Then again, maybe Dawson didn’t want that trust. Appeared he’d already written off the death as an accident. Wouldn’t be hard to believe he was another redneck who believed the only good Indian was a dead Indian.
I’d known more than my fair share of people sporting that attitude. I was temped to shoot them and eliminate their racism from further tainting the gene pool. Most days I refrained.
Most, but not all.
The screen door squeaked. My housekeeper/surrogate mother/babysitter/cook/chief meddler and Jake’s beloved grandmother, Sophie Red Leaf, limped down the porch steps. She shielded her eyes with a frayed kitchen towel. “Sheriff? Everything all right, hey?”
“Everything’s fine, Miz Red Leaf.”
“Not exactly fine,” I corrected. “Levi’s in trouble. The sheriff brought him here since Hope wasn’t home.”
“Where’s Levi now?”
“He and Jake are unloading hay bales.”
Sophie’s hard black stare nearly pinned my ears to my head. “Alone?”
Guilt kicked me in the ass; I could’ve been helping. But ranch duties were Jake’s job, not mine. I was JR to his Dusty. “No, TJ and Luke are here. Besides, the sheriff and I were discussing some other things.”
“Out here in this heat? Lord, Mercy, where are your manners?” She flapped the towel at me. “Sheriff, why doan you come on inside where it’s cool? I jus’ made a pitcher of iced tea. Think I can round up some of them gingersnaps you like so much, eh?”
Sophie knew Dawson’s cookie preferences?
“Hate to say no to those tasty sweets, Miz Red Leaf, but I have to get back to the station.”
“Lucky for you I’m bringin’ a fresh batch to the community center tomorrow night. But I’ll only share if a handsome young man such as yourself promises to save a dance for a gimped-up old wigopa like me.”
My head whipped to Sophie. Did she just bat her eyelashes? God help me, was my seventy-nine-year-old housekeeper… flirting with him?
“Gimped up? You? Hah. You’ll be dancin’ circles around me, for sure.” Dawson angled his head at me. “You goin’?”
Before I could scream no way Sophie clucked her tongue.
“Course Mercy will be there. Mebbe you’d better save her a dance, too, eh?”
“Be my pleasure.” The sheriff pushed away from the patrol car, brushing the dirt off his butt as he rounded the front end. He paused before climbing in. “When Hope turns up, tell her to call me at the sheriff’s department as soon as possible. Remind her she doesn’t want me to come lookin’ for her again.”
Again?
Puzzled, I watched dust devils engulf his car. When I turned around to ask Sophie what he’d meant, I found myself staring at her gingham apron strings as the screen door slammed behind her.
TWO
Hope waltzed into the house half an hour after the sheriff left. Perfect timing-avoiding confrontation, as usual.
Ignoring me, as usual.
Hard to believe we were full-blooded sisters; we were exact opposites in so many ways. She was small and round-softly feminine with an ample chest, hips, and ass-whereas I was tall, long limbed and leanly muscled. Not a soft thing about me, inside or out. Hope’s fairer skin, blue eyes, and curly light brown hair were courtesy of our father and his Germanic forbearers.
My straight hair was the color of mahogany, as my mother’s had been. My skin wasn’t the reddish gold of our grandmother’s tribe, but as a quarter Minneconjou Sioux, my pigmentation held enough of the darker undertones that allowed me to easily pass as an ethnic woman in Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Bosnia, and the other war-torn countries I’d been lurking in for the better part of two decades.
Hope and I did share the sharp Aryan facial features of Dad’s European ancestors. I had mom’s eye color: an odd shade of hazel that changed from green to brown with my mood.
What was Hope’s mood today?
Dressed in a floral-patterned gauzy tunic and frayed 501 cutoffs, she looked like a teenage hippie. A hippie who’d either scored some premium grass, or who’d just gotten laid, if her rosy cheeks and glassy eyes were any indication.
Either scenario made me shudder. But I’d inherited Hope and all her problems along with the ranch.
She plopped in Dad’s Barcalounger and lifted the damp ringlets from the back of her neck. Then she snatched the remote from the TV tray and flicked on the TV like she lived here.
An ad for Depends blared. Apparently Sophie had caught up on her soaps over lunch. Hope left the volume at 200 decibels and scrolled through channels.
“We need to talk about Levi,” I said loudly.
“In a sec.” She flipped to Oprah and popped out the footrest.
I snagged the remote and vanquished the Queen of Daytime TV.
“Hey! I was watching that.”
“Tough. Did you hear me say we needed to talk?”
“Can’t it wait until my show’s over?”
“No.”
Flower-child appearance aside, the petulant act wasn’t becoming on a thirty-three-year old woman. I inhaled a deep uji breath. Dealing with my sister required patience, and mine was in short supply today.
Hope had suffered more emotional trauma before age five than most people did their whole lives; consequently, when we were kids, I’d always let her have her way. Our father had fallen into the same trap. As an adult I refused to get sucked in.
“Where’d you go today? Sophie said she saw you at seven and you were sleeping.”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Just out, okay?”
I sipped my tea, the picture of nonchalance. “Out where?”
“I don’t report to you.”
“You do when your kid’s been in trouble and no one knew where you were, including the sheriff.”
“What happened?” She scrambled out of the chair. “Is Levi okay?”
“He’s fine.”
Hope sagged next to me on the loveseat. “Where is he?”
“Unloading hay with Jake.” During my brief rundown of Levi’s transgressions, her anxious expression changed to defeat.
She reached for my hand. Hers was so soft and frail. In comparison, mine felt hard and tough as an old baseball glove.
“I’m sorry. You got enough to worry about without adding Levi to the mix.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, leaving black mascara tracks on her ashen face.
I softened my tone and passed her a Kleenex. “The last month has been rough. On all of us.”
She delicately blotted the corners of her eyes. “Know where I was today?”
“Where?”
“At the cemetery.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking to Daddy.”
“Really?” To keep a conversation going with her, I had to respond to every question. Luckily one word answers were sufficient.
“Yeah. I go there sometimes. Do you?”
“No.”
“I feel like I have to go, because I don’t want to forget him like I did her.”
Her. My pulse quickened. “It’s not the same, Hope. You were only three when she died.”
The window air conditioner kicked on and packed the void with cold white noise.
“What do you remember?” she asked softly.
My breath froze in my lungs.
“I mean, what do you remember about her? Mama.”
An unwanted image of my mother appeared-sprawled face-first in the horse stall, blood matting her hair, pink splotches soaking through her white eyelet blouse. Tan leather riding glove clutched in her right hand; the pulpy red mass that’d been her left forearm stretched out in the filthy hay. The rank smell of nervous horse sweat. Horseshit. My own urine-soaked jeans. The horse’s continual, loud, moist grunts of distress.
Mostly I remembered my helplessness, peeking through the slats at her motionless body.
Three decades later, the scene still haunts me. I’d neglected to take the saddle off the Thoroughbred we’d been boarding before I’d corralled her. The saddle had slipped beneath the horse’s belly, and the temperamental mare spooked. When my mother entered the stall to correct my oversight, the horse’s powerful hind legs connected with her head. Several times.