Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1

by Sarah Anderson

  “And then Albert wasn’t feeling good,” he hurried on. He took two quick steps, so that there was nothing but the table between them. And she had the feeling that if she tried to bolt, he’d grab her. “He needed me.”

  “Oh, he needed you? Or he needed a medical professional? Why didn’t you bring him in if he was so damn sick? No—” she cut him off with a wave of her hand, “—don’t tell me. I couldn’t do anything for him. It’s not like I know anything about curing people. It’s not like I’m a trained professional who’s dedicated the last twelve years of my life to helping people. It’s not like you respect me a damn bit.”

  “That’s not true,” he shot back, and for the first time in a long time, she saw the wolf in him, ready to attack.

  She knew how to outflank him now. She wasn’t scared of the wolf. “The hell it isn’t. If you respected me even just a little, you’d let me do my job, Jonathan. You’d tell me what’s in those bags that’s so damned important. You’d stop driving me crazy.”

  He flinched at his name, but it didn’t last. Within a second, he had a cold stare fixed on her, and his face was unreadable. “No one else even knows about those bags.” His voice was low and serious, but the edge made him sound dangerous. And most certainly not in the good way. “No one else knows that Nobody came looking for me. No one else thinks that maybe it’s not the flu. No one else, Madeline. Just you.”

  “So what is it?” The shout rang out against the cinderblocks until the echo beat her upside the head.

  His jaw flexed, and then it was his turn to spin away from her and stomp off. He got to the waiting room before he stopped. His whole body slumped forward, and suddenly he looked tired. She wondered how much sleep he’d gotten in the last almost five days. “I don’t know. That’s why I need you.”

  Right back to where they started.

  “I need it tested. And no one will give a dirt-poor red man the time of day. I need a medical professional. I need you.”

  Oh, was he trying to play the pity card? “Clarence is a medical professional.”

  “Clarence isn’t you. I trust you.”

  There was that heart-stomach collision again. Thank God, lunch had been a long time ago. Otherwise she’d be in danger of throwing up in front of Rebel, and she’d rather have her eyeballs gouged out with a dull spoon. “Not enough to bring Albert to see me. Not enough to even tell me what’s wrong with Albert.”

  “He doesn’t want you to worry.”

  “Go to hell.” Right back where they started. The clinic wasn’t the only thing they were doing laps around.

  The nausea built. Sleeping with Rebel was quickly becoming the biggest mistake she’d almost made in her entire life, because it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that kissing him had been like being kissed for the very first time after just reading textbook definitions of the act. It didn’t matter that he’d reduced her to a quivering mass of jelly with his jeans on. It didn’t matter that he thought she was beautiful—more beautiful with her hair all crazy. It didn’t matter if he said her name like a prayer, and it didn’t matter one little bit that he was a whole lot of wild and just a smidge crazy, and that for one blind afternoon, she’d had fun, real fun. With him.

  She wondered what Darrin was doing tonight. Probably watching Charlie Rose or the Military Channel as he drank a martini and ate a microwave dinner. Safe. Peaceful. Well-paid. Comfortable.

  Dull, the voice in the back of her head whispered. It was the same voice that forced her eyes to look up and see Rebel staring at her, the pain plain on his face. Deadly dull.

  “I respect you more than any woman I’ve ever met.”

  Oh, hell, she thought as another wave of nausea battered her stomach. His voice was quivering. He was on the verge of tears.

  “I’ve never met a woman like you before. You came here willingly, you stay here willingly. This is a hard life, harder when you’ve given up what you did. But you’re still here.”

  Darrin had never even tried to compliment her. Darrin had never tried to seduce her. And she sincerely doubted that Darrin had ever really trusted her. He respected the family name, but her? She couldn’t be sure.

  She caught herself. This was not an either/or situation. No way was she going to let something like a sincere compliment break her, not before she broke him first. “I keep my promises. I promised my parents I’d do a little good in this world. I promised my profession to do no harm. I promised the tribal government I’d stay for two years. But I didn’t promise you anything, Rebel. Not a damn thing.”

  He stared at her a while longer. A long while longer. And then she realized he wasn’t moving. No hips swaying, no heel tapping, no fingers drumming. Nothing.

  “Rebel?”

  Nothing.

  “I had to learn how to see them,” he’d said in the river. “It took a lot of practice. I have to be patient and completely still.”

  She didn’t know patient, but she could see the still. It was like watching a life-sized wax statue of the man. He didn’t blink. She wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

  Breathing was important. Even if she never wanted to see him again, she thought it would be okay if he kept breathing. Independent of her involvement, of course. She edged closer. “Rebel?” And still nothing.

  The wisp of panic did little to enhance the nausea as the second hand made a slow round of the clock. Did the man just slip into trances, all willy-nilly? About what? About her? She wasn’t even an Indian, for God’s sake. He looked more like he was having a petite mal seizure. He was just frozen.

  And then, shaking his head, he crumpled back into the seat like so much dead weight.

  “Rebel!” And she was practically vaulting over the table to get to him. Kneeling, she pressed one hand to his forehead and the other to his jugular. His pulse was racing and a thin sheen of sweat coated his head. “Stay with me, Rebel,” she pleaded. “Please.”

  That second hand couldn’t move much slower, but it was less than a minute before he relaxed under her hands. “It’ll pass,” he finally muttered, slumping into her arms. “It always does.”

  She didn’t want to hold him, didn’t want to comfort him, but she was unpleasantly relieved that he was considerably less freaked out by the whole thing that she was. She should be hoping he’d be miserable, hoping he’d really suffered for making her so crazy, but instead she was just glad to see a weak version of his know-it-all smile.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said, but she must have scowled at him, because he shot her a sheepish look and added, “I think.”

  “You think? I thought...” Hell, she didn’t know what to think right about now. But having a narcoleptic-style vision thing wasn’t something she could wrap her mind around.

  “Yeah. Me too.” He nodded into her neck and draped his arms around her shoulders. “Just give me a minute.”

  She gave him two before she broke the silence—and the hold he had on her. “What happened?” She pushed him back a little so she could look at his eyes, which wasn’t quite enough to get his hands off her shoulders. Just steadying him, she thought as she studied him. His pupils were completely dilated, but his pulse seemed to be settling back into a steady, normal rhythm. It’ll pass, indeed.

  “It’s the cattle,” he said. No hesitation, no doubt. “I saw the sick cattle.”

  “What sick cattle?”

  “The ones with smallpox.”

  “What, institutionalized eradication?” He nodded, which made his eyes flutter. Dizzy? “What does that have to do with—”

  “The samples. They’re from a cattle-processing facility owned by a rancher on the edge of the rez.” Taking a deep breath, he ran a knuckle down her face. “The rancher that shot Nobody last month.”

  “What? Rebel, I don’t understand.”

  “Nobody was looking for some of his horses,” he explained, like that made any sense.

  Sure, she thought, checking his pulse again. Nobody has horses.

 
“And he thought he saw some ranchers slaughtering some cattle in the open field. That’s not normal, not for beef. But when he got closer to try and see what they were doing, he got shot.”

  “Okay...” His pulse was steady and strong. He was telling the truth. He was finally telling her the truth. Or at least he thought he was—and wasn’t that the same thing? “Someone tried to kill him to keep him from finding out what they were doing?”

  “That’s what we thought. So he went back. And Saturday night, he saw they were getting ready to do it again. So he came and got me.”

  What was he talking about—industrial espionage? She was finding out what the hell was going on, and she still had no idea. “And this has what, again, to do with your little vision spasm?”

  “Understand the past, understand the future.”

  Her eyes rolled all by themselves. “Enough with the medicine-man crap, Rebel. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s the cattle. That rancher...” He sighed, then leaned forward and kissed her head. “If I tell you, you lose all plausible deniability.”

  So Albert wasn’t the only one who didn’t want her to worry. Her heart gave her stomach a firm shove. “I can lie.”

  That got a smile out of him. “Not to me, you can’t.”

  She ignored the unsettling implication. “Rebel, you can trust me.” He’d said so himself, after all.

  “That rancher is paid by the government to provide beef to the tribe.”

  That couldn’t be it. Maybe hundreds of years ago, sheer racism led to institutionalized eradication. But businessmen today didn’t just kill off paying customers. “And?”

  “He owns the land next to the White Sandy. The tribe controls the river, and we won’t let him use it for irrigating or anything. He wants our land. For the water rights. If enough people get sick, the tribal council might have to sell the water rights, just to stay afloat.”

  “Are you sure?” Because that couldn’t be it. This was the twenty-first century, for God’s sake. No one just tried to take out a whole people anymore.

  He shook his head in defeat. “No. I don’t have any proof beyond what’s in those bags. I think he’s doing something that contaminates the beef, and the beef is making the people sick. I don’t think it’s the flu. But I don’t know what else it could be. I don’t even know if I’m right.”

  “And you need me to find out.”

  He kissed her again, this time on the cheek. “I need you, Madeline.” His voice was warm and close to her ear. “I’ve always needed you.”

  Mush. Her brain went to mush. She knew she was supposed to be mad—furious—with him. She was supposed to kick him out of here, forbid him from darkening her door ever again, and most certainly to stop touching her. But his lips pressed into the sensitive skin just below her earlobe, and she shuddered.

  “You’re doing it again,” she managed to murmur. “Changing the subject.”

  His lips didn’t leave her skin as he spoke. “Have you had dinner?”

  “Excuse me?” Talk about changing the subject.

  “After we’re—” this time, his teeth scraped against her skin, “—done here, I’ll take you to see Albert. He’s making dinner for us. And you can see for yourself that he’s okay. If you don’t mind making house calls, that is.”

  Was there anything softer than mush? Because that was what her brain was right now. Her head was spinning. What else did they have to do? Did he have supplies at the ready? Maybe it hadn’t been a case of heat stroke. Maybe this was just how he made her feel, because she was light-headed and confused and in real danger of swooning.

  Baggies. House calls. Albert. Dinner. He would take her to see Albert.

  Damn it all. She had a job to do.

  Half an hour later, Rebel let Blue Eye keep an easy lope as Madeline followed in her Jeep. They were cruising at about ten miles an hour on the dirt road that lead back to Albert’s house. She was leaning out the window, trying to egg Blue Eye on faster and faster as she beamed that high-watt smile at him, like she couldn’t believe her eyes. Dinner was waiting for them—a real dinner, complete with ripe strawberries, the season’s first green beans and a fresh-baked chocolate cake. Albert’s favorite.

  He didn’t want to go faster. Faster would mean sooner. The sooner they got there, the sooner she’d see everything. And all he could think was, this was not a good idea.

  This is not a good idea, he thought as he piloted the Cadillac off Highway 90 and past the last real town not on the rez. He looked over to Anna, curled up in the passenger seat of her car—hers, not theirs—although she let him drive it. Her brown eyes were wide with a child-like excitement.

  This is not a good idea.

  “I’ve always wanted to see where you grew up, Jonathan.” Her words came out in that languid fashion that he thought was the most cultured way of talking that existed. He’d tried so hard to copy her southwestern accent, to erase the clipped vowels that marked him as an outsider. But he hadn’t been able to do it. He still sounded like an Indian. “To think....” her words trailed off as her eyes got all shiny, “...I’ll finally get to meet your family. They must be so proud of you.”

  This is not a good idea. He swallowed and tried to work his practiced smile. “Yeah. Proud.” Proud that he hadn’t been home to see any of them in six years. Proud that he’d only called on Albert’s birthday, and even then, he’d kept it short. Proud that he’d tried not to be one of them, one of those Indians. “Very proud.”

  He couldn’t even convince himself. This is a disaster in the making.

  As he hit the first of many gravel roads, he snuck another look at his wife, the love of his life. She loved him. She told him so every morning when she left to work at the gallery and every night when she slipped between the sheets and he slipped between her legs. She was beautiful, delicate and refined. And she adored him. They were very happy together.

  It wasn’t too late. He could turn the car around and take her to a hotel and have one more night when she thought he was the most perfect man who ever existed.

  But he knew that was delaying the inevitable. And the inevitable was her meeting his family. To see where he grew up. To find out what he’d been before he left South Dakota.

  This is not a good idea.

  “I can’t wait to meet your brother,” she gushed, brushing the short hair out of his eyes for him. “I promised Cynthia I’d bring her back a picture. She’s got such a crush on you, you know.”

  He knew. Anna was never shy about letting him—anyone—know that other women wanted what she had. Especially her older sister, Cynthia. Clearly, Anna was already planning the next wedding. “Jesse and I don’t look that much alike.” Shit. His accent was already getting harder to understand. Must be something in the air.

  “Come on,” she scoffed, digging around in her purse. “You’re a Native American, he’s a Native American. I brought a picture of Cynthia, just in case.” And she thrust the snapshot of his sister-in-law in a bikini before his eyes.

  You all look alike to me. That’s what she really meant, like using the P.C. Native American somehow balanced out the subconscious racism. They were all alike.

  This was the worst idea he’d ever had. But he had to go home. He couldn’t breathe anymore in New Mexico, couldn’t think, couldn’t even create anymore. He had to come home. He just had to.

  And Anna had insisted that she come with him.

  She kept chatting about anything and everything—how excited she was to meet the rest of his family, how beautiful the sky was here, how tired she was of sitting in this car after three days on the road. But by the time they passed a small cluster of government-provided trailers, the Quik-E Mart with two drunks trying to brawl in the parking lot and the clinic where Albert had gotten a job to help cover the college bills, her silence was louder than the wheels crushing dirt.

  This is about to get ugly.

  They turned down the last road. Albert’s house—which was being generous
—stood at the end, looking like it was being propped up by toothpicks. “You grew up...here?” She sort of squeaked out the last word, like he’d taken a pair of needle-nosed pliers and made straight for her fingernails.

  He cringed. The end. The thought popped unbidden into his head. The end. “Yes.” He made damn sure he pronounced it right too.

  He wanted to reassure her that this wasn’t who he really was. He wasn’t the kind of person who lived here, who even knew people who lived here. But that wasn’t the truth. And he couldn’t bear to live another lie.

  Oscar was outside, standing in front of a barrel and feeding in trash. And for every piece he fed to the fire, he took a swig out of a bottle in a paper bag. When the Cadillac came to a halt, Oscar shook his head, like he couldn’t believe his eyes. The front door banged open, and Albert came out, his arms full of old paper. He didn’t have on a shirt, and his pants were held up with a length of twine.

  Two things happened at the same time. Rebel’s gut unclenched, flooding him with relief from a pain he had only dimly been aware of. He’d known he needed to be here, needed to see his people again, but he hadn’t realized just how deep the need had run. The reaction was immediate and physical. He could breathe again, for the first time in six years. He could finally breathe free.

  And Anna gasped in horror.

  “My God,” she said, patting him on the shoulder like he was a lap dog, not a husband. He turned to look at her, knowing it was futile but refusing to believe it. Her lips were curled back in disgust, like she’d stepped in dog shit. And then her eyes swiveled over to him. The adoration was gone. Instead, she looked scared. Terrified. “I just had no idea. You poor thing.”

  You poor thing.

  She’d loved Jonathan Runs Fast, but he’d been just an idea, an abstract idea so well rendered that it had been a trompe l’oeil, an illusion mistaken for reality. She’d loved an idea named Jonathan.

  She didn’t love a thing—especially a poor thing like him.

  And she never would.