Planned Development

Jack Hodges ignored the mechanical voice of the GPS urging him to turn around. The roads didn't exist yet, but he recognized the stand of redbud trees. He had played here as a child every Sunday after church while his parents enjoyed their weekly picnic.

He followed two meandering ruts cut into the reddish-clay soil. Tall dropseed grass scraped against the bottom of his truck, and his approach flushed a covey of Northern Bobwhite quail who were feeding on the seeds. A red-tailed hawk soared into view, tracking their retreat through the tall stalks.

The truck tires kicked up pieces of gravel and sent them pinging against the fenders when he crossed the wash where blackberries grew so thick you could eat your fill and still carry home five-gallon buckets full for pies or cobbler.

A swarm of honey bees were working the clump of giant blue hyssop near the top of the rise. He rolled down his window, heard them buzzing around the lavender stalks as he drove past. Switch grass and fox sedge had reclaimed the ruts on the far side of the wash. The slender stalks were heavy with seed and swayed in the light breeze as the cool morning air sank deeper into the canyon. He had ridden his bicycle along every animal trail that meandered through this entire grassland. Little green plastic flags marking the golf course fluttered alongside the tall stems of the native grasses.

Most people turned around at the wash, so the track on this side was little more than two vaguely marked lines of matted grasses. Faint indentations meandered around a limestone outcropping where water collected after it rained. A black phoebe called to its mate from one of the small puddles atop the limestone shelf. Fee-bee, fee-bee it trilled, its call the same as its name.

Jack parked on the southwest side of a persimmon tree where afternoon shade would keep the truck's interior cool. He looked up and studied the lowest branches: the fruit hanging above the cab wouldn't be ripe enough to drop for another month—no danger of dents or a broken windshield until then. The truck was new enough that he was still making payments. The low-boy trailer he was pulling was starting to show its age. He'd have to replace it soon. Thank God the dozer was paid for.

This is where he had brought Tracy for their first kiss. Hell, their first child had been conceived beneath the same tree. A bushy viburnum grew near a small seep. The blossoms smelled a little like some of that fancy perfume Tracy wore for special occasions, like when they went out to dinner to celebrate their anniversary.

He climbed down from the cab of his truck. The sound of his door slamming shut spooked a doe with a fawn young enough to still have spots. The deer stepped into a grove of river birch and blended into the shadows—perfectly camouflaged among the snowy-white trunks and brown strips of peeling bark.

The sun glinted off something shiny near a cluster of wild sage where they had been feeding, so he strolled over to have a look, picked up a candy wrapper, folded it clean-side out and stuffed it in a pocket. Breaking off a twig from the nearest sage, he stripped the leaves from the square stalk with his thumb and index finger. He rubbed his palms together to crush the leaves and release the fragrant scent, tucking the twig into his pocket for later.

He checked his watch; he was early. Enough time to hike up to Lookout Point. This is where he'd come with his son the last time they'd ever talked, the day before Francis shipped out to Afghanistan and never came back. Three generations of family footprints had formed a rocky path toward the highest point. A low-hanging branch from a hazelnut was stripped of leaves and missing some of its bark where the trail was steepest. He grabbed hold of the slender branch and used...