Billy Bob and Hackberry Holland Ebook Boxed Set by James Lee Burke

going to risk Heartwood on Johnny American Horse?”
    â€œThey’re taking the guy apart with a chain saw, Temple.”
    The line was so quiet I thought the connection had been broken. “Temple?” I said.
    â€œDo it,” she said.
    â€œYou’re not upset?”
    â€œIf you weren’t the man you are, I wouldn’t have married you.”
    How do you beat that?

Chapter 7
    SATURDAY MORNING I went fishing by myself on the Bitterroot River. It was a grand day, cool and full of sunshine and blue skies. The rain had turned the slopes on the mountains a velvet green and fresh snow blazed on the peaks, and the river had risen along the banks into cottonwoods that were just coming into leaf. I was on a sandspit that jutted into a long riffle eddying around a beaver dam when I saw a man in hip waders working his way across the channel toward me.
    He had the cherry-cheeked face of the professional optimist, his upper half like an upended hogshead, his hand lifted in greeting, although I had no idea who he was or why he was wading into the riffle and ruining any chance of my catching a trout there.
    â€œYour wife told me where you was at, Mr. Holland. Name is Reverend Elton T. Sneed. I think we got us a mutual friend,” he said, laboring out of the water onto the sandspit.
    Where had I heard or seen the name?
    In the letter written to the President of the United States by Wyatt Dixon.
    â€œI hope you’re not talking about who I think you are,” I said.
    â€œWyatt’s a member of my congregation, but I’m troubled about him. The boy needs direction.”
    â€œThe man you call ‘boy’ is the residue people clean out of colostomy bags. Except that’s offensive to colostomy bags,” I replied.
    Suddenly his eyes became like BBs and the corners of his mouth hooked back as though wires were attached to his skin, turning his smile into a grimace. He studied the trees on the far bank, searching for a response. “I guess my job is saving souls, not judging folks,” he said.
    â€œThe FBI came to see you?”
    â€œYep. But since that visit, Wyatt has told me about somebody he seen with Senator Finley. I get the feeling it’s some kind of past association Wyatt don’t need to pick up again. Thought you might be able to hep me out.”
    â€œMy advice is you get a lot of space between you and Wyatt Dixon, Reverend.”
    â€œMan seems all right when he takes his chemical cocktails. Thought I was doing the right thing coming here.”
    When I didn’t reply he looked wanly down the stream, his vocabulary and frame of reference used up. “I mess up your fishing?” he said.
    â€œNo, it’s fine,” I said.
    He nodded. “Been catching some?”
    â€œLet’s wade on up past the beaver dam and give it a try,” I said.
    When I handed him my fly rod his face once more broke into an ear-to-ear smile.
    Â 
    MONDAY MORNING I started the paperwork to put up our property as bond for Johnny’s release. Then I looked up Amber Finley’s number in the directory and called her at home. “Is your dad there?” I said.
    â€œHe flew back to Washington,” she said.
    â€œToo bad. Look, those guests you had at your house Tuesday evening? Is there any reason Darrel McComb would be interested in them?”
    â€œDarrel is interested in watching women through their bedroom windows.”
    â€œWould this guy Wyatt Dixon be interested in your father’s friends?”
    â€œHow would I know?” she replied.
    â€œCould you give me their names?”
    â€œGreta Lundstrum and a couple of campaign contributors. I don’t remember their names. What’s this about?”
    â€œIt’s probably nothing. Who’s Greta Lundstrum?”
    â€œThe Beast of Buchenwald. Go ask her. She runs a security service in the Bitterroot Valley. Are you getting Johnny out of jail or not?”
    What’s the