Saving Par

Prologue

Far West Texas – Spring, 2009

The wheels of the Ford F250 churned through hard-packed sand and red rock, heading to the absolute middle of nowhere. Ed Pool gripped the steering wheel with hands calloused from thirty years of daily golf, grinning wider than the two teen boys in the back seat. Veering too close to a cactus cluster, he swerved right, then left to dodge a dry desert wash, happily leaving a rooster trail of dust in their wake. He braked hard when a jackrabbit crossed his path, then playfully chased the varmint for a hundred yards or so before turning the truck back to his target.

With one hand, Connie Backer gripped the back of the seat; with the other, he held the furrowed brim of his “lucky caddie’s cap,” the one that covered his balding red head for every one of Ed’s tournament victories. “Hey, we got kids back here. Take it easy! My head just hit the roof!”

In the rear-view mirror, Parsons Backer and E.J. Pool returned Ed’s wicked smile with toothy grins.

“Keep goin’, Uncle Ed,” Parsons yelled over the howling engine and tire noise.

“Yeah, don’t stop, Dad,” E.J. added. “Do some donuts!”

Mateo de la Tierra rocked in the passenger seat; eyes fixed on the horizon, unfazed by the constant drifts. Pointing to a misplaced grove of trees in the distance, he spoke in a voice just audible enough to cover the tire and engine noise. “Just a few more miles.”

The old man whispered, “Madrones,” when they drew closer. “Stop here, before you run us into the canyon ahead.”

Ed braked hard. A cloud of dust caught up, swallowing them for a moment. When it cleared, they climbed out one by one. The men stretched their legs and backs while the boys quickly wandered off into the wasteland.

“Careful for snakes, you two,” Ed warned.

“Don’t stray too far, you knotheads,” Connie ordered, squinting, the sunshine glinting off the backs of the teens’ dark hair.

Mateo started walking without a word, picturing a different world laid out on this barren desolation.

Connie pulled a shovel, a hammer, and a metal stake from the bed. He and Ed followed Mateo, only the crunch of dry bootsteps breaking the silence.

They walked half a mile away from the gulch and the madrones to the center of nowhere. The mountains to the west burned gold in the midday sun. No smell in the crisp air; only the taste of dust in their throats.

“Right here,” Mateo whispered, scraping an “x” in the dirt with his boot.

“Alrighty,” Connie said, testing the ground with the shovel, picking through the grainy soil more than digging. The hammer’s shrill clinks echoed across the empty plain as he drove the stake into the ground.

While Connie worked and Ed supervised, Mateo wandered to the Madrones where the teens had drifted.

E.J. ran his fingers down the unique bark patterns. “You really gonna build a golf course here, Abuelo Mateo?” E.J. asked.

“Sí,” Mateo answered, soft but bold.

“There’s nothing here,” E.J. said.

Mateo ran his fingers through his grandson’s hair. “There will be—and you can be the first person to hit a ball off the tee.”

The promise prompted a proud grin from the boy, who asked, “Where will the first tee be?”

“Right where Connie drove that stake,” Mateo answered.

Parsons stood still near the madrones, picturing a crew of dozens carving the landscape, digging ditches and ponds, seeding grass and laying pipes. His hands reached for a long, old limb, and he dangled from it. He focused on the thick roots growing above the ground, piercing the earth wherever they might find a break in the rocks.

“Mateo, how are these trees growin’ here in the middle of nowhere?”

“They find a way,” Mateo answered.

“You’re not gonna cut ‘em down, are you?” he asked.

Mateo rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Ah, Parsons, the caretaker. That would be sinful, no?”

Parsons nodded, satisfied. He peered across the ravine to a lonely pump jack bobbing slowly against the skyline—dark and rusted, patient.

Ed and Connie caught up and passed water bottles to Mateo and the boys.

“That’s oil company land over there, right?” Ed asked.

Mateo nodded and began walking to the canyon while the others followed.

Ed stuck his hands in his back pockets and bowed his chest. “This oughta be a fun project for you, Connie.”

Connie crossed his arms and nodded. “I reckon so. Won’t be any harder on my back than carrying your bag around.”

They stood at the edge of the canyon for a while, admiring the tranquility they all knew would soon be disturbed. Then Mateo’s eyes caught movement in the brush— a kit fox pawing the rocks. Its head popped up when E.J. gasped and its ears twisted their way. A few seconds of eye contact later, it pressed its nose back to the ground, and finding nothing, trotted along.

“El Zorro,” Mateo sighed, pleased. “A good name for this place.”

His eyes scanned the dry creek bed and caught two figures in the distance. Without a word he descended the slope, past cactus and sage and spiny undergrowth, Parsons trailing close behind.

Two tiny specks waited in the dust.

Parsons ignored Connie’s warnings and ran straight to them. As he drew close, he saw two small pups, sitting side by side in the weeds—dusty, alert, and strangely calm.

Parsons crouched and pushed his head through the weeds, reaching for the dogs. Their tails thumped in unison­—as if they’d been waiting for the boy all along.

Chapter 1

Far West Texas, Mid-Winter, 2020

Parsons Backer crouched in the trench, leaning his forearms on the grassy rim, breathing hard.

The hole was deep—mostly mud in the bottom—and ugly. Caliche and rock fought him every inch of the way down, the walls jagged where the shovel had bounced instead of bitten. His shoulders ached. His hands were raw. He’d been at it since sunrise; no machine could get in here without making things worse.

Hand-dug. Same as always.

Centered in the hole, with as much room to work underneath as above, the pipe gaped open, four inches across, cold and relentless, water filling the hole, lazy but insistent. It didn’t spray. It didn’t panic. It just flowed, patient as gravity.

Parsons reached up and grabbed the plastic sack sitting on the edge of the trench.

“Hungry?” he asked.

Two dogs— old and lean, dust-colored, ears always half-alert— stood over him, heads tilted, tails spinning.

Parsons tore the sack open and pulled out a loaf of bread.

Not a slice.
The whole damn thing.

He tossed the heels to the dogs, who swallowed it down in a few bites, and mashed the rest with both hands, compacting it until it felt like clay, then shoved the doughy wad into the pipe. The water slowed, pressed back, then stopped entirely, held in place by nothing more than gluten and friction.

Pua snorted softly, unimpressed. Shifre didn’t even bother to lift her snout.

“Oh, yeah?” Parsons said. “Well, if you guys know a better way to do it, I’m all ears.”

He wiped his hands on his jeans and reached for the glue. The pipe ends were heavy— real mains, not the flimsy stuff used closer to the greens. This line fed half the back nine. When it broke, everything downstream felt it.

He fit the coupling in place and held it, arms trembling, counting under his breath.

Above him, the fairway stretched out long and quiet, green grass defeating the desert landscape. From a distance, people liked to call it wasteful. Parsons always thought that was funny.

Beyond the course, a pump jack rocked steadily, metal arm dipping and rising, same as it had been doing forever. Generations of families, rabbits, snakes and scorpions had come and gone. It belonged here as much as any of them. Oil country. Always had been. Parsons didn’t mind it. Oil pays for a lot of things people pretend they don’t need.

Still—lately—the grass hadn’t been bouncing back right.

He finished counting, then texted a message to Walt, who waited at the control center:

Let her rip

The water surged forward, the bread gurgling inside the pipe before racing through, dissolving like it had never been there. The joint held. No leak. No weep. Clean.

Parsons stayed there a moment longer than necessary, listening to the water rush through the line.

Pua crawled closer and peered down into the trench.

“Alrighty,” Parsons said, hauling himself up, kicking the mud off his boots and brushing dirt from his shirt. “That’ll work.”

Shifre looked at him, ears flicking.

“Now the grass can grow,” Parsons continued, grabbing his tools. “I know, I know. That just means we’ll have to cut it now. But you guys know how much I like to cut grass.”

The dogs wagged their tails in unison, satisfied.

Parsons filled the hole back in by hand, tamping the dirt down with his boots, sweat streaking through the dust on his arms. It was hell work. Always had been. Always would be.

But that was the deal.

“Cross that off the list,” he muttered, only the dogs in earshot.

He slung the shovel over his shoulder and started walking to his truck. Pua crawled onto the passenger’s seat while he lifted Shifre at the belly and loaded her onto the back seat. Her gray claws dug into the vinyl.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take it slow.”

The wind in his face carried a faint smell he recognized, but didn’t want to name.

Not yet.