Part 8 (1/2)

”What about motels?” I asked.

Lloyd looked slighted. ”Moby d.i.c.k is self-contained, almost. We won't be stopping at motels.”

”Self-contained means toilet, shower, and stove. Does d.i.c.k contain a toilet, shower, and stove?”

Shane hooted, which was the next subject I meant to discuss.

Lloyd rubbed his leg. ”We have sleeping bags. There's a separate bag for you.”

”You bet there is.”

Twenty minutes turned into seven hours, but, by G.o.d, we pulled it off. Who would have thought two dried-up ex-drunks and a housewife or whatever I was could get their acts together and bust out of a rut in seven hours?

First stop was the TM ranch for a double-wide horse trailer and cash on the barrel head.

I left the boys up by the house and walked across the west pasture to where Hank Elkrunner stood in a ditch, wearing jeans, leather gloves, and irrigation boots. He'd stripped off his s.h.i.+rt and had his hair down, so he came off all muscles and sweat and brown skin. I could see why Lydia went drippy on sight.

Hank looked up at the ambulance. ”Somebody hurt?”

Shane sat shoveling cookies into his mouth while Lloyd lay on his back under the front end, checking something mechanical. ”Those are my good examples. They used to be drunks.”

”I figured the hospital expected you back so soon they decided to tag along on your adventures.” The Indian thing about Hank is you never know when he's joking. Other than that inscrutability stance, he's fairly white-doesn't sleep with bird parts next to the bed or drink bad wine or say ”my people” like other Indians I'd met.

I said what I forgot to say Friday. ”Thanks.”

Hank bent at the knees and grabbed both sides of a head gate with his hands. His muscles bunched up as he lifted. ”Arnold found you. I was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g Charley Chaplain's nails when Arnold started howling. Thought he had flushed a porcupine.”

With a grunt, the gate came up an inch and brown water swirled under the board, oozing into the sides of the ditch before it filled in around Hank's boots and started pus.h.i.+ng dust downstream.

”Well, I appreciate you and Arnold saving my life.”

”Couldn't leave a naked woman lying that close to the creek. Might spoil the water.”

I'm way fond of Hank. He's worked for Dad since Shannon was born, and even though he's Lydia's boyfriend, which makes him a generation older than me, we've always been able to talk about life and boyfriends and horses and stuff.

Sometimes Hank was more of a dad than Dad. He taught me how to read scat and howl like a wolf and G.o.d is Nature/Nature is G.o.d. Dad drove me to Sunday school a lot, but he never taught me anything about G.o.d.

”Hank, I need to borrow a trailer and three hundred dollars.”

His attention was on the mares next to the barn. ”You will have to grant me an advance before I loan you three hundred dollars.”

”Do we have three hundred dollars to advance you to loan me?”

He pulled off his irrigation gloves. ”Barely.”

Hank listened without expression while I outlined the Coors-to-Carolina gig. At pertinent points his eyes roamed up the rise to Shane, Lloyd, and Moby d.i.c.k.

”Why not call Sam and have him mail you the money to fly back east?”

”I don't want to owe Sam money.”

Hank slapped the dust off his gloves on his left forearm. He looked over at the Tetons, which is what everybody in the valley does when they're thinking deep stuff. ”Maurey, have you looked at the books since Buddy died? Sam financed the funeral and paid the inheritance taxes. He owns your mama's house.”

”I don't get it.”

”This ranch is supporting your mother, brother, me, and most of Lydia, and now it'll have to do for you. That many people can't live on horses.”

”Why didn't anyone tell me?”

Hank looked right at my face, which, as I understand it, is a very un-Blackfoot thing to do. ”You were preoccupied.”

”Drunk.”

He shrugged. ”Sometimes you were just depressed.”

You know, when your dad dies you can't simply stop functioning for six months. I mean, you can-I was the number one example-but you shouldn't. Somebody has to pay attention. At her sanest, Mom didn't know which end of a cow s.h.i.+ts, and Petey was afraid of animals. That left me, and I'd flopped.

”I should surrender and give the ranch to Sam.”

Hank crammed the gloves in his back pocket so only the tips of the fingers stuck out. ”Don't do that, he might fire me and run the place himself.”

The thought made even Hank smile. I'd seen Sam in a cowboy hat once. He looked like Woody Allen gone hombre. The only time he ever got it up to ride a horse, Mae West threw him into a barbwire fence.

”Still, I'd rather do this without Sam,” I said. ”He's been saving me for ten years. It's my turn.”

As Hank and I walked through the s.h.i.+n-high gra.s.ses up to the house, I thought about why I didn't want Sam flying me down there. It was like, here in Jackson Hole people watched me. And in Greensboro Sam's expectations would cause discomfort. If I got drunk, Sam wouldn't preach or anything, but he would think. Shannon had never seen the Mom-gone-bad either.

I was worn out from disappointing people. I needed a gap, a rest between this and that where no one could pull me up, put me down, or tear off little pieces of my energy. Even though I'd just finished one, I needed a three-day nap, and being out of reach on the road with Laurel and Hardy might be the next best medicine.

Shane slid another cookie into his beak. ”I don't see cows. You said there were cows and all I see are horses.”

Hank nodded to the uphill side. ”Cattle are on the Forest Service lease till October.”

”I don't much care for horses. Never have since Katharine Hepburn insisted I copulate with her on one in 1942,” Shane said.

I was dubious. ”You nailed Katharine Hepburn?”

”On a stallion. Sweet girl, really, although she went to extremes for sensory experience.” Shane lowered his voice. ”She suffered from p.e.n.i.s envy.”

”We've got a filly named Katharine Hepburn.” Hank waved his arm in the general direction of Frostbite and three or four quarter horse-Thoroughbred combinations.

Shane peered off toward the group. ”Kate always was a bit horsey in the thighs.”

I didn't for a second believe Shane had nailed Katharine Hepburn. n.o.body-except possibly Spencer Tracy when she was underage-had ever nailed Katharine Hepburn. She wouldn't allow it.

Lloyd backed out from under Moby d.i.c.k. Some gravel was embedded in his bare shoulder next to the overalls. ”Big hole in the exhaust,” he said. ”Thought I felt fumes inside.”