Читать книгу Cool Hand Hank / A Cowboy's Redemption: Cool Hand Hank / A Cowboy's Redemption - Kathleen Eagle - Страница 9

“Kevin’s back,” Hoolie announced as he came thumping in the back door. “Add one for supper. Any coffee left?”

“It’s cold, but you can nuke it. I’m brewing iced tea.”

Sally laid aside the ice pack she’d been using on her right eye and filled the teakettle. Hoolie was still banging around in the mudroom, and she was only getting about half of what he was saying, but she’d catch up on the rerun. He had a habit of repeating himself, especially if one of the teens court-ordered to work at the sanctuary was giving him trouble.

“So I’ve got him ridin’ fence along the highway,” was the upshot as he clomped into the kitchen. “You know damn well there was no horse on the road, but that don’t mean Tutan didn’t put another hole in the fence to back up his story. We got some volunteers set to help cut hay this weekend. So Hank and me, we’re gonna…” He noticed the ice pack. “You feelin’ okay, big sister?”

“I’m not okay with that question.” Cold packs were her standard first-line remedy, and they were helping. Loss of vision in one eye wasn’t unusual with multiple sclerosis, but neither was remission. She’d had this problem before and regained a good measure of sight back. She’d do it again without losing ground anywhere else. Not for a good long while.

She closed the microwave door on his cold coffee and pressed the button. “My health is my business. I want nothing but positive health vibes. That wheelchair is staying in the basement. There’s only one person around here who needs a cane.”

“Crutch.”

“This reprieve could last for months. Years, maybe.”

“Trouble with your eye again?”

“A little, but I’m loading up on vitamins.” She believed in vitamins. Exercise, meditation, hydrotherapy—she believed in believing. She popped the microwave open and handed Hoolie his coffee. “You and Hank are going to what?”

“Move the cows.”

“You can’t ride with that ankle.”

“I’m not okay with that order.” He pulled two chairs away from the kitchen table, sat in one and propped his foot with its dirtier-by-the-day cast on the other. “I’m taking this damn thing off. My foot itches. That means the mummy boot has been on long enough.”

“What does Hank say?”

Hoolie questioned her with a look.

“He’s a professional.”

“You ask him about your eye, and I’ll ask him about my ankle.”

“No deal.” She snatched the whistling kettle off the stove. “I know more about MS than most doctors. These symptoms come and go. Eventually, some of them come and stay, but I’m not on any fast track to eventually.” She pointed to his ankle. “That is going to heal. Give it time, and it’ll go the way of all your other previously broken bones.”

“My health is my business,” he echoed in an irritating falsetto.

“Not when all your stories end with I got the scars to prove it.”

“I tell it like I remember it. The truth is always in there somewhere.” He sipped his coffee. “I said I’d look after you.”

“Look all you want. Just don’t talk about it.” She laid a hand on his bony shoulder. “I’ll ride with Hank. We’ll move the cows, and then we’ll ride out to Coyote Creek and see if we can get a look at the Don.”

“If something happens, you tell him why. You wouldn’t fall so much if you’d keep a cane handy when you get tired or—”

“Three weeks.” She squeezed his shoulder. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Hank was finishing up the hooves on the saddle horses when Sally came looking for him in the barn. From the first, he’d had her figured for a night person. Seemed he was right. Their ships would be passing mid to late morning, which was fine by him. Hoolie had filled him up with a hearty breakfast while they planned a few things out. He met one of the helpers he kept hearing about—Indian kid named Kevin Thunder Shield, who showed up ready to ride. Hoolie hooked the kid up with a horse and gave him an assignment, but Hank couldn’t let the gelding go without a hoof trimming. And he wasn’t herding any cattle until the rest of the saddle horses got the same treatment.

“That looks great,” Sally said of the third set of hooves he’d filed. “You are good.”

“The trim’s the important part. Right, girl?” He patted the black mare’s rump. She’d behaved well. Hard to believe she’d ever been wild. “The shoes are icing on the cake. It’s getting the right trim that makes the difference for most horses.”

“We go easy on the icing around here.”

“And that’s fine. These horses don’t have to hang out in stalls and watch their toenails grow. Except that one.” He pointed to a big gray gelding. “Without shoeing that crack will keep growing.”

Sally ran her hand down the horse’s leg toward the hoof. “I didn’t see that.”

“I’ll take care of it when we get back. Hoolie and me, we’re gonna do some cowboyin'.”

She straightened and faced him with folded arms. “You were going to let Hoolie ride with that cast on his foot?”

“I was gonna ride with Hoolie. Figured he could do what he wanted with his foot.”

“Any objection to riding with me?”

He shrugged. “I’m here to help out.”

“Weak,” she warned.

“Let me try again. Objection? Hell, no. My pleasure.”

“That’s the spirit.” She gave a tight smile. “I’m an excellent cowboy.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She sighed and put her arms around the big gray gelding’s neck, nuzzling his thick black mane. “But I was hoping to ride Tank.”

“Tank?” Hank chortled. “I’ll have Tank retreaded for you by tomorrow.” He started loading his files and nippers into his shoe box. “I thought I’d try a Double D mustang. Maybe Zach has some started. I’m a pretty good finisher.”

“Me, too.”

“Once they’re green broke, I can put a nice handle on ‘em.”

“I’ll bet.” She raked her fingers through the gelding’s mane. “Tank was my first adoption. When I picked him out ten years ago, he was as wild as they come. I was a stock contractor back then, but Tank really opened my eyes.”

Hank eyed the horse. “He’s no Spanish Mustang.”

“Of course not. Like so many wild horses, he’s got a lot of draft blood in him. You know, a lot of them just sort of walked off into the sunset back in the days when farmers started going horseless. And during the Depression, when they were going homeless. Tank’s forebears were equine hobos.” She unhooked one of the horse’s crossties. “Can’t you just see them running across a herd of mustangs in the Badlands? Freeee at last!” she whinnied, and Tank’s ears snapped to attention.

Hank couldn’t help smiling. “Until they got their farm-boy asses kicked.”

“This big steel-drivin’ man’s gonna fix your hoof, Tank, so let’s let that remark pass.” She hooked a lead rope to the halter, scratched the horse’s neck, and he lowered his head. “If he calls you farm boy, he’s Henry,” she said in the horse’s ear.

“Nothin’ wrong with Henry.”

“I didn’t say there was. Some of my best friends are named Henry.”

“Hoolie?” he asked. She nodded. “Like I said, it’s a good backup name. What’s yours? Bet your mama didn’t name you Sally.”

“Ain’t tellin'. It’s a good name, but it doesn’t fit me, so I don’t use it.” She pointed to a small buckskin gelding. “I’m riding him. He fits me well. We call him Little Henry.”

Hank cracked up.

They rode side by side, soaking in sights and sounds and smells of summer in South Dakota without talking much. It was enough to point out the circling hawk, the coyote on the hill, the hidden gopher hole and to keep riding, keep looking and listening to the birds in the air, the insects in the grass, the thump-swish-thump of their mounts. It all felt right to Hank, as though he, too, had found a fit. Be damned if he’d try to work up some discomfort over feeling comfortable, not while it was working for him. This feeling was sacred.

He’d gotten away from the traditional practices his parents’ generation had struggled to take back from obscurity—ceremonies nobody wanted to explain and a language hardly anybody used—but he’d soaked up the stories. The People had emerged from the Black Hills. Paha Sapa. White Buffalo Calf Woman had given them the pipe, and the horse—Sunka Wakan, or sacred dog—had given them a leg up in a land only the Lakota truly understood and appreciated in its natural state. It was grassland. Pull the grass up by the roots, and the earth would fly away. Tell the river how to run, and you would pay a price that had less to do with money than with home. And home, for the Lakota, had less to do with a place to live than with a place to walk.

Preferably a dry one.

Hank loved the stories and honored the wisdom even if he’d taken up a different kind of medicine. Even if he’d let his family fall apart—the traditional Lakota’s worst nightmare—he believed that all people were relatives. All things? Being equal—not in this lifetime. But being relative? Sure. Relative to family life, being alone sucked.

Relative to reservation life, the old ways were healthy and holy. Relative to urban life, the reservation wasn’t half bad.

But relative to anyplace he’d ever been—and he’d been all over—the vicinity of the Black Hills felt right.

The Double D was southeast of the Hills, but Hank could see their silhouette looming at the edge of the grasslands like a hazy purple mirage, a distant village of ghost tipis. The sight was beyond beautiful. Its power worked his soul’s compass like polar magnetism. His whole body knew what it was about. It had been years since he’d pushed cattle on horseback, and while the method hadn’t changed, he realized the madness was gone. He was no longer the angry young man who resented the cattlemen who leased the Indian land its owners couldn’t afford to use. It didn’t matter that none of the animals belonged to him or that the land they were crossing was claimed by someone else. He was one with the horse, and the woman who rode abreast of him functioned easily as his partner. Cows moved willingly as long as their calves bleated regularly to check in. They must have known the grass was greener wherever they were headed. Maybe they trusted Sally not to let them down. They belonged to her, after all. They must have known something.

You’ve never had much luck with women, Night Horse. Maybe you should take it from her animals. Just go along with her. Nothing to worry about.

Either that or just take it. Take as much as she offers. Hell, the first few weeks are always the best.

Hank drew in a whole chestful of clean Black Hills air. He had a bad habit of thinking too deep and breathing too shallow. He was attracted to this woman, pure and simple. Thinking only complicated the matter.

Stop thinking, Night Horse. Enjoy the pure and simple. She’s pure. You’re simple.

Sally loved the way her world looked from the top of a horse. The way Little Henry’s gait made her hips move, the way he smelled, the way he snorted and strutted and swished his tail and made her sit up a little straighter, feel just slightly bigger than life—she loved every heady detail. But put the joy of sitting her horse together with the pleasure of watching Hank sit his, and Sally was all sweet spot. Watching him swing down from the saddle and open a wire gate gave her goose bumps. Pushing the cattle through the gate gave a taste of success, and making it happen together rubbed her utterly the right way.

She watched him muscle the wire loop over the top of the gate post, admired his easy mount, lit up inside when he looked her way as if to say, What can I do for you now?

“Follow me,” she called out. “Let’s take a ride to the wild side.”

Little Henry pricked his ears, and Sally shifted her weight and gave him his head. She bid her hat good riddance as the wind rushed through her hair. Hank could have flown past her if he wanted to—his mare was faster than her little gelding—but he gave his horse cues according to her pace. When they reached the creek, Little Henry splashed right in. The crossing required a few yards of swimming this time of year, but nothing major.

For Sally.

She whooped and the water swooshed as Little Henry bounded up on dry land. Wet to the hip, she was loving every drop of water, every ray of sunshine, every bit of breeze. She circled her mount and saw Hank eyeing the water warily from the opposite bank.

“Don’t worry,” she called out. “She’s a good swimmer.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t have to be. I promise.”

He looked up at her. He’d held on to his hat, but clearly he wasn’t so sure about the value of her promise.

“I can go back and lead you across.”

“Hell, no.” He continued to stare at the water. “What’s my horse’s name?”

“Ribsy.”

“What kind of a name is that for a horse?”

“It’s from a book. My sister named her.” What difference did it make? What the heck was in a horse’s name? He wasn’t moving. Wasn’t looking at anything but the water. Needed a moment, maybe. “My sister, the teacher. It’s a kid’s book.” No connection. “Ribsy’s Henry’s best friend.” Still no movement. “Ribsy’s a dog.”

He looked up. “This horse is named after a dog?”

“Henry and Ribsy. Ribsy’s a dog.”

“Hoka Hey!” Hank called out as he nudged the mare with his boot heels.

She took the plunge. Hank kept his seat, and the big black easily ferried him across the water. He looked a little sallow, but his dignity was still intact.

“What did you call me?” Sally asked, grinning like a proud instructor. “Hooker something?”

“I said, Hoka Hey! It’s a good day to die.” He leaned forward and patted the mare’s neck. “Sunka Wakan.”

“That’s right,” she enthused. “It means holy dog, doesn’t it? Well, there you go. Ribsy, Phoebe and me, we’re your destiny. Stick with us, and your hydrophobia will be cured.”

“What’s that?” He glanced back at the murky water. “A monster with a bunch of arms?”

“I think that’s a hydra.”

“Yep. They’re all down there.” He looked up at her and smiled sheepishly as he joined her on the high ground. “Kind of embarrassing. I had a bad experience when I was a kid.”

“Maybe you should try a different war cry.”

They covered a lot of ground and saw a couple of eagles, a few deer and a few dozen mustangs before they found Don Quixote, a stout bay who’d surrounded himself with the prettiest mares on the Double D. There were roans and paints, mouse-brown grullos, buckskins and “blondies.” After what had turned out to be a more tiring ride than she’d expected, Sally was energized simply by the sight of them, mainly courtesy of her left eye. But the vision of blue sky, green grass, striated hills and a motley band of mustangs was glorious. She didn’t have to see Hank’s excitement. She could feel it. His rapt interest was palpable.

“Let’s get down for a while,” he said quietly, as though speaking might disturb something.

She nodded. He must have sensed her weariness because he swung to the ground and came to her, and she dismounted with far less grace than she would have wished. He noticed. He didn’t say anything, but he took her full weight in his arms, drew her up to him and recharged her with a deep, delicious kiss.

It wasn’t until he took his lips from hers that she realized she couldn’t feel her right leg. She had to hang on to him—not that she didn’t want to, but not for this reason.

“You made the earth move under my feet,” she said. “Either Night Horse or Charley horse, I’m not sure—ah!” The sound of sharp pain was an innocent lie, if there was such a thing. Everybody understood pain, at least to some extent. Numbness was harder to explain.

“Damn cousin Charley’s beatin’ my time.” He supported her against his right side. “Can’t let him get away with it.” He brought the horses along on the left and found a little grass for everybody on the shady side of a clump of chokecherry bushes.

“Better already.” Her butt welcomed contact with good old terra firma, but she felt obliged to protest. “I’m okay now.”

“Not so fast. I know how to—”

“Seriously, it’s coming back.”

“That’s Charley for you. Right calf?” He massaged with practiced hands. She didn’t feel much at first, but her nerves responded steadily to his gentle kneading. “This can be a sign of calcium deficiency.”

“I’ll load up on it tomorrow.”

“I’m abig believer in truth and supplements for all.”

“Good to know.”

“Better?”

“Infinitely. Like your talents.” Smiling, she grabbed his hand. “Wait. I think he’s moving into my feet.”

“Sorry, Charley,” he quipped as he slid his hands down to her boot.

She stilled them with hers. “I’ll take a rain check.”

“Sounds good.” He went to his saddle and brought back the canvas pack he’d tied behind the cantle. Squatting on his heels, he took out a bottle of water and cracked open the plastic cap. “It might be warm, but it’s wet.”

“You think of everything.” She took a long drink.

“Second nature when you spend your life on the road.”

“I’ll bet you’re starving. I do have supper waiting in the refrigerator. I almost brought something along, but then I thought, no, we’ll be sweaty and dirty, and we’ll appreciate it more after we get back, and it’s nice and fresh and…” She handed him the bottle. “Annie would have packed a nice picnic. She’s like you. She thinks of everything.”

He took a drink from the bottle and laughed. “It’s just water.”

“I’m easy.” She smiled. “Simple pleasures. I don’t do this often enough. I used to ride out here all the time, but it’s become…” She gazed at the bluffs in the distance. “I’ve become lazy. It’s easier to hop in the pickup. And now that Zach’s come on board…”

“You don’t get out here in a pickup. It’s too rough.”

“And we don’t want this area disturbed by anything motorized.” She pointed west. “There’s some public land beyond those hills. Very isolated. And there’s tribal land adjoining that.” She swung her hand in a northerly arc. “If… when we get those new leases, we’ll almost double our carrying capacity. The Tribal Council has been very supportive of our program, but Dan Tutan’s been leasing it forever, and he pays practically nothing for grazing permits on the public land. He has his own support from Pierre all the way to Washington.”

“You’re running publicly protected wild horses for the Bureau of Land Management, aren’t you? You should get preference. Plus, if you’ve got the Tribal Council…”

“We have the majority. We’re…pretty sure we do.”

“You can never be too sure about those Indians.”

“I’m not too sure about you.” She smiled. “But I know what assume makes out of me.” She lifted one shoulder. “And Tutan’s been taking us all for granted for far too long. He knows how to work the system. Like anything involving property, it’s all about location.”

“Tell us about it.” He glanced at the barren draw below. “I’ve got some beachfront reservation land for sale. Complete with a big bridge.”

“I’ll take it,” she enthused. “Where do I sign?”

“I’ll have my people draw up the treaty.” He adjusted his hat by the brim, leaned back on his elbows and eyed her for a moment. “You’ve got a good thing goin’ here. Why push it?”

“Because we can.” She leaned closer. “Because the push needs to be made. More needs to be done, and we can do it. All we have to do is show that our program is viable, that we can handle more land, more stock, and we’re in the catbird’s seat. Tutan’s free rein over the range will soon be over. For a considerable piece of these grasslands, it’s back to nature.”

“This part doesn’t look like it’s ever been away.”

“My father never got much use out of this part of the ranch. He would have sold it, but back then there weren’t any takers. But the takers are…” The look in his eyes set her back on her heels. The takers are what? The takers are who? “I don’t want to take any more land. I want to set some aside, and I’m willing to pay for the privilege of standing aside.” She smiled. “Pay with what? you may ask. My sister asks every other day. I have to get creative about getting more public support.”

“I seem to recall some mention of a plan.”

“Plan? What plan?” Mock innocence was one of her favorite shticks.

“It was on hold for the wedding. Then you had to get the honeymoon back on track. You are one smooth operator, Sally.” He plucked a droopy-headed grass stem and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “So, what’s the plan, and how many days before you have it in place? You’ve got what? Twenty-one?”

“Give or take.” She smiled. “Sam told the newlyweds to stay as long as they wanted.”

“And Zach told me if I had any problems, he could be back in twenty-four hours.”

“No worries, mate.”

“If I were a worrier, the words creative and plan might give me pause.”

“I’m glad you’re not.” Arms around her legs, she drew her knees up for a chin rest. “Because if I had a plan, I’d really want to tell you about it. I would really value your thoughts. You strike me as a practical man. And I’m a creative woman.” She gave a slow, sensual smile. “Yin and yang.”

“Hmm. If I were a thinking man, my first thought would be…” He winked. “Somebody’s yin-yangin’ my chain.”

She groaned. “Is that what passes for humor where you come from?”

“Well, there’s Indian humor, and there’s edumacated Indian humor.”

“Edumacated?”

“Half-assed educated, which is a dangerous thing.”

“Zach says you’re the best doc he knows.”

“If they ain’t broke, I can fix ‘em up good enough for the next round. You can’t take the cowboy out of the rodeo unless he’s out cold. Then he can’t argue.” He tossed his chewed grass. “'Course, I’m not a doctor. Started out to be, got myself edumacated.”

“Meaning?”

“Got married, had a kid, dropped out of school.”

“Happens to a lot of us. Even without the marriage and kid part.” She thought twice, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. “What happened to your son?”

“He got hit by a car. He was in a coma for six months. By the time he died…” He drew a long, deep breath and sighed. “By the time we let him go, we had nothin’ left.” He lifted one shoulder as he scanned the hills. “Bottom line, I thought she was watchin’ him, she thought I was watchin’ him.” He shook his head, gave a mirthless chuckle. “It’s not the bottom line that kills you. It’s all the garbage you have to wade through before you find it. And when you do, hell, there’s no way to forgive if you can’t even look at each other anymore.”

Sally could not speak. Her throat burned, and she knew it would be a mistake to open her mouth. She knew hospitals. Technicians with their tests, nurses with their needles, doctors with no answers—she knew them all. She imagined them easily. She knew what it felt like to be poked and prodded and eye-balled. It could be painful. It was often scary. When it became part of life’s routine, it was miserable, maddening, frustrating, and it hurt. Physically, when it was your own body, it hurt. Sometimes you thought, if this kills me, that’ll be it. Over and out. She could imagine that part. Easily. What she could not imagine was sitting beside the bed rather than lying in it, watching over your child, losing your child piece by piece until finally the terrible word had to be said.

She reached for his hand. He flinched, but she caught him before he could draw away and kissed him, there on the backs of his healing fingers, rough knuckles, tough skin. She met his wary gaze. Her eyesight was a little hazy, but her heart was not. Whatever she was feeling, it wasn’t pity. Wouldn’t give it, couldn’t take it.

He smiled, just enough to let her know he understood.

“So.” He glanced away, withdrew his hand, gave a brief nod. “Back to the plan.”

Hank thought it over on the ride back. She was pretty quiet—must’ve talked herself out—and he had time to watch the evening sky begin to change colors while he thought about the land, the horses, Sally and her big plan. She wanted to publicize the merits of the sanctuary and the appeal of owning a once-wild horse. She’d done some Internet research and pitched the idea of a documentary, but only a couple of documentary producers had responded, and they’d said the story had been done. She needed a new angle.

“I have a killer idea that I haven’t told anybody about except Hoolie. And now you.” Her secret Henrys, she’d called them, but he couldn’t see her keeping any secrets the way this one had tumbled out of her. She wanted to hold a competition for horse trainers. They would choose a horse from the best of the three-and four-year-olds, and they would commit to conditioning, gentling and training the horse to perform. She would bring in experienced judges, award big, huge cash prizes and auction off the horses. “It’s got everything,” she’d claimed. “History, romance, suspense, sports, gorgeous animals in trouble, beautiful people who care, and lots and lots of money.”

Hank had enjoyed the sound of her enthusiasm so much, he hadn’t asked whether the beautiful people cared about the animals or the money. He hadn’t asked where the money would come from. Maybe Zach’s brother, Sam, would sponsor the whole thing. He’d hit the jackpot, and he seemed like a good guy.

Covering the last mile between a job well done and supper, Hank knew one thing about the woman riding at his side: she lived for wild horses. She was the real Mustang Sally. She was serious about her dream, and no matter how big the undertaking, she would do what she had to do to make it come true. He was sure she had him figured into her doings somehow. It would be fascinating to watch the woman roll out the rest of her strategy. She’d already shown him she could get something out of him he never, ever gave.

Now it was his turn. She was keeping something close to the chest, some heavy weight that bore down on her. He’d seen it knock her over. He’d watched her get right back up. He wouldn’t press her—she had enough pressure—but she was going to have to strip off more than her clothes. Whatever she was figuring him for, trust would be the price for Night Horse insurance.

They crossed paths with Hoolie on his way out the back door. The way he said hope you two had a nice time made it sound like he was mad about something—supper, maybe, although he said he and Kevin hadn’t waited—and Hank questioned Sally with a look. She smiled, shrugged it off, said we did to the slamming door. “Grumpy old men,” she stage-whispered.

“I got twenty-twenty hearing, big sister.”

“I love you, too, ya big grump.” She lowered her voice. “The older he gets, the more he sounds like a mother hen.”

“Thirty-thirty,” was the rejoinder from the yard.

“Shoot me, then,” Sally called back, eyes sparkling. “Chicken sandwich anyone?” she whispered.

She wasn’t kidding about the chicken. Hank was used to cold suppers, but not like this. Sally piled on the fruits and vegetables, fresh-picked garden greens, potato salad and whole-grain bread. At first glance, it struck him as a woman’s kind of meal. At first bite, a man found himself taking his time. No rush to fill up when there was taste and talk on the table.

“I think your plan for a horse-training contest could work.” He could tell he had her at work, but he added, “I’d compete.”

“I was hoping you’d help me run it.”

“That wouldn’t play to my strong suit. I’m not much of a runner.” He leaned back in his chair and eyed her thoughtfully. “Especially behind a friend’s back. What do the newlyweds think about running a contest?”

“They’re on their honeymoon, for which I thank you very much.” Sally popped a green grape into her mouth. “Annie thinks we’ve already bitten off more than we can chew. She’s very careful, very conservative.”

“And she married a cowboy?”

“You toss careful and conservative out the door when you fall in love. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.” She went for another grape. “I don’t have time for conservative. Or patience. I know it’s a virtue, but time doesn’t stand still while we take small bites and chew thoroughly. This land and these horses look tough, but they’re vulnerable. They’re right for each other—they need each other. We’ve come a long way getting them back together, and we can’t backtrack. Every acre we add to our program is home for another horse.” She lifted one shoulder. “Okay, a tenth of a horse, which is why we need more acres. They need space. Wide-open space. You can’t have wild horses without wild places.”

“I’m down with you on wildness, but I’m no organizer.”

“I just need an able-bodied ally. Somebody who knows horses.” She leaned toward him. “You wouldn’t have to stick around. Just help me get started. Back me up.”

“I’m not from this reservation,” he reminded her. “I can back you up, but you’re always gonna have holdouts on the council.”

“I know, but you’re cousins, right?”

“We’re all related.”

“I’m not saying you all look alike to me. The Oglala and the Hunkpapa are like cousins, aren’t they? And you’re Hunkpapa.”

“A woman who knows her Indians.” He gave half a smile.

“Not my Indians. And I know cousins compete with each other, just like sisters do.”

“When we say all my relatives, we mean you, too.”

“But you don’t include Damn Tootin'. He’s all about Tutan, and nobody else.”

“We won’t let him in the circle or the contest,” Hank assured her. “I’m here for you, Sally. For three weeks. What do you want me to do?”

“I’ve already written a proposal, and the BLM is sending someone out to look me over. Basically make sure I can do what I said I could do, which is set the thing up and make it happen.”

“And your sister doesn’t know about any of this?”

“I want to see if it’s even feasible first. I need to pass muster with the bureaucrats so they’ll let us use the horses this way. If the BLM approves, I know Annie and Zach will be thrilled. And won’t that be some wedding present?” She reached across the table and laid her hand on his arm. “Just help me look good, okay? Me and the horses.”

“You look fine, Sally. You and the horses.”

“Thanks.” She drew a deep breath. “My only other worry is Tutan and his little shenanigans. Not to mention his connections.”

“You know…” He turned his arm beneath her hand and drew it back until their palms slid together. “I don’t like Tutan.”

“He doesn’t know his Indians.” She smiled and pressed her hand around his. “Why didn’t you tell him the Night Horse who worked for him was your father?”

“I’m not tellin’ him anything.” He lifted one shoulder. “He’s probably checked me out, probably knows by now.”

“What happened?” she asked gently.

“My father had some problems, but he wasn’t afraid to work.” He looked into her eyes, saw no pre-judgment, no preemptive pity. Nothing but willingness to listen. “Jobs are hard to find on the reservation, so he’d go wherever the work was and do whatever he was asked to do. He used to hire on for Tutan, and he’d be gone for weeks at a time.

“Come deer season, Tutan liked to have weekend hunting parties for his friends—probably some of those important connections you’re talking about—and he’d take one of his hired hands along to bird-dog for him. You know, beat the brush, flush out the game. Half those guys didn’t know the butt from the barrel, but they knew how to party.”

“Which resulted in the so-called hunting accident.”

“Out there alone, got drunk, fell on his gun.” He shook his head. “Tragic.”

“How old were you?”

“Old enough to know that dog wouldn’t hunt. Not unless he was on somebody’s payroll.” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t take my brother and me hunting. Said he’d had enough of it when he was a kid. He didn’t hunt for sport. He called and said he wasn’t coming home that weekend because Mr. Tutan’s friends wanted to do some hunting, and Dad was gonna make some extra cash.

“He’d been dead for weeks when they found him. Tutan had about as much to say as he did the other night. He thought John Night Horse had gone home after he’d drawn his last wages for the season. Tutan didn’t post his land, so, sure, hunters came around all the time, but nobody had stopped in that weekend, friends or otherwise.”

“So it could have been an accident.”

“I didn’t think so, but who listens to a twelve-year-old kid?”

“What about your mother?”

“People believe what they want to believe, she said. Indian blood is cheap. Accidents, suicide, murder—what’s the difference? Dead is dead. And she proved that by dying when I was fifteen.”

“What do you believe?” she asked softly.

“I believe life is life.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “From first breath to last, it’s up to you to live it in a good way.”

“I’ll drink to that.” She took up her water with her free hand, paused mid-toast and took a closer look at her glass. “What about blood? Are some kinds dearer than others?”

“You’re lookin’ at one Indian whose blood ain’t cheap.” He waited for her eyes to actually meet his. “O positive. Universal donor.” He smiled. “Priceless.”