The Last True Cowboy by Laura Drake (26)

Nevada

A wooden sign blows by the bus window:

I knew Carly lived in the toolies, but damn.

The bus turns onto an old-fashioned town square, with a peeling gazebo plunked in the middle of a bunch of dead grass. Most of the store windows are covered in butcher paper. Snowflakes drift from gray flat-bottomed clouds to melt on deserted sidewalks.

This place is the back-end of civilization. A good place to hide.

The bus turns, and I see it: an old train station with the sign CHESTNUT CREEK CAFÉ above the door.

I pull the cord, lift my backpack, and stumble down the aisle as the bus comes to a halt.

The driver watches me in the long rearview mirror over his head and the door opens with a squeal.

I step out into three inches of slushy water and the bus pulls away with a roar and a choking cloud of diesel. My tennies are soaked, and the wind whips right through my denim jacket. Cora tried to get me to buy a heavier one before I left, but that would’ve been just one more thing to carry. I don’t need the weight.

Warm light from the café spills onto the cold sidewalk. There are people inside. It looks welcoming. Yeah, like I’d fall for that.

Besides, I could give a crap about a welcome. I need a job.

My shoes squelch all the way to the glass door with old-fashioned gold lettering. Metal bells jingle against the door when I pull it open. I step into a hug of heat and the smell of grilling beef. Shaking off the shivers, I wipe my freezing feet on the mat and look around.

Red vinyl booths, mostly occupied, line the windows on three sides, and in front of me, a counter with round stools covered with the butts of locals. Behind it, a serving window with a long chalkboard above, declaring the daily special. Hmmmm, meatloaf. My stomach snarls, reminding me I skipped breakfast and lunch.

The room is full of voices and laughter. I walk across the old black-and-white-patterned tile floor to take the last open stool at the counter.

A tall blonde in jeans, a checkered blouse, and a food-spattered apron steps up, holding up a steaming pot of coffee. “Cold night for a light jacket. Want some?”

“Oh, hell yes.” I flip over the mug in front of me and she pours. I’m about to ask about Carly when the bells tinkle behind me.

In walks Austin Davis, in a Marlboro man shearling coat, one arm weighted down by a carrier full of blanket-wrapped, kicking baby. Carly follows, laughing and shaking snowflakes out of her crazy red curls.

Patrons call to them.

“Hey, Austin.”

“There they are!”

“Carly!”

A frail old lady with fire-engine-red lipstick bleeding off her thin lips waves bony, talon fingers. “Austin Davis, you bring that baby over here right now. I need to give her some sugar.”

“Yes’m.” Austin stomps off his boots then walks to the booth and sets the carrier on the table.

Carly sees me, and her mouth drops to an O of surprise.

She rushes across the floor and wraps me in a hug. “Nevada Sweet, I hardly recognized you! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? What did you do to your hair?”

My fingers go to my new pixie cut, and I untangle myself. “Back up off me, Beauchamp.”

“Davis.”

I look down at the small rock on her hand. “Cora told me he finally made an honest woman of you.”

A lightning flick of pain crosses her face before her smile amps again.

Damn it, I always say the wrong thing, even when I mean well. Not that I often mean well, but I wouldn’t hurt Carly on purpose.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“Because, if I owned a phone, I’d have to talk to people.”

She laughs. “Same old Nevada.” She looks around the room. “Where’s Cora?”

“Wintering in Oregon, same as always.” I know Carly from when she ran away to the rodeo, preggers and scared. Cora went to visit her newest grandkid, and left me and Carly to handle the food truck. It was rocky, but in the end, we didn’t kill each other.

“I thought you were going to stay with her until the rodeo circuit starts up again.”

“Hang around a bunch of squalling kids? Not hardly.” That’s at least partly true. The other part, she doesn’t need to know about. “Thought I’d stop in and see if you had any work.”

I can read her face like the Houston Chronicle. Her lips turn south, and one cheek lifts in a wince. “I don’t—”

“No problem. Just thought I’d check before I headed to Albuquerque.” I push off the stool.

She frowns, studying my face. “No, wait. Let me see what I can do…” She waves at the blond waitress.

“Hey, forget it, okay?” I knew this was a mistake. I’d fit in this cozy place like a coyote at the kennel club. I shoulder the strap of my backpack and reach in my pocket for a couple bills to pay for the coffee.

“Dang it, Sweet, would you stop being so stubborn?” She nods to the kitchen door when the blond waitress walks up. “You. Sit.” She glares at me and points at the stool. “Stay.”

“Marriage made you even bossier.” Might as well sit. Maybe my feet will warm up before I go out again.

I take a sip, and the coffee burns its way down, warming me from the inside out.

Austin is now in the middle of a crowd of people wanting to pet the baby. The cowboy I saw last summer would have never put up with not being the center of attention, but he looks as proud as if he pushed that baby out himself. She has her hand around his little finger, but it’s clear from the sappy look on his face that it’s really the other way around.

I order the meatloaf from a young waitress who stops by. When she brings it, I dig in. It’s not just that I’m hungry—I know good cooking when I taste it. Green peppers, jalapeno, and some spice I can’t quite name make it the best meat loaf I’ve eaten. I look through the serving window. A tall, thin, broad-shouldered guy has his back to me at the grill, a long black braid trailing to his waist.

I’m mopping up gravy with a piece of homemade bread when Carly and an older blonde come through the swinging door.

“Nevada, this is Lorelei, our manager. Lorelei, Nevada Sweet.”

I nod.

Carly looks around until she finds her husband, and a smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “What with Faith, and our new business, I don’t get in here much. Lorelei would be your boss. But you need to know, we’ve already got a cook—a good one.”

“Yeah, I found that out.” I wave at my empty plate. “That’s okay; I’ll just—”

“But we do need a busboy, and someone to waitress in the busy times,” Lorelei says. “Carly vouches for you, so that’s good enough for me.”

Carly hasn’t stopped looking me over. “I know you can do better, but I want you to stay. Will you take it?” She names an hourly rate that’s better than the job deserves.

I don’t do charity. But I’m tired. Tired of running. Tired of worrying. And I’d be near invisible here in the armpit of America. Besides, it’s too cold to be on the road. Maybe I’ll stay ’til spring, when it warms up. I hold out my hand to Lorelei. “Okay.” I can’t meet Carly’s eye, but I pull the word from my gut and spit it out. “Thanks.”

“Come with me.” Carly clamps on the sleeve of my jacket and pulls. “I want you to meet Fish.”

“I just ate. And I’m not a fan of tuna.”

She laughs that tinkling laugh I remember. “No, silly.” She pulls me through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Nevada, this is Joe ‘Fishing Eagle’ King. Fish, to his friends.”

The name makes sense when he turns around. He’s obviously American Indian: long burnished face, raven-black hair, with a prominent nose. His eyes…it’s like they see into me.

“Fish, this is Nevada Sweet.”

He takes his time, looking his fill.

“What, do I have meatloaf on my chin?”

He smiles like he knows something I don’t. He’s got a mouthful of startling white teeth. “Welcome, Nevada.”

I lift my chin. “Thanks.” That’s two “thanks” in five minutes. Gotta watch that.

Carly says, “Nevada’s going to be bussing tables, and helping out cleaning up in the kitchen, and waitressing when we’re short. But she’s a heck of a short-order cook by trade, so if you want to take some time off for a change, you can.”

“We’ll see.” He turns back to the grill. “Nice to have the option.”

Carly tows me back through the swinging door. “You’ll come home with us for tonight.”

“I’ll just get a hotel room.”

She stops, and puts her hands on her hips. “Did you see a hotel anywhere around? The closest one is five miles down the road to Albuquerque, and how would you get back for your shift in the morning?”

“Hitch a ride.” I don’t want to be the flat spare tire in their home-sweet-home.

“Oh, shut up, Sweet. You’re coming home with me. You look beat. Austin will bring you back in the morning.”

I don’t have anything to say to that.

“Come on, we’ll rescue my husband and baby, and get home.”

It’s too cold to sleep outside, and she’s not letting go of my arm, so I follow.

“I’m sorry, everyone, but we’ve got to get this princess home. Past her bedtime.” She touches his sleeve. “You ready, Babe?”

“Ready, Tigger.” He looks down at Carly, smug as a dog by the fire.

The massive snake in my chest wakes, writhing, making me queasy. I’m not jealous. I’d never get married, much less have a baby. But the reminder that I’m alone in the world…it gives me a lonesome ache sometimes. I shove it down, and the snake goes back to sleep.

“Nevada’s spending the night. She’ll start work in the morning. Thought you could bring her in when you go to the hardware.”

“Sure thing.” But from his corner-of-the-eye look, he’s not thrilled.

Well, I won’t bother them long. I’m not taking the chance of bringing trouble to their door. Besides, I’d probably have a blood sugar problem from all the sweetness flying around. I follow them out the door between good-byes and blown kisses from the diners.

Turns out, they live a ways out of town in a big rambling old house with a shake roof and a porch all around. Austin opens the front door for Carly and me, then carries the baby in.

“You forgot to lock the door.” I glance around to see if the furniture is gone.

“We’re in the country, silly.” Carly unzips her ski jacket and hangs it on a hook by the front door. “No one locks their doors out here.”

I shrug. If they don’t care about being robbed, I don’t.

“Come on. I’ll show you the guest room.” Carly hefts the sleeping baby out of the carrier and leads me through the kitchen—a modern room with shiny appliances, made to look like old stuff—through a hall, to a small room behind the stairs. She snaps on the light. “Here you go. We have more bedrooms upstairs, but if Faith cries, it’ll be quieter here.”

The room has a whitewashed dresser, a rocking chair in the corner, and an iron bed covered in one of those old-fashioned nubby bedspreads. “This is nice.” I drop my backpack right next to the bed.

“Oh, you’re going to need blankets. Here.” She hands over the sleeping baby. “I’ll be right back.” She walks out.

The baby frowns in her sleep and squirms, so I settle her in the crook of my arm before she starts yelling. Doing the math from when I met Carly, the baby is around eight months old; all legs and head and she weighs a ton.

Her eyes open. Seeing who’s holding her, two little commas form between them. Shit, this is going south.

I walk and bounce her. Where the hell is Carly?

The baby’s lower lip pops out and she pulls in a breath.

“Hey, hey little girl.”

Her look shifts to undecided.

“You got nothing to complain about. I’m bouncing you. You’re warm. You have people who think you’re the bomb. You have a nice house, and all you can eat. What’s the problem?”

Her face clears, and she looks up at me with wise eyes, waiting to hear what else I have to say.

“There’s not one rat in this house, and I’m fairly sure your dad’s drug of choice is a longneck on the weekend.”

She reaches a pudgy hand up and pats my face.

“Trust me, kid, it doesn’t get better than this.”

She grabs my nose and squeezes.

“Ow, ow, stop!”

Carly rushes in, dumps a heavy American Indian–pattern blanket on the bed, and pulls the baby’s nails from my nose. “Sorry. I should have warned you. She’s into noses this week.” She takes the baby and lays her on her shoulder.

“Kid’s got a grip.”

“Yeah, wait ’til she gets hold of your hair.” She rubs circles on the baby’s back. “Nevada, what happened? Why did you leave Cora?”

I shake my head. I can’t tell her I’m on the run. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Hey, you can tell me. I’ve seen your butt, remember?” She smiles.

Carly probably saved my life that day, riding me down the mountain on the back of her motorcycle. “That was your fault. How’m I supposed to know to look for rattlesnakes when I pee in the woods?”

She winks. “But you know it now, right?”

“Hell, now I watch in a bathroom.”

She snorts. “Okay, you’re tired, so I’ll leave it for tonight. But tomorrow morning…”

“Yeah, yeah, so you say.”

She turns and walks away. The baby’s face is soft in sleep, her fat lips puffing a little on the exhale, relaxed, trusting that Mom’s got her.

Lucky kid. I close the door, kick off my wet shoes by the old-fashioned floor grate, unbuckle the ankle sheath that holds my knife, and strip out of my jeans. Mom’s NA Welcome chip falls out of the pocket. I pick it up and rub my thumb over the Serenity Prayer on the back. It’s cheap plastic, more like a Vegas poker chip than something special. They probably give out better ones to people who go to more than one meeting. I tuck it back in the watch pocket.

The door is old-fashioned, with a hole for a tiny key. I dig through the dresser, but there isn’t one, so I pull the rocker over and shove the top under the door. I’m pretty sure I’m safe here, but taking chances isn’t what’s kept me alive so far.

I fall onto the bed, pull up the blanket that smells of cedar, and drop my head on the feather pillow. It’s good to get off the road, to be warm and safe.

I’ll decide in the morning if I’m going to stay.

Fish

“Come on, Awee. You move like a tsisteeł.” I slow my steps until I’m abreast of the fourteen-year-old girl who’s lagging. The rim of the horizon is the color of a dove; sunrise is minutes away.

“Who’re you calling a rat, Fishing Eagle?” She pants.

“I called you a tsisteeł.”

“What’s that?” She picks up the pace a bit.

I smile. “You’ll have to look it up.”

She groans.

I run on ahead on the path my feet have trod hundreds of times. “Only a half mile left to go. Pick it up. Do you want the Zuni girls to beat you in the Wings Competition?”

The girls in the front of the pack sprint away. They may not be fluent in Navajo yet, but they have tribal pride. And I have pride in them.

The reservation itself is one hundred twenty miles from here, but a good percentage of the county population is Navajo. I do what I can to teach our young ones the old ways, as I was taught. It’s not easy when we’re fighting for attention with the rest of the world on their phones. But the ones who stay, and the ones who return disgusted and disillusioned…they want to know.

The sun tips over the horizon just as we reach the cluster of old hogans and trailers. I’m breathing hard, but not sweating. I gather the girls in a group as the last stragglers run in. “It’s always a good day when you get to greet the gods in the morning. Yá'át'ééh abíní.”

“You have a good day too, Fish.”

I get in my battered truck and head for my place, and a shower. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for work.

A half hour later, hair still wet, I pull up behind the café. I unlock the back door, flip on the lights, and when I walk to the dining room to raise the blinds, I see Austin and the new girl, Nevada, arguing on the sidewalk. I open the front door.

“You’re not carting me back and forth every day.”

“Just until you find something. It’s not a problem.”

“Not happening.”

“Okay, then at least…” He reaches in his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and pulls out some bills.

Nevada puts her hands on her hips and gets in his face. “I don’t. Do. Charity.”

When Austin backs up a step, I grin. Spunky little thing, backing up a rough-stock rider. “You want to continue this inside? I’m freezing here.”

“We’re done here.” She flips a hand to wave Austin off, and pushes her way past me.

“Damn.” Austin watches her stomp her way to the kitchen. “I was just trying to help.”

“The proud ones are the prickliest.”

“Don’t matter to me, but for some reason, Tig has a soft spot for that girl. Damned if I see why.” He shakes his head and dons his cowboy hat. “See ya, Fish.”

“Later.”

I close the door and lock it.

“What do you want me to do?”

She’s standing behind me in one of my extra-long aprons that almost brushes the floor. But doesn’t cover the slogan on her T-shirt: SARCASM: IT’S HOW I HUG.

Not going there. I’ll let Lorelei deal with the dress code. I reach to lift the apron strings.

“Hey!” She backs up, her face mottled red.

I hold up my hands. “I’m trying to show you how to tie that so you’re not tripping over it.”

“Oh.”

She allows it, but I can see from the taut muscles in her forearms she doesn’t like it. I pull a horizontal pleat in the apron, cross the laces in the back, and reach around her sides to hand them to her. “Tie them in the front, or you’re going to be stepping on those, too.”

Head down, she pulls it tight and ties a bow. “I just don’t like people touching me, that’s all.”

“Noted.” She reminds me of a Chihuahua my grandmother had when I was a kid. It snarled at everyone but her, and even bit my ankle once. When I threatened to kick it, she said, “Be gentle, ghe. It is not angry. It is afraid, acting the big dog to cover it up.” Man, I miss my amá sání.

“You want me to fire up the grill?”

Easy to see the job she really wants. “Why don’t you pull up the shades, sweep, and then come back and unload the dishwasher? Our early waitress will be here in a sec.” There’s a knock at the back door.

Sassy Medina bounces in, pink cheeks and all. “Hey, Fish. Nice day, huh?”

“A beautiful day.”

“I think today should be—” She stops when Nevada steps in.

The two couldn’t be more different. Sassy’s all curves and bouncy blond hair and enthusiasm while Nevada’s rectangular, athletic frame and short brown hair are as sharp as her snark.

“Sassy Medina, meet Nevada Sweet. She’s our new busboy…girl…person.”

Sassy’s face lights up. “Oh, good. The high school boys we had bussing were gross.”

Nevada rolls her eyes. “I’ll get to work.”

I glance through the serving window. A couple people are standing on the sidewalk, stamping their feet to stay warm. The day has begun.

After the lunch rush, Lorelei says through the window, “Nevada, why don’t you take your lunch break?”

Nevada pulls the silverware tray from the industrial dishwasher. “Nah, I’m good.”

“You have to eat. Meals while you’re working are on the house.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sets down the tray and wipes her hands on her apron.

“What’ll you have?” I ask her. “I’m making a BLT for myself. Want one?”

“I’ll make my own lunch.”

I am about to object, but the look of longing on her face when she steps to the grill stops me. She looks like a little kid, looking through the window of an ice cream parlor. “On second thought, I need to check inventory. You mind making mine, too?”

“Sure. You want fries?” A not-quite smile dances around the edge of her lips.

“Heck yes.”

“Then move.”

I watch her out of the corner of my eye as I pretend to go through our stock.

Not a wasted movement, she drops in a full fry basket, puts bacon on the grill, and cracks two eggs, then scrambles them. “You need some music in here.” She glances to the order wheel, then at me.

I shake my head. “They can sit for a couple minutes. You need to eat.”

“Like I’m going to starve in the next ten minutes?” One last longing look at the wheel, then she pulls up the fry basket, gives it a practiced bounce to shed oil, while scraping eggs off the grill with a spatula.

“Where’d you learn to cook?”

She shrugs, and pulls bread out of the toaster. “Here and there. Why?”

She looks at me as if I’ve asked if she was wearing underwear. Lots more to this prickly girl than she shows on purpose. “Just wondering. You clearly know your way around a kitchen.” I pull out two plates, and she fills them; mine with a perfect BLT and fries, hers with a breakfast burrito and fries.

We lean our butts against the counter to eat.

“You know, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the Lunch Box Café, down the square, is looking for a cook.”

Her brows raise, and her eyes light. Then the scowl that seems to be her normal expression falls again. “They’ve got to be the competition, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Not doing it.” She shakes her head and brushes a crumb from her mouth with her little finger. “I owe Carly. I pay my debts.”

“Yeah, I heard about the rattler butt strike.”

She whirls to me, face red. “It wasn’t my butt. It was the back of my leg.”

I smile. “I know. I’m just teasing you.”

She slaps her hand on the stainless counter. It sounds like a gong. “Why don’t we have a few chuckles at your expense, then?”

My face heats. I, of all people, know what it’s like to be the brunt of jokes. “You’re right. Sorry.”

A glacial silence fills the kitchen, dampening sound like a heavy snow.

My grandmother’s Chihuahua has nothing on this stray.