Relentless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  “And Merle and Rochelle are still technically married.” Bing pointed her fork for emphasis. “They were hitched by the justice of the peace here, but also had a traditional Navajo ceremony, and she only divorced him in tribal court.”

  “I never get why people do that.” Carma sent another carrot off into no-man’s-land. “I would want to be totally finished, no strings.”

  Bing shrugged. “Even do-it-yourself divorces cost money. And as long as neither of you wants to remarry…”

  Or reconcile, which was apparently the case with Gil’s parents. “Who took care of the boys while Merle was busy trucking?”

  “Mostly Iris and Steve Jacobs. You know, Jacobs Livestock, the rodeo stock contractor? That’s where Gil and Delon learned to ride bucking horses. Melanie and Hank pretty much lived there, too.” Bing made a face at the mention of her newly acquired if as yet unofficial stepson and daughter. “Not something Johnny is real proud of, pawning his kids off on the neighbors, but he was trying to run a ranch single-handed, and that wife of his was more harm than help.”

  “With the ranch or the kids?”

  “Both.”

  So the legendary Miz Iris had gathered them all under her wing…shades of Grandma White Elk. “No wonder you fit in here. They make up family out of strays and almost-relatives just like on the rez.”

  “Yep. They also raised Steve’s nephew, Cole, from when he was sixteen.” Sadness dug grooves around Bing’s mouth. “His parents and brother were killed in a car accident.”

  God. A whole family destroyed in the blink of an eye…and Carma included the living among the casualties. No one truly survived that sort of loss. They would never be the person they’d been before.

  Carma took a few more bites, then paused to let them settle. “You know, my first roommate at college was Navajo, and she lived with relatives in Albuquerque almost all the way through school. She called them her foster parents. None of Rochelle’s family would’ve thought twice about her leaving Gil and Delon here with their dad.”

  “Plus Rochelle’s a full-blood from a very traditional clan. Her father was one of those who believed mixed marriage is the equivalent of genocide by degrees.”

  Carma winced, but had to say, “It’s a valid issue.”

  Smaller tribes like the Blackfeet had had to choose between inbreeding and diluting their genetic identity. With an estimated three hundred thousand descendants, the Navajo—or more correctly, Diné—had more options.

  “It’s valid in theory, if you’re hung up on blood quantum as a measure of Nativeness—and worth.” Bing stabbed at a chunk of chicken. “For two little boys whose grandfather treated them like a disease their mother brought home? It’s no wonder they didn’t embrace their Native roots.”

  Duty. Motherhood. Harsh reality. The poor woman must’ve felt like she was being torn into tiny pieces. “Speaking of kids, Gil’s son witnessed my grand entrance.”

  Bing grinned. “Ah. Quint. The boy Yoda.”

  “Huh?”

  “A thousand-year-old soul in the body of a Disney heartthrob. Did he even blink?”

  “I dunno. I was facedown in a trash can. But he asked if Gil had knocked me up.”

  Bing spewed 7UP down the front of her blouse.

  “Gil said it was Quint’s idea of a joke,” Carma added.

  “Oh God.” Bing thumped herself on the chest, clearing the soda out of her pipes. “That is classic. The kid might not say a word for two hours, then he’ll drop a zinger like that.”

  “His father was not amused.”

  “I don’t imagine.” Bing grabbed a napkin to mop up. “From what I understand, Gil and Krista have never pulled any punches with Quint. He knows they were only together for about eight months before she got pregnant, why they didn’t get married, and all about Gil’s addiction.”

  “How long has he been clean?”

  “Since Quint was about a year old. He’s never seen his dad wasted, but I assume he’s heard a lot of cautionary tales from his mom’s side.” Bing mimicked a snooty, Southern tone. “You know how those Natives are with booze, and you’ve got his genes…”

  Also a valid concern, and just as hard to stomach.

  Bing gave a fatalistic shrug. It was what it was. “If anything fazes that kid, you’d never know.” Then she laughed. “Well, you might. It’ll be interesting to see how you read him.”

  Carma wished it was that simple, like X-ray vision she could turn on when she wanted. Or better, off. What would it be like to stand in a crowded room and feel only her own feelings?

  Most people were just background noise, barely registering unless they were experiencing something strong. Fear, anger, pain, and all their permutations—the negative stuff was the easiest to pick up. Carma could barely set foot in a nursing home, where the air was thick with the anxiety and confusion of residents suffering from dementia.

  She also enjoyed secondhand bursts of joy, pride, love and its more earthy cousin, lust, but they were always fleeting. What was it about humans that made happiness so hard to hold onto, while guilt and shame clung like tar?

  Modern psychology had an explanation for her gift: extreme empathy resulting in subconscious recognition of nonverbal cues and patterns of behavior. Most of the time she could work backward and identify the clues that had led to her conclusion. Not magic. Just logic. Well, except for how she’d been able to sense Gil’s secrets, but that was the extreme part of the empathy…wasn’t it?

  If all the psychologists in the world couldn’t agree, Carma wasn’t likely to figure it out. Most people preferred to slap her with their own labels anyway. She was a Chosen One. She was delusional. The spirits spoke to her. It was some stunt she did to get attention.

  More creative profanity wafted up from Gil’s office. Bing gave the floor vent a doubtful look. “Are you sure you can handle that all day long? You had to quit working in the resource room at the elementary school because of the ambient stress.”

  “Teachers are under a crapload of pressure. Besides, that”—she pointed down—“is recreational rage. Sort of like watching professional wrestling.”

  “All for show?”

  “In a way. Gil runs naturally hot, but he can dial it back when he wants. Underneath, he’s all about control.” She sculpted a mountain of her mashed potatoes, then decapitated it. “Maybe I could learn from him.”

  Bing reached across and squeezed her hand. “Sweetie…I know you’ve been struggling, but I don’t think Gil is the best example of healthy coping skills.”

  “Hey, at least I won’t try to run his life. Can you imagine how he’d react if I started laying my you should lines on him?” Carma asked bitterly, echoing Jayden’s favorite complaint, although he was generally fine with blaming her when things didn’t go well. “Gil would crawl from here to Montana before he’d lean on anyone. He’s just looking for good sex and someone to answer his phone.”

  Bing frowned. “You deserve a lot more than that.”

  Did she? She’d contributed a lot of the dysfunction to her relationship with Jayden by being his crutch, and taking too much of the responsibility. And to be brutally honest, at least some of the time they’d been together because neither of them had found anything better.

  And still Carma had been caught completely off guard when he’d dumped her for the blond. Stupid, fickle, so-called gift. Why didn’t it ever warn her about her own damn love life?

  “It is so unfair. The instant I laid eyes on Johnny, I knew it was forever with him and you. Why can’t I tell how a man really feels about me?”

  Bing sighed. “Maybe the Creator figures it’s something even you have to take on faith.”

  “Well, I’m fresh out.” Carma forced down one last bite before pushing her plate away. “I’d rather have someone who’ll tell it to me straight, no games, no promises.”

  Bing sigh
ed again. “Then Gil Sanchez is definitely your man.”

  No, he wasn’t. And as long as Carma didn’t pretend he ever could be, she could enjoy him, and learn from him, and hopefully leave Earnest, Texas, smarter than she’d arrived.

  And wasn’t self-improvement most of the reason she was here?

  Chapter 10

  When Carma walked back into the office, a petite version of Lucille Ball was planted on the desk with her legs and arms wrapped around what could be another Sanchez brother.

  Carma waited a full minute before she cleared her throat.

  The guy broke the kiss to look at her. Nope, not a Sanchez, but vaguely familiar. The woman gave her a bright, scarlet smile without loosening her grip on him. “Oh hey! Carma, right?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “I’m Analise.” She dropped her legs and twitched the skirt of her fifties-style day dress over her knees before grabbing a tissue from a box on the desk to dab a smear of lipstick from her lover’s cheek. “Cruz is leaving for the California rodeos. I had to give him a suitable send-off.”

  Cruz? Carma took a better look. Yeah, that was him. Marcelino Miguel Ruiz de la Cruz, bullfighter extraordinaire, able to materialize in the exact right spot to save a cowboy from getting stomped by a ton of pissed-off bovine.

  “I gotta go.” He kissed Analise’s brilliant red hair and gave Carma a bashful smile. “It was nice to meet you.”

  As he left, he held the door for an older man in grease-stained coveralls. “Hey, Max,” Analise said. “Have you met Carma?”

  “Not yet.” He offered a weathered hand and a warm, creased smile. “I’m the shop foreman. And you are the person who owns that van parked outside.”

  “Guilty,” Carma admitted.

  His smile widened. “You decide you want to get rid of it, let me know. I had one just like it when I was in my twenties. Some good memories in that van.”

  “I’ll bet,” Analise drawled. Her kitten heels clicked on the tile floor as she hopped off the desk to pluck the papers from his hand. “Come and sit down, Carma. I’ll show you how to enter work orders and update the maintenance logs.”

  Max excused himself with a promise to see Carma in the morning. She took the desk chair while Analise leaned in, smelling of Estee Lauder Youth Dew and fresh-starched cotton.

  “This is command central.” Analise tapped a truck-shaped icon on the screen. “The GPS units in the trucks, electronic bills of lading, mandatory DOT reports, drivers’ logs, payroll, accounting—everything feeds into this program.”

  She provided a running commentary as she flashed through screens and entered the information from Max’s work orders into the mandatory maintenance records for each truck, and was showing Carma where to file the originals when Gil’s door opened.

  “Can I come out now, or are you still molesting Cruz?” he asked.

  “He’s gone, Grandpa.”

  The door opened wider, and Gil rolled into view in the black-leather Satan’s throne version of a desk chair. “I suppose Carma got treated to the full show.”

  “Oh, please.” Analise rolled her eyes. “She barely even blushed.”

  Gil tipped back and stretched out his legs. “Hard to top the entrance she made yesterday.”

  “I’m glad you all got a chuckle out of that,” Carma said dryly.

  Analise blanched, and a beat later Carma felt a ripple of nausea. But she swallowed and it was gone.

  Not hers, she realized. “Whew! I thought I was gonna puke again for a second. What did I say? Was it ch—”

  “Don’t!” Analise plastered her hands over her ears.

  Carma looked at Gil for a clue.

  “Synesthesia,” he said. “She tastes colors, hears numbers, and certain words literally make her sick.”

  Analise dropped her hands and gaped. “Wait. You felt that?”

  “Um…yes?” Hell. How could she explain…

  “Oh. My. God.” Analise breathed it like a prayer. “You’re an INFJ.”

  “A what?” Gil demanded.

  “You know, Myers-Briggs?” When Gil remained blank, Analise huffed impatiently. “Seriously? You run a business, and you’ve never heard of personality typing?”

  “I work with my father, my brother, and a shop foreman who’s been here since I was six years old. What’s the point?”

  “Maybe you could keep a receptionist long enough for their butt to warm up the chair?” Analise sketched an oval around Carma, as if outlining her aura. “This is the magic unicorn of personality types. Introverted, intuitive, feeling, and judging. The super-empath.”

  Carma relaxed. Bless you, Analise. Here was an explanation Gil could accept. “How did you know?”

  “My grandmother was INFJ. We’re all special in my family.” She bobbed a thank you very much curtsy, then shifted her attention to Gil. “It’s like how dogs can hear sounds we can’t. INFJs pick up mega-subtle nonverbal cues, and since humans are so predictable, sometimes seem to be able to tell the future.”

  Gil’s mouth crooked in satisfaction. “So that’s how you did it.”

  “Pretty much.” Carma shut the filing cabinet drawer and returned to her desk. “Now that we’ve established my brand of freakishness, can we get back to work?”

  One mocking eyebrow rose. “I dunno. How much of my business can you poke around in without my permission?”

  “Don’t be a dick,” Analise said.

  He grinned, quick and sharp. “But that’s my superpower.”

  “As we all know.” Analise mirrored his narrow-eyed scrutiny. “You’re already plotting ways to use her.”

  “Use me?” Carma echoed, startled. “How?”

  “The same way I use everyone—to my best advantage,” he said, without a hint of apology.

  She waved at the computer and phone. “We agreed that this is all you get from me.”

  “Not quite all.” His smile went wolfish as his gaze tracked down her body, and Carma flushed.

  “Whoa. Heat wave.” Analise fanned herself.

  “Get used to it,” Gil said, then frowned, his gaze caught by something outside the front office window.

  It was Quint, swinging a leg over his bike and pushing it toward the open truck bay, a backpack slung over what were framed to be impressive shoulders. Dang. Bing wasn’t kidding when she said teen heartthrob. The boy could’ve stepped off any screen, large or small. They all waited as they heard him call out a greeting to Max, then push open the door from the shop. When he saw Carma seated at the desk, he didn’t falter, only stopped to study her with a slight, curious pucker between his brows.

  Then he smiled, a weapon of mass female destruction. “Hi, Analise. Love the pearls.”

  “Thank you!” Analise twined them around scarlet-tipped fingers. “It’s the little things that really make a look come together.”

  “Well, you nailed it.” He muted the smile to well mannered with a touch of remorse. “Hello, Miss White Elk. I’m Quint. I’m very sorry for being disrespectful to you yesterday.”

  She held his gaze for a few beats, searching for an undertone of sarcasm, but found none. “Thank you. And you can call me Carma.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment, his dark eyes level and measuring as they took in her computer screen, then the legal pad at her elbow, covered with notes. “Are you helping Analise catch up?”

  “She’s the new receptionist,” Gil said. “For as long as she can stay.”

  Again, Quint showed no sign of surprise or disapproval. If Gil was a pile of glowing embers, prone to bursting into flames at the slightest breeze, his son was a cool, old-growth forest, undisturbed by anything short of a gale. Carma glanced at Gil and caught an identical pleat between his brows, only deeper. To him, Quint’s nonreaction must seem unnatural—possibly unhealthy—but if the boy was repressing anything, it was buried so deep
Carma couldn’t get a whiff.

  “Welcome to Sanchez Trucking.” Quint stepped forward and extended a hand. “I hope you’ll enjoy working here.”

  “I…um…thanks.” Carma accepted the handshake—brisk, professional, his grip exactly the right amount of firm. He could have been wearing a three-piece suit instead of running shorts and an Oklahoma Sooners T-shirt. Dang. That took some guts when he’d only just moved onto rival turf in rabid football country. Either Quint Sanchez really didn’t care about fitting in, or…

  He saw her eyeing the logo and one corner of his mouth quirked, ever so slightly. It was all Carma could do not to laugh. Oh, yeah. This was Gil’s son. He hadn’t worn that shirt by accident, and he’d enjoyed every second of aggravation it had caused.

  He turned to his dad. “Coach wants to know if you’re still gonna help out at the track meet tomorrow.”

  “You’re not eligible to compete,” Gil said, frowning.

  “I still have to show up and make myself useful, and they’re expecting you, too.”

  Gil made a visible attempt to stifle a curse, then sighed. “What time do I have to be there?”

  “Three o’clock. You’re running the high jump.”

  “And of course I will be happy to come in early and cover for you,” Analise chirped.

  Gil’s hands clenched on his armrests. “Fine.”

  “Awesome. It was a pleasure to meet you again, Carma.” And even though there wasn’t a hint of mockery to be heard or seen, Carma could feel him laughing on the inside as he left.

  “Nice kid,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Gil turned dark, turbulent eyes on Carma. “If you can tell me what’s going on inside that head, I’ll double your wages.”

  Uh-uh. She had sworn off jumping into the middle of other people’s problems. When she only shrugged, he grunted and gave his chair a shove, disappearing back into his lair.

  “Good call,” Analise said. Then she leaned in and whispered, “But if you want to tell me what either one of them really thinks, I am dying to know.”