Home at Chestnut Creek Page 3

  Her head whips up. “I’m fine.”

  “Really?” I cross my arms and lean against the grill.

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Okay.” I walk to the door and take down my peacoat, shrug into it, open the door, and hold it open. “Out you go.”

  Her lips disappear into a thin line. She walks to the rack, pulls down her thin Levi jacket, and shrugs into it. She buttons it, looking at the frozen tracks in the slush outside. The wind whips past me, and she shivers.

  “Come on, I gotta lock up.” When I see her steel herself to step into the cold, I take pity. “Look, my grandmother passed a few months back. Her RV is parked behind my house. It has heat, water, and electricity.”

  Her eyes rise to mine. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. Do you want to rent it?”

  She squints up at me. “Does it have a lock?”

  “It does.”

  She grabs her backpack hung on the hook under her coat. She loosens the top and pulls out a thick wad of bills. “How much?”

  “Whoa. If you had that kind of cash, why didn’t you look into renting a room over a store?”

  She looks at her holey tennis shoes. “I thought I could stay here until I got my first paycheck. And it’s none of your business.”

  I don’t have time to figure out this girl’s logic, or her psyche. It’s getting late, and I have animals waiting at home. I name a weekly rental rate that won’t make her suspicious that I’m offering charity.

  “Deal.” She peels the bills off the wad, hands them to me, then stuffs the money back into the backpack.

  “Do I need to charge you for the ride into town tomorrow, too?”

  The edges of her lips curl a fraction in what could, for her, be a smile. I wouldn’t know, having never seen it. “Nah. I’ll do chores for that.”

  I shake my head and lead her outside, unlock my truck, and wave her in, while I go lock up the back door. In two minutes, we’re on the road out of town and the heater is blasting lukewarm air. “It’s going to cost you one more thing, to stay at my place.”

  She jerks taut as a twisted rubber band.

  “Tell me how you got the sore shoulder.”

  I feel her gaze on the side of my face.

  She sits long enough that I think she’s not going to answer. “Some chick in the bus station in San Antonio tried to steal my backpack. She was tougher’n she looked.”

  “Where’d you get all that money?”

  “If I don’t tell you, you gonna leave me by the side of the road to die?”

  I smile at that. Carly trusts her. And despite her attitude, I do, too. I learned too late to trust my gut. “No. You can keep your secrets.”

  “Damned white of you.”

  When I look over, she’s blushing. So, she does have manners, she just chooses to disregard them. To shock people, I think. Interesting.

  * * *

  Nevada

  He drives out of town five, six, seven miles. He’s way too cute for me to call him “Fish,” like everyone else. “Fishing Eagle,” now that’s way cool, but too long. Fish? He looks like a fish like I look like Mariah Carey.

  The last of the sunset shows a landscape in taupe, sage, and tan; dead grass, scrub brush, the snow-covered mountains in the background. And rocks—boulders to gravel, everywhere you look. I glance over at his long, burnished face. It’s a strong face. Carly vouches for him, but still, we’ve been driving forever, and you could leave a body out here and no one would find it for years. “How far away do you live?”

  He spins the wheel and we bump off the road, following two tire tracks in the dirt. “About a mile out this way.”

  I look out the window. The lonesome country strikes something inside me, like a flint on a rock. Tears prick the back of my eyes. Man, I must be tired. “They did leave you guys the crappy land, didn’t they?”

  I expect him to be pissed, but he chuckles instead. “The reservation is ninety miles that way.” He points down the road away from town. “I paid for this land.”

  “You got screwed.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  When I turn, he’s doing that stare-into-me thing. “What?”

  “Go out of your way to try to piss people off.”

  I shrug, so he knows I couldn’t care less. “It’s my superpower.”

  We pull up to a weird-looking building. It’s a log house, but it’s got like five or six sides, with the logs sticking out at every edge. It’s got a steep cone roof, and windows all around the top. “What is that?”

  “My home. We call it a hogan.”

  There’s a squat structure off to the side with braces showing through the canvas covering like the ribs of a skinny horse. The canvas door covering flaps in the wind. There’s a really old tractor at the edge of what looks like a field. Hard to tell in the dark, but there are troughs in the frosty dirt, and here and there, plant skeletons poke out of the snow.

  He turns off the engine, and all I can hear is the wind and the ticking of the cooling engine. “I have one more thing to tell you.”

  I reach for my backpack. “Yeah?”

  He looks out the windshield. “It’s just an RV, but it belonged to my shí másání—my grandmother. She was a powerful woman in my tribe, and her home should be treated with respect.”

  He turns his head and his eyes are so intense, I’m caught—I can’t look away. “I get it.”

  “All right then.” He opens his door, slides out, and slams it.

  “Don’t need to get your buckskin in a wad,” I mutter, trying to get my heart to slow down.

  He leads the way. There’s a long, low…I can’t really call it a building, because it’s like a tube, covered in plastic. I’ve seen something like that before on farms we passed. “Are you a farmer?”

  “It’s my biggest passion, after my heritage.”

  “A cook, a Navajo, a farmer…what else are you?”

  “Patient.”

  A corner of his mouth lifts, but I don’t see what’s funny.

  We come around the corner of the house, and there’s the RV. One of those fifth-wheel things, up on blocks. It has a little sunshade over the door, with wind chimes made of little shells and tiny bells. They make a happy sound that carries on the lonely wind.

  He walks past me, working a key ring. He unlocks the trailer and hands me the key. “You now have the only key. The lights and thermostat are just inside the door. I cleaned out the fridge and cupboards, so there’s nothing to eat. I’ll bring you a sandwich.”

  “Don’t. I’m good.”

  “Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

  No need to start racking up debts. “I’m sure.” I’ll eat when I get to work tomorrow. Past the trailer there’s a flimsy fence made from woven branches. “Are those sheep in there?”

  He follows the line of my vision. “Yep. Churro sheep. They were my grandmother’s. I’ll tell you about them some other day. For now, I need to feed them, then get inside before I freeze.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I take the step up and flip on the light. There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep if I’m lying in a dead woman’s bed. “One more thing.”

  He turns back to me. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t take this wrong. But did your grandmother die in here?”

  “No.” His eyes cut through me like the wind, and just as cold.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, but he’s already walked away.

  It’s like a deep freeze in here. I close the door, drop my backpack by the door, and crank the thermostat. The heater comes on with a roar. I tuck my hands in my armpits and look around. One step across the floor to the left is the kitchen, everything kind of miniaturized. Straight across from me is a little table surrounded by a cushioned booth with a window above it. Taking two steps to the right, I’m in a tiny hall. A bathroom with a Barbie-size shower opens off to the right. Two more steps, and I’m in the bedroom. A huge bed fills the whole space; you’d h
ave to walk sideways to get around it. I push on the mattress. Sweet.

  By now, it’s warm. Small space doesn’t take long to heat.

  I take off my jacket, toss it on the bed, and return to the kitchen. Well, Mr. Fishing Eagle is efficient; there’s not even a crumb in the cabinets, nothing but a box of baking soda in the little fridge. But there are silverware, plates, and stuff to clean with under the sink.

  The wind moans around the corners, rocking the trailer just a bit. It’s snug, warm, and just my size. If I decide to stay. I go hunting and pull open a closest to find a stepladder. Granny must’ve been short. I walk it to the kitchen and prop it under the door handle. It wouldn’t stop a full-grown man, but it’d make a lot of noise, and wake me.

  Too early to go to bed. I’m antsy. I’m never good with spare time. Thoughts swirl in my mind. I pull open a drawer, and there’s a couple of pads of paper in there. The top one is from a feed store, advertising Cow Chow. I take it out, pull a pen from my backpack, and drop into the window seat to write. Maybe the thoughts will settle if I get some of them out of me.

  Ma,

  I don’t know why I’m writing this, since you won’t read it. But it’s weird not to talk to you, even if you mostly were too out of it to talk back. So I guess I’m really doing this for me, but I’m okay with that.

  I need someone to talk to. I’m so scared all the time, and everyone here is a stranger. Maybe I could talk to Carly, but I can’t put her in danger; she has a husband, a business and the cutest little baby you ever saw.

  I’m sure Jovie’s pissed that I knocked him out. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not, because there’s more where he came from. Too many more. You’ve been going downhill, you know?

  Cisco might have let me skate if I hadn’t stolen the money, but I can’t be sad about that, either. And the “product” is better down the toilet than in your arm.

  Truth is, I’m all alone. As much as I try not to need people, it’s hard to do. It’d be great if someone had my back, so I could sleep sound for a change.

  But I’ll deal, same as always.

  I might write more later. If I have time. But maybe not.

  I am sorry for hurting you.

  Nevada

  Chapter 3

  Nevada

  I slept in my clothes with my shoes beside the bed, just in case. Doesn’t take long to put them on and shrug into my jacket. It’s still mostly dark when I step out of the trailer into an icy wind. Man, is it always blowing in this godforsaken place? I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt and flip up the collar of my jacket, but it doesn’t help much. The shells and bells wind chime twists wildly, making a desperate jangling sound I feel in my chest. Why would anyone settle here to begin with?

  Joseph’s truck is gone.

  It’s early yet—maybe he had to bury a prairie dog or something. Guilt slices as fast as the wind. I shouldn’t be a bitch—he’s been nicer than I could expect. But why?

  Whatever. He doesn’t matter.

  There’s shuffling and noises coming from behind the fence, so I walk over. About ten small shaggy, dirty sheep are clustered by a long trough. They look up at me, and as if they rehearsed it, they all baaaaaaah together.

  “You guys a choir?”

  “Baaaaah.”

  “You need some new songs.”

  They crowd the fence, trying to get to me.

  Big animals make me nervous. Dogs and cats are cool, mostly. These guys are kinda in between. I think about petting them, but they look hungry. Do sheep bite?

  The littlest one squeezes his head through the fence and nibbles at my jeans.

  “Hey!” I pull my leg away, then squat down. “What do you say, little dude?”

  “Baaaaah.”

  “I know that’s right.” I put my hand out, palm up, ready to snatch it back if he bites.

  He makes a chuffing sound and nuzzles my hand.

  It makes me smile. “Whatchoo say, will you lend me your coat? It’s kinda dirty but—”

  I turn at the sound of the truck pulling in the yard. Joseph steps out in sweats and a stained hoodie, a bandanna around his head.

  He spots me and trots over. “See you met the posse.”

  I push to my feet. “Where were you?”

  “Running.”

  I don’t know what I expected him to say, but that’s not it. “Oh.”

  “I’ve gotta get a shower, and we’ll head to work.”

  “What about these guys? They look hungry.”

  “Okay, we can do that first. Come with me.” He walks to a mostly falling-down shed the size of a one-car garage. When he opens the door, it’s full of bales of hay. “In summer, I turn them out to graze, but in winter, it’s the dried stuff.” He puts on a pair of canvas gloves, hands me some scissors. He hefts a bale that’s gotta weigh fifty pounds like it’s nothing.

  I follow him back to the gate. He opens it and lugs the hay in. “Don’t worry, they won’t get out. They know where the food is.” He drops the bale, then turns to look for me.

  I’m standing outside the gate.

  “Come on in.”

  “No, I’ll just…”

  He tips his head like a confused dog. “You’re not scared of sheep?”

  I shrug. “Never been around them.”

  He walks to the gate and opens it. “Past time you did, then.”

  The sheep are clustered around the bale, trying to pull out little wisps.

  “Hand me the scissors.”

  I slap them in his hand like a nurse in an operating room.

  He cuts the twine holding the bale together and pulls it out, wraps it around his hand, then kicks the bale apart. “You have to be sure to get all the twine. If they eat it, it’ll get twisted in their gut and could kill them.”

  The sheep dig in. They’re dirty and runty, but kinda cute. “I could feed them to pay for my ride to and from work.”

  He turns and looks down on me.

  “If you want.” I shrug. “Gotta do something to pay you back.”

  “Of course you do,” he says in a tone that could mean anything. “I’ve got to get a move on, or we’ll be late to work.”

  “I’ll wait in the truck.”

  “You didn’t eat dinner last night. There’s food at my house.”

  I take a step back, shaking my head.

  I hear his sigh over the wind. “Look, I’ll lay it out plain. First, I’ve never in my life taken something a woman didn’t willingly give. And besides, you’re not Navajo.” He turns and holds the gate open for me. “You’re safe with me.”

  After a few steps, I follow him, jogging to keep up. “What, white women not good enough for you?”

  He shoots me a glare but doesn’t slow. “Our ways are dying because the kids are leaving for the cities. I’m doing what I can to remind them what they’re leaving behind. I’m not against white. I’m pro Navajo.”

  Maybe, but there’s something else there. I know shame when I see it. I should, with my childhood. Guess I’ve got nothing to worry about. Unless he’s lying. I don’t think he is, but I’ll keep an eye out just the same. He opens the unlocked door, and I step into his house-hogan-thingy, mostly because I really am starving.

  The logs on the inside are all blond wood and glowing in the lamplight. The floor is wood, too, a little darker than the walls. The ceiling is high, and it’s mostly one big five-sided room, the living area on my right with dark brown leather furniture, Navajo rugs on the floor. To the left, separated by a long counter with stools covered in an Indian blanket design, is the kitchen.

  But what draws my eye are the baskets. Displayed on shelves, hanging from the walls, on every flat surface. Woven baskets, in cream and rust, brown, black and ivory, big, small, and everything between. “What’s with these?”

  “My grandmother was a basket weaver.” He glances around at them, his eyes soft. “I’m going to get a shower. You know your way around a kitchen, so take whatever you want to eat.” He walks to the wall and clim
bs a slanted natural wood ladder to what I guess is his bedroom.

  My stomach growls. I walk to the kitchen and pull open the fridge door. Lots here, but I don’t want to make anything. A cook’s kitchen is very personal. It’d be like going through his underwear drawer. I’ll just grab something to gnaw on until I get to work. I close the door and look around. There are glass jars on the counter: flour, sugar, coffee, and…I reach for the middle-size glass one and open the top. Looks like strips of dried meat, with seeds and some kind of spice sprinkled on. I pull out a piece and sniff it. My mouth waters. Surely he wouldn’t have it in the kitchen if it weren’t food, right? I mean, it couldn’t be like a sheep treat, could it? I don’t think sheep are carnivores. Besides, it smells like heaven.

  It takes two hands to hold it and tear off some with my teeth. I chew. And chew. The more I work, the softer it gets, releasing a smoky, rich flavor that’s only a little gamy. What is it? I know beef, pork, and lamb and this ain’t that. I swallow and bite off another chunk.

  He comes down in jeans, boots, and a denim shirt, his hair braided and dripping. The soft light makes his hair shine. Even wet, it’s beautiful.

  “Oh, you found the pemmican. Good, isn’t it?”

  I turn the last bit over in my hand. “It is. What kind of meat is this?”

  “Buffalo.”

  “You’re shi—kidding me.”

  He smiles. “I never kid other cooks.” He grabs his keys. “Let’s hit the road.”

  I put the last piece in my mouth. I haven’t eaten much, but my stomach is happy, having something to do. “Did you make this?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d like to ask him how. But where would I get buffalo meat anyway?

  He’s different from anybody I’ve ever met. He seems to really care about people. I mean, he offered me a place to stay, and he could’ve pushed me out into the cold—especially since I’m not in his crew. But then there’s that shame I saw—what’s that about? It’d be interesting to figure this guy out.

  If I stay long enough.

  * * *

  Joseph

  I pull onto the highway, Nevada sitting as far from me on the bench seat as possible, clutching her backpack, and holding the door handle as if she’ll bail if I make a fast move.