“How nice,” I mutter, having no doubt now why she’s smiling when she thinks of that interaction versus this one. Payday is enough to improve anyone’s mood.
“Hiswasa gift,” she continues, voice gone soft and dreamy. “Lucky soul. Whoever they are. Having someone like that.”
“Right.” I shift uncomfortably, feeling more ridiculous by the minute. “Well, sorry to bother you. If you do happen to have someone come in, then…”
Then what?I think.Then come to the saloon tonight and let me know? Or better yet, come walk on down to the stall I’m sleeping in at the stable? Christ.
“Never mind,” I tell her, rather than offer either option as I move toward the door. “Thank you again.”
“Wait,” she calls after me, making me turn, and the way she studies my face when I do lets me know what’s coming before she even gets the words out. “You look familiar to me… Have you been in here before?”
“No, miss, can’t say I have,” I reply, reflexively putting my hat back on and ducking to hide my face as I head for the door again. “You have a good rest of your day.”
I really need to get out of town.
I give up my search after that, walking back to the stable with my head still low and with every intention of going for a ride until I have to be back at the saloon tonight.
It’ll help. Always does. If I can clear my mind for a bit, ride fast and pretend like I don’t have to turn around, it’ll help. Lessen how tight my chest feels as I round the barn for the pastures, unable to stop my hands from shaking even after I shove them in my pockets and pick up my pace.
It’ll help. I only need to get out of here for a little while. I only need—
I stop dead in my tracks when I reach the gate of the pasture where I left the mustang this morning, staring at the rope securing it to the fence post like it’s a rattler about to bite me.
The repurposed lead was altered while I’ve been gone, my hasty but sturdy (or so I thought) tie-off replaced with something that looks far less effective, but I’m relieved to see that the mustang is still here and currently plodding towardme. Unfortunately, for the second time today, my relief is short-lived.
I can’t get the damn thing to budge. No matter how hard I tug at the knot or at either of the loose ends, the tie holds fast, well after the mustang has arrived to observe. And he’s not the only one.
“Did you do this?” I ask the same boy I’d snapped at this morning, who’s stopped to watch me struggle on his way to muck stalls. “Did you mess with this gate?”
“No, sir,” he says with a shake of his head. “But I know there’s a trick to it.” The corner of his mouth lifts as he steps up to the gate and gestures at the piece of rope in my hand. “You have to take that end and put it back through the loop first.” When I only stare at him, he offers, “You need me to do it for you?”
“I got it,” I reply tersely, willing to follow the instruction as long as it gets the fuckin’ gate open. “Now what?”
“Tug on the end.” The continued skepticism must be obvious on my face, because he adds, “Just try it. You’ll see.”
I give the rope a sharp jerk, still expecting nothing to happen, even as it easily comes undone in my hand.
“Neat, right?” the boy asks. “I guess it’s called a quick release? I’ve been practicing with it all morning.”
“Then it can’t be very quick, can it?” I glare at him in what I hope is a clear warning. “Don’t bepracticingon my gate.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t. I’m not the one who… Say…” I’m sized up for the second time this morning, although perhaps more efficiently, given the way he starts dancing from foot to foot. “Say, are you him?”
Really,reallyneed to get out of town.
“No,” I tell the kid as I yank the gate open. “I’m not.”
“Oh,” the kid says, disappointed. “You sure? You know who I mean, right? That famous shooter? My pa and I used to see stuff about him in the paper all the time.” He sighs, scuffing his filthyboots in the dirt. “I want to bejustlike him when I get big.”
It’srightthere, the tattered edge of a memory, those snippets of stories in papers, of another boy and his father reading them aloud. A different memory than the one that keeps me up most nights, so close that I feel as if I could grab it if I only reached out my hand for it.
But I know better than to try.
“You don’t,” I say as I take the now-free rope and loop it around the mustang’s neck, leading him back toward the barn. “Trust me.”
I keep out of Soldana until I have no choice but to go back, leaving myself barely enough time to clean up and change my clothes before I head toward the center of town.
As I walk, I can’t help noticing the weather warming up with the onset of spring, that and the briskness of my step more than enough to chase away what remains of the chill from stripping down at the river again. Not exactly enjoyable butanythinghas to be better than one of those bath houses. Paying a whole quarter just to sit in another person’s dirty water? Doesn’t seem worth it for a bit of warmth, especially since it’s already stifling inside the saloon when I push through the doors.