Caleb shook Peter’s hand, then pulled him into a masculine embrace. “So I guess this is it. Mind if I say some stupid things? Like, I love you. You’re still a terrible chess player, though.”
“I promise to practice. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find me out there before too long.”
Caleb grinned. “See? That’s what I’ve been telling you. No more politics. It’s time to find a nice girl and settle down.”
If you only knew, Peter thought. Every night I close my eyes and do just that.
He lowered his voice slightly. “Did you do like I asked?”
Caleb sighed indulgently.
“Humor your old man.”
“Yeah, yeah, I dug it.”
“And you used the steel framing I sent out? It’s important.”
“I did it just like you said, I promise. At least I’ve got someplace to sleep when Pim kicks me out.”
Peter looked up at his daughter-in-law, who had climbed onto the bench. Baby Theo, worn out by all the attention, had passed out in her arms.
Look after him for me, Peter signed.
I will.
The babies, too.
She smiled at him. The babies, too.
Caleb lifted himself onto the buckboard.
“Be safe,” Peter said. “Good luck.”
The indelible moment of departure: everyone stepped back as the wagon moved through the gate. Bill and the girls were the first to leave, followed by Kate and Hollis. Peter had a full schedule ahead of him, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to start his day.
Nor, apparently, could Sara. They stood together without speaking, watching the wagon bearing their children away.
“Why do I feel sometimes like they’re parenting us?” Sara said.
“They will be, soon enough.”
Sara snorted. “Now there’s something to look forward to.”
The wagon was still in sight. It was crossing the old fence line to the Orange Zone. Beyond it, only a fraction of the fields had been plowed for planting; there simply wasn’t enough manpower. Nor were there that many mouths remaining to feed; the population of Kerrville itself had shrunk to just about five thousand. Make that 4,997, thought Peter.
“Bill’s a mess,” Peter said.
Sara sighed. “And yet Kate loves him. What’s a mother to do?”
“I could try again with a job.”
“I’m afraid he’s a lost cause.” She glanced at him. “Speaking of which, what’s this about you not running for reelection?”
“Where did you hear that?”
She shrugged coyly. “Oh, just around the halls.”
“Meaning Chase.”
“Who else? The man is chomping at the bit. So, is it true?”
“I haven’t decided. Maybe ten years is enough, though.”
“People will miss you.”
“I doubt they’ll even notice.”
Peter thought she might ask him about Michael. What had he heard? Was her brother okay at least? They avoided the details, a painful reality. Michael on the trade, rumors of some crazy project, Greer in cahoots with Dunk, an armed compound on the ship channel with trucks full of lick and God knew what else leaving every day.
But she didn’t. Instead Sara asked, “What does Vicky think?”
The question pierced him with guilt. He’d been meaning to visit the woman for weeks, months even.
“I need to go see her,” he said. “How is she doing?”
The two of them were still standing shoulder to shoulder as their eyes traced the course of the wagon. It was little more than a speck now. It crested a small rise, began to sink, then was gone. Sara turned toward him.
“I wouldn’t wait,” she said.
—
His day dissolved into the customary duties. A meeting with the collector of taxes to decide what to do about homesteaders who refused to pay; a new judicial appointment to make; an agenda to set for the upcoming meeting of the territorial legislature; various papers to sign, which Chase placed in front of him with only cursory description. At three o’clock, Apgar appeared in Peter’s door. Did the president have a minute? Everybody else on the staff simply called him by his first name, as he preferred, but Gunnar, a stickler for protocol, refused. Always he was “Mr. President.”
The subject was guns—specifically, a lack of them. The Army had always run on a combination of reconditioned civilian and military weaponry. A lot had come from Fort Hood; plus, the old Texas had been a well-armed place. Virtually every house, it seemed, had a gun cabinet in it, and there were weapon-manufacturing facilities throughout the state, offering a bountiful supply of parts for repair and reloading. But a lot of time had passed, and certain guns lasted longer than others. Metal-framed pistols, like the old Browning 1911, SIG Sauer semiautos, and army-issue Beretta M9s, were close to indestructible with adequate maintenance. So were most revolvers, shotguns, and bolt-action rifles. But polymer-framed pistols, like Glocks, as well as M4 and AR-15 rifles, the bread and butter of the military, did not enjoy the same indefinite shelf life. As their plastic casings cracked with fatigue, more and more were retired; others had leaked via the trade into civilian hands; some had simply vanished.