Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1

by Sarah Anderson

  “Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not here.”

  On command, part of the wall separated from the shadows on the west side of the building and Nobody stepped into the sun.

  Madeline gasped a little but kept her composure. She just took it all in stride, he thought again, and his gut ached a little more. He’d never find another woman like her.

  “Morning, Nobody.”

  Nobody tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

  Madeline looked at him like he was a teenager and curfew had been about twelve hours ago. “Did you have a quiet night?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She let go a weighty breath. She hadn’t seemed the least bit worried about potential vandals last night, but she still seemed relieved. “Did you write a list of symptoms like I asked?”

  Nobody fished something the color of a paper bag out of his back pocket. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, handing it over.

  “A paper bag?”

  Rebel bit back the grin as Madeline’s scowl deepened. Later, he’d apologize to Nobody too. Hell, at the rate he was going, he was going to owe the whole tribe an apology for unleashing the mad doctor on them.

  “All I had, ma’am,” Nobody replied, managing to look sheepish about it. Then his head snapped up and he stared off down the road. “How long will it take?” he asked as he began to edge back into the shadows.

  “Four to six weeks,” she replied, looking a little concerned. “Where are you going?”

  “Someone’s coming,” was the only answer she got before he was gone.

  Seconds later, Clarence’s truck rattled around the corner. “Nobody was never here,” Rebel whispered as he too took a step away from her. Madeline stiffened at the motion.

  Which was ridiculous, after all. They’d left together last night, and were standing here, together, at the clinic before eight in the morning. A man would have to be an idiot not to put one and one together, and Clarence was no idiot.

  But all Rebel could think was that this wasn’t going to last, because she couldn’t give up a house and he couldn’t give up the stars, and when it ended—which, at the rate he was screwing it up, was going to be sooner rather than later—he wanted her to be able to hold her head high.

  He was going to hurt her, and she was going to take a chunk out of him that he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back, all because he hadn’t been able to swear her off. He would get what he deserved.

  “Morning, Doc. Morning, Rebel,” Clarence said, his eyes shifting between the two of them. He must have caught a whiff of Madeline’s cold shoulder, because he made straight for the clinic. “I’ll, uh, just get that coffee going.”

  Rebel heard her make a guttural noise that sounded a hell of a lot like she was growling. So much for holding her head high, he thought as she swung those cold shoulders and colder eyes to him.

  “You’re still here.” She sounded pissed and confused, but not even a little bit happy. “Is there something else you wanted?”

  What he wanted was for the world to go back to the way it had been before she’d come here and taken everything he’d worked so hard to become and tossed it all on its ear. What he wanted was to be beholden to no one and nothing, to come and go as he saw fit.

  And what he wanted was another night in her arms, to kiss that perma-scowl away from her face and to plunge into her body again and again until she screamed his name and drained him of everything he ever had to give.

  And, more than anything, he wanted those two things to be the same thing. But they weren’t and would never be, and the sooner they both saw that, the better off they’d be.

  Then he remembered the filing cabinets. If he helped her get her filing cabinets, that would count for something, right? “Did you want me to go with you to get some filing cabinets this weekend?”

  She stared at him like he’d asked her how she liked Tupperware. He saw her swallow once, then again as her eyes narrowed into fine slits. Here it comes. And he had it coming.

  “You do what you want. I know you always do.”

  And she left him alone in the middle of the parking lot.

  Chapter Twelve

  Madeline let her hair stay curly, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. She could come up with a couple of perfectly good reasons if she thought about it hard enough. Getting out the door was a hell of a lot easier when she didn’t have to fry her hair one lock at a time. Everyone had already seen it, and showing up with straight hair would probably set more tongues wagging.

  She could look in a mirror now and not shudder at the sight of her mop. It was kind of pretty, she had to admit, especially after she started wrapping each curl around her finger to set it, as per Mellie’s long-distance instructions. She liked it. After all these years, she finally liked her own hair.

  But, solid as each of those reasons were, they weren’t the reason. He was the reason, damn it. She just couldn’t figure out if she was hoping to woo Rebel back with it, or torture him some more by letting him see and not touch.

  Because he was never going to touch again. Period, end of sentence.

  God, what had she done? Screwed up, that’s what. She’d screwed up in a highly old-fashioned kind of way, losing her head and a whole lot more to a smooth-talking, untamed bad boy. Plus, she’d slept with a—well, he wasn’t exactly a patient, but he paid the bills. More like a client. She’d slept with a client, and had put the entire financial health of the clinic on the line. If Rebel stopped paying everyone’s bills, the clinic would go under faster than the Titanic. She only had so much money to work with, and her selfish wants and needs had put the clinic and the wellbeing of the entire damn reservation in danger of sinking.

  And for what? For a one-night stand? So what if one night with Rebel had been mind-bogglingly good? So what if she was suddenly unsure if she could live without that kind of personal attention, that kind of shattering release? So what if she felt whole again? So what? He’d made it perfectly clear how he felt the morning after. Hey, thanks, she was a swell kid, maybe he’d call her some time. A one-time deal. It wouldn’t happen again, and she was all the more fool for even having believed it might. He’d sworn off women. He’d said so himself.

  Against her will, she still tingled at the thought of it happening at all.

  A week passed. A long week. A week that had her sitting on her porch at sundown, drinking wine until the sky went as dark as she felt.

  And, of course, Rebel hadn’t shown up during the week. She’d hoped—against her will—that he would show up on Thursday to mop the floors and that she might be able to figure out what she’d done wrong so she could try to fix it, but no. Instead, Nobody Bodine had just appeared in the waiting room and began to empty the trashcans without a word. Her blood had boiled. Rebel wouldn’t even face her. He sent his lackey instead.

  So she’d driven herself to Rapid City and coldly flirted with the office-supply stock manager until he’d loaded the cabinets for her. Strangely enough, Nobody had been waiting in the shadows for her Monday morning and had gotten both of them out of the trunk and unpacked in the corner of the waiting room Tara had cleaned out before Clarence showed up.

  She wanted to be mad at the big, silent man, but there was little good in that. It wasn’t Nobody’s fault Rebel was an asshole, and besides, Madeline was still a little afraid of him. So they kept their conversations to pleases and thank yous and yes, ma’ams, and the world kept on turning. People still got sick, the sun rose and set, and she ran out of iodine again.

  Her world kept right on turning.

  Without Rebel in it.

  Bambambam.

  Madeline shot straight up in bed, her heart pounding. What the hell?

  Bambambam.

  Someone was pounding on her door at—she rolled over and looked at her clock. 12:47 in the morning? Someone was pounding on her door at 12:47?

  By the third round of pounding, she was up and out of bed, shrugging into her summer-weight bathrobe as she dug around the
island drawer for a knife. Just in case.

  “Who is it?”

  “Madeline?” the muffled voice shouted. “It’s me. Open up!”

  Me? Me who? Grabbing the biggest knife she could find, she attempted to shake the last of the cobwebs from her head and tried to place the voice. For a heart-stopping second, she was certain that Darrin had shown up, driven all night to beg and plead for her to come with him, come home back to Ohio, back where she belonged.

  The thought terrified her.

  Knife at the ready, she opened the door a crack. A shaft of light spilled out of the doorway and right onto Rebel.

  “It’s me,” he repeated, but without all the shouting this time.

  Her mouth fell open. What was he doing here, standing on the steps of her porch? No, he wasn’t just standing. He was swaying, for God’s sake, hips swaying from side to side like he was a cobra and she had a flute. Her heart did that weird lurching thing again, and for a split second, she was not only glad to see him, but really regretting not sleeping in something a whole lot prettier than a tank top and flannel shorts.

  Rebel cleared his throat, breaking her spell. “Is that a knife?”

  She looked at the knife, a big santoku that she rarely used because it didn’t come with a can-opener attachment. Jeez, it seemed even bigger in the pale light. And then she realized that perhaps she wasn’t as awake as she’d like to think.

  Rebel took a step back. “I, uh, I need you.”

  “Really?” Damn, she really wasn’t as awake as she wanted to be. She was hoping for a cool, don’t-give-a-shit attitude, and instead, she sounded like a hopeful teenager. She tried again. “Is that so?” There. That was better.

  “Could you put the knife down?” Well, at least he sounded properly cowed. Next time he’d think twice before angling for a late-night booty call.

  She glared at him as best she could, but he didn’t seem dangerous. At least, not any more than someone in those jeans normally did. “What do you want, Rebel?” She honestly couldn’t tell what she hoped he would say.

  Keeping one eye on the knife, he answered, “Albert. He’s, well, I think he’s having a heart attack.”

  She froze. A heart attack. That irregular heartbeat hadn’t been normal, and she’d been so wrapped up in her selfish little world that she hadn’t followed through like she should have.

  “Come with me,” Rebel said, keeping his voice low and cautious. “He wants to see you.”

  Albert needed her. The paralysis snapped and suddenly she was a whirl of motion. She raced back into the house, grabbing her pants and throwing her keys at Rebel at the same time. “Here. Get the Jeep started.”

  By the time she got a T-shirt pulled on and her sneakers scooped up, he already had the Jeep parallel with the porch. She didn’t even have the door shut, and they were off.

  “What are his symptoms? How long has he been having them?” she asked as she tried to cram a foot into a sneaker while the Jeep bumped over the gravel.

  “He can’t move his left arm at all this time.”

  “This time?” No, she had to have heard that wrong. That would mean that not only had Albert already had a heart attack, but Rebel had known about it. And done nothing.

  Rebel nodded, looking far calmer than she felt, because she felt like she was about to lose it. “The first time, he just fainted. The second time—”

  “The second time?”

  “Madeline.” Was he scolding her? “I need you to calm down.”

  “I need to have you arrested for elder abuse,” she snapped back. And she’d thought he was just a danger to her mental health? Damn it all, the man was a menace to society. “You intentionally withheld medical treatment from a man suffering from cardiac arrest? I swear to God, Rebel, if you weren’t driving, I’d punch you myself.”

  “I didn’t withhold anything. I didn’t even realize he’d had one the first time, and I brought you to see him that evening. Remember?” He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Remember?”

  She could not remember ever being this mad. It was one thing to be furious when Rebel wouldn’t tell her his name or how he paid those bills. But this was different. This was a matter of life and death, and he was acting like the mere mention of her one-night mistake would somehow make it all better. “Yeah, sure, I remember. I remember you sweet-talking your way into my bed and then acting like I’d trapped you the next morning. I remember you not showing up for days on end, and I remember you not bringing Albert to the clinic after the second one. I would certainly remember it if you had brought your grandfather to see me because he had chest pains.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand? Fuck you, Rebel. I understand perfectly. I understand that Albert’s had three heart attacks and if he dies, I understand perfectly that it’ll be because of you. I understand that you’ll have killed him.”

  The Jeep squealed to a stop so hard that she just missed banging her forehead on the dash.

  “You. Do. Not. Understand.” The way he said it, like not only did he believe it, but he’d fight to the death for it, whatever it was.

  It scared the hell out of her. “Jesus, Rebel!”

  “Albert is dying,” he went on, ignoring her. Just like he always did. “He refused to let me bring him in after that first time. He forbid me from getting you the second time. I haven’t left his side in days because I’ve been trying to convince him to let me take him to the hospital. He is dying, Madeline. It is his fate, and he is ready. What you don’t understand is that it isn’t the end. That’s not what we believe.”

  His gaze was steady, his voice even. She could see the steady beat of blood through his jugular. He was telling the truth. Or thought he was, anyway. “So what do you believe? If he’s given up, why are you pissing me off in the middle of the night?”

  Everything hard about the man got something closer to gentle. “You’ve got to believe me, Madeline. He didn’t want you to worry, that’s why he kept quiet.”

  Lord, not that, not the special way he said her name that was his and his alone. Not when she was so mad at him. “So why now?”

  “He wants to say goodbye.” He must have seen something in her face that he took as an invitation, because he reached over and stroked her cheek. “This isn’t the end, Madeline. It’s just the next step.”

  She lurched away from that touch. No touching, none. Period, end of sentence. “I don’t believe you. I want to see him for myself.”

  “Done.” And they were off again, barreling down roads she could barely see.

  When they got to Albert’s house, Madeline was surprised by the number of cars there. Not as many as had been at the party the other night, but still, there were maybe ten. Rebel sped past all of them and nearly parked on the front step.

  “Should I even bother to ask you to carry the duffel?”

  “If it will make you feel better,” was the only answer she got before he hauled it out.

  In they went. The first thing she saw was that Jesse wasn’t occupying the couch any more. Instead, he was leaning against the door. “Doc, I’m glad you’re here,” he said, the strain in his voice more notable than it had been in Rebel’s. He appeared almost upset.

  “What’s going on, Jesse?” Not that she particularly trusted Jesse—he seemed like the textbook definition of irresponsible—but she needed a viewpoint different from Rebel’s, and Jesse lived here.

  “He’s been holding on for you, I think, but he’s fading.” He sort of pivoted to Rebel. “I was afraid you wouldn’t get back in time.”

  Rebel set the duffel down and then pulled a small bundle out of his shirt. “I’m ready,” he said, cutting through the crowd and kneeling down next to Albert.

  Madeline recognized most everyone here. Walter White Mouse was sitting with two older men in a far corner, chanting and lightly beating a drum. Tara was here, holding a sleeping Nelly on her shoulder. “Doctor, I mean, Madeline.” She was somber, but she didn’
t sound upset. “It’s his time.”

  God, what if Rebel had been telling the truth? What if Albert hadn’t let him come get her? What if he didn’t want to be saved?

  What if he died?

  Suddenly, the lump in the back of her throat was huge and oppressive. Rebel was on his knees, holding Albert’s good hand in his and speaking in a low, soothing tone. Irma was behind Albert, wiping his head with a damp cloth. No one was acting like a crime—a murder—was occurring before them. And no one in the room was upset or mad or even confused about what was going on. Just her.

  Rebel looked to her, his eyes wide and knowing. “Come,” he said, still speaking in a low tone. “He’s been waiting for you.”

  She dug out the nitroglycerin pills. “Albert, take one of these. Please,” she added when she got down to his level.

  He let go of Rebel’s hand just long enough to wave the vial off. “Don’t worry,” he said in English, which just about knocked her on her butt. But between the accent and the slurring that indicated he might also be having a stroke, he was almost impossible to understand. “It’s okay.”

  Then he switched to Lakota, which seemed less difficult. Rebel began translating. “It is a good day to die,” and every head in the room nodded in agreement. “We will meet again on the other side.” Then he looked at Rebel, and patted his face. “I am...” Rebel’s voice faltered a little. Albert repeated it, so Rebel kept translating. “I am proud of you, my son. You will be happy when you find your own way. No one else’s.”

  The lump in her throat got bigger, and no amount of swallowing was budging the damn thing. Why wasn’t Rebel more upset by this? He’d said it himself—Albert made him everything he was. Why wasn’t he fighting for his grandfather? Why was he just letting him go?

  Then Albert looked at Madeline. “Don’t worry,” he said in English again. “It’s okay.”

  God, she didn’t want to let Albert go. He was just a kind old man, a rock of goodness in this strange place, who seemed a hell of a lot more worried about her than he was about himself. She didn’t know if it was proper to touch him or not, but she didn’t care. She ran her hand down his face. “Thank you, Albert.” She wasn’t exactly sure what she was thanking him for, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was Albert. And he’d wanted her here, like she was a part of the family.