Home at Chestnut Creek Page 2

  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 back down.

  “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 followed by diners’ good-byes and blown kisses.

  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.

  “This is 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 reach behind my back and, coughing to cover the noise, twist the deadbolt. I wouldn’t sleep a minute, imagining somebody turning the knob, and—

  “Come on. I’ll show you the guest room.” Carly lifts 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.

  “You’re going to need blankets. Here.” She hands over the sleeping baby before I can tell her no. “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 her eyebrows. This is clearly going south.

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

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

  “Hey, hey, hey, little girl.”

  Her look shifts to undecided.

  “You got nothing to complain about. I’m bouncing you. You’re warm. You have a whole bunch of 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.

  “I’ll bet 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, then 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 for them 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 has got her.

  Lucky kid. I close the door, kick off my wet shoes by the old-fashioned floor grate, and strip out of my jeans. Mom’s NA “welcome chip” falls out of the pocket and rolls. 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 pull open the drawers of the dresser, but there’s no key. I pull the rocker over and shove the top under the door. I’m pretty sure I’m probably 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.

  * * *

  Joseph

  “Come on, Awéé. You move like a tsisteeł.” I slow my jog 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 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 ninety miles from here, but a good percentage of this county’s population is Navajo. I do what I can to teach our young ones the old ways. It’s not easy, when the modern world is as close as the Internet on their phones, but I owe it to my grandmother to try.

  The sun tips over the horizon just as we reach the mish-mash of old adobe houses, 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 unlock the front door.

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

  “Just until you find somewhere to live. It’s not a problem.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Okay, then at least…” He reaches in his back pocket, grabs 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.” She flips a hand to wave Austin off, and pushes her way past me.

  “Jeez.” 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. Darned if I can see why.” He shakes his head and dons his cowboy hat. “See ya.”

  “Later.” I close the door and lock it.

  “What do yo
u 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.

  I’ll let Lorelei deal with the dress code. I step past her and reach to lift the apron strings.

  “Hey!” She spins, 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.”

  “I know how; it’s just that this is really long.”

  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, 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. When I asked why she kept it, she said, “It is not angry. It is afraid, acting the big dog to cover it up.” Man, I miss my shí másáni.

  “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, Joseph. Nice day, huh?”

  “A beautiful day.”

  “I think today should be—” She stops when Nevada steps into the kitchen.

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

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

  I clear my throat and shoot a look at Nevada. She doesn’t look like the sensitive type, but you never know nowadays.

  Sassy’s face lights up. “Oh, good. The high school boys we had busing 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 break?”

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

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

  “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 peering 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 paper stock.

  Without 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 at 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 turns back to the grill.

  “Where’d you learn to cook?”

  She looks at me as if I asked if she were wearing underwear, then she shrugs and pulls bread out of the toaster. “Here and there. Why?”

  Lots more to this prickly girl than she shows on purpose. “Just wondering. You clearly know your way around a kitchen.”

  She doesn’t answer, just pulls up the fry basket, gives it a practiced bounce to shed oil, while scraping eggs off the grill with a spatula.

  In a minute, I pull out two plates, and she fills them—mine with a BLT and fries, then 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 Diner, down the square, is looking for a cook.”

  Her brows rise, 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 sleeve. “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. The question is, what is it that Nevada Sweet is afraid of?

  Chapter 2

  Joseph

  Night, Fishing Eagle.” Booger Rothchild, Unforgiven’s night cop, crunches out into the frozen slush on the sidewalk.

  “Night, Booger. You stay warm now.” I close and lock the door behind him, then lower the blinds on all the windows. The tables are spotless, the floor is swept and mopped, and there are enough coffee setups to last through the lunch rush tomorrow. She may be socially challenged, but Nevada is a good worker, I’ll give her that. I push through the swinging door to the kitchen.

  “Oh, come on.” Nevada stands, talking to Lorelei; her body is as stiff as her tone. “People can’t see my T-shirt through the apron.”

  “It’s not only that. You’ve got to stop swearing.” Lorelei sighs. “You have to understand. Unforgiven is a small town. We offend people, they’ll go down the sidewalk to the Lunch Box Diner.”

  Nevada’s eye roll and dramatic sigh speak volumes. I walk over to clean the grill, but it’s been done. The crappiest job in the place—she must’ve done it while I was out front. Efficient, sneaky, and fast…I’ll have to remember that.

  Lorelei rubs her forehead. “Look, you did more than I expected today, and you did it well. Is this too much to ask?”

  Nevada glares for a few seconds. I can see her weighing options. “Oh, all right. I’ll try, but I’m not promising I won’t screw—mess up now and again. How did this dump get the name Unforgiven anyway?”

  Deflecting to cover defeat. Interesting.

  Lorelei releases a breath that, from the sound, she’s been holding. “Depends on who you talk to. The story I heard was from Manny Stipple, the town drunk, so take it with a grain of salt. Things were pretty wild in these parts up to the turn of the century. You know, bandits, Indian raids…”

  She blushes and shoots a glance at me.

  I pour dill chips into the big jar. “Probably Apaches. My people were on the Long Walk.” After the Navajo were starved into submission, Kit Carson and his troops forced them to walk from the land they’d lived on since the First Man and First Woman. Eighteen days, three hundred miles, in the dead of winter. Women and children, too. Of the thousand who started, two hundred died. But I’m not bitter.

  “Um, sorry. Anyway, the day after the railroad spur opened, bringing lifeblood to Unforgiven, people were still partying. The train came in, and a dandy from back East got off. He rented a horse at the livery, but apparently didn’t know much about riding. The horse bolted, ran over a cowhand’s dog, killin
g it. They were not a forgiving lot. They strung up the city-dweller for ‘killing an honest and forthright citizen.’”

  Nevada made a sound in her throat, softer than a snort. “Cool.”

  “Well, like I said, the story depends on who you talk to. Ask around, people will tell you different ones.” Lorelei walks to the hooks by the back door and takes down her coat. “Fish, do you mind locking up? Momma’s not feeling well, and I’ve got to stop at O’Grady’s and get milk on the way home.”

  “You go. We’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks, I owe you.” She pulled the door open. “I meant it, Nevada: you’re a great worker. I’ll see you in the morning.” She steps out and pulls the door closed behind her.

  Nevada turns to see me watching her. “What?”

  “Where are you staying tonight? Carly told me she offered to pay rent on a room over a store on the square for you. Why did you turn her down?” Even if Carly hadn’t called and asked me to check on this one, I would have anyway.

  Her chin comes up. And out. “None of your business.”

  She reminds me of a scorpion, who ends up stinging herself as often as others. I walk over to the first aid kit, retrieve a couple of aspirin, and try to hand them to her. “Maybe not. But you can’t stay here.”

  “I don’t do drugs.”

  “I’ve watched you. Your shoulder is hurting. It’s aspirin. Take them.”

  She holds her hand out, then tosses them back and dry-swallows them. “I’m not taking charity from anyone, including Carly. Why can’t I stay here?”

  “This is a diner. We don’t have showers, not to mention a bed, or anything resembling one. The county would shut us down if they found out.” I put the lettuce on the cart along with all the other condiments and roll it to the walk-in fridge.

  Nevada is wiping down a counter. “Oh yeah, like they’re going to know.”

  I open the door. “Do you want to take that chance? Carly and her grandparents depend on the income from this place, you know.”

  I hear a muffled curse after the door falls closed. I let her think on that while I put away the garnishes.

  When I come out, she’s scrubbing the sink like it’s guilty.

  “I have a place you can stay.” Why am I going to the effort? But the lesson my grandmother taught rises in me. Kindness is never wasted.