by Laura Drake
But what if it’s me? If your mother doesn’t think much of you, how could anyone else?
I do miss you.
Your daughter,
Nevada
Chapter 10
Joseph
The next morning, the atmosphere in the cab of the truck hangs like the weight of the air before a storm.
Nevada sits across the great divide of the bench seat, clutching her ratty backpack like a life preserver. She’s been gnawing on her lip since she climbed in. I just hope it helps her hold back whatever words she’s chewing, because I’m not ready to hear them.
She looks over at me. “You going to tell me what’s wrong?”
I drape my wrist over the steering wheel, like my stomach muscles didn’t just snap tight. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re lying. You couldn’t see the pissed look on your face while you were chopping wood last night, but I did.” She turns to frown out of the windshield. Despite her backpack shield, she looks vulnerable. “You want me to leave, I’ll leave.”
The air pressure drops. “No.”
“I’ll rent one of those places over the stores downtown. I could be gone in—”
“Stop it.” The machine gun words bounce off the windshield.
“Stop what? I mean it.”
“I know you do. You don’t need to go.” I don’t want the complications of having her near, but I want her close. Closer even than the vast expanse of the bench seat. My arm wants to pull her next to me. Pressure builds in the cab. Or maybe it’s just the pressure inside me. “Just leave it.”
“Yesterday, you were fine, then after my ride with Austin, you were a jerk. If it’s something I did, then just tell me.”
“It was nothing you did.” And everything you did.
She turns to me. “Then what is it? You’re different. What is your problem?”
I didn’t sleep much last night, wrestling with wants and needs and promises. I need to turn away, but I can’t.
Her eyes are calm, steady. “I don’t know if you don’t tell me.”
Maybe it’s better to finish this. Get it out in the open, so she understands why there can be nothing between us. It’ll be my problem to figure out how to live with the aftermath. I pull off the road and throw the truck in Park. I can’t do this and drive, too.
“I told you that I went in the Army. I didn’t tell you about coming home.”
“So? Tell me.” Her tone softens.
“My grandmother had cancer. She insisted my mother not tell me while I was away. She didn’t want me thinking of her, and not taking care of myself. That’s the kind of woman my grandmother was.” I look out at the blacktop, stretching to the horizon.
“Wish I could have met her.”
There’s a wistfulness to her tone that pinches my heart and makes it harder to go on.
“When I got back, I moved her here, with me, so I could get her the best care, in Albuquerque. At least, that was my reason. Looking back, I think she gave up the home of her entire life on the rez, to make sure I was okay.” The words come out in hitches and starts, hobbled by emotion. “She didn’t want the chemo that the doctors recommended. They said she only had a five percent chance of five more years, even with it, but…I wasn’t ready to let her go. We argued. I wasted weeks, angry with her for being selfish.” The anger at myself that always simmers in my chest boils and spits, singeing my heart with pricks of fire. “It takes a massive immature, egocentric child to worry about myself, when she was dying.”
Nevada sits with her arms crossed, looking out the window. “One of the hardest things to watch is someone going down, and not be able to do anything about it.”
“That doesn’t excuse my behavior.” I stop to catch my breath, and the courage to finish. “Near the end, she wanted my promise to go back to the rez. To make amends with my family, and the tribal council.”
“You haven’t.”
“I promised her that I’d spend my life passing on what she taught me to the young ones. To do what I can to help the tribe. To raise my children in the Diné way.”
She winces. “Not quite the same thing as what she asked, though, huh?”
“Two separate things entirely.”
Nevada’s eyes are shining, but steady on me. “I’m sorry.”
I grit my teeth to keep the sharp retort in. It’s not her I’m mad at. “You, of all people, should know the last thing I want is pity.”
“This isn’t pity, idiot, it’s empathy.”
“Now you know. Not only why this thing”—I point to her, then me—“between us can’t be. And you also know why you shouldn’t want it to.”
“I thought it was just me.” It comes out in a whisper.
I glance over. Her eyes are big, big enough for me to see the innocence and longing she hides so well. It touches me in places I walled off, long ago. She knows who I have been and wants me still. “Oh hell.” I unsnap the seat belt, and it retracts with a clang. I slide across the seat and take her face in my hands. She doesn’t draw back—doesn’t shutter the want in her gaze. When I lower my head, my hair falls, curtaining us. Our lips touch, a tentative bird’s-wing brush. Sweet. I trace her lips with my tongue and she rises and takes me in. I fall into her, taking what she gives, and trying to give back.
When I realize she’s crushed in my arms, and our breathing is loud in the enclosed space, I loosen my hold and force myself to back up. “That shouldn’t have happened. Sorry.”
She gives me a Cheshire Cat smile. “I’m not.”
The wild bird I met weeks ago would never have allowed this. I should have realized, when you tame a wild thing, you’re responsible not to betray their trust.
My knuckles are white on the steering wheel on the turn into the square.
There’s a line in front of the café, waiting for it to open.
“What’s going on?” Nevada rubs her jacketed forearm over the windshield, as if that will wipe away the illusion. “The paper won’t be out until later in the week. Why are they here?”
“I expect because they’re hungry.” I smile for the first time since dinner last night.
* * *
Nevada
I want to sit mooning like a junior high schooler, savoring Joseph’s kiss. Suddenly, I get it. Is this why he’s been moody lately? He’s been fighting against wanting me? Me. Nobody’s ever wanted me before. Not really.
Cisco’s minions left, heading for Albuquerque. They figure they covered this territory; I don’t see them coming back. Could I even think about staying? A cloud of hope blooms in my brain. Could I really?
I’d love to sit and think about the possibility, and what Joseph said this morning, but there’s no time for anything but trying to keep up for the first three hours. Lorelei has no idea what’s going on, either, so she calls Carly, but she’s as clueless as the rest of us. Lorelei tells me not to ask the patrons; it could jinx it.
But I need to know. So around ten, I go on a reconnaissance refill patrol. Most people meet my eyes, and a few even offer tentative smiles. I can’t ask just anybody, because my mouth could go off and I’d be back where I started.
There are four ladies with pressed clothes and wrinkly faces in booth two, chatting over tea and bran muffins. Most old ladies are nice, right? I beeline over with hot water and the box of tea bags. “Anyone need a refill?”
One takes the box and pokes through it like a bird scratching up worms. The littlest one extends her cup for more hot water. “We know you wouldn’t have stolen money from that man without a good reason.” She pats the back of my hand.
“Wait, what?” The pot of hot water is suddenly heavy. Afraid I’ll drop it, I plop it on the table.
The lady with the sugar-spun blue hair smiles up at me. “I think it’s romantic. A lady Robin Hood!”
“Where did you hear that?”
The one picking through the tea finally chooses one. “On Ann Miner’s blog, silly. It’s all over town how you helped that poor runaway
girl.”
Thoughts are pinging in my head so fast I can’t grasp one before another zips by. “Ann Miner has a blog. Online.”
They nod.
“Did she use my name in this blog?”
“How would we know she was talking about you, otherwise?” She squints up at me, like she just realized I’m not very bright.
There’s a crash in my chest—things are falling in there. I’m going to have to leave Unforgiven for sure now. Today. Not that Cisco would read a-nobody-from-nowhere’s gossip blog, but if he has a Google alert out on my name, he’ll know exactly where I am. I don’t have my motorcycle endorsement yet but screw it.
“We should have known that Carly, that sweet girl, wouldn’t have hired a bad person.” She shakes her head. “I’m ashamed of the lot of us.”
“I—I’ve gotta go. Y’all enjoy your muffins.” They may have said something else, but I can’t hear over the sirens going off in my head. That reporter did exactly what she promised. Too well. Chest tight, I stand in the middle of the noisy café and look around.
To think, just a couple hours ago, I deluded myself into thinking I could stay. What an idiot. I know what I did, and I know Cisco…as long as he’s alive, he’s not going to stop looking for me.
There’s no choice; I have to leave.
At least I’ll leave knowing I didn’t hurt the café, or anyone here. Or Joseph. My heart shrivels, but I have no time for that now. Plenty of time for pain later.
All I see ahead are endless empty days: no strings, no contacts, no purpose but to stay one step ahead of a bullet.
But for the first time it occurs to me—is that enough to live for?
The rest of the afternoon, I’m on autopilot, while I try to pull together a plan. I need to run farther this time, but it can’t be north. It’s warming here, but on a motorcycle, seventy degrees is the new fifty. I can’t go south; Mexico would be walking into the cartel’s den. That leaves west. Nevada, Arizona, California…what does it matter? The only thing I know for sure, I’m flying solo from here on out. It hurts too much to leave people you care about. Jeez, I even fell for a scruffy little lamb!
I’m getting soft. And soft doesn’t survive in a hard world. I learned that before I learned my times tables.
I’m not even buckled in for the trip home when Joseph asks, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Really? You’ve been a nervous wreck all afternoon.”
“Okay, so it’s nothing you can help with. Look, I’ve gotta think.” But instead of mapping a route in my head, I spend the rest of the way home imagining what might have happened if I could stay. But I know that’s a fantasy. He’s committed to his twisted promise, and there’s no room for me in that tiny, closed-in world.
He pulls up next to the sheep pen. “Looks like we’ve got a new lamb on the ground.”
“Oh!” I scramble out of the truck to the fence. A tiny lamb on wobbly legs is nursing at his momma’s side, his tail flicking like a windshield wiper on high. “How sweet!”
The truck door slams and Joseph comes up beside me. “Going to be a long night.”
“Why?”
“The coyotes are attracted to the blood from lambing and come in to take the babies. I sit up with a shotgun to be sure I don’t lose any.”
Little Dude comes up to the fence. “Baaaaah.”
I stretch my hand over to give him a scratch and, ignoring Joseph’s stern look, pull a carrot from my pocket. Surely Cisco wouldn’t see the post the very first day. I mean, he could, but odds are against it. Even if he did, it’d take him a day or so to get here from Houston, right?
Today is Monday…If I leave by Friday, Saturday at the latest, I should be safe. Goddammit, I deserve that much, don’t I? Besides, hard to imagine how I’d be safer than sitting most of the night with a gun in my hands. I’m being selfish, but if I’m going to die, I’d rather it happened right here. “I never go to sleep before midnight anyway. I’ll take the first shift.”
Joseph turns to me. “They’re my responsibility.”
“And mine. Don’t I haul hay to feed them every day? Clean out their pen?” I frown at him. “You never treated me like a girl before. Don’t you dare start now.”
“Do you know how to fire a gun? You might need to, you know.”
“I never shot one, but that doesn’t mean I can’t.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? It’s still cold at night.”
I stare him down.
“Okay, come with me.” He turns and walks for the house.
After one last scratch, I leave Little Dude and follow.
Joseph comes out of the hogan with his gun, and we walk away from the house about two hundred feet into the scrub. “The good thing about a shotgun is that you don’t have to be a great shot; you just aim in the general direction. The bad part is, it isn’t accurate more than forty yards or so—and the shot scatters, so be sure nothing else is close you don’t want to kill.” He cracks the breech, shows me how to load, where the safety is, and how to sight down the barrel. Then he hands it to me. His eyes are warm. Trusting.
I almost drop it. “Unh. It’s heavy.”
“Yep. You sure you can do this?” He stands, arms crossed.
I tighten my grip and my stance. “What do you want me to aim at?”
“See that big mesquite?” He points. “Take off a couple limbs.”
I lift the gun.
“Wait.” He pushes the stock into my shoulder. “Be sure it’s snugged up. It’s going to kick, and if you don’t have it held to you, it can break bones.”
I try to hold steady the shake in the barrel.
“Sight like I showed you, squeeze the trigger easy. Be ready for the recoil.”
It feels like I’m stepping over a dividing line—before/after. Maybe that’s the way it should be. Holding something that could end a life comes with a heavy responsibility. I take a deep breath.
Boom!
The shock of the explosion runs through me, and the kick pushes me back a step, my ears ringing. “Holy shi—wow.”
“Powerful, huh?”
“I’d say.” I remember the drive-by shooting I saw in front of our apartment building once. How could someone aim at another person after feeling that power, and knowing what it can do?
“You hit it.”
The mesquite is shredded. “Oh yeah, I’m bad.”
He smiles down at me. “Small, but mighty.” The smile slips, and his eyes dull. He takes the gun. “Why don’t you grab some dinner, and I’ll meet you by the sheep pen around dark.” He turns and walks for the house.
When my heart pinches, I realize I’d hoped for a dinner invitation. Screw it. I’ve got instant soup. It’s always been enough. Better get used to living spare again.
* * *
I work alone in the greenhouse most of the afternoon, watering and weeding the tiny plants. I’m kinda getting the draw—nurturing new life is rewarding, even if it’s just a dumb plant. After sundown, I change into two layers under my jean jacket, and the wool gloves I bought at the dime store, and head out to the pens. The security lamp on a pole lights up the sheep pen, but beyond it is unbroken darkness.
Joseph is outside the farthest pen, so I walk around the perimeter to him. He’s standing next to a webbed lawn chair, a rolled-up sleeping bag in the seat, cradling the shotgun in his arm.
“Are you sure you want to do this? You don’t have to.”
“If you told me I had to, do you think I’d do it?” I hope some humor will melt the cold spot in my stomach. It’s just occurred to me that I might have to kill a living, breathing being tonight.
“Good point.” With only a shadow of a smile, he shakes his head. “Spread out the sleeping bag. It’ll keep you warm.”
I open it, wrap it around me, sit, and hold out my hands for the gun. “I’m ready.”
“Come bang on my door at midnight. Do you have a watch?”
“No.”
�
�And you don’t own a phone.” He unclips the heavy watch from his wrist and hands it to me. “Midnight. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Go get some sleep.”
“I really appreciate this, Nevada. I’m usually a zombie, lambing week. This will make my life easier. Thank you.”
I wave him off. “Go to bed.” I can feel the flush in my face, even as pride warms the cold spot in my chest. I’m glad to be able to give something back in thanks for him being so nice to me. Even though I know it’s not personal; it’s just how he is. I finger the heavy watch, then slide it over my hand, even though it’s way too big. It’s still warm from his skin, which feels intimate, reminding me of his kiss this morning. I’ve never had a kiss like that. Strong and sure. And flat-out hot. It tugged at my heart, making me want to open all the secret places in me. I won’t do it, of course, but before today, I couldn’t have imagined ever wanting to.
I move the chair closer to the pen. Little Dude wanders over. “You going to keep me company? That’s good, because it’ll get lonely out here pretty fast.” I pull the sleeping bag tighter around me. It smells of old campfires, and Joseph’s sagey scent. I take in a deep lungful and hold it, staring out into the dark.
The sky is bigger at night—a black bowl over the world, pricked with ice-chip stars. The ground holds the heat of the day, but the breeze blows cold, bringing the smell of dust and wildness. The only sounds are the stirring of the sheep and an occasional skittering in the dark; a ground squirrel maybe, or a jackrabbit.
The dark expands, reclaiming territory. Why do we think we’re so important? In the dark, you realize that all the stuff we stay busy with during the day is about as important as ants running around an anthill. Joseph’s people have it closer to right, I think. We just share the earth with everything else on it; no better, no worse.
Little Dude sniffs at my sleeve, and I reach my hand through the fence to pet him. How cool would it be to settle down in one place and just live a small life in a big land like this? I don’t know where I’ll go next, but wherever it is, it’ll be in the country, with animals. I’m done with big cities. This is better. Cleaner, simpler.