by Laura Drake
Her head appears around the door. “What did you call me?”
“Stubborn.” Donkey.
She rolls her eyes, tsks, but slouches over and sits down. “I’ve had worse blisters.”
If she’s allowing me to do this, I’ll bet that’s not true. I pull a tin of salve from a kitchen drawer. “You’ll need to give me permission to touch you.” I wait.
Her eyes won’t meet mine, but she nods.
I step to her and open the tin.
“What’s that?”
I take a fingerful. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe, from the sap of the piñon pine. The Diné have used it for centuries. It’s antibacterial, and soothing. Hold your foot out.”
When she does, I hiss air through my teeth. The blisters broke hours ago and beneath the broken skin are weeping blood blisters. “Ouch. Why didn’t you tell me? We could have stopped.”
“Not a big deal.” Her leg shakes, and she laces her fingers under her thigh to support it. Her muscles have to be tired.
“Here.” She jerks a bit when I cup her ankle. “Relax.” Her feet are pale and delicate—vulnerable—the only part of her I’ve found that is. My hair falls over my shoulder onto her skin, and she jumps.
“It’s cold.”
I release her ankle, gather my hair, and braid it. “Just be a second.” My fingers fly.
“Is it an Indian thing to keep your hair long?”
“It is tradition.”
“It’s pretty.”
I know if I acknowledge the first compliment I’ve heard her utter, she’ll button up, so I just pull the elastic from my wrist and twist it around the end of the braid and throw it over my shoulder. I swipe the salve gently on her heel. “Okay, the other foot.”
This time, she accepts my touch without flinching. “It’s taking the sting out.”
“Good.” I swipe salve over the other heel and let her go. Enough progress with the wild bird for one day. It crosses my mind to wonder what made her so skittish, but it couldn’t have been anything good. She needs to know that not everyone is out to hurt her. “When are you going to feed me? I’m starving.”
She pushes off the stool and toes into her flip-flops. “What do you want?”
“Surprise me.” I settle on the seat she vacated to watch her work.
She stands at the open fridge door for half a minute, hips moving, then starts piling condiments on the counter. “I’m going to make you the best sandwich you ever ate. You just have to tell me what you want in it.” She pushes the door closed with a kick of her heel.
“If it’s in my kitchen, I like it. You pick.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” She rubs her hands together; probably unaware she’s smiling. She doesn’t ask, just pulls open cupboards and drawers until she finds what she wants.
She looks so young. Too young for my interest. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three, for another two weeks. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
She whistles. “Ancient.”
I put my elbows on the counter and rest my chin on a hand. She cuts tomatoes, leftover roast, peppers…“What’re you doing? I thought—”
She steps in, blocking my view. “You just want to steal my recipe.”
“You’re on to me. I brought you here for just that.”
She nods. “That’s what I figured.”
“Where are you from?”
When her head whips up, I know I’ve pushed too far. Her eyes narrow. “Nowhere. Everywhere. What’s it to you?”
I shrug. “Just asking.”
“Well, stop asking.” She whisks whatever is in the bowl. “Were you raised on the reservation? Is that where you learned your language?”
“Yes. It’s all we spoke at home, since my grandmother spoke no English.”
“Is your mom still alive?”
“Yes. She’s still there.”
“You’re close?”
From a distance. I nod. “Are you close to your family?”
She flinches and turns to the stove. “Never mind.”
Ten minutes later, she slides a plateful of Monte Cristo sandwich in front of me. “This looks fantastic.”
She puts her own plate on the counter with a smug smile. “Taste it.”
I try a bite, a thread of cheese stretching from the plate. “Wow. That is amazing. What’s in the batter that makes it crunch?”
“Normally, I’d have to kill you, but I owe you, so I’ll tell you.” She glares. “You have to take the secret to the grave.”
I trace an X over my heart.
“Pancake batter.”
“Seriously?”
“I never lie to Navajo cooks.”
Her smile is as soft and easy as our conversation. I don’t want the wild bird to flit away, so I don’t push. “Yeah, and I’m sure I’m the only Navajo you’ve ever met.”
She gives me a one-shoulder shrug. “Easy then, isn’t it?” She comes around the counter with her plate.
I laugh. “You’re a funny lady.” I pull out the bar stool beside me for her to sit on.
She ducks her head, and the words slip out in a whisper. “No one’s ever said that.”
“Probably because you don’t let people close enough to see it.”
“That’s the way I like it.” She steps off the stool. “I need water. Want some?”
“Sure.”
I’m absurdly proud that she’s opened up a bit.
And glad she hasn’t noticed that she has.
* * *
Houston, Texas
“How hard can it be to catch one little girl?” Cisco slams his fist on the table in the back of the Casa de Mamacita restaurant. “If I have to do everything, what do I need you for?”
Marta eases behind Miguel, out of the line of fire.
Miguel holds out his palms. “Marta had her at that rodeo, but that Sweet kid is slicker’n snot.”
He knew it. He’d been waiting outside the gate when she got out of prison, and he’d still missed her.
“Let me go, boss.” Jovie sits across from Cisco. “I owe her.”
“If you hadn’t been banging her mother in exchange for a hit, this never would’a happened. Now I’m out the drugs and the money.” But worse than that—if it got out that a teenager ripped him off, he’d be a joke on the street.
Cisco pulled out his phone. “Surrounded by idiotas. I’ll take care of this myself.” He hit speed dial. “Tomás. I have a girl for you. Young.”
“Good looking?” The oily voice is eager.
“Yeah. A little blonde. Should bring good money in Central America.”
“You got a picture?”
“I’ll text it to you when I hang up. Last seen at the Fort Worth Stockyards, at a rodeo. And Tomás, I want her gone for good. You hear me?”
“I’m on it, jefe.”
Chapter 5
Ma,
So, I’m living with a Navajo guy, out in the boonies. Well, not exactly. I’m living in an RV out back of his house. He’s nice. And gorgeous. He’s kind of helped me out since I got here. I’m trying to find out why. He took me running with him yesterday. It was pretty cool.
Anyway, about what happened after I left. When Cisco’s man tracked me to Haven House, I stashed the cash in a locker at the bus station, bought a ticket, and ended up near the Astrodome. Figured they would never think to look for me on the good side of town. I tried to get a job as a cook, but nobody would trust somebody my age to be good at it, so I went to a nice hotel and got a job as a maid.
I rented a crummy room, and a week later, I met a girl, a runaway. She was trying to get away from her mom’s latest bad-news boyfriend, to get to her grandmother in Lafayette, but she ran out of money. I bought her a meal and let her sleep on my floor. I wanted to help more, but I couldn’t get to the money—I was afraid Cisco was watching the bus terminal.
So, one day I was cleaning this guy’s room and found his wallet in the bathroom. It was stuffed with cash. I figur
ed he wouldn’t notice if I took a couple of bills—just enough to buy her a bus ticket to Louisiana and maybe a couple of candy bars for the ride. It was a worthy cause, after all. I stuffed a fifty and a twenty in my pocket, and was putting the wallet back when the guy walked in. He pressed charges, and they accused me of taking the whole $1500 in his wallet.
I did twelve months. You’re probably pissed to hear that, but it is what it is. Jail was scary enough, but then a drug-runner’s girl told me Cisco would be waiting for me when I got out.
I gotta get to work. I’ll tell you more later. But I’m writing this, so you know I survived.
Nevada
* * *
Nevada
Indian medicine is no joke—when I put my shoes on this morning, my heels are almost all healed. I barely feel the blisters when I go out to feed the sheep. My legs are sore, but that’s no big deal. I step out into the pre-dawn. Still need my jacket, but the wind doesn’t cut through me like a cleaver through steak. I’m sweating by the time I lug the hay to the enclosure. I make sure I get all the cut twine, like Joseph showed me. Little Dude lips my jeans.
“How goes it, buddy?” I scrub his head. He likes that. The other sheep swarm, wanting some attention. “You guys are a kind of tribe, too, huh? Must be nice to be safe together when it’s cold, and the coyotes howl.” I squat on my heels, so I’m even with them. It’s warmer down here. “I have a coyote after me. A really mean one. I’ve been running from him for a long time now. See, human coyotes have long memories and they don’t give up.” I tug Little Dude’s ears. He likes that, too. “See, he has to show the other coyotes that people can’t get away with stealing from him.” I scrub my palms over my cheeks and stand. “I’ll see you guys tonight, okay? Be good to each other today.”
I’m in the truck waiting when Joseph comes out.
He climbs in. “You could have come to the door.”
“Why? I knew you’d end up here eventually.” I clip my seat belt. “What do sheep eat besides hay?”
The truck cranks a long time before the engine finally catches. “Grass.”
“No, I mean like what do they eat for dessert?”
He smiles big. “Ah, the lamb.”
I try to hold my mouth straight and manage—mostly. “I call him Little Dude.”
“He’s an early lamb. A ram got to his momma late in the season, but we’ll have more babies soon.” He turns the truck and heads down the tire tracks that lead to the road. “The sheep like fruit. And carrots.”
Maybe I can stuff a couple in my pockets at work.
“Don’t even think about it.” He’s watching the road.
“About what?”
“Taking carrots from the café. If you want them, we’ll run by O’Grady’s on the way home.”
“Oh. Okay.” I know my face didn’t give me away. Most people don’t notice me. I’m invisible on purpose; just some generic chick. But this guy pays attention. I’ll have to remember that.
“How did you like running yesterday? Except for the blisters, of course.”
“It was okay. The stuff you used on my heels helped. Thanks.”
We’re quiet for a mile after he pulls out on the blacktop.
“I run with the Wings on Tuesday and Thursday mornings.”
“Why you telling me?”
He chews his lower lip a minute, then looks at me with that stare-into-me look. “You want to come running with us?”
“I thought that was an Indian thing.”
“Well, there’s no law against a bilagáana running with us.”
“I don’t know. They probably won’t be happy about a paleface showing up.”
“You afraid?”
I snort. “Yeah, right.” If I can survive the gangs in Houston schools and in prison, a few Indians can’t be that tough. “How far do you run?”
“Only a little farther than we did yesterday. But you’ll need to get some running shoes.”
Running was cool, and I slept good for a change. But use more of Cisco’s money? I’ve only spent a little on essentials: my bus ticket, this stupid shirt, some soup. Which, when I think about it, is kind of dumb. If he catches me, I’m just as dead with the money as I am if I blow it all.
But it’s not only drug money—it’s stolen money. And I don’t steal.
Mostly.
“If you don’t want to—”
“I’ll go.”
When we get to the café, I hang up my backpack and jacket, tie on an apron, and get to work. Someone must’ve told people we’re giving away free beer or something, because the line is out the door all morning.
Midmorning, I’m emptying the dishwasher when Carly pushes through the kitchen door, carrying the baby in her arms. “I come bearing paychecks.”
Lorelei steps out of her office. “And Faith!” She holds out her arms. “Come here, little one.”
Carly hands the baby over, and she grabs fistfuls of Lorelei’s hair. “Ow, ow, ow.”
“Yeah, meant to warn you about that.”
“You and I are going to have a good talk, girlfriend,” Lorelei says to the baby as she walks back into her office, holding her hair out of reach.
Carly looks at me. “You. Me. Outside.” She holds the back door open.
“What’d I do?” I step outside, and she lets the door fall closed.
“Nothing. But we haven’t talked since you started, and I wanted to check in with you.”
I forgot about what a mother hen Carly is. I look down at my feet. “I’m okay. I’m in an RV, out at Joseph’s place.”
She rolls her eyes. “Hon, this is Unforgiven. I know that. Question is, do you want to stay there?”
“Yes.” It’s out before I can stop it. My heart bangs my ribs. I don’t want her thinking that I want to stay with Joseph. Or more, why I want to stay. I don’t even want to think about that. Him, naked, flashes in my mind.
“Nevada Sweet. Are you blushing?”
“No. Look. We’ve done this before. I can handle my own life. Don’t you have enough to keep you busy?”
The corners of her mouth curl up, and she nods. “You sure you don’t want that apartment?” She says it in a singsong schoolgirl voice.
“No. Mind your own business, Davis.”
She sobers. “Hey, just be careful, okay? Fishing Eagle is hard-core Navajo. He’s never gone out with anyone non-Native. He’s got a history, you know?”
No, I don’t. “Tell me.”
Curls bounce on the shake of her head. “Not my story to tell. You hang around long enough, I’m sure he’ll tell you himself.”
Yeah, that’s the rub. I’m sure Cisco has people looking, even now.
She pulls a sheaf of envelopes from her back pocket and thumbs through them. “Anyway, here’s your paycheck. It’s not a full week, but I figured you could use it.”
“I can. Thanks.” I take it and shove it in my pocket. “Really. Thanks, Carly, for giving me a job.”
The sun comes out in her smile. “Oh, Sweet, I like having you around. You keep things interesting.”
Before I can stop her, she reaches over and hugs me around the neck.
I pull away. “Back up off me, Davis. You are the huggiest woman I ever met.”
“Yeah, but you love me.” She winks, pulls the door open, and is gone.
I’d never admit it to anyone, but I kinda do.
When I walk back in the dining room, it’s busier than ever so, coffeepot in one hand, iced tea pitcher in the other, I go on refill patrol. I usually ignore people talking to me, but I’ve been thinking—I owe it to Carly to at least try, so today, I answer them.
“No, I’m not from around here. Nowhere you’d know.” “Name is Nevada, like the state.” “No, I don’t know why my mom named me that.” “Yeah, I guess your town is okay.”
At the counter, a guy introduces himself as Moe Wrigley, the owner of the Unforgiven Barber Shop. He asks if I know how Unforgiven got its name.
“I heard a story abou
t a guy hung for running over a dog.”
“Yeah, well, don’t believe most of what Manny Stipple tells you. See, there was this seven-year-old little girl, way back when, the daughter of settlers. She was playing down by Chestnut Creek. Now that’s a calm stream, except when there’s a flash storm in the mountains. Then a wall of water comes down the canyon and turns it into a churning death trap. The little girl was washed away. Her body was found in a tree, six miles downstream.
“Her momma went crazy, wailing and pulling out her hair. One day, a trapper heard a rifle go off and went to investigate. He found the mother’s body lying on the grave. Under her was a note that said, ‘May God forgive me, because I can’t.’” Moe shrugs. “And that’s how Unforgiven got its name.”
That story sounds as full of bull…pucky as the first, but I smile and move on.
At booth number two, there’s a bunch of ladies who, from their pinched faces, are wearing their underwear too tight. I know they’re gossiping, because when I walk up, they stop.
The one with the horse face points at me with long, skinny, Wicked Witch of the West fingers. “You. New girl. What’s your name?”
“Nevada,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Nevada…what?”
“Sweet.”
Her nose goes up and she sniffs. “I am Ann Miner, head of the Historical Society, as well as a prize-winning columnist for the Unforgiven Patriot.”
She says it like I’m supposed to be impressed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Miss.”
“What’d I miss?”
She has zero sense of humor. Her lips pucker. “No, I’m a miss. As in, I’m not married.”
Big shock. I refill another lady’s iced tea glass.
“One of my jobs is to interview newcomers to town. Kind of a ‘get to know you’ piece.” She pulls a little book from her old lady purse and writes down my name. “I’d like you to set up an appointment—”
Seeing my name written on that paper, my knuckles go white on the pitcher. “No.”
“Well, not today, or course. I have an important meeting—”
“No. Not ever.” The odds of Cisco seeing a blurb from a local New Mexico rag is small, but the consequences are huge. Deadly.
She rears back, her chin tucked into her neck. “It will not serve you well to be rude, young lady.”