Home at Chestnut Creek

by Laura Drake

  The only excuse I have is that I didn’t know. I didn’t know I’d come to this crazy town and find people. My people. Joseph says that everyone has a tribe, and I guess that’s true, because I found mine.

  But I can’t stay here. I couldn’t save you, but hopefully I can save them.

  I am sorry, Ma.

  Nevada

  * * *

  Nevada

  It’s early when I give up trying to sleep. The coyote dream again. It’s full of darkness, and blood. Not mine—the blood of people I care about.

  I slept in my clothes, so all I have to put on is my shoes. I cleaned the trailer last night and I’m packed. All that’s left to do is feed the sheep, grab my backpack, walk the motorcycle to the road to start it. It’d be easier if I could leave without saying good-bye to Little Dude a nd his tribe, but it’s not fair that he misses breakfast because I’m sad and weak.

  I step out into a warm breeze, making the wind chimes dance. Their sound is off somehow—a melancholy jangle that grates my nerves. I glance at the hogan. It’s dark. I pray it stays that way. Walking into the shed, I pull in a deep breath of the smell of dusty hay and animals, trying to imprint the smell onto my memory. I schlep the bale to the pen, put it down, and open the gate. The sheep swarm me, bumping my knees, singing their bahhhhh song. The new lambs are growing fast. Joseph says he’s going to shear the flock next weekend. I’d love to see what they look like with buzzcuts. I cut the twine, cram it and the jackknife in the pocket of my jeans, then shake out the flakes.

  They all push forward to eat, except Little Dude, who head-butts my leg. It hurts. He’s getting nubs of horns. I squat down to rub his head. “Now I’m trusting you to watch out for your tribe, you hear? You’re old enough now.” My damned voice wobbles. “And watch out for Joseph, too. Give him lots of head-butts, okay? He’s gonna need them, because…well, just do it, okay?”

  He sniffs me, and I put my arms around his neck and bury my face in his fleece. “I love you, Little Dude.” Funny how it’s easier to say things to an animal than to people. I stand, wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my jean jacket, and walk out without looking back.

  The nagging hum of danger I felt in my sleep last night amps, rattling down my nerves, speeding my feet to the bike in the shed. Leaving today is better than tomorrow, but yesterday would have been even better. Cisco is coming; I feel him like a gathering storm on the horizon. I feel him in me.

  I lift the helmet from the seat and settle it on my head. I left money and a note for Carly on the table in the trailer. I wanted to write a note to Joseph—I started one enough times to fill the trash can under the sink—but I ended up just writing Sorry and signing my name.

  Grabbing the handlebars, I push up the kickstand and roll the bike out of the garage. It’s heavy and awkward, but I can’t risk waking him by starting it. When I outdistance the safety light and my eyes adjust, it’s easy to see the tire tracks in the sandy soil.

  I know it’s stupid, but I hold my breath the whole way by the hogan. Once past it, I feel tingling at the back of my neck, like someone’s watching, but I know it’s just my guilty conscience. I’ve never seen anything good coming from saying good-bye. I can’t say any of the things I’d like to say to him, and what I can say, I said last night.

  That last hill to the road looks impossible. I get a running start, but momentum peters out before the top. Ugh! I clamp on the brake, and almost lose my balance and go over. That would be bad. I stand, panting, waiting for my heart to stop trying to bang its way out of my chest. The last three feet are going to be the worst.

  I take a deep breath, count to three, and push, making it two steps before I have to brake again. My arms are shaking, but thanks to running, my legs are strong. One—two—three…push. One—two—three…puuush.

  Finally, there’s only the lip of the asphalt to overcome, and with one more heave, I’m standing in the empty road. While I catch my breath, I look back toward Unforgiven, then right, to the dark ribbon of road that’s going to take me to whatever’s next. I may not know where the name of the town came from, but I’ll carry the name with me: Unforgiven. People here have been nice, when I’ve been mean. They’ve thought the best of me, when I didn’t deserve it. One loved me, even though I didn’t know how to handle that. Now I know what the town name should be: Forgiven.

  I throw my leg over the bike, sadness burning a hole through me. Good-bye…Good-bye…

  A few hundred yards behind me headlights flip on, hitting me like a spotlighted deer. I freeze. A high-performance engine growls to life, and the car rolls forward.

  Even if I were naive enough to believe in coincidence, the loathing skittering over my skin on spider feet would make it a lie. That’s Cisco, or his minions, in that car. Or both.

  I flip the key, hit the starter, and crank the throttle.

  Easy on the clutch. You stall it, you’re dead.

  Despite my brain screaming, Go, I let out the clutch, slow and easy. The engine wallows, but when I back off the throttle a bit, the bike shoots forward.

  Heart redlining, I’m flying down the highway. If an animal decides to cross the road now, it’s all over. When I risk a glance in the mirror, my heart almost stops. The black caddy is ten feet off my taillight.

  I eye the edge of the road. The bike can go where he can’t…but can I keep it up in the dirt? A flick to the rearview mirror tells me I have no choice. Before I can chicken out, I cut the throttle and lean. I bump off the road, and the back tire squirms in the gravel. I’m in and out of the bar ditch before I have time to think.

  Too fast, too fast, too fast!

  I cut the power, but I’m still too fast, slamming over brush and rocks, the headlight bouncing crazily like in a slasher movie.

  Up on the road, brakes squeal. This might slow Cisco down, but I know better than to think it’ll stop him.

  Rock! Before I can swerve, I hit it. The bike tips, the wheels slide out, and I’m down, rolling in the dirt. The bike’s engine dies, and in the silence, I try to gather my scattered chickens.

  Ping!

  Dirt flies a foot from my face. I’m on my feet and running before I fully comprehend—that was a bullet!

  Think, think, think.

  Thank God dawn isn’t far away; I can see to avoid rocks, brush, and holes. Pretty sure I can outrun a fat drug dealer. Not his bullets, though.

  I’m breathing harder than I ever did on a Wings run. Wait…that wind-twisted tree. I know that tree. My brain streams info too fast to make sense of it. What?

  The cave. The cave where Joseph brought me before it rained. It’s near here. I’m sure of it. The path to it is crazy-steep, but if I can stay far enough ahead to get down it, at least I’ll have the element of surprise, in case he makes it around that last corner. I’ll push him off. My gut clenches at the picture, but I have no choice.

  My foot turns in a hole and I’m down again, skidding on my hands and knees. Gravel bites into my palms, but I’m up and running again.

  There’s another pop from behind, and dust kicks up ahead of me.

  Terror gives me another spurt of adrenaline, but my legs are responding slower. I’m tiring.

  The first rays of the sun hit the mountains, lighting them up. I skid to a stop. The edge of the cliff is ten feet ahead. His thudding footsteps get louder, but I make myself walk to the edge and look one way, then the other. Where is that damned path? Did I dream the whole thing? I know it was here some—

  “The junkie’s daughter. Finally.”

  At the wheezing voice, I turn to face the man from my nightmares.

  Chapter 17

  Joseph

  Something wakes me from an uneasy sleep. All’s quiet, but there’s an echo of sound in my brain. What was it? There’s a breeze blowing in the open window. Dawn is breaking. I toss off the covers and pull on a pair of running shorts. Something’s wrong. Something besides the emotional hangover from last night. While tying my shoes, I glance at the clock. I get a jolt that
stills my fingers.

  Grandmother’s hair comb is sitting on the nightstand. It’s been in a drawer since the day I brought it home. I thought to give it to my bride one day.

  The top drawer of the dresser is open. I pick it up and get a shock of static. “Shí másání?”

  If I hadn’t been listening hard, I’d have missed the sound of brakes squealing in the distance.

  Nevada.

  I’m down the ladder and out the door in seconds. The truck is where I left it; the yard is empty. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But still, my feet carry me to the trailer at a run. “Nevada?” I hammer on the door, but deep in my gut I already know—the trailer is empty.

  The knob turns in my hand and I step into the smell of cleaning products. Everything is neat, except there’s a stack of cash on the table and two notes I don’t stop to read. I’m running for the shed, awareness spreading like a bruise in my brain. She couldn’t actually believe that I bought her flimsy attempt to push me away last night, could she?

  The answer is in the shed that holds only hay.

  She’s in trouble. I feel it in the electricity shooting down my nerves. In the voice, yelling in my brain, Hurry! I know it like I know that it wasn’t me that left the comb on the nightstand.

  I stop at the house only long enough to grab the shotgun, praying to the Gods I’m not wasting valuable time by doing it. I lay the gun on the floorboard of the truck, put the key in, and say one more prayer before turning the key. It starts right up. I glance up at the cloudless sky. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

  I take the dirt track to the road too fast, and dust roils in the windows. Before I pull onto the road, I look left. If she’s leaving, she wouldn’t go back through town. That would hurt too bad. I turn right, and when I slam my right foot down, the old gal actually manages to patch out.

  I’m barely up to speed when I hit the brakes. A black Caddy sits at the end of a long trail of rubber, half on, half off the road, nose pointing to the desert. The edges of my vision go charcoal gray, and my gut is full of bees. This has to do with Nevada, and it’s bad, bad news.

  I grab the shotgun, turn off the key, and am out of the truck before the engine dies. I follow the motorcycle’s tire tracks for five hundred feet, and when I find it on its side in the dirt, the bees in my gut start stinging. Hurry! Scanning the ground, I find two sets of tracks, heading toward the bluff.

  The cave. Smart girl. I blank out the vision of her slipping on the trail, flip off the safety on the shotgun, and follow the tracks at a run.

  * * *

  Nevada

  There! The edge of the path I’d been too panicked to see a minute ago. I take a running step toward it.

  “I wouldn’t.”

  I turn. Cisco raises the gun.

  My feet stutter to a stop, and my heart about follows suit. Of course he has a gun. I raise my hands and use the only weapon I have: my mouth. “What’d’ya know? If it isn’t the pathetic little man who hides behind minions and bodyguards. The one who can’t manage to catch a mouthy little chica.”

  “Do you see bodyguards?” He spreads his arms, then trains the gun on me again. “And it seems to me you’re caught.” He smiles and waves the gun. “Let’s go. There’s a rich man waiting for you in Albuquerque.”

  I’m relieved for the tenth of a second it takes to process that death would be preferable to what he has planned. Then my guts flash-freeze to a twisted tunnel of ice. I flick a glance to the path—not an option. It’s too steep to take at a run, and all he’d have to do is step to the edge and shoot. I’ve got to come up with a plan B. I need to buy some time. “I haven’t been in Houston in a while. What’s the word on the street? That a girl outsmarted Mr. Big Man of the cartel?” Now, if I can piss him off bad enough to get mad, it might buy me some time. “They must be laughing pretty hard, huh? I’ll bet your bosses don’t—”

  He runs at me and shoves the gun under my chin. “Shut. Your. Mouth.”

  He forces my head back until I’m looking up at the sky. Though my body is stiff with panic, at least he’s closer, which is good when your only weapon is a jackknife. All I need is a little distraction…

  “Move. I’ve wasted enough time on you.”

  He eases the gun off me, but now it’s aimed at my back. We’re only a step or two from the edge, but he’s not directly behind me. I don’t think I can…

  “Hey!” Joseph runs up, shotgun in his right hand.

  “No, stop.” My voice is high and crackling with fear.

  Cisco swings the gun to Joseph. “You dumb broad. You’re supposed to call in the cavalry, not the Indians.”

  “U.S. Army, 1st Cavalry Division, Third Platoon.” Joseph raises the shotgun to his shoulder and trains it on Cisco. “Let her go.”

  I put my hands out, as if I could push Joseph away.

  Cisco steps behind me and a hand clamps onto my shoulder. Before I can move, the gun’s muzzle is a cold circle at my temple. “You don’t want her dead, put down the escopeta. We’re walking out of here.”

  Joseph sights down the barrel. “Not happening. See, I told her I’d never leave, and I never break a promise.”

  “Do it, Joseph.” I put all the pleading I have into my voice, and my gaze, and pray that he listens. “I’ll go with him. It’ll be okay.”

  “You know I’m not doing that.”

  Yeah, I knew, but I hoped. This is a standoff, and it’s up to me to fix it. Think, Nevada, think!

  “Come on, chica. Walk. He’s not going to take a chance of spraying you with buckshot.”

  Damned jeans, he’ll shoot before I can get to the knife. “I’m sorry, Joseph. I never meant for this to—” I take one step and let my knees buckle, kicking out like a mule as I fall.

  There’s a crack as my foot connects with Cisco’s kneecap. I feel the leg give way, bending a way a leg can’t.

  He bellows in pain, and the momentum pushes him back a step.

  I crouch and turn. The gun goes off an inch from my ear—the bang a physical hit, concussing the inside of my skull. I fall on my back in the dirt and all the air whooshes out of my lungs. There’s a blinding flash of pain when my teeth slam down on my tongue.

  On one leg, Cisco wobbles at the ledge, pinwheeling his arms, trying to catch his balance.

  His heel teeters at the crumbling edge, his mouth opens in an O of horror. He leans…and leans…and he’s gone.

  My brain strips gears, trying to process what my eyes just saw.

  “Nevada!” Joseph is here, kneeling beside me in the dirt, his hands running over me. “Are you hit? Talk to me!”

  Warm hands. Hands I never expected to touch me again. I’m so grateful, but I’m too busy trying to suck air to push words out.

  “You’re bleeding!” His hands cup my cheeks.

  “Back-wheeze-up-wheeze-off me.” I slap at him until I have enough room to roll over. A high-pitched tuning fork sound zings through my head. I spit blood into the dirt, so grateful it’s my blood. My lungs decide to unlock, and I pull in air, each gulp deeper than the last, until the black dots stop dancing at the edge of my vision.

  “Please. Talk to me.” The fear in his tight words bring me back to the present.

  “Ah hit my hongue.” I sit up, and glance at the empty edge of the world.

  He stands, pulls me to my feet, and into his arms. He holds me like I’m made of glass. “I thought I was going to lose you. I have never felt as powerless…” When he pulls my head to his shoulder, my blood smears over his white T-shirt. Chest heaving, he holds me for a few seconds before pushing me away, to look down into my face. “You have done some stupid things since I’ve known you, but this is…”

  “Dumb to the third power?” I spit blood. Damn, that hurts.

  “Worse, but that’ll have to do for now.”

  I step to the edge of the cliff, even though I don’t want to. If I kill a being, I have to take responsibility. Even if it’s a bloodsucking leech who deserved it. Cisco is, thankfully, f
acedown, a leg and an arm bent the wrong way. He’s not moving. My guts heave, and I swallow bile. A surprise sob hiccups up from my chest. My perspective tilts, and I clutch Joseph’s arm, and sink back to the ground.

  He settles beside me. “Are you going to be okay about this?” He tips his head to the mess at the bottom of the cliff.

  He knows me; I’m the one who cried over killing a coyote. A human is dead, and I’m responsible. Maybe it’ll hit me later, but right now, all I feel is black-hole empty. “I felt worse about the coyote.”

  He touches his head to mine and gives me a one-armed hug. “I won’t remind you later that you’re crying.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay.” He stares out at the mountains, looking like one of those guys carved in rock.

  “You came.” My voice comes out small, like a little girl’s.

  “I will always come for you. Always.” He turns and looks down at me. “The question is, are you done running? I just need to know if I have to put alarms on the door or tie you to the bed.”

  That’s not funny. It must be hysterics that make a laugh push up from my chest. Or relief. “I gotta tell you, I’ll try anything once, but I don’t think I’m into bondage.”

  His look-through-me stare dries up the hilarity.

  “You want me to stay? Even now? Even after all this?”

  “I—”

  “Because I’m talking for good. You don’t get to come back later and tell me you can’t put up with me.” I drop my chin, so I can’t read his eyes. “’Cuz I know I’m a pain. I’m rude, I swear, and I don’t know hardly anything…” I’m trying to talk past the ball in my throat.

  He waits, like he always waits for me.

  “And I wear rude T-shirts!” I’m full-out bawling now, and I can’t stop it any more than I could stop this day from happening.

  His arms come around me and he rocks me.