Excerpt from The Last Pilot by Benjamin Johncock, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The ranch was quiet. Grace stood on the porch of the house, rapped on the door, took a step back. The air felt like sandpaper. She ran a finger across her forehead.

Hey, Mac, you home? she called out. She put her hands on her hips and looked down at the boards. Then she heard a grunt and iron pulling against wood.

Well, Grace! Mac said, standing in the doorway.

Hey, Mac, she said.

Come on in here, he said, standing back. How the hell are you?

Fine, she said. You?

Tired, he said.

The house smelled of hay. It was gloomy after the bright glare of the desert.

Can I get you something?

Something cold be good.

Have a seat.

It was a small room. A square wooden table sat at one end, the kitchen at the other. A black stovepipe ran up the wall from an iron stove. On the wall next to the pipe hung a framed family portrait, a large clock and an old .22. Grace sat down at the table. A small oil-filled lamp swayed above her head.

You broke in that grullo yet? she said.

Hell no, Mac said from the kitchen. That's one crazy goddamn horse. Should've never bought her. I'm gettin too old for this kinda thing.

The hell you are, Grace said as Mac walked back with two bottles pulled from the icebox. He set them down on the table and popped off the caps with an old knife. He had white hair and walked with a slight stoop. His face was brown and smooth, like every desert rancher. He handed Grace one of the bottles and sat down.

Ain't nothin better than a cold Coke on a hot day, he said.

Amen to that, Grace said, toasting him and taking a long swig.

Damn, she said, bringing the bottle down to the table. That's better. She belched.

Sorry, she said.

A skinned jackrabbit hung by a hook above the kitchen sink, pink flesh glistening in the low light. A pile of muddy potatoes sat piled on the side, waiting to be washed and peeled.

Nice of you to drop by, Mac said. I always told Rose this place was centrally located.

Middle of nowhere, Grace said, smiling and raising the bottle to her mouth.

I've said that one before, haven't I?

I think it's a common refrain.

Hell, I like it out here, Mac said. Rose, well, she weren't no rancher; she was too good for that.

To the wives, Grace said, holding up her drink again.

The wives.

They clanked bottles together.

So, Mac said. What can I do for you?

You still got those pups for sale? I saw the sign out front.

Only got the one left, he said. Half-thinkin on keepin him for myself.

Where'd you bury ol Sophie anyway?

Out back, under her favorite tree. Hell, I'm just a sentimental ol fool.

No you're not, Grace said. Least, no more than I would be.

Fourteen years, Mac said. Like havin another kid.

You see much of Johnny?

Not as much as I'd like. He's a cattle rancher down in Riverside County now. Got himself near-on thirty thousand acres in the Temecula Valley. Good grazin land. Leases most of it out. Smart kid. He got that from his mother.

So you gonna keep the pup?

Hell, probably not. He's a handful. You can have him if you want.

I'm just thinking about it at the moment, she said. Always saw myself with one, y'know? Growing up, a little girl … Guess that's just the way God made me.

She sighed, looked down at the table.

You ever had the feeling the future's become the past while you were busy being scared? she said.

Mac looked at her.

All the damn time, he said.

She looked away.

You wanna come see him? Mac said. He's out back.

Lemmie give you a call in a few days.

Sure, he said. No sweat.

She smiled.

Excerpted from The Last Pilot by Benjamin Johncock. Copyright © 2015 by Benjamin Johncock. Excerpted by permission of Picador. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.