

The long ride back to Ouray reminded Dean of another trip after dropping Cynthia at the airport. She had visited him in Ouray, nearly a year and a half before, while he was recuperating from a gunshot wound. It was the first time they had made love, and were newly committed to one another. That too was an upsetting time, but for a far different reason-fear of commitment and an unknown future they wanted together.

As Dean blinked at on-coming headlights, he considered what a glorious future they were having. The past half-year was the best six months of his life. They both loved Ouray, the Colorado mountains and hosting the guests of Bird Song, at least most of them. He remembered the day, just before they first opened the bed and breakfast, when he'd picked up this Jeep, the first new vehicle he'd ever owned. Now, six months later, in spite of the windshield pockmarked from the gravel roads of Ouray County, it felt like an old friend. A friend, but empty without Cynthia beside him. And worse yet, he felt a strange shiver of discomfit at Cynthia's odd reaction to Jerome Shipton's death.




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