One Brave Cowboy (5 page)

And then it was time to take a ride. Celia insisted on packing food for a picnic, which was a foreign concept to Cougar. But he liked the way she hustled
around the kitchen, checking in with him to find out whether he liked this or that. He tried to tell her he wasn't picky, but she kept asking, and he kept saying “Sounds good” until she had that canvas lunch bag so full she could hardly close it.

Celia was able to walk right up to the big gray gelding she would be riding, but Cougar had to throw a loop over the buckskin he was assigned. Celia wasn't going to let him saddle her horse for her until he claimed it to be a man's duty according to his tradition. He didn't know whether he was feeding her a line—he figured saddling a woman's horse had to be covered in some soldier, cowboy or Indian code of conduct—but the way she bought into it made him feel good.

The horses were two of Sally's favorites. Tank—the big gray—was the only horse Celia would ride. He'd been Sally's first adoption, and he was a good example of the mustang-draft horse cross that had developed when farmers had opened the gates and turned their plow horses free to fend for themselves. Hostile times, hard times, changing times, the horse had survived it all.

So far.

Cougar rode Little Henry, a horse that liked to play. He was exactly the ride Cougar needed. Coming home to find that he no longer owned a horse had been a staggering blow, the bullet that broke the soldier's heart.
Hoka hey!
he'd cried.
It's a good day to
die!
He'd flipped out, gone on a killer drunk, ended up behind bars and then behind locked doors on the psych ward.

And all he'd really needed was a playful horse and a good day to ride.

Celia's ponytail bobbing around up ahead of him was a nice bonus. The way it swished back and forth from shoulder to beautiful bare shoulder was an unexpected turn-on. His little buckskin danced beneath him, eager to pass the big gray, but there was no way Cougar was giving up this view. It took them nearly an hour to reach their destination.

Time well spent.

“There it is,” Celia said of the grassland beyond the three-strand barbwire fence. “That's Mary's father's land. Dan Tutan territory. Here at the Double D he's known as Damn Tootin'. He's one of those ranchers who think any grassland that's not being used by cattle is wasted.”

“In Wyoming it's any land without an oil or gas well.” Cougar rested his forearm across the saddle horn and drank in the view. He was not a desert man. He'd take rugged mountains, high plains, river bottom breaks or prairie sod over never-ending sand any day. Even in late summer shades of green and brown, an endless expanse of living, breathing, gently swaying grass was a beautiful thing. “You know how people say nothing's sacred anymore?” he mused. “If
that's true, guys like that are probably way ahead of the game.”

Her voice slid up behind him coupled with the warm breeze. “What game?”

“Whoever dies with the most kills wins.”

“Is this a video game or a war game?”

“Doesn't matter. It's always open season, and every hit counts. You choose your—what do they call it? Avatar? Driller and grass grabber must do okay, and it sounds like Mary's father is still rackin' up points.” He turned to her, adjusting the brim of his hat against the sun. “Once you're into it, you can find all kinds of ways to play.”

“What about you? Are you in the running?”

“I thought I was. Tried to be.” He smiled a little, remembering the gung-ho would-be warrior who'd once greeted him in the mirror. “But I was only going after the bad guys, you know? Only the ones who wore the bad-guy outfits and carried the bad-guy flags.”

“What happened?”

“I ran into a little trouble.” He sighted down the fence line. “Is that a wire down?”

“Good eye,” she said as she tapped the gray with her heel, wheeling him toward the loose wire, no further questions asked. “It's only one wire,” she called back to him.

“Can't be the spot we're looking for, but we'll fix it.”

Celia dismounted and started untying the tool bag from Cougar's saddle. He reached back and pulled the slipknot on the other side of the saddle skirt.

“You sure tie a tight knot,” Celia grumbled. He turned, took the slip string from her hand and gave it a quick jerk. She looked up, squinting against the sun or frowning at him, he wasn't sure which.

He gave her a proper wink. “I sure do.”

“I hope that means you can stretch a tight wire.”

“I'll stretch it as tight as you want, but—” They both grabbed for the slipping tool bag, and their fingers overlapped. For an instant neither of them moved. “Just don't ask me to walk it,” he finished quietly.

“No,” she said, quieter still. “I wouldn't.”

He gave a little on the bag. “Got it?”

She nodded, and he pulled the saddle strings out of the way. He dismounted, took a pair of leather gloves from the canvas bag, and they set to work on the barbed wire. Few words were exchanged other than “Hold this,” and “Hand me that.” He gave no thought to what she might be thinking. Watching her hands move, catching the expression on her face when she watched him, simply being with her filled his head completely. How long had it been since his head had been filled so agreeably?

When the work was done they stood back and admired it, as though they'd created something truly outstanding. They looked at each other and nodded.

“We'll report this to Sally and chalk up some points,” Celia said. “Makes it worth the ride even if we don't find a real opening in the fence.”

“Riding is worth the ride.” Cougar adjusted his hat. “Riding in good company is even better.”

“Agreed.” She glanced away quickly. “Ready for lunch?”

Figuring they might be getting on each other's nerves in a good way, Cougar reconsidered the sea of grass. A single cottonwood tree beckoned from Tutan territory. “Where's a good hole in the fence when you need one?”

“You'd trespass for one skinny tree?”

“Damn tootin'.”

Celia laughed. “What counts as a ‘kill'? If it's the same as a coup, you could score two in one day.”

“It's part of my nature to be satisfied with counting coups as kills, but in the army, a coup doesn't earn you any feathers.” Cougar gave a tight smile. “Uncle Sam issues you an M16, a near miss gets you nothing but dead.”

“You've turned in your combat gear,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, but I was trained to trespass.” He stepped into the stirrup and swung into his saddle. “I'm still getting used to civilian rules. Transitioning, they call it.”

Her saddle creaked as she pulled leather and hauled herself onto the big gray's back. Cougar men
tally whipped himself for not offering a leg-up.
Civilian rules.

“Is everything knotted up nice and tight?” She shaded her eyes with one hand and pointed to the next rolling hill with the other. “First one gets to the top without losing tools or lunch wins.”

He grinned. “Say when.”

The big gray beat the little buckskin with an easy, long-legged lope. Cougar called Celia the winner and counted himself a civilian gentleman, at least for one day. The draw below the hill not only offered better shade than the lone tree on the other side of the fence, but an end to their search. They could see a break in the fence at the top of the next hill.

Celia's canvas saddlebags yielded sandwiches, fruit, water and cookies, which she laid out on a faded blue bandanna-print tablecloth on the shady side of a thorny buffalo berry thicket. Cougar loosened the saddles and staked the horses in a shady spot. He plucked a few berries.

“They're not ripe yet,” Celia said.

“I know. I used to have to pick these for one of my grammas. It wasn't my favorite chore, but it was worth it for her jelly. She made pemmican, too.”

“Must be a lot of work. They're so small.” She took off her boots and socks and settled cross-legged, showing off toenails painted the same color as the tablecloth. “They grow in Wyoming?”

“Uh-huh. Ever been to the western part of the state?”

“I haven't traveled much since I moved here from Iowa.” Grass crackled beneath the cloth as she patted an empty corner. “Come sit with me.”

“More sitting?” He chuckled as he squatted on his heels. He didn't much like eating on the ground anymore, but he liked the way she phrased the invitation. “Why not? Indian style for you, and cowboy style for me.”

“What makes that cowboy style?”

“Saddle sores.” He raised a cautionary finger as she handed him a sandwich. “Never sit cowboy style with your spurs on.”

“Really? Saddle sores?”

He shook his head, laughing. “Not yet. Can't find my spurs, and I haven't ridden a lot lately, so who knows?” He nodded toward her feet. “Were you standing in your stirrups?”

“My toes need a breather. They hate shoes.”

“Shoes, yeah, but those are boots. They're not even related.” He grinned. “Cute toes.”

“You like?” She wiggled all ten. “Mark painted them for me. Blue is his favorite color.”

“Kid's got a future in, uh…”

“Cosmetology?” She offered Cougar a bottle of water. “He wants to fly airplanes. It's been a while since he's talked about it, of course, but he still cruises around the backyard with his arms out
stretched.” She demonstrated with arms stiff, eyes closed, face lifted toward the sky. The tip of her nose and the high points of her cheeks were pink. “It could happen. Modern medicine, you know, new miracles every day.” She opened her eyes suddenly. “How's your sandwich?”

He took a bite, but he couldn't taste anything with the boy gliding silently through his head and the woman tugging on his heartstrings. He nodded and gave her a thumbs-up.

“How did you get involved with the sanctuary?” he asked after some quiet time had passed. He'd finished his sandwich and stretched out in the grass. “Through the Drexlers or the horses?”

“Through my son.”

She was ready to tell him. Where he came from, people listened without staring the speaker in the eye, but he could feel her need to exchange signals the way her people did, through the eyes. Hers were frank and fragile. All he knew about his was that, like his ears, they were open.

“The accident happened three years ago. He went through surgery three times and therapy…all kinds of therapy. We were running out of options. Sally's sister, Ann— Did I mention we both teach at the school in Sinte? Anyway, Ann suggested I bring him out there to see the horses. He took to them immediately.”

“Maybe the horses took to him.”

Celia smiled. “You sound like Logan. He says things like that in his book. You know, that horses relate to people the way they relate to each other and that they're very sensitive to people who are open to…equine vibes.” She shrugged, laughed self-consciously. “Something like that.”

“But you're not a believer.”

“I want to be. I
desperately
want to be. So far, no one can tell me why Mark doesn't hear or speak or what can be done about it. They tell me it's probably psychosomatic, which usually puts him in some kind of a program, some new and different kind of treatment, some complicated insurance category. I don't care what they say, Mark doesn't hear, and he is unable to speak. I haven't found anyone who relates to him any better than the horses here do.” She glanced at the two that grazed nearby. “But they don't speak to me, either, so I can't tell what's going on.”

“Give him time.”

“I have. I bring him here as often as I can. It's good for both of us. But I have to find a better doctor, a better…something.”

“You…wanna tell me what happened?”

“We were with a friend who was having a house built. She was showing me around—this goes here, that goes there—and I was really into it, sort of building my dream house vicariously. Mark was almost six. Curious about everything, you know? He was, um…he put his eye over a hole…in a floor…and
someone who was working down below…” She held an imaginary dagger in her fisted hand and thrust upward.

Cougar braced for the blow he'd lived and relived, the white heat of stabbing steel, the breathtaking terror, the staggering pain. As long as he was awake and in control of his faculties he could hold himself together and let it pass through him. The physical pain in his own body always turned out to be bearable, but it was everything that went with it—all the jacks in the boxes, ghosts in the closet—the doubts were what kept him up at night.

“It was a metal rod.” She spoke softly, for which he was grateful. “It took the eye, every bit of it, but nothing more. It could have been so much worse.”

Questions sprang to mind, but he ignored them. She would have been asked more times than she could count, and she would have answered and answered and answered. But she would never be sure of anything except that she could have done something differently. And every time she replayed the incident, she would try something else, and it would always change the outcome for the better.

He reached for the hand she held fisted on her knee, uncurled her fingers with a gently probing thumb as he drew it to him and pressed his lips to her palm.

“I know,” she said, barely audibly. “It's over. Just breathe.”

“It sounds easy.” He closed his hand around hers and smiled sadly.
“I know.”

C
elia sat on the front step watching each little vehicle as it appeared on the hill half a mile away and slid down the highway. Watching traffic was relaxing when Mark was home. Passing cars were few and far between on their remote highway—a welcome change from their apartment overlooking a busy street in Des Moines—and Celia had made up several guessing games for them to play on summer evenings. Mark loved anything with paws, hooves, wheels or wings, and Celia loved anything that made Mark happy.

Mark's father was not one of those things, and watching for his delivery truck was not relaxing.

A house full of silence had her back. She would
take Mark from Greg's clutches, thank him very much, go inside and close the door. Still quiet but not utterly silent, the house would surround them and keep him out for two blessed weeks. She loved her new house. It was only new to Celia—certainly nothing fancy—but the walls were solid and the doors had locks. And it was
hers
. The mortgage was in her name. She'd bought the house and forty-two acres of grass land in an estate auction, and she'd spent the past six months struggling to fix the place up.

Celia took off her gardening gloves, laid them beside the clay pot she'd just filled with mums and rubbed her hands together. One palm felt warmer than the other. She turned it up, imagined a lip imprint and smiled to herself. It was one of many places she'd never been kissed, and she'd been deeply touched by the gesture. Prickles-in-the-throat touched. Butterflies-deep-in-the-belly touched. Cougar was anything but a cool cat. He was warm and sensitive, a little mysterious,
a lot
attractive, a surprise at every turn.

She would see him tonight at the powwow grounds. Just thinking about it made her feel like a teenager.

But waiting for Greg made her feel anxious and worn out at the same time. Their marriage had been over before Mark's accident. He'd never taken much interest in Mark even though he liked to say he was looking forward to riding bikes with his son or play
ing ball or having some real conversation. As soon as Mark got over being a baby, they were going to be great buddies. Mark's milestones passed without Greg's notice, while Celia's every move was closely monitored. Who was that on the phone? Why was she showing off her boobs in that dress? What was she really doing when she said she was taking the baby to the park? Celia signed them up for counseling, but the handwriting was on the wall.

The accident made it official. Celia had done the unthinkable. She'd dropped the ball. God only knew what she was doing when she was supposed to be watching, but Mark was broken beyond repair. Now it was one surgery after another, more doctors, more treatment plans, more sleepless nights. Greg had no stomach for “medical stuff,” and he had all but taken his leave. He cut his visitations or skipped out on them altogether. But that was before the “know your rights” guy had stepped in.

The sight of the bread truck sent dour memories packing. As soon as the truck stopped, Mark was out the door and in her arms.

Greg strolled up behind him. “We didn't get to the Reptile Gardens, but we did some other stuff. We hit Mickey D's a couple of times.” He ruffled Mark's hair. “Didn't we, son? Golden arches?” He whistled as his hand dove over an air arch. “They had a playground. Good times, huh?”

“I missed you, Markie-B. You had fun?” Celia
touched his chin, and he turned to her with a smile. “You and your dad had fun?”

“Are you hoping he'll say
no?
”

“I'm hoping he'll say something. I don't care what it is.” She kissed the top of his head. “You will. I know you will.”

“What have you heard from the insurance company?”

And there it was. Greg's new baby's name was Lawsuit.

Greg's renewed interest in Mark had been clear from the moment he'd followed Celia to South Dakota and petitioned for the visitation rights he'd shrugged off when they'd divorced. With the help of his new ambulance-chasing lawyer—he relished saying the words
my lawyer
—Greg had claimed Celia wasn't looking after Mark's best interests in court, any more than—according to Greg—she had looked after his safety the day he'd been injured. The medical bills had been covered, and Celia agreed that there was no way of knowing what other needs might arise for Mark in the future. But there was a sure way of knowing what Greg was up to. All it took was watching him operate.

Celia could think of nothing she'd rather do less.

“I'm sure the insurance company has your lawyer on speed dial,” she said. “Or
vice versa
.”

“I have a feeling you'll hear first. You still have everyone thinking you're Saint Cecilia.”

“As far as I know they're still dickering.”

“Cheap bastards,” he spat. “We should get… You know,
Mark
should get millions. You hear about multi-million dollar damage awards every day.”

“I don't want to talk about this, Greg. Not now.”

“Don't you want our son to get what's coming to him?”

“That's what the lawyers are for.” She put her arm around Mark's shoulders and turned to mount the steps. “We'll see you in—”

“What's with the Indian guy?” he said quietly. “How long has that been going on?”

She stopped between steps.

“Not that it's any of my business, you and him, but he nearly ran over my kid. That's my business.”

Fortunately, Celia, you're the only one who can hear him. Go inside.

“If he's in such a killing hurry to get to you that he'll mow down anything that gets in his way—” his shoe—one shoe—scraped the gravel “—and it's my kid that's in his way, you damn well bet that's my business.”

“Don't threaten me, Greg.” She opened the front door and nudged Mark inside before turning to face him. “I
will
get a restraining order.”

“How did I threaten you? What did I say? I'm not touching you. All I'm saying is that I will protect my son.”

Celia stepped inside.

“Somebody has to.” Greg wedged the words in edgewise through the shrinking crack as she closed the door.

Mark put his arms around her and hugged her.

“We're fine, Markie-B.” She rubbed his back. “You and me, babe. We're going to…” She lifted his chin. “Look at me. We're going to a party tonight. We're going to have supper, and there'll be lots of kids. I think there will.
Of course,
there will. It's a celebration.
And…
” She smiled. “You remember Cougar? He'll be there. We like him, don't we?”

She went on chattering the way she had done when he was a baby, without talking down to or babbling at him. He was a person, and he was present, and he would soon participate in the conversation. It was more than a wish on her part. It was an expectation. She talked about horseback riding and fixing fences and Bridget the cat going hunting again and catching a mouse in the tack room.

Mark was eager to throw his clothes in the laundry room, shower and wash his hair. While he was in the bathroom she checked his clothes. They reeked of cigarette smoke. Greg wasn't a smoker. She had the feeling the weekend entertainment—likely involving gambling—had not been kid-friendly.

She wasn't going to grill Mark about it. He was glad to be home, and he didn't need to be asked questions he couldn't or wouldn't answer. But she wished they could go back to the days when an oc
casional supervised visit with his son was all Greg had time for.

Mark emerged from the bathroom looking handsome in his khaki shorts and polo shirt, light brown hair all slicked down. Little gentleman that he was, he opened the front door for his mom. But rather than follow her, he ran back into his room.

He'd changed his mind. He'd had enough socializing. He didn't understand what was going on. He
did
understand, and he wanted no part of it. Celia was trying to learn new signs and signals, but she would have given anything for a word from her son. One word, one…

…foot in front of the other, scurrying down the hallway, bringing her a boy who'd almost forgotten his favorite red baseball cap, which he never took with him when he went with his father. He was giving her all the signs and signals a mother could want in one beautiful gap-toothed smile.

 

It was a quiet, stonewash denim sky evening. The sun had lost its command, and the swallows were gaining on the mosquitoes. Somebody was testing out a microphone, somebody else toying with a drumbeater as Celia parked her car in the grassy parking area at the powwow grounds. She didn't see Cougar's pickup, and she gave herself a mental scolding. She knew she would have parked near him, as
close as she could get, and she felt silly about it. Eager and silly.
Totally regressive, Celia.

Kinda fun, though.

But his mean-looking black pickup wasn't there. Maybe he wasn't coming.

“Hey, you made it.”

Celia whirled toward the sound of the voice and found Cougar striding toward her. He looked wonderful in a crisp white Western shirt, sleeves rolled just above his wrists, and a pair of Wranglers he was clearly wearing for the first time.

Mark accepted Cougar's handshake without hesitation, man to man. He greeted Celia with a hand press. She didn't want him to let go. His eyes said he got it, and his smile said he was glad of it.

“Lots of people here,” Cougar said as he touched the small of her back. She took Mark's hand, and they started walking toward the bowery, the big circular structure—open in the center, thatched with leafy cottonwood branches around the perimeter—that had stood for ceremony and celebration for the Lakota since before recorded memory. “You probably know most of them.”

“I know more kids than adults. I teach sixth graders. I know some parents. I've met Mary once at the Double D.” Celia nodded toward the far side of the arena, where familiar faces were sharing animated conversation. “There she is, over there with the Drexler crew. Except Sally and Ann are no longer Drex
lers. I wonder where Ann is.” She was rattling on awkwardly. She never missed a school function, but her social calendar was pretty empty. “Have you met Ann Beaudry, Sally's sister? We both…”

“Teach,” Cougar remembered, smiling. “You've mentioned that a few times. You must really enjoy it.”

“Most days I do. I struggled the first year, but now that I have a few years' experience under my belt, I think I'm getting pretty good at it.”

“Is that what that bulge is?” He dropped the smile and gave a chin jerk toward her small waist. “I was wondering.”

Celia laid her hand over her belt buckle and gave him the squint-eye.

“Mrs. Banyon!” Celia turned to greet a bright-eyed girl with a sagging ponytail. “We're playing dodge ball. Can your son play?”

“Dodge ball?” She glanced at Mark, who was playing on the bench with a Matchbox airplane. “I don't know, hon, that's so dangerous.”

“We'll be careful,” the girl promised. “We're using a soft ball.”

“A softball?”

“A
soft
ball. It's practically a cotton ball, it's so soft.” She looked up at Cougar. “It's the only one we could find.”

“It's so nice of you to include Mark, but you know, his eye…”

“I'll make sure he doesn't get hurt.” She leaned sideways to peek at Mark's face. “I'm gonna be in your class next year, Mrs. Banyon.”

Logan joined them, laughing as he laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. “So there's no way Maxine's gonna let anything happen to your son. I'll vouch for her. She's my niece's kid. The Indian way, that makes her my granddaughter. Right, Maxine?” He winked at Celia. “Last week she told me to stop calling her Maxie.”

“Geez, Lala Logan. That's so embarrassing.”

“I didn't know. I'm just a man.” Logan gently tugged Maxine's ponytail. He nodded toward the long serving table the younger women and teens were loading up with kettles and pans. “Why don't you take Mark over to get some chow? The kids are lining up. Go ask Grandma Margaret whether she wants you to help with the little ones or take plates to the elders.”

Maxine folded her arms and glared at the row of chairs holding elders-in-waiting near the serving table. “I'm helping the kids.”

“What happened?”

She gave a nod toward the group. “That one said I walk like a duck.”

Celia couldn't tell from the gesture whether the wizened woman with the black scarf tied over her head or the leathery man with the walker was the deadpan tease.

“Do you?” Logan asked.

“No!”

“Then don't worry about it. He used to tell me I walked like a bear.”

“Are Ann and Zach here?” Celia asked on the tail end of the laughter.

“I saw them somewhere.” Logan glanced over his shoulder and forgot who he was looking for. “Hey, here's my decorated warrior.”

Dressed in Army green, Sergeant Mary Wolf Track took her husband's hand and stood by his side. “And I see Cougar's already made a friend,” Mary said, offering her free hand. “Celia, right? You volunteer at the Double D.”

“She's a teacher,” Cougar put in. “When I signed up for the wild horse training competition, that quick, Sally had her teaching me how to fix fence.”

“Cougar's the one who deserves the medal,” Mary told Celia, as though he needed a reference. “He might not be a soldier anymore, but this man is one brave cowboy.”

“More like a cowboy brave,” Cougar said diffidently.

“A cowboy brave. Now there's a… What's that called?” Mary snapped her fingers and pointed at Celia. “Teacher?”

“An oxymoron.” Celia smiled. “Just remember
stupid laundry soap.
”