Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1

by Sarah Anderson

  “So,” she said, like Maddie was that stick in the mud again, “horny trolls are easy.”

  “Mellie...”

  “Call him up. Pretend to be me. Promise that if he processes your stuff, you’ll make it worth his while when you come to Baltimore next time. Easy.”

  “What?” Promise some troll a good time? She’d rather tell Mellie there wasn’t a man alive who was better than Rebel—in front of him, no less.

  “Trust me, it’ll work. You can’t scare him over the phone with that sneer of yours, and bribery works best in person.” Mellie really did sound like she knew what she was talking about.

  Especially the part about the bribery. Madeline shuddered. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Okay. Fine. I don’t care what you tell him. Promise him something medical, I don’t know. And I’ll unfriend him as soon as you’re done.”

  “No, wait.” So Madeline wasn’t exactly in touch with the modern world these days. But even she knew that was a bad idea. “Wait until I get the results, okay? Then unfriend him or whatever.”

  “Good plan.” Hey, score one for Madeline. “I couldn’t get his direct extension, but I got the lab number.”

  Madeline wrote the number down and then repeated it back, just to make sure she got it right.

  “You’ve got it. And Maddie?” Suddenly, Mellie sounded quite serious. “I hope whatever it is turns out okay.”

  “Thanks, Mel. I’ll let you know.” She hung up and stared at the phone.

  “So that’s what artistic and unfocused sounds like,” Rebel said, keeping a safe distance on the other side of the waiting room.

  “What is your problem?” Madeline glanced at the clock. 7:32. She had time to chew him out and call the lab before Clarence got here—but not much. “Are you trying to piss me off? I’m trying to help you over here.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, not looking the least bit apologetic. “But you’re cute when you’re mad.”

  Maybe Mellie was right. She couldn’t scare anyone over the phone with the Mitchell sneer. But in person was a whole different matter. She fixed him with her hardest glare. “Who are you calling cute?”

  He had the nerve to smile at her. She was going to have to work on that sneer some more. She was getting soft out here.

  “I really am sorry, Madeline. But you were worried. It’s...” He trailed off, his eyes caressing her face until she felt the kind of warmth they normally reserved for after-dark conversations. “It’s easier when you’re mad at me.”

  “Men,” she grumbled. He didn’t mind scaring the hell out of her, but he didn’t want her to worry? She picked up the phone and began dialing. “Horny trolls and mystic cowboys and silent Nobodys. The whole lot of you.”

  He laughed again.

  In short order, a bored-sounding receptionist had her on hold, listening to the worst sort of Musak—easy-listening instrumentals of formerly groovy sixties hits. The effect was mind numbing.

  She fought the artificial mellowness and focused on her notes. Leon Flagg. Horny troll. Be like Mellie. What would Mellie do? Mellie would flirt shamelessly. Madeline hated flirting shamelessly. But a girl had to do what a girl had to do.

  “Flagg,” a surprisingly squeaky voice croaked into the phone.

  “This is Madeline Mitchell.” That statement was met with a stony silence. She couldn’t do it Mellie’s way, but she had to do something. “I’m a deputy director of infectious diseases with the Center for Disease Control.”

  “Yeah?” He sounded cautious. Good. He was already off-guard.

  Rebel’s head jerked back in surprise. That old feeling of satisfaction grew in her chest. She was single-handedly outflanking two men at the same time. And that was exactly what Mellie would do.

  “We’re tracing an outbreak in the western states, and I understand your lab has a few samples from the White Sandy Hospital and Clinic.”

  “I can check on that,” Leon said. He sounded nervous. She could work with nervous.

  “Do.” She heard the tapping of keys accompanied by the sound of paper rustling. Leon was hustling. That was good.

  “Okay, we do have those samples here, but they haven’t been processed yet.”

  “I need those results, Leon.” She took a deep breath and dropped her voice a notch. “The CDC would be in your debt if you could get me those results today.”

  “I can’t do that. But...” His voice trailed off, and when he spoke again, it was muffled. Had he climbed under his desk? “I tell you what.”

  Oh, Madeline didn’t like where this was going. So far, she’d only told a small lie. She could live with that. But she could feel that Leon was about to engage in a little quid-pro-quo, which would take her small lie and exponentially compound it. Her stomach began to turn. Nausea did not help the situation. “What?”

  “I put in an application at the CDC a few months ago. I can process those samples by Monday, if...” This would be the total-slime-ball-troll part Mellie had warned her about. Because only an asshole would use a life-or-death situation as a bargaining chip.

  Madeline choked back her disgust. After this, she was going to have to brush her teeth. Maybe with bleach. “Of course I’d be happy to move your application along. The CDC prefers to work with associates who can deliver results as promised.” She was sure the CDC did, so that was only half a lie, right?

  “Deal. What’s your number? I’ll call you direct.”

  Uh oh. She hadn’t anticipated that. Her mind scrambled for a good excuse. “I’m at the White Sandy now, following up on the outbreak.” Sure. That sounded good. ”You can reach me at the clinic.” And before he could question that, she rattled off the number. “I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you if you can get me those results.”

  “It’s as good as done, Dr. Mitchell. I look forward to working with you. Maybe we can arrange a face-to-face meeting soon?”

  Ew, ew, ew. If she were Mellie, she’d giggle and fawn and God-only-knew what when faced with this request. But she wasn’t Mellie. “Let’s see if you can deliver first, Leon.” She was stunned to hear her words come out as something not unlike a kitten purr.

  “Oh, I can deliver.” And with that parting shot, Leon the Troll hung up.

  Disgusting. The situation, that man—but Madeline was also disgusted with herself. It isn’t that bad, she tried to tell herself as she took a cleansing breath. Oddly, she didn’t feel much cleaner. So that wasn’t quite how Mellie would have handled it. Madeline was sure that alluding to a little career assistance wasn’t nearly as bad as promising a sex act. But when she turned away from the phone, she saw Rebel pouting. She’d never seen him pout before. It looked unnatural. “What?”

  “What the hell was that?” He might look pouty, but he sounded nothing short of furious.

  She felt like she was unexpectedly walking across a huge sheet of glass—in stilettos—and the whole thing would shatter with the wrong step. “The lab will call with the results Monday morning.”

  This news brought little change to his face. She thought she saw a flicker of approval, but it was gone before she could be sure. “You lied.”

  “Mellie told me to.” Excellent. She sounded childish or worse—whiney. She regrouped and tried again. “You’re the one who wanted the lab results.” Like that whole disgusting episode was all his fault. He might like it when she was mad at him, but she couldn’t say the same thing. “Besides, it’s not like I’m ever going to talk to that troll again.” The expression on his face didn’t change. “What?”

  “I didn’t think you could do something like that. I didn’t think you lied.” He had the nerve to look hurt. “Anna...”

  Beneath the ice that had her frozen to this spot on the floor, she felt a simmering rage build. What the hell did his ex-wife have to do with any of this? “And you think I lie to you too?”

  He looked at the ground and sort of shrugged his shoulders. “No...”

  That was the loudest maybe she’d ever heard
. The rage went from simmer to roiling boil in a flash. “You listen to me, Rebel Runs Fast. A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. No one wants to do anything for anyone on the White Sandy. This is what it takes to get the medical supply place to stay open late, to get filing cabinets loaded, to get lab results in a hurry.” She thought she was shouting, but she didn’t give a shit. He opened his mouth to say something, but she didn’t give him the chance. “I would think that you, of all people, would understand that sometimes you have to be the person everyone wants you to be, not the person you really are.” His head jerked like she’d slapped him. Good. She was hitting a nerve. “And I’ve got news for you. I will not stand here and be made to feel the sinner just because I’m trying to help you and your little delusional visions out, understand? If you don’t like how I get things done, well, there’s the door.”

  Her words settled around her in the silence that followed, and she realized what she’d actually just said. She’d called him delusional. And told him to leave.

  And now he was just looking at her, his face staggered with shock.

  Damn it all to hell, she felt like she was going to throw up. The regret from her little speech whipped around the self-loathing from Leon the Troll until there was nothing left but gut-shaking revulsion. She wouldn’t blame him if he did walk out that door. And if he walked out, well, would she really have anyone to blame but herself? She closed her eyes and took a cleansing breath, which didn’t help much.

  Which meant that when Rebel spoke, she was completely unprepared for what he said. “Hiya, Clarence.”

  Madeline’s eyes flew open to find Clarence filling the doorway, looking cautiously at the two of them.

  “Hiya, Rebel.” He cleared his throat. “Doc.” His brow furrowed as he looked at her, as if he was asking if everything was okay.

  It was a question she could not answer, not now, and maybe not ever.

  “Catch you later, Clarence,” Rebel said, patting the big man on the shoulder as he walked out the door.

  She watched him go, and then went and threw up in the bathroom.

  So much for not perfect.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rebel crouched in the sweat lodge, trying to clear his mind. He needed to get right with the world, but at this exact moment, he was anything but right.

  He was starting to think he’d been wrong.

  He poured another ladle of water over the stones and braced himself as the steam smacked him in the face. Man, he needed this. He needed something, anything to fill the void Madeline had left in his chest for the last three days. And a good sweat was the best option he had right now. Hell, who was he kidding? It was the only option.

  Settling back into his spot, he worked on being still. It didn’t come easy today, but then, today was Saturday, and he was out of the habit of being still on the weekends. Starting with his feet, he tensed and relaxed every muscle in his body. Calves, thighs, butt cheeks, stomach, shoulders, biceps—each muscle in turn tightened and then went still in the wet heat of the lodge.

  Except for his mind. His mind was already tense, and no amount of effort on his behalf could relax the gnawing sense of wrongness that had followed him like a cartoon dark cloud for days now.

  Shit, what was he doing? He should be in a river, holding a beautiful woman who loved him in his arms while the water washed him clean. Instead, he was sitting in a claustrophobic sweat lodge during the hot part of a Saturday afternoon with Jesse, Walter White Mouse, Burt Speaks Loud and, for once, Nobody Bodine. He should be glad he was here to make sure Nobody was included. He was actively doing his job as medicine man to the tribe. Jesse was thinking about a job, Walter was praying his plumbing kept working, Burt was worried about Irma and, well, he didn’t know what had drawn Nobody out in broad daylight. But that didn’t matter. He was here for his friends, his family. He should be glad he was doing his job well.

  But he wasn’t. All he could think about was Madeline. About how she’d looked like she was drinking four-day-old coffee when she’d been making all sorts of phony promises for some strange man. About how, when he’d opened his own fool mouth when he knew full well he should have kept it shut, she’d looked like he’d said he’d laced that coffee with arsenic. And, more than anything, about how she’d come up swinging, her face twisted as she spit her words out like they were weapons and he was the target. “There’s the door.” The words had sliced him down the center. He, of all people, should know about faking it. And she hadn’t been faking that.

  Shit, what had he done? She’d jumped to a conclusion—that he didn’t approve of her actions, of her—and he’d just gotten the hell out of her way as she went over the edge of the cliff. He knew that sentence had started with an if. If he couldn’t handle it, there was that door.

  He’d wanted to tell her she had it all wrong. He hadn’t thought she was whoring herself for him. It wasn’t about her at all, really. The disgusting truth of the situation was that for ten minutes, she’d reminded him of Anna. Anna. Madeline had used sex as a last line of defense, at his bidding, and even that had just been empty promises and fake giggles. Not Anna. Flirting had always been her weapon of choice, and she wielded it as only a true master of the art could. Madeline had cooed, “Leon,” at the end of the conversation, and all Rebel had heard was Anna breathing, “Jonathan,” the first time they’d met. The first time he’d worn a sport coat and a bolo tie because that was what the gallery owner wore. The first time he’d felt like a fake.

  As Madeline did her best for him—him—all he could think was the end.

  The end.

  Walter was chanting—Walter chanted a lot—but the sound was anything but soothing. Instead, each note was taunting him, reminding him that he was here with a bunch of sweating men and not there. With her.

  And for what? Because she’d done exactly what he’d asked her to? He’d demanded results, and she’d done everything she could think of to give him just that. He felt delusional, all right. He’d deluded himself into thinking that the little world he’d made with her in it was above the reach of the outside world. He, of all people, should have known that would never be the case. He couldn’t exist only in this world, and he’d already failed at the outside world.

  “Find your own way.” Albert’s voice pulsed into the void between each chanted note.

  Odd, Rebel thought, his head snapping up. He didn’t feel like he normally did when he was in a vision. He could still see the inside of the sweat lodge in the dim light, still hear Walter going on and on. Nothing else had changed but the clear sound of Albert’s voice.

  In English. He was serious about it. For the life of him, Rebel couldn’t tell if he was having another delusion or not.

  “I cannot see my way, Tȟunkášila.” All he could see was the stricken pain on Madeline’s face. The pain he’d made her feel.

  The chanting was unbroken. No one else reacted to his statement. Had he spoken out loud or not?

  “Find your own place.” Albert sounded more insistent this time.

  “I don’t know where my place is,” he replied, quieter this time. If he was talking to a spirit, there was no need to shout. And if he was delusional, well, he didn’t need to shout at himself. “I’ve lost my path.”

  And that was the big difference. When Anna had walked away, he’d let her go because a part of him was relieved that he didn’t have to pretend any longer. He was sad to see her leave, but a new path—medicine-man-in-training, beadwork artist, loyal grandson—had been right there in front of him. All he had to do was walk it. He had done so gladly. It had been an honest life.

  And a lonely one. He hadn’t realized how damn lonely he’d been until Dr. Madeline Mitchell had shown up, the outsider barging into his small little world. He’d never lied to her, never felt like he had to. Who he was had always been good enough for her. Even when she found out about the parts that weren’t really real, she’d never demanded anything more from him. Instead, she challenged him, excited
him and, more than anything, loved him for who he was.

  He was Rebel Runs Fast. And he loved Madeline Mitchell.

  “I am proud of you, my son.” Rebel could almost see Albert nod his head, that warm smile on his face as he fried venison for dinner. Albert had always been proud of him, even when Rebel had given him nothing to be proud of. Like now. Nothing to be proud of, walking away from her.

  He tried to tell himself he hadn’t just walked away. He just hadn’t wanted to continue that conversation in front of Clarence. But that didn’t have a damn thing to do with the fact that he hadn’t gone to her house last night, hadn’t come for her this morning. He’d let Anna go, but he’d walked away from Madeline. He was being a coward. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Unexpectedly, time stopped. He couldn’t hear Walter. He couldn’t hear Albert. He couldn’t even breathe. In the total stillness that gripped him, he saw nothing. Then Madeline appeared, and he felt his gut unclench. Home, he thought as she got out of her Jeep and grinned at him. He was sitting on a porch, waiting for her. Where he should have been last night. Where he should be. The scene barely finished materializing before his eyes before it was gone in the steam.

  Where he should be.

  The damp heat filled his body as he sucked in air. The warmth burned through his uncertainty, his confusion.

  His path was right there in front of him.

  He just had to walk it.

  It wasn’t dignified, but Madeline waited for him. She sat on the porch for the third undignified night in a row, her eyes scanning the hills and valley until the night sky made it more obviously pointless than it already was.

  He has to come back, she thought for the millionth time. He couldn’t let her go—he’d said so himself, over and over, until she’d had no choice but to believe him. Until she’d had no choice but to fall in love with him. He had to come back. He had to come back for her.

  She’d seriously considered going looking for him this afternoon. The sneakers had materialized on her feet, three bottles of water had stood at the ready on the counter and a floppy bucket hat had appeared in her hand.