Home at Chestnut Creek

by Laura Drake

  * * *

  Hours later, the sheep are restless. I check Joseph’s watch: twelve-thirty. I don’t ever get more than four hours’ sleep anyway. I’m not waking him until I’m tired. I stand and stretch. One of the ewes is off by herself in the corner of the pen. She walks in circles, then lies down, only to get up again. She licks her lips and circles again.

  Oh man, she’s going to have her baby. Her back end is bulging, and she’s pawing the ground with her front feet. I don’t want to disturb her, so I stay where I am, watching the night, watching her.

  The gun gets heavy, so I lean it against the chair. Soon the ewe lies down and stretches off and on. “Poor momma. That’s gotta hurt.” I speak in a calm, quiet voice. I want to help, but I’m a city kid; verbal support is about all I’m qualified for. “It’ll be over soon, and you’ll have a sweet baby to show for it.”

  Tiny feet appear. Is that the way it should be? What if it isn’t? I glance to the darkened hogan. I’ll give her another half hour. If she hasn’t made progress, I’ll go get reinforcements. “Come on, Momma, you can do this. Hang in there. You’re not alone.”

  Yip-yip-yip!

  The long howl of a hunting coyote sends ice-water chills down my back.

  Another answers. Closer.

  I snatch up the gun. Adrenaline makes it easy to lift. I glance to the pen. The baby is out to the knees, and I can see its nose, nestled between. The ewe stretches again and makes a noise deep in her throat.

  “You’re okay, Momma. I’ve got your back.” I click off the safety.

  The sheep are bleating and milling. They must smell the coyotes.

  Who smell the blood.

  My arms and my knees are shaky, so I sink into the chair, pull my feet up, hook my heels on the edge, and prop the gun on my knees. That stops the barrel’s shaking. The next howl is even closer. I strain my eyes for movement in the blackness, so alert that my senses feel bionic.

  I want to check the ewe, but don’t want to miss…there!

  Shadows shift, and eyes flash gold in the light.

  “Get outta here!” My hands are slick. I wipe them, one by one, on my jeans. “I’ll shoot, dammit. Shoo! Get away.”

  Four of them, close enough that I can see them slink in and out of the shadows.

  I don’t want to do this. God, please don’t make me do this.

  One darts in, almost to the fence, then away. I flip off the safety with shaking fingers. Do not hit the sheep.

  Another comes in close. The sheep squeal.

  “Scat!” I sight down the barrel and stroke the trigger. “Don’t make—”

  The largest runs for the fence, and leaps.

  My finger jerks on both triggers, and there’s a flash.

  Boom!

  The recoil slams my shoulder, but I hardly notice.

  The coyote drops, rolls in the dust, and is still.

  Reload! But I’m a ball of ice, frozen in the chair.

  The other coyotes scatter into the darkness.

  I stand and the barrel of the shotgun sways all over. I can’t hold it still. I walk to the body. There’s blood everywhere, and a gaping hole in its side. It’s dead. My knees let go and I fall in the dirt beside it, breathing heavy, the world spinning. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I reach to touch it, but stop, hand hovering.

  “Nevada!” Joseph is there, beside me. He grabs my upper arms and sets me on my feet.

  How did he get here?

  “Are you hurt?” He runs his hands over me, his breath coming in gasps.

  “It’s not me.” I force my eyes to the carnage. “It’s him.”

  He looks down, then puts his fingers under my chin and lifts my face to the light. “You had to do it.” He wipes his thumbs over my wet cheeks.

  “No. I didn’t. Why didn’t I just shoot into the air? It would have scared them away. Instead, that beautiful wild thing is dead. Because of me.”

  “Aw, come ’ere.” He wraps me in his arms. He’s got a nylon windbreaker on, but no shirt. He holds me and I try to get a grip.

  “It wasn’t his fault. He was just trying to make a living…” My chest is tight, trying to hold the sobs in. They come out in tiny hitches that I can’t stop. I want to stay in the safety of those strong arms too bad. I make myself step back and swipe my nose on my sleeve. “I’m okay. Sorry.”

  “No need to be. Life is sacred. It shouldn’t be taken easily.” He drops an arm on my shoulder. “Now, come see why you did it.” He leads me back to the light over the pen.

  The baby is born. It’s lying in the straw, covered in slime, and Momma is up and licking it.

  “Ahhhhhhhh.” It squeaks.

  And I’m crying again. Jeez, what is it with me tonight?

  It tries to stand, and Momma’s licking knocks it over. “Ahhhh.” It tries again and, this time, makes it up on wobbly stick legs.

  “That’s more than enough for you tonight.” Joseph shakes my shoulder. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”

  I can’t talk past the ball of tightness in my throat. I wipe my nose on my sleeve again.

  “You go. I’ve got this. Get some good rest.” He pushes the middle of my back to get me moving. “And Nevada.”

  I stop. I don’t want to turn and have him see my blotchy face.

  “You did what you needed to. There is nothing wrong in that. Thank you for keeping my grandmother’s sheep safe.”

  I don’t want to leave him. Now, or in a couple days.

  I climb into bed tired, but still I lie, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling, for a long time.

  Chapter 11

  Joseph

  I wake from my doze in the lawn chair in the morning. When I lift my head, my neck pops. There’s no sunrise; just a lightening of the pewter-colored cloud cover. The slow drizzle that began around 2 a.m. hasn’t let up, and the damp has seeped into my bones. There will be no Wings run this morning. I throw off the wet sleeping bag I’ve been using as a hood, stand, and stretch.

  The new lamb is nursing, and the rest of the sheep crowd the fence, looking for their breakfast. I’ll feed them. Nevada needs whatever sleep she managed to get last night. I walk the perimeter of the pen to the hay shed. I was surprised by her reaction to killing the coyote. She plays tough so convincingly, it’s easy to forget that’s not who she is.

  I heft a bale of alfalfa and throw it over my shoulder, thinking about the kiss. I need to keep my nose in my own problems, and my focus on my people, where it can do some good for others, with no harm to me. I’m trying to be a better man than that selfish, stupid kid. Though Nevada almost makes me wish I was still ignorant. But hard-won experience comes with damage. I’d best remember that.

  After a hot shower I dress, and when I bang on the door of the RV, she appears in her usual jeans and jean jacket and ratty tennis shoes, clutching her ever-present backpack, rubbing puffy eyes. Her look is unguarded, trusting, and flat-out adorable.

  “Didn’t you sleep?”

  She yawns so wide her jaw pops. “A bit.”

  “Come on. We can’t be late for work.”

  She follows me through the drizzle, climbs in the truck, props her backpack between her shoulder and the door, twists and settles, and is asleep before we pull out onto the highway. Head thrown back, her pale neck exposed and vulnerable. Her thin lips puff with shallow breaths.

  Focus, idiot. And not on her.

  I’ve made do with casual hookups, friends who also enjoy the benefits. The arrangement soothed the itch and solved the problem. I haven’t wanted more. But now, it seems shallow—a shadow of what I really want—more. More connection, more sharing…just more. I find myself consumed by milky skin and light brown eyes. It’s as if giving in to the attraction has made it gain strength, and like a magnet, it pulls at my attention, pulls her into my dreams. Last night’s was the best yet. I dreamed I was behind her on our run and seeing that tight butt ahead of me was finally too much. I grabbed her, and we ended up sweaty and naked, on the ben
ch seat of my truck. I plunged into her, over and over, and I woke up bursting, but unsatisfied.

  I shift, to make room for the rod in my pants. I’m going to have to control this. My thoughts, my wants, my dreams.

  She wakes when I pull in behind the café. “Thanks for letting me sleep.”

  “Least I could do.” I duck out into the drizzle. I’m glad to get out of the cab, away from the scent of her. Busy. I just need to stay busy.

  Nevada gets the café ready while I prep the grill and fire up the fryer. I’m getting condiments out of the walk-in fridge when she walks into it. It’s only a narrow space between the racks on the wall; not enough room for two. “What do you need?”

  “Ketchup and mustard, to refill the bottles on the tables.” She points to the gallon jars on the floor.

  I bend at the same time she does, and the sound of our heads cracking together is loud in the tiny space.

  “Ouch!” She puts a hand to her forehead.

  My anger flares with the pain. “Why don’t you just let someone else do something for a change? You cause more problems, trying to do it all.”

  Her brows draw together, and the pain in her eyes isn’t from the head bump. “Well, excuse me. I was trying to help.”

  “Well, you’re not.”

  Her head tips back. Her nostrils flare. “You know what? Screw you. I’m tired of you and your crappy moods. And don’t think I’ve forgotten that you never told me what species of bug got up your butt at Carly’s last weekend.”

  “I just—” Her palm in my face stops me.

  “I don’t want to know. I don’t care. A couple days’ practice on the bike, I’ll get my license, and I’m in the wind. You can take out your issues on somebody else.” She spins away and takes a step.

  My heart squeezes. She’s leaving? Me, or Unforgiven? She can’t leave town. Not yet. “Wait.” I put my hand on her shoulder. It’s warm under my hand.

  She shrugs it off and turns to me. “What?”

  “What is it you’re running from, Nevada? Don’t you trust me by now?”

  Before I finish, her head is shaking. “You’re too nice one second, a jerk the next. That doesn’t inspire trust, dude.” She walks out, then turns back. “But don’t take it personal. I don’t trust anybody.”

  “Now there’s a news flash,” I mutter, and bend to lift the jug of mustard. That’s okay—fighting is good. It keeps me from kissing her.

  Around ten, I’m dropping an order at the window when Carly blows in the front door, the blanket-draped baby in her arms.

  “It’s a toad-strangler out there.” She stomps mud off her cowgirl boots on the mat.

  “Carly Sue, you bring that sweet baby over here, right now,” Bonnie Carver calls from booth three.

  The baby puts her hands in Carly’s hair and pulls.

  “Ow, ow, stop that, Faith!”

  Austin’s mother is in booth three. She stands and extricates the baby’s fists from Carly’s hair. “Give her to me. I’ll make the rounds.”

  “Oh, thank you. I won’t be long.”

  “Aw, lemme see ’er,” Manny Stipple slurs from the counter.

  Moss Jones smacks his friend on the arm. “You’ll just blow fumes all over her. Give her brain damage.”

  Grandma Davis winks at Carly. “I think you’d better plan on at least twenty.”

  Carly heads for the back, and the door booms when her palms hit it. “Hi, guys. I come bearing paychecks and presents.”

  “Paychecks are always welcome.” Lorelei takes the stack of envelopes from her.

  “And this is for Nevada.” She walks to where Nevada is unloading the dishwasher. “I stopped by and picked it up for you.” She hands over a booklet with a flourish.

  “The study guide for the DMV test.” Nevada’s face falls. “Um. Thanks.”

  “Have you been practicing? The road out by Fish’s place is perfect; almost no traffic.”

  She sighs. “Wanted to, but it’s lambing, so we’ve been staying up…anyway, if it stops raining, I’m planning on doing that tonight.”

  “Well, you’d better study up, because I’ll be by one afternoon next week to take you to the DMV.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Nevada Sweet, shut up.” Carly wags a finger. “You’re going to be a biker-chick. Biker-chicks take care of each other, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.”

  “I just wanted wheels, not to join a sorority.”

  I flip a burger. “I’d think you’d fit right in with the whole biker-chick thing.” Why does she look so sad?

  * * *

  Nevada

  Thursday morning, I wake from a nightmare; the one that comes to me almost every night. I’m running in the dark, stumbling over sagebrush and rocks. There’s panting behind me; the coyote is gaining fast. I trip and fall headlong, small stones digging into my hands and knees. I flip over, to face the jaws coming at my throat…Bang! I feel the shotgun blast in my chest. The coyote falls and rolls, and even in the dark I can see the gaping hole in his side.

  I’m safe, but he’s dead, and it’s all my fault.

  I scrub my hands over my sweaty face, then roll out of bed to get ready for work.

  A half hour later, the chores are done, I’m in my running clothes, and we’re on our way. I look out the window of the truck. Odd moments during the week, I’d stop, look around, and blink—as if my eyelids are a camera shutter—trying to stop time and preserve the picture in my brain. Not of anything special. Nothing that would mean anything to anyone else: the crowded café, a sunset, the lambs.

  Joseph.

  I glance across the bench seat to the hard lines of his face, his black hair pulled into a long ponytail. He’s dressed in nylon shorts that show off the runner’s muscles in his legs. His T-shirt has the sleeves ripped off, exposing the biceps he got from chopping wood and hauling hay.

  I blink.

  “What?” He looks at me. Into me.

  I cut my eyes to the windshield. “Today, I’m keeping up with the fast wenches.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  “Hey, they haven’t exactly been nice to me.” Since that first day, the older girls have mostly been silent, but they watch me out of the corners of their eyes. Then they snicker and take off, and I haven’t been able to catch them. Until now. This will be my last day running, and damned if I’m letting them win.

  “Give them time; they’ll come around.”

  Time is exactly what I don’t have. I’ve been practicing on the motorcycle, and I’m ready to leave on Saturday. I glance down at my bulging backpack. Sooner, if I have to. It’s nice of Carly to offer to take me to the DMV next week, but I won’t be here then. I’ll just have to be careful not to get stopped by the cops.

  The truck bumps off the paved road, and within a minute, we’re pulling up beside the odd houses that make up the Native ’hood. I step from the cab, and ignoring the group of “cool girls,” I stretch, then jog in place to warm up. I’m coming in first today, and those girls can just get happy. I bounce and shake out my hands.

  “Yá’át’ééh abiní, dilwo,” Joseph greets them.

  “Morning, Fish,” says the meanest girl. “I see you brought the one who can’t run.”

  “Asdzáá, let’s just enjoy the day.” He leans on the bumper of the truck and stretches his hamstring. He always stays back with the young ones, to herd them along and make sure no one gets left behind.

  “Hmph,” she says, gives a tiny nod to her buds, then takes off, legs and arms pumping.

  I’m ready this time. I’m on their heels when they pound out of the yard to the path that winds through the scrub.

  The wind has laid down overnight; the air is cool and fresh. Bracing, I think they call it. The land rolls away, seemingly forever, and I keep my eyes on the mountains that materialize out of the dark at the edge of the horizon. The only sound is the slap of shoes on dirt, and shallow mouth breathing. I can taste the dust raised by the girls a
head of me. I won’t be eating it much longer.

  A half mile out, we start up the hill. This is where I always fall behind. I push through the pain to keep up, and lungs on fire, we top the rise. The six legs ahead of me slow to a jog, as they always do, allowing the girls to catch their breath.

  Look out, chicks, coming through. My heart gives my legs a spurt of adrenaline, and I speed up, grinning as I pass.

  “Hey!”

  “No. Friggin’. Way.”

  The pounding behind me is close at first, then recedes as I pull away. A surge of triumph fills my chest, making me lighter until I’m flying over the land. I may be a pale-faced city girl, but they can never again say I can’t run. After slinking and hiding for over a year, being on offense feels so good.

  A half mile farther and my legs are about done. The girls are gaining ground—I can hear them behind me—but I’m not giving up the lead. Let them eat my dust for a change.

  Sweat stings my eyes, and I run into the clearing on a wave of endorphins. I raise my fists like Rocky, just as the sun tips over the horizon, blinding me.

  “Iiiiiieeeeeee!” A piercing shriek hits my ears.

  Panic spurts into my bloodstream.

  A dark figure barrels out of the brush, right at me. Cisco!

  I’m dead.

  My ankle wobbles, then gives way, and I tumble to the dirt, my heart exploding in my chest.

  I skid over the gravel, sharp pinpoints of pain flaring. The edges of the world go gray. Sounds dull.

  It can’t have been more than a few seconds when color bleeds back into the world. The mean girl, Asdzáá, is standing above me, yelling at a pudgy teenage boy. “Ashkii, you fool, what do you think you’re doing?”

  I’m not dead?

  “Jeez, is she okay? I just wanted to scare you…”

  “God, you’re such a bisóodi. Get out of here.” She pushes him.

  He ambles off, head down.

  My heart is banging my ribs hard and I can’t get enough air. They’re staring down at me like I’m some zoo animal. My head throbs with an adrenaline hangover. It’s like the fear has scraped off all my skin, leaving my nerves exposed. Pressure builds in my chest. I should get up, but I’m shaking so bad I don’t think my legs will hold me.