I really wanted to be able to write a glowing review of this book. I did a sabbatical in Dinetah (Navajo nation) and fell head over heels in love with the southwest. I grew up riding horses, took up camping in my middle years, love mysteries, so this book had the potential to press ALL my buttons. And to some extent, it did. The prose describing the landscape was gorgeous and accurate, and the connection to the animals, the lazy evenings by Jed's campfire, they all resonated.
But the mystery, and the story line in general, were very predictable. Sometimes that's fine; the journey can be more interesting than the destination. But in that case, something has to make the journey wonderful, and here the book fell flat. Flat as in one dimensional. Flat as in the landscape, which is absolutely wonderful as described but which is also hell incarnate, with cacti biting your ankles and ripping your clothes; sand at 30 mph stinging your face, gritting your eyes, obscuring the road, hiding sun and moon; heat toasting you from inside out; and sometimes, emptiness that stretches so far you feel your soul has been sucked out of your body (Deatheaters come to mind).
Flat as in one-dimensional characters. There are two "bad" dudes here, and they have NO REDEEMING QUALITIES WHATSOEVER. Every single other character is a saint; no flaws, no warts, no ghoulish sense of humor, no evil thoughts. Flat as in stock characters: wobbly, confused beautiful woman, handsome ailing male, mystical older woman, tortured "Heathcliff," kindly pharmacist, confused, well-meaning, smart adolescent, etc. I desperately wanted Charlotte to get blitzed on Margaritas and try to seduce Dennis Mata; wanted Francis to play a little grabass with Thea; wanted anyone to get pissed off, take a rifle, and go shoot the cactus out in the desert. Anything to break the unrelieved goodness of everyone. Yeesh!!
I didn't anticipate all the complexity of the resolution, and that was good. But I spent some time yelling at the book for referring to two grown men as "boys," for introducing an unsignaled plot element very late in the game, for pretending that anyone could have gotten so close to the pinto that quickly, for telling me that Charlotte dropped her pants and urinated (seriously, we need that level of detail?), and for not knowing quite how many horses went on the campout (five? six?). When stuff like this gets noticed, something is slightly off about the book.
My bet is that Polling-Kempe will get better. I plan to read her first novel, and I'm in the middle of her nonfiction "Ladies of the Canyons," which is the reason I read "Bone Horses" in the first place. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for an lazy read on a cold night by the fire, which is how I spent my last couple of nights. But to me it was a pleasant distraction, nothing more.