Chapter Ten
From the second they said good night in the ranch’s front lot, all Miah wanted was to touch Nicki again. Smell her, feel her hands on his body, taste her mouth and her skin.
What a fool he’d been to not lock down the details for their next meeting. The hunger dogged him every minute of every hour that followed, and his fingers were itchy, wanting to call, needing to know when he might see her again . . . though he didn’t dare.
For starters, there were rules about this shit. A man ought to wait, if he was really interested in a woman—that was how it worked, right? Wait a couple days, but not too long, as he understood it. He was half tempted to give Raina a ring and ask her advice, but he didn’t want to arouse suspicions. The fact that he was ready to ask his ex for romantic counsel seemed like something to celebrate, but this situation with Nicki felt tenuous somehow. He was with her in what they’d agreed—friends who messed around, nothing more. That was wisest, at this point in his life, though it didn’t change the fact that he liked her, more than he’d liked anyone in quite some time.
Plus complicating his intentions with the deputy were his intentions regarding the Bean case. In a text that had felt all-business, first thing on Friday she’d asked for the names he’d gotten off John Dancer. He’d texted back, promising he’d destroyed the paper, regretting having ever talked to Dancer. He hadn’t though, and he didn’t regret a thing. It simply felt as though his only chance at getting those dealers to talk was to buy himself some information, and if the detectives came sniffing around, that’d doubtless queer his chances, maybe even put him in danger. While deception didn’t suit Miah, inaction was torture.
He had arranged to take most of Sunday off to pursue the leads. He might be reckless but he wasn’t completely stupid—Vince was going to come with him. there was nothing to do now except wait, and he was nearly thankful for the endless, grueling workdays filling the time.
Saturday morning, Miah got an early start as usual, breaking for lunch around ten thirty. He knew it was now or never where Nicki was concerned. He didn’t want to scare her off, but he didn’t want to blow it either, letting her think that what had happened on Thursday evening hadn’t meant something to him. He dialed her number, then pinched his phone between his ear and shoulder, raiding the fridge for anything resembling lunch.
“Jeremiah,” she said, that voice like honey and velvet and satin and a million other taunting clichés.
“Deputy.”
“I—” A curt groan, then, “Hang on.” The line grew muffled and he heard her saying something unintelligible, presumably through a palm clamped over her phone’s mic. The line cleared but she didn’t say anything right away, though he heard her breathing heavily.
“Nicki?”
“Shit, shit, shit . . . Sorry. I’m here.”
“Rough day?”
She sighed, her exasperation so fierce it about singed his ear. Shit, was she pissed? Should he have called earlier? Goddamn, he was useless at knowing how to do this stuff, how to let a woman know he liked her without coming on too—
“It’s been a rough couple days, if I’m honest,” she said.
“Ah. Should I have called sooner? I’m sorry. I was trying to play it cool—”
A laugh cut him off, tight but genuine. “No, no. Nothing to do with you.” A pause. “To be frank, all that kissing’s just about the only thing that’s been keeping me going.”
His face grew warm. “Oh, well. Good to hear. So what’s the trouble?”
The sound of a door clicking shut, he imagined. “In a word, the trouble is Matty,” she said. “He’s been at school for two whole days, and both have been awful.”
Miah abandoned a half-assembled sandwich and sat heavily at the kitchen table. Dread moved through him. “He getting bullied?”
“Probably. But as it turns out, he got in trouble yesterday, for hitting another boy.”
“Ah, shit.”
“Yeah. That about sums it up.”
“He suspended?”
“No, thank fuck. A load of detention and what amounts to two strikes, and I got myself a tag-team earbashing from his teacher and the principal.”
“Yikes.”
“I shouldn’t sound so bitter. He did hit someone. I’m just so worried he’s going to get stuck with the worst sort of reputation. Hit somebody one time—and for who knows what reason—and he’ll never quit being the angry black kid.”
“Sure.”
Another sigh, and Miah could picture Nicki doing that thing she sometimes did, dropping her head back, eyes shutting momentarily.
At a loss for what else to say . . . “That sucks, Nicki.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“At least it’s the weekend, right?”
“Yes and no. I’m off to work ’til eight, and that leaves my mom in charge. Don’t get me wrong, I love her and I’d be sunk without the free childcare, but she goes way too easy on that kid. I mean, I feel bad for him, too. I know he’s good, and whatever made him haul off and hit somebody, it was probably nasty. But that’s a reason, not an excuse.”
“Of course.”
“He didn’t earn himself an easy day moping around the house playing video games, and that’s what he’s in for with my mom in charge. I’ll leave him a list of chores and I just know I’ll come home to find them all far too well done to be the work of a broody preteen.”
Miah smiled. “Grandmothers can be treacherous that way.”
“She didn’t use to be such a pushover. It’s all since my dad died . . . Anyhow, there’s a supremely long answer to a very short question. So, how can I help you, Miah? Any chance you remembered either of those names?”
Guilt niggled, like a hangnail catching on a sweater. “No, sorry. I, um, I was curious what your plans were this weekend, actually. Sounds like you get to be bad cop both on and off the clock.”
“Matty’ll practically be in bed by the time I’m off tonight. I’m almost relieved. I just don’t have the energy in me right now.”
A thought struck. “You want to send him over here?”
“To the ranch?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t keep an eye on him myself, but if you’re okay with it, I could have him shadow one of the junior hands. Mucking out stalls, hauling feed, washing the bunkhouse dishes . . . ?”
“For how long?” she asked.
“All day, pretty much. When the hands have to saddle up and deal with the stock, I could find something for him to do myself. Something painfully boring . . . I’ve got a load of ear tags that need numbering.”
A soft laugh. “You’d really do that?”
“If you’re comfortable with it, sure. The ranch isn’t a hundred percent safe, but the hands are pretty mindful.”
Another pause, three times longer than the first. “You know what? Sure. Please. I’ll drop him off before my shift starts. Quarter to twelve?”
“You got it. Just get some food in him first. I’ll give him the gist of his sentence while the hands finish their own lunch break.”
“I’ll owe you so big for this.”
No, you won’t. This wouldn’t even the score by any stretch if she found out his plans for tomorrow. “See you in a bit.”
“Thanks again. You’re my hero.”
God help you, then. “No problem, Nicki. Bye, now.”
“Bye.”
Miah ate his sandwich, tackled a few phone calls he’d been procrastinating on, then headed out to the front lot at quarter to noon. Nicki was right on time, her beige cruiser raising dust as she drove under the gate.
Both doors popped open at once, and Miah stole a moment to admire her frame before he turned his attention to Matty, making his face stony and serious.
“Deputy,” he said, and tipped his hat to Nicki. He knew she didn’t want Matty getting wind, so he’d keep this outlandishly professional.
“Mr. Church.” She cracked a little smile if he wasn’t mistaken. She beckoned Matty over and ushered him toward Miah. “This is Mathias, your victim for the afternoon.”
Miah extended a hand and the kid offered a nervous, quick shake. He was tallish and skinny in that awkward way boys his age had, like a colt—no doubt fast and strong but not yet at home in his body.
“Nice to meet you,” Miah said. “Ready to work your ass off?”
The kid nodded shyly, and Miah glanced to Nicki to see if she minded the cuss. She was smirking, arms crossed over her chest.
“I’ll show you around the stables while the ranch hands finish their break.” He offered Nicki a curt wave and she returned it.
“My mom’ll be by to pick him up at five,” she said.
“Sounds good. You take care.” Take care, and let me know the second I get to taste you again. He hadn’t gotten around to asking her what he’d been planning to on the phone earlier.
She turned and left them be.
“Stables are this way,” Miah said, starting to walk. He eyed Matty’s clothes—jeans and a hooded sweatshirt and scuffed old sneakers. Perfect, and he probably had Nicki’s foresight to thank. “You spent much time around horses?”
He shook his head. “Never. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in person. Except. . . no. I seen some in parades, I guess. They smell.”
Miah laughed. “I’m sure they feel the same about you.”
“What do I have to do?” The kid’s tone was wary, not petulant, Miah was pleased to note. He seemed polite, if not exactly excited to be here.
“Loads of fun stuff. Shoveling horse crap, for starters.”
“Wow. Awesome.”
Miah let the sarcasm slide. “Heard you hit somebody to earn yourself this little field trip.”
“Yeah. But not hard or anything. I didn’t even punch him. I just, like, slapped his chest or whatever.”
“He deserve it?”
Matty eyed Miah, then shrugged, probably wanting to say yes but knowing he’d be a fool to. “I dunno. He made me mad.”
“You getting picked on?” Miah asked as they entered the stables. He didn’t register the smell anymore, but he watched it all but knock Matty down and stifled a laugh.
When he recovered, the kid said, “Yeah. A little.”
“I went to the same school you do. The kids around here can be real jerks.”
That gave Matty pause. He pulled his shirt collar up to cover his nose, muffling his voice when he asked, “Yeah?”
Miah nodded. “This was a hundred years ago, obviously, but I probably dealt with the same bull you are now.”
The kid didn’t reply, looking around.
“I’ll give you a quick tutorial, how to muck out a stall. You’ll be helping the ranch hands with plenty of this later this afternoon.” Miah’s own horse was in his stall. Blondie looked eager, probably itching for a ride, same as Miah was. “Sorry, boy. No action today. Matty, you stand clear—this horse is bombproof but it’s smart to pretend every animal could kick at any moment, you got that?”
He let his collar fall from his mouth. “I got it. What’s ‘bombproof’?”
“Means he’s just about unspookable. Spooking is when a horse gets nervous and freaks out, kicks or bucks or tries to run off.” Miah got Blondie’s bridle on and swung the stall’s gate open. “You can get yourself seriously hurt if you find yourself on the wrong side of a spooked horse.”
Matty stood way back as Miah led Blondie out to the yard and set him loose.
Back inside, Miah said, “First things first, we need gloves.” He found Matty a women’s pair to fit his small hands, then donned his own. “Grab that wheelbarrow, would you?”
“The what?”
“Wheelbarrow. Big red thing with the handles and wheel?” Miah pointed to where it was parked, then smiled to himself, watching Matty fumble under its weight. How a kid could reach the age of ten and not know what a wheelbarrow was . . . He shook his head. “You gotta lift up the back, so only the wheel’s on the ground. There you go.”
The kid managed to maneuver the heavy thing over to the stall without tripping outright and Miah grabbed two pitchforks. “Be careful with this thing—let’s both survive this day with two eyes apiece, deal?”
Matty nodded.
“Can you guess what we’re gonna do?”
He looked around the soiled stall. “Pick up the hay?”
“That comes second. First we pick up the droppings.”
Matty made a predictable face. Miah laughed, feeling for the kid. He’d long ago earned his way out of having to muck stalls, though he stepped in to help the hands on the odd chaotic day. It wasn’t fun, surely downright gross to a kid who hadn’t grown up around horses and livestock. Still, Miah was all for character-building and physical labor and getting dirty, and this chore was the epitome of all those virtues.
“There’s a trick,” he said, scooping a load of straw and horseshit up with his pitchfork. “Jiggle it like this, until the straw falls away and you’ve got mostly just the droppings.”
Matty was all but useless at it, but Miah wasn’t in a hurry.
“The garbage man must hate you guys,” Matty said. “You must have the stinkiest trash of anybody, ever.”
Miah laughed. “You think we throw this stuff out?” He tipped his fork into the wheelbarrow. “That’s like burning money. We have an arrangement with some farmers in the county who use the manure to fertilize their fields.”
“Wait, hold up.” Matty tipped a turd awkwardly into the barrow. “People put poop in their fields? Like, the place where they grow plants and stuff?”
“Sure.”
“Plants for people to eat?”
“Yup.”
“That. Is. Disgusting.”
Miah snorted. “That’s nature. Takes life to make life.”
“So gross. I’m never eating vegetables again.”
“Good luck with that.”
They worked for a while, Matty very, very slowly getting more adept at shit-sifting. Miah dragged his own heels, not wanting to deprive the kid of precious opportunities to hone his new skill. Poor Matty was going to go home blistered and reeking, but also that much closer to manhood, Miah felt. Most anything worth doing required you to break a sweat.
Miah looked over and caught Matty studying him. The kid didn’t look away quick enough, and Miah said, “What?”
“Nothin’.”
“No, really. What?”
Matty shrugged, not meeting Miah’s eyes. “Just . . . I didn’t know there were Mexican cowboys, is all.”
Miah laughed. “Well, for starters, I’m not Mexican.”
He looked up cautiously. Curiously. “No?”
“No, I’m half Native American. Paiute and Shoshone. And for your information, there’s loads of Mexican cowboys.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. In Mexico they’re called vaqueros. In the States they’re just called Mexican cowboys.” He shot Matty a dry smile. “Four of our hands are Mexican American.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry—you’re new here. I’m sure there’s a million things I don’t know about living in a city.” For starters, why anybody would want to.
Matty looked thoughtful and Miah waited for him to speak. At long last, “You said in school, people messed with you. They were jerks because you’re Native American?”
“Oh, sure. Kids are jerks to anyone who’s different in any way. Different color skin, different accent, different religion. Or if your clothes aren’t right or you’re poor, or your parents have the supposed wrong kind of job, any old thing. Bullies aren’t choosy.”
Matty nodded, attention on his shovel.
“Must be extra tough, though,” Miah ventured, “being black around here. There any other black kids in your school?”
“Ze-ro,” Matty singsonged bitterly.
“That can’t be much fun . . . What about your hobbies and stuff? Can you still do your favorite things here?”
“Not really. Nobody cares about basketball, for one. They only care about football, and the kids who are into that are all jocks and super mean.”
“Your mom said you’re into video games. Any of the kids at your school into the same ones you are?”
Another shrug. “I dunno. I haven’t really talked to anybody that much yet. Nobody wants to talk to me, anyway.”
“Give it time.”
“Do you like video games?” Matty asked.
Miah laughed. “Can’t say I’ve played one since I was your age. And I was never any good at that stuff. I’d rather be outside.”
“Why?” Matty asked, tone a little snotty, but the effect was more funny than anything. “It’s too hot during the day and it’s freezing at night.”
“I guess you get used to it. The winters in Chicago aren’t much to brag about, though, are they?”
“I like the snow. Sometimes school gets cancelled, plus I’m real good at snowball fights.” The kid cracked a little smile, as though in spite of himself.
“We get snow on real rare occasions, but it’s pretty dry here in the winter, so it doesn’t pack. But there’s other stuff to do, especially if you like the outdoors. Riding horses, for starters. You know, if you ever find yourself here at the ranch and you’re not in trouble, I could show you how to ride a horse, instead of just shoveling its crap.”
Matty’s expression was the definition of skeptical. “I don’t think black people ride horses.”
Miah shot him an equally doubtful look. “Horses don’t care what color you are. Plus haven’t you seen Blazing Saddles?”
“What’s that?”
Miah considered it. It wasn’t Django Unchained, but he couldn’t recall precisely how inappropriate it might be. “Ask your mom if you can watch it. And anyhow, there were black cowboys in real life. Look it up. White folks wrote most of the history books, remember, but the West was home to all types of people. Still is.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Matty muttered.
“Well, as the only black kid in Fortuity, I guess that makes you a pioneer, then. Just like the black cowboys. You know there were loads of them working in the rodeos?”
The kid paused, swaying under the weight of his poop-laden shovel. “Really?”
“Yeah. Some of the ones who worked on ranches, they got stuck breaking the meanest horses, the ones that the white guys in charge were too chicken to deal with. That meant they wound up as some of the toughest, best riders there were.”
Matty’s expression changed, a faint spark of something approaching interest charging his eyes, Miah thought.
“Like I said, look it up. You can loaf around inside playing video games by yourself, I guess,” Miah went on, emptying his pitchfork into the wheelbarrow. “Or if you straighten up and play your cards right, maybe you could become Brush County’s next up-and-coming cowboy.”
* * *
Miah wasn’t there when Nicki’s mom picked Matty up that afternoon. Once the hands were back from lunch he’d paired Matty up with one of the newer guys, Raf, who was funny and charming and patient—and Mexican, for bonus points—a good fit for the kid. Miah could admit he’d gone back to his own managerial duties grudgingly. He would’ve been more than happy to keep hanging out with Matty. It had made him feel younger than he had in ages. In years, probably, maybe since his affair with Raina.
He felt a weird stirring in his chest, in that tender, guarded spot where he hid his wilting hopes for marriage and fatherhood, a spot he tried not to think about much these days. He couldn’t deny it—he wanted to be somebody’s role model. Time was ticking away and he didn’t feel any closer to parenthood than he had at twentysomething, but it was nice to know you could get a little hit of that with somebody else’s kid. If the ranch survived this latest tough turn, maybe he could dream up some kind of free program for indoor kids in the area, get them outside and onto horses, get some dirt under their nails and raise some calluses on their palms.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Church. Not with Matty, anyhow. That was a delicate area, with whatever affair might be blossoming between him and Nicki so new and so firmly rooted in the physical. Sure, the kid didn’t know about them, wasn’t attached to Miah or anything, but he ought to be careful not to get too attached to Matty. Nicki could lose interest tomorrow—
Brrrzzz. Miah’s ancient cell phone buzzed in his back pocket and he slid it out. Nicki’s name blinked on the little screen.
It was nine forty-five. He was in the den with a laptop on his thighs, a beer perched precariously on the rocker’s arm. He flipped his phone open, biting back a smile. “Deputy.”
“Cowboy. Good evening.”
“Evenin’. How was work?”
“It was tolerable, actually. Let me ask you this—how was Matty?”
“He was great. I only got to hang out with him for maybe forty minutes, but he was fine. Took it like a man, worked hard. Didn’t complain too much, all things considered.”
“You tell him to ask me if he can watch Blazing Saddles?”
“I may have. Forgive me, I can’t remember how raunchy it is.”
“Neither can I. I’ll have to watch it myself first, but he’s got his heart set on it.”
“Apologies if it’s completely inappropriate and I accidentally made you the bad guy.”
“We’ll see. But no apology necessary,” she said, her voice evening out, as though she were settling down on a couch or chair, getting comfy. “Today was supposed to be a punishment, but that kid . . . You’d think he spent the day at the amusement park.”
Miah glowed, warmth flashing through him from his head to his feet. He was used to that sensation where sex was concerned, but this felt different. Deeper, more pure and easy. “Really?”
“Oh yes. I saw him for all of an hour when I got home, but I was subjected to a lengthy lecture on the nuances of cattle ranching, let me tell you.”
Miah laughed. “Kudos to Raf, then. That’s the hand I put in charge of him.”
“Oh, I know all about Raf. Raf is the coolest ever.”
“That’s why I picked him.”
“You got some honorable mentions yourself, though. Matty seems to think you know everything about everything.”
He blushed a little at that. “I hate to break it to you, Nicki, but he might be more impressionable than you’re prepared to admit.”
Her laugh was soft and throaty, going to Miah’s head like the whiskey he was handily avoiding today.
“Did you know,” she asked grandly, “that Bill Pickett invented bulldogging?”
Miah laughed. “I did not. My rodeo history’s a little rusty.”
“God knows if I even remembered the name right, and needless to say I have no idea what bulldogging is. But my mom says he’s been glued to the Web, reading up about black cowboys.”
“Good to hear. And seriously, it was no skin off my ass. He’s welcome here any time—shoveling shit when he’s messed up or learning to ride or rope if he keeps his nose clean.”
“Raf let him on a horse, you know.”
Miah’s brows rose. “He did?”
“Not for a ride. Just let him get up on a saddle, I guess.”
Miah had given Raf strict instructions to work Matty into the ground, but he couldn’t be annoyed. He’d have no doubt succumbed to the same temptation himself. “He like it?”
“He said it was way higher than he’d ever have guessed.”
Miah smiled. “You want to find out for yourself?”
“No, thank you kindly, cowboy. You want me to touch any animal bigger than my chocolate Lab and you’ll have to pay me, I’m afraid.”
Twice now she’d called him cowboy, he noted. How many times did it take to qualify as a pet name, exactly?
“I’ll take that as a challenge,” he said.
“Mm. I, um . . . I was wondering, would you like to hang out on Tuesday night? It’s my day off. Matty’s usually in bed about nine. I could come by after that, or meet you somewhere.”
At Benji’s? he wanted to ask. He’d like nothing more, but Benji’s was the town’s watering hole, its switchboard, its three-dimensional Facebook. They’d have to keep things discreet, much as he’d love to get comfy at one of the high tables, feel her foot flirting with his, challenge her to a game of pool or maybe even sway with her, body to lazy body on the scuffed old planks before the jukebox.
“I’d like that very much,” he said. “I was hoping to see you sooner, if I’m honest—that’s why I’d called this morning. But I’ll take what I can get.”
“Great. I was thinking . . .” She sighed, sounding exasperated, or mortified. “I’m not sure why this sounds so awful to ask, but . . . what time does your mom go to bed?”
He laughed softly. “Now why on earth would you ask me that, Deputy?”
“We can’t hang out here, obviously. And we can’t hang out in quite the way I was hoping to, anyplace public—the bar, I mean.”
“I had the same thought.”
“Forgive me for being shady where my love life is concerned. It’s tricky when you’ve got a kid.”
“I get that. A hundred percent.”
“But if your mom was usually in bed by ten or something . . . I dunno, maybe it’s just me, but there’s something very appealing about a glass of wine and a make-out session on a couch while we pretend to watch a movie. You have a couch, right?”
“You know I do. A massive old leather one, ideal for your evil plans for me.”
“So . . . ?”
“My mom’s a workaholic,” Miah said, “but I’ll do what I can. Consider Tuesday at ten a date.” Provided whatever I get up to tomorrow doesn’t cross your radar, he amended to himself, conscience withering.
“It’s a date,” she agreed. “Dress cozy. I’ll bring a bottle and a copy of Blazing Saddles.”
And I’ll bring a barrow-load of guilt. “I’ll count the hours, Deputy.”