Carly
So, did you have fun last night?” I’ve managed not to ask until we’re getting set up at the rodeo. I keep my eyes on the counter and wipe. I know if I make a big deal of Nevada coming in at one a.m., she’ll close like Unforgiven after the sun goes down.
She sniffs. “Considering I was two hundred miles from any kind of civilization, surrounded by a bunch of dumb cowboys, it was okay.”
“Sweet, you witch. You’re not going to give me any details?”
“Nope.” She turns her back, displaying today’s T-shirt slogan: WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU, DISAPPOINTS ME.
I shouldn’t expect miracles.
The announcer begins his sound check. I glance to the arena, watching for broad shoulders and long legs. There are lots of them over there, but not the ones I want to see. The magnet in my chest pulls hard, and I rub my knuckles over my breastbone to ease it.
“You got heartburn? I hear that when you’re—” Nevada shoots a look around. “you know…that you get that a lot.”
“Nope.”
She follows my glance. “You want to go watch today? I can handle it.”
“Nah, but thanks.” I turn back to rearranging cellophane-wrapped sweets. This trip has been too drama-filled and painful to be a visit to my glory days, back before I knew the yoke of responsibility, or that, someday, I’d need more than this.
I sigh, and move on to filling the chip clips.
We lived in the moment back then, not sparing a thought that those days would someday end. But they have; at least for me. I don’t belong here anymore. I may not know what the future looks like, but this is my past—I feel the fact solid as a chunk of quartz.
I try to remember that last rodeo Austin and I shared, but find that I can’t. All of them coalesce into a sum of the moments I remember. You often don’t know when something is the last of its kind. I can’t decide if that’s a blessing, or a curse.
And that makes me sad.
I’d love to go find Austin. To see him, just once more in his element. This element that used to be ours. But we’ve said everything. And that makes me empty.
Will I look back someday and see Austin as my past as well? I don’t want to believe it, but before this trip, I didn’t think I wouldn’t fit in at the rodeo, either.
Looking back now, I can see that this time on the road has been an interlude. A time to say good-bye to the old, accept today’s reality, and—dread, like a bolt of electricity, shoots down my spine. Tomorrow, I go home.
To tell Nana and Papaw, about who their granddaughter really is. To decide how I’m going to tell the town.
To face whatever happens next.
* * *
Carly
By two o’clock the rodeo is over, and Nevada is standing by my bike waiting for me to get ready. A dusty four-by-four pulls up to the food truck and Shane rolls down the window. “Hey, Carly. Yo, Nevada, you going to be at the Roundup in Clovis next weekend?”
Her high ponytail swings with her head shake. “Don’t know. Don’t look that far ahead.”
His smile droops. “Well, maybe I’ll see you there. Buy you a rodeo dog?”
She sighs and sweeps an arm over the truck. “Do I look like I need you to buy me a hot dog?”
“N-no, but—”
“If I’m there, you can explain this bulldogging thing to me. I don’t get it.”
His smile cranks to blinding. “Be proud to. See you there.” He floors it, kicking up mud and fishtailing his way to the main road.
Nevada watches until his truck disappears. “God, they’re immature.”
“Yeah.” I check the bungees holding my duffel to be sure they’re tight. “But they’re damned cute, aren’t they?”
“Marginally.” She pulls a map from her back pocket. “Now what’s this hairball idea you have?”
I show her on the map. “We’ll go back to Ruidoso, then take 70 south to 244, to 82 and take it west.”
“Why are we taking the long way to Alamogordo?”
“It winds back through the mountains. I hear it’s just gorgeous.”
“But way longer.”
“Come on, city girl. We’ve got until noon tomorrow to drive seventy-five miles. You need to take a back road now and again in life.”
“Oh, all right, if it’ll make you shut up about all the Rocky Mountain High shit.”
“You won’t say that after you see it.” I throw my leg over and settle on the seat. “And thanks for the ear worm.”
She tips up her nose. “Oh, that’s a song?” She walks to the truck, tosses the map on the passenger seat, and pulls herself behind the wheel. “Lead on, biker chick.”
The main road snaking through Ruidoso is packed with tourists. Since the truck usually breaks trail, I’m doubly careful, watching for traffic pulling out. But when we hit 244, the divided road becomes two wide lanes that lead up into the mountains.
The bike seems to float over the pavement and easy, sweeping curves make my right wrist itch to bury the throttle. But a glance in the rearview of the truck lugging along nixes that. There’s almost no traffic, so I’m able to take in the towering Ponderosa pines, the brick-colored soil, the cotton-ball clouds. The fringe on my dad’s jacket flips in the brisk wind, but the sun is warm on my shoulders. I smile, realizing I’m humming a tune from the guy with the floppy hair and round glasses. What was his name?
We pass the entrance to the Inn of the Mountain Gods, the Mescalero Apache Ski resort and casino. There’s a funny kind of irony there. We used to tempt them with trinkets. Now they tempt us with chips. I hope they’re making a mint off the tourists. We crest the long, steep hill and the road levels out. Nevada flashes her lights, then pulls off the road. I pull over, shut down the bike, and walk back to her. “Isn’t it beautiful here?”
She’s frowning at the dash. “The truck is overheating.”
I look in the window. The temp gauge is pegged in the red. “Did you have the A/C on?”
She rolls her eyes and tsks.
“Just checking.” I pull off my helmet. “It’s probably from climbing that huge honking hill. We’ll have to wait until it cools. Should be fine.”
“Hope so.” She looks around. “We’re in the butthole of nowhere.”
“Nah, not yet. Didn’t you see the casino back there?”
“Proves my point. They only gave the shitty land to the Indians.”
“My Nana would say, you’d bitch if you were hung with a new rope.”
She frowns. “Huh?”
“Never mind. I’m starving. I’m going to make a sandwich while we’re waiting. You want one?”
A half hour later, the little bean is fed, the engine has cooled, and we’re back in business. A handful of miles up, I take the turn onto 82. It’s a small two-lane road that winds through trees and mountain meadows so green they hurt your eyes. Tiny creeks bisect them, root beer–colored water tumbling over rocks and deadfall. When I sweep around a corner, fifty feet into the meadow, a doe raises her head. I point so Nevada doesn’t miss seeing it, then slow a bit. That’s as close as I want to get to a deer. I’m sure she’d agree.
Five minutes later, I’m singing at the top of my lungs when I glance back. No truck. Jesus on a skateboard, what now? I pull over, check both ways, duck-walk the bike into the opposite lane, and head back the way I came. She better not have hit that deer…
The truck is on the side of the road, steam shooting from under the hood, water spraying below. This can’t be good. I ride slowly past, repeat the duck-walk maneuver, and pull off the road ahead of it. This is more than a fifteen-minute stop. I put my helmet on the gravel next to the bike, shrug out of my jacket, and hang it on the sissy bar.
Nevada yells out the window, “Where the hell did you go?”
I walk to the front of the truck. “I was communing with my Zen. Pop the hood.”
Steam billows when I open it. “Oh, shitsky.”
Nevada stands next to me. “It must be bad. That’s the closest I’ve heard you come to swearing.” She glances at me. “Well, except for the Costco Conflict.”
I give the engine compartment a quick glance. “The only way Cora’s baby is getting out of the mountains is on the end of a tow chain.”
She peeks in. “How do you know?”
“The water pump is trashed. Can’t you see?”
“I don’t know a water pump from a breast pump. How do you know?”
I unhook the support arm, and drop the hood. “I grew up on a farm. You learn to fix things with bubble gum and cat hair.”
“Well, we’ve got the gum. No cat hair, but maybe you could go ask that deer…”
“Very funny. I’ll go get my phone and look up the nearest tow. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and there’s one in Cloudcroft.”
“I’ve gotta pee.”
“Well, have at it.” I retrace my steps to the bike.
“There’s no bathroom.” The small voice comes from behind me.
I stop. “You’re kidding me, right? You have like eight zillion trees here, and no traffic. Go in the woods, city girl.”
She eyes the trees. “But what if there’s bears?”
“Oh, for cripe’s sake. If there are, they’re only little black bears. They’re not going to bother you.”
“You mean there could be bears?”
“Where’s all that tough now? Take some napkins from the truck and go take care of business. If a bear comes, you can scare it off with your sarcasm.” I point to the trees. “Go.”
She snatches some napkins from the console and minces her grumbling way into the woods.
By some miracle, I’m able to get two bars, but that’s where our luck runs out. The closest tow service is—
“IIIIEEEeeeeeee!”
My head snaps up at the Psycho-scream and my feet are beating pavement for the truck, my heart trying to crack my ribs. From the terror in that yell, this is not a drill.
I find the trail in the wet grass that Nevada made going in and follow it, full tilt. Barely inside the tree line, she almost barrels into me, running as fast as a human can with their pants around their ankles.
I grab her shoulders to keep her from falling. “What? What is it?” I don’t see claw marks, but the terror in her eyes isn’t faked.
“I’m bit! A rattlesnake bit me!” She whips her head to look behind her.
“Where? How do you know it was a rattler?”
“Back there.” She points back into the trees. “I may have never seen one before, but even I’ve seen a Western movie. I know the sound.”
“I mean, where did you get bit?”
She turns her back, so I can see the puncture wounds on the back of her right thigh, about three inches below her butt. “Oh, shit.”
She whips around and grabs my arm. “I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”
“You’re not going to die.” But this is not good. We’re fifteen miles of mountain roads from Cloudcroft, and it’s so tiny, I doubt there’s medical help there. No vehicles have passed since we’ve stopped. “What the hell were you thinking? You never pee in the woods without looking around first.” My fear comes out garbled, more like anger.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” She reaches to pull up her shorts, then thinks better of it, and throws her hands in the air. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Every woman on the planet knows that.”
“Well, I don’t, dumbass! I’m from the Houston projects. All the snakes there have two feet.”
My mind clicks through the scenarios. Most of them don’t end well. “Jesus F. Christ, Sweet, if you’d actually open up and communicate, someone might—”
“Are you saying this is my fault? You’re the hick, you should’ve—”
“Hey, I’m not the one with holes in my butt. You’re responsible for your own booty. I can’t think of everything!”
“Everything? Really?” She leans in, her face inches from mine. “Since when do you think of anything besides yourself?” She lays the back of her hand against her forehead. “Woe is poor widdle homecoming queen me! Life didn’t turn out like I planned. Boo the fucking hoo.” She’s breathing hard and if looks could do it, I’d be dead meat.
“That is so mean. I’m struggling, and you—”
“You entitled, self-centered, spoiled…” She sputters, clearly too pissed to form words. “You know what? Never mind. If I’m gonna die, I’m not going out fighting about your ‘problems.’” Her air quotes almost scratch my face. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. Fuck off.” She pulls up her shorts and marches for the road.
I stand stunned for a moment, then take off after her. “Stop. Hey, Sweet, stop!”
She’s standing beside the truck, hands on her knees, breathing hard.
An extra dose of adrenaline slams into my bloodstream. I’ve got to get her to a doctor. Fast.
“There’s a knife in the truck. Do you have time to sterilize it?” she says, panting.
“What?” I’m so busy clicking through solutions, I don’t get it.
“I’ve seen the movies. You have to cut it open and suck out the venom.”
That pulls a surprised chuckle from me. “Don’t believe everything you see on TV. I’ve read that it doesn’t help, and opens you up to infection.” I pat her back. “Besides, I don’t like you near well enough to do that.”
She manages a shaky smile, but panic has eaten through her toughness, and for the first time since I’ve met her, she looks like the scared young woman that she is. The best thing to do is keep her calm. A racing heartbeat is going to spread the poison faster.
“Come on.” I guide her forward with my hand on her back. “You get pillion seat.”
“Do you know how to do this?”
I grit my teeth. “On-the-job training.” Twisty, late-afternoon-shaded mountain roads aren’t the best place to learn to ride two-up, but I don’t have much choice. I have to get her down the mountain. Now.
By the time we get to the bike, she’s shivering. Whether from shock or venom, I have no way of knowing, and it doesn’t really matter anyway—there’s nothing I can do about it here. I hand her Dad’s jacket. “Put this on.” I unhook the bungees and grab my duffel. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to put this in the truck and lock up.”
I jog to the truck, disastrous scenarios piling in my mind like leaves in a gutter. This is dangerous for all three of us. I could drop the bike on any one of the curves on the way down the mountain. We could hit a deer. Nevada could lose consciousness and fall off. I could—shut up, Carly. This is not helpful.
I dump my duffel, grab Nevada’s wallet from the console, then lock the truck and jog back to the bike. I can’t let any of those things happen, that’s all. There’s too much at stake, and it’s all on me.
Nana’s scratchy voice echoes in my mind: Suck it up, Buttercup. Life is a bitch, so if it’s easy, you’re doing it wrong.
Sucking it up, Nana. Sucking it up.
“Are you sure you can do this?” Nevada’s voice is shaky.
“Yes.” I check the back of her leg, being careful not to touch it. It’s swollen, and angry red. “How does it feel?”
“Hurts like a mother.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”
I wish she had on long pants, and something more substantial on her feet than tennis shoes. But if we go down, a little skin is going to be the least of our worries. I lift my helmet, then hesitate. “I’d let you wear it, but if I get a bug in my eye…”
“Can we just go? I’m getting really dizzy.”
That is not a good symptom. My stomach jitters like a drunk with DTs. I pull on the helmet. “Okay, there’s only three things you have to remember, but they’re really important, so listen up.”
“Trust me, I’m listening.”
I bend over and drop the passenger foot pegs. “If I stop, you keep your feet on the pegs. I’ll handle the rest. But most important”—I touch her arm, to get her to look at me—“you have to stay right behind me. If I lean, you lean. No more, no less than I do. You’re my shadow, okay?”
She nods, and her eyes close. “You said three.”
I finish cinching the helmet strap, throw my leg over, and settle. “The sissy bar will help keep you secure, but you’ve got to put your arms around me and hang on. You hear?”
I hit the kickstand with my heel and it retracts. I make sure my feet have good purchase in the gravel, and tighten my hands on the grips. “Okay, throw your leg over.”
The suspension dips, and while she gets settled, I try to slow my mind. I’ve got to think clearly and ahead at the same time. I feel her fumbling for the foot pegs, then her arms come around my waist. Good. The closer she is, the easier it’ll be for her to lean with me, instead of fighting it.
I fire the engine, and check the empty road for cars. “We’re off in a cloud of turkey turds. Just hang on.”