James is a cowboy from an old ranching family and a detective with the Socorro county sherrif’s office and a former former Master of Fox Hounds of the Juan Tomas pack, the youngest in the US when he first got the title. His father was also MFH for the Juan Tomas. His mother, Beth, a nurse of Italian descent from Raton, where there are more Italian names in the phone book than Spanish.
The Juan Tomas pack is hard-core. They wear the proper coats and do all the traditions right, and chase coyotes not just foxes, across arroyos ten feet deep way off the pavement. The Juan Tomas group is a weird mixture of old Spanish families, ranchers, aristocrats and weirdos. They ride HARD. I could not ride with them except in the childrens’ class. When James was the MFH he was riding hard and broke his leg, but went on riding anyway. He thought for a time of becoming a MFH in Kazakhstan.
He has a family, ex-wife and three kids, in Sweden. She apparently met with Helen Macdonald and discussed us- can’t wait to hear. He’s a published poet in The Atlantic among other places.
He is also a gun nut and I should have called him right away. He’s looking into my gun, and guesses it has already been sold in Albuquerque, to gangsters or the like if the guy who stole it has any contacts at all. I am an idiot.
You are not an idiot. Your a guy that, even after everything that’s happened to you, still looks to the best in human nature. Looking at all the words you’ve written I don’t see how you could be other wise. Cut yourself a break and use this as a learning experience. Invite James to dinner to give you advice on cataloging your gun collection and making sure that your gun room is as secure as you can make it.
When Elaine worked in the LA criminal courts, there was a case of a stolen shotgun. On the stand, the prosecution asked the burglary victim if he could identify the gun. He could, but only through tears. Prosecutor asked why he was crying. Victim looked at the now sawed-off double gun and said it had been a bespoke Purdey. And would you tell the court, asked the prosecutor, what the value of the gun was before it was cut down?
When the victim named a figure, the defendant, who had been doodling on a legal pad, looked up and shot out of his seat, keening. “Say what?!”