n of the grieving wife. Not griev

e trembling as she describes how her "troubled" husband, una

a perfectly dry eye with a silk handkerch

hen they see one. But they also know who pays their bills. They take her money a

lay her part, a masterful performance of deception. I am forced

sand miles away, in Mo

ay. I can feel his worry like a physical ache. He knows so

. His voice is gravelly, cal

on't hear from you by sund

old Ford truck. A bedroll, a canteen, and the Winchester rifle that's

remember how I

rider. She was on a trip with friends, a rich girl looking for a taste of the "rea

real. We're sitting on the tailgate of my truck

ide with what I thought was admiration. "You're not li

. She was attracted to the idea of owning it. I was a

let that felt like a manacle on my wrist. She convinced me to give up the

l. She isolated me from my world, from my gran

s presence was a constant wedge between us. Every argument, every dis

s ago, I packed a bag. I told h

i. This isn't a marriage. I'm

ad. She just smiled t

use every dollar I have to destroy your name and your family. Your grandfather's ranch has been struggli

her. For the life I thoug

miles between Montana and New England, I kn

ing to a