Late in the afternoon, thunder growling, that same old green pickup rolled in and he saw Jack get out of the truck, beat-up Resistol tilted back. A hot jolt scalded Ennis and he was out on the landing pulling the door closed behind him. Jack took the stairs two and two. They seized each other by the shoulders, hugged mightily, squeezing the breath out of each other, saying, son of a bitch, son of a bitch, then, and easily as the right key turns the lock tumblers, their mouths came together, and hard, Jack’s big teeth bringing blood, his hat falling to the floor, stubble rasping, wet saliva welling, and the door opening and Alma looking out for a few seconds at Ennis’s straining shoulders and shutting the door again and still they clinched, pressing chest and groin and thigh and leg together, treading on each other’s toes until they pulled apart to breathe and Ennis, not big on endearments, said what he said to his horses and daughters, little darlin.

    The door opened again a few inches and Alma stood in the narrow light.

    What could he say? “Alma, this is Jack Twist, Jack, my wife Alma.” His chest was heaving. He could smell Jack—the intensely familiar odor of cigarettes, musky sweat and a faint sweetness like grass, and with it the rushing cold of the mountain. “Alma,” he said, “Jack and me ain’t seen each other in four years.” As if it were a reason. He was glad the light was dim on the landing but did not turn away from her.

    “Sure enough,” said Alma in a low voice. She had seen what she had seen. Behind her in the room lightning lit the window like a white sheet waving and the baby cried.

    “You got a kid?” said Jack. His shaking hand grazed Ennis’s hand, electrical current snapped between them.

    “Two little girls,” Ennis said. “Alma Jr. and Francine. Love them to pieces.” Alma’s mouth twitched.

    “I got a boy,” said Jack. “Eight months old. Tell you what, I married a cute little old Texas girl down in Childress—Lureen.” From the vibration of the floorboard on which they both stood Ennis could feel how hard Jack was shaking.

    “Alma,” he said. “Jack and me is goin out and get a drink. Might not get back tonight, we get drinkin and talkin.” “Sure enough,” Alma said, taking a dollar bill from her pocket.  Ennis guessed she was going to ask him to get her a pack of cigarettes, bring him back sooner.

    “Please to meet you,” said Jack, trembling like a run-out horse.  “Ennis—“ said Alma in her misery voice, but that didn’t slow him down on the stairs and he called back, “Alma, you want smokes there’s some in the pocket a my blue shirt in the bedroom.” They went off in Jack’s truck, bought a bottle of whiskey and within twenty minutes were in the Motel Siesta jouncing a bed. A few handfuls of hail rattled against the window followed by rain and slippery wind banging the unsecured door of the next room then and through the night.

    The room stank of semen and smoke and sweat and whiskey, of old carpet and sour hay, saddle leather, sh*t and cheap soap. Ennis lay spread-eagled, spent and wet, breathing deep, still half tumescent, Jack blowing forceful cigarette clouds like whale spouts, and Jack said, “Christ, it got a be all that time a yours ahorseback makes it so goddamn good. We got to talk about this. Swear to god I didn’t know we was goin a get into this again—yeah, I did. Why I’m here.  I f*ckin knew it. Redlined all the way, couldn’t get here fast enough.”

    “I didn’t know where in the hell you was,” said Ennis. “Four years. I about give up on you. I figured you was sore about that punch.” “Friend,” said Jack, “I was in Texas rodeoin. How I met Lureen.

    Look over on that chair.”

    On the back of the soiled orange chair he saw the shine of a buckle.

    “Bullridin?”

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