“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.”
Chapter Five
Sally was up early.
She’d checked her e-mail—the honeymooners had landed safely and a group of church campers wanted to schedule a day trip to the sanctuary—and paid some bills online before leaving the room that had served variously as the “front” bedroom, the den, the office and now all three rolled up into Sally’s lair. She refused to consider it her confines, but there were times when parts of her body wouldn’t do much. For Annie’s sake she came out for meals, but otherwise she worked long hours in the office. She profiled every animal on the place, recorded every piece of machinery, kept the books, researched everything from parasites to nonprofits and hatched plans. Her motto was: When the Moving Gets Tough, the Tough Get Moving. One of these days she was going to stitch up the words into a little plaque.
Just as soon as she learned to stitch, which wasn’t happening anytime soon. Not as long as the good times were walkin’ instead of rollin'.
She helped herself to coffee, popped an English muffin in the toaster and glanced out the back window.
Here came Grumpy.
She couldn’t get it through Hoolie’s head that as long as she could get up and go, she was going. He knew as well as she did that her physical condition was predictably unpredictable. Most people didn’t believe they could get seriously sick or hurt anytime. They knew it, but they didn’t believe it. Sally remembered what that carefree, wasted-on-the-healthy frame of mind was like. She’d been there, BMS—before multiple sclerosis. MS had made a believer of her. Her body could turn on her anytime. Just a matter of time.
She’d had to admit that her eye had been bothering her. She was in the knowing-but-not-really-believing stage—was that the same as denial?—but Hoolie couldn’t be denied. He was old and dear, and he knew better. Annie was young and dear, and she could be put off. So, yes, she’d been waking up some mornings—just some—feeling like she had something in her right eye. And sometimes—like the other night in the pickup with Hank—it would totally blur up as though she were crying Vaseline. Weird. These things often hit her when she was feeling stressed, which was hardly what she’d been feeling that night.
Hoolie