Читать книгу Into The Storm - Helen DePrima - Страница 13
ОглавлениеDARKNESS BROKEN BY glaring light, sleet like tiny burns on his face, then falling and wet and cold. A woman’s voice: “Work with me, cowboy.” Darkness again.
The woman’s voice roused him: “Jacob, can you hear me? Open your eyes.”
He must be dead! No one but Ma ever called him Jacob.
“Come on, open your eyes.” A Southern voice, not his mother’s. He gave a grunting gasp of relief and squinted into a bright light.
“Open ’em wide—good. How many fingers?”
He managed to count three fingers.
“You know what day it is?”
He wrinkled his forehead, rummaging for the right answer. “Yesterday?”
She laughed. “Fair enough. Okay, you can go back to sleep.”
* * *
JAKE OPENED HIS eyes to level sunlight throwing shadows across stained ceiling tiles. Where was he?
He thought he remembered a woman’s voice, a silhouette bending over him. A soft rustle to his right made him turn his head. The room spun, his stomach heaved. Closed his eyes, waited and then tried again. Someone in the next bed—he could see only a wild mane of dark hair.
“Annie?” He knew it couldn’t be Annie.
The woman threw back the covers and swung her denim-clad legs out of bed. She yawned widely and pushed her hair back from her face before crossing to where he lay.
“Welcome back,” she said. “How do you feel?”
Like he’d been trampled by a flock of dirty sheep. The left side of his face ached and so did his nose. He made a wordless sound of disgust.
“That good, huh? Could have been lots worse, with Jim Beam as your copilot.”
“Wha...?”
“You remember anything?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to order his thoughts. “Bull riding ended about four—I hung around maybe half an hour. I called home before I hit the road...” No, that didn’t sound right. “I called my neighbor.” And opened the bottle. Had he taken a drink? Pretty sure he hadn’t.
He opened his eyes. “You called me Jacob.”
“That’s your name, isn’t it? The picture on your license even looks like you.”
He grabbed for the region where his wallet should have been and discovered he wore only his briefs.
“I hung your clothes to dry,” she said, gesturing toward his shirt and Wranglers draped over a chair. “You slipped in the snow and got pretty wet, plus whiskey all over your jeans. Don’t worry, your wallet’s on the table, minus fifteen bucks for your half of the room.”
He jacked himself up on his elbows and promptly fell back, groaning. “I gotta tell you, miss, I don’t recall a thing except...” A bizarre image surfaced. “I could swear I saw someone leading a calf...”
She laughed. “You saw Stranger. Stranger, come.”
Jake found himself looking up into a grizzled brown face, pink tongue lolling between massive jaws. “Whoa, he’s bigger than a calf!”
“Maybe a little bigger—he’s a mastiff-wolfhound mix, the vet thought. Or deerhound and Great Dane. We were hoping for a ride. I thought you were going to stop, then you started to skid—”
Bile rose in his throat. “Did I wreck my rig?”
“Not to speak of, just nose-dived into the ditch. The rear wheels were still on hard gravel, so I got it back on the road—you had passed out.” She frowned. “Maybe I should have gotten you to an emergency room, but you didn’t seem much hurt, and you smelled like a distillery. I didn’t want you to have trouble with the cops or your insurance.”
She moved toward him. “Need some help sitting up? Let me—”
“No! I mean, no, thanks.” He heaved himself up against the vinyl-padded headboard and took a couple deep breaths. When his head cleared, he took his first good look at his rescuer.
Tall, probably close to his own five-ten, with arms and shoulders toned like a gymnast. Thick wavy hair, more black than brown, green eyes and amber skin over high cheekbones. Part Indian, he’d lay money, but he couldn’t guess which tribe. With the jeans she wore a black tank top. Maybe in her early thirties, but wariness in her eyes added years and reminded him of a she-coyote watching from just out of range.
“Guess I owe you for getting me out of the ditch last night,” he said.
She shrugged. “Maybe you wouldn’t have crashed if you hadn’t tried to stop for us. Call it even—Stranger and I didn’t have to spend the night under a bridge.”
Jake looked around—faded floral spreads on the beds, a blond bedside table scarred with cigarette burns and a single armchair upholstered in cracked pink vinyl. “Where did we spend the night?”
“I passed a sign that said Welcome to Cuba, wherever that is,” she said, “and pulled in at the first Vacancy sign—the Plainsman Motel.”
“Did the clerk offer you the hourly rate?”
Her face flamed. “You mean...”
“So I’ve heard—I wouldn’t know personally.”
“No wonder the guy looked at me funny when I asked for two beds.” Her chin came up. “Who cares? He’ll never see me again.”
“You know my name,” Jake said. He had a monster headache, but at least the room had stopped spinning. “What’s yours?”
“Shelby.”
Jake waited.
“Doucette,” she said.
“Cajun, am I right? I used to rodeo with a cowboy from Louisiana.” He stuck his hand out. “Howdy, Shelby Doucette. Where you headed?”
“A ranch near Durango,” she said, touching his hand briefly. “A lady adopted a couple mustangs—her husband wants me to start them.”
“That’ll be Ross Norquist—I heard about those horses. He can’t say no to Liz, but he’s scared she’ll get herself killed. You any good at breaking horses?”
“I gentle horses. And I am good at it—I’ve been doing it for more than ten years.” She took a deep breath. “I hate to ask, but could I ride with you as far north as you’re going? I can ask Mr. Norquist to pick me up from wherever you drop me off.”
“Shoot, girl, my spread’s less than an hour west from his. I’ll drive you straight to his corral.” He started to throw the covers back and then grinned. “If you’ll toss me my britches.”
He refused her offer of help into the bathroom—shaming enough she’d dragged him in here and undressed him. He braced his hands on the sink before looking into the mirror and then swore.
“You okay in there?”
“Yeah, fine—just got a look at my face.”
He heard her chuckle. “Pretty scary.”
She had cleaned most of the blood off his face and fixed a strip of adhesive tape across the bridge of his nose. He touched it gingerly—probably broken, not for the first time. Two black eyes and a long scrape along his right cheek made him look like the loser in a bar brawl.
By the time he came out fully dressed, he felt closer to normal. Shelby had covered the tank top with a blue plaid flannel shirt and had tamed her hair into a thick braid tied with red yarn.
The morning sun had already reduced last night’s snow to slushy puddles in the graveled parking lot. Jake squinted up and down the row of concrete block units, relieved he didn’t see any familiar vehicles. Bad enough he’d be answering questions about his face without explaining his rig parked outside a hot-pillow joint.
“I threw the floor mat in the back last night,” Shelby said, “and left the windows open a crack to air out the cab.”
Jake shook his head. “Must have been close to a quart of bourbon spilled—I guess I didn’t screw the cap on tight.”
She held out his keys, but he waved them off. “You drive,” he said. “There’s a good little diner about ten miles north—we’ll get breakfast there.”
* * *
A ROUND-CHEEKED WOMAN wearing a snowy apron bustled out to greet them when they entered Rosie’s Kitchen. “Jake, I was so scared for your boy last night, when we watching on the TV. That bull, stepping right on his leg!” She pinched his chin and turned his face right and left. “What, you’re riding bulls, too? Crazy like Tom?”
“Nothing that exciting, Rosie,” he said, giving her a quick hug. “Smacked into my steering wheel.” He nodded toward Shelby. “This lady came along and got my rig out of the ditch.”
“You’re one lucky hombre.” She swatted his chest with her order pad. “Coffee first, while I fix your usual.” She took Shelby’s order for a cheese omelet and returned to the kitchen, yelling in Spanish at a doleful-looking man at the grill—her husband, Martin, Jake told Shelby.
“You want some bacon or sausage with your omelet?” Jake asked.
“I’d love some,” Shelby said, “but I lay off meat for a few days before I start new horses, especially ones that haven’t been around people much. Horses are prey animals. It’s better if I don’t smell like I might want them for my next meal.”
“Where’d you learn that? I never heard it before, but it makes sense.”
“From my granddaddy, and he heard it from his granddaddy. I don’t know if it matters, but what can it hurt?”
“How’d you hear about Ross’s mustangs?”
“I keep a standing ad in Western Horseman,” she said, “but most of my jobs come by word of mouth. The rancher I worked for last in Lubbock knew Mr. Norquist.”
By the time Jake had downed his first cup of coffee and most of his cheese and bean enchilada with green chili, the headache had retreated to a small zone behind his left eye. He slouched on the red leatherette and watched Shelby devour her omelet.
“You being afoot the backside of nowhere, I’m guessing your car broke down,” he said. “Where abouts?”
She grimaced. “Albuquerque. I had to leave it at the Lincoln dealership—they need to find a fuel filler tube for a ’90 Town Car.”
“Whoa, girl! No telling how long that will take! Shouldn’t you have something easier to fix, traveling cross-country between jobs?”
“I expect I should,” she said with a sigh, “but it belonged to my granddaddy. It’s a good road car and big enough to sleep in if I need to. I caught a ride with a trucker who was going to be passing through Durango. The service manager vouched for him—his brother-in-law. Once we got off the Interstate, he changed his mind about the ride being free.” She tightened her lips. “I told him I’d sooner walk.”
“Miserable so-and-so, setting you down miles from nowhere!”
“My choice—better than what he had in mind. Stranger backed me up.”
Jake glanced out the window at the dog sunning himself in the bed of the truck. “Guess somebody with evil intentions might walk soft around a dog that size.”
“He’s meek as a mouse unless he gets worried about me,” she said. “Then, stand back.”
“Funny name for a dog.”
“From my mama’s favorite gospel song.” She sang in a husky contralto. “I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger a’traveling through this world of woe.” I found him limping along I-30 in Arkansas just about starved and his paws worn bloody from running on pavement. Somebody must have dumped him off.”
He couldn’t fathom anyone being so heartless, although he’d seen worse. “Some people just aren’t worth killing.”
He refused to let her pay for her breakfast and climbed back into the passenger seat. “I could drive,” he said, “but you’re doing fine. This road takes us all the way to Durango. I’ll give you directions to Norquist’s from there.”
He sipped coffee from his travel mug while Shelby maneuvered his rig out of the cramped parking lot and onto Route 550 headed north. The sun shone and he had a full belly; he hadn’t known such uncomplicated pleasure since just after his daughter’s birth, he reckoned, before the sky had started to fall in slow motion. He stretched his legs and leaned back.
