Reason To Believe (27 page)

"He went to Vietnam," Ben interpreted for her amid the chuckles.

"Oh." She smiled. "That's close."

"Small world," Ben said affectionately. He'd always loved the way she took everything literally. She made it so easy to tell a good joke. "Why haven't you gone to bed yet, Clara-bow? Your eyes are at half-mast."

"Because I enjoy the stories." She sighed dramatically. "And because I don't think I can stand up." But with his help, she did. "Ohhh, I feel like I've aged fifty years in one day. I would give anything for a tub of hot water."

"I'm sure we could—"

"No." She waved Ben's offer away before he could finish it. "No, no. I'm good for another day. At least. Good night, all."

A chorus of good nights followed her, and so did Ben, still chatting. "It's kinda cozy if we all smell alike, you know. Horses, people. Keeps us all on friendly terms." She laughed, and he nodded back over his shoulder at the campfire circle.
"Mitakuye oyasin."

"Yes," she said with a smile and translated, "All my relatives. They are, aren't they?"

"You fit right in. We couldn't ask for a better straight man." His smile was a little more suggestive than hers. "I could probably come up with enough water for a spit bath."

"You could, huh? Thanks, but I've already taken care of that."

"Damn," he clipped, snapping his fingers.

"You're flirting with me, Ben."

"Am I?"

"Shamelessly."

"I've done plenty of things I'm ashamed of, Clara-bow, but flirtin' with my wife ain't one of 'em." Her lips parted for a retort, but he touched them to forestall it. "Don't. Just let it lay. Wish me good night, okay? And you sleep well."

"Good night, Ben."

There was still plenty of activity around the campfires, but Ben decided to head for the tipi, hit the sack, close his eyes, and fancy himself rating a good-night kiss from his wife before the ride was over. A guy could dream.

Dewey was alone in the tipi, but he was having a hell of a conversation with somebody. Times like this, Ben didn't know whether to let the night shades have their way with the old man or wake him in hopes of driving them away.

Maybe Dewey didn't want them driven away.

On the other hand, maybe they would take him away.

The fires outside brightened the tipi's canvas walls. The interior was cast in shades of gray. Ben knelt beside his father's buffalo-hide pallet and shook him gently. "Are you okay. Dad? Bad dreams?"

The old man woke with a start.

"Look at you," Ben whispered, startled himself by an eerie sense that Dewey had been somewhere else just now, and it hadn't been easy for him to get back. "You're all out of breath. Jesus."

"It's nothing. I dream all the time." The old man settled back down with a sigh. "Even when I'm awake sometimes."

"Are you okay?" Ben adjusted the bedding and tucked the top blanket around his father's shoulders. "You warm enough?"

"I'm never warm enough anymore,
cinks.
I'm old," he closed his eyes. "But not too old to make this journey."

"It's not your age that concerns me. It's your health." Ben set about preparing his own bed, laying the tarp down first, then the foam pad.

"My health
is
what it
is.
It's important to keep going. It gets harder, you know."

"It doesn't have to. You can ride in the pickup with TJ any time."

"There wasn't much snow on the ground. Not at first. But it was cold, and it got colder. No pickups to ride in. Not many horses. Hardly any food." Dewey's voice drifted, becoming thin and hollow. "Be careful for the children,
cinks.
Make sure they get something to eat. And the women with small babies. Make sure—"

Ben unrolled his sleeping bag. "Dad, we don't have any women with babies."

"The most important thing is to keep going, every day. Don't let them catch us. Don't let anyone stop—"

"Nobody's chasin' us." He laid his hand on his father's shoulder, letting him know that it was his turn to be watchful now. He was good enough at least for that. "You need rest,
ate.
Sleep."

"The red roan," Dewey muttered.

"What red roan?" Then he remembered, and he smiled. "You tryin' to over on
my
dreams now, old man? Let it rest now. Let your old head rest."

Ben ducked outside for a cigarette. He'd had enough talk. He wanted solitude. He found it where the horses were penned. He took a seat on the corral rail, smoke wreathing his head, which was hazy on the inside, too. Full of smoky echoes and chilly doubts.

This had to be the worst kind of a fool's errand. Sore muscles, fingers and toes aching with the cold, kids who could hardly stay in the saddle, horses barely broke to ride, people setting out to push themselves way beyond their usual limits, and for what?

For him, it was a chance to be with his wife and daughter, which just showed how desperate a guy could get if he screwed up bad enough. A guy could get to the point where he'd have to turn himself inside out and stand the world on its head just to spend a few days with his family. He was willing to do that because he hoped he might find a way to make some repairs and get his world spinning on its axis again. Surely nobody else on this journey was as desperate as he was, but why would anyone ride all those days over all those miles of desolate, frozen prairie unless his life somehow hung in the balance? And why would anyone think pulling a wild stunt like this would change anything?

He decided the camp surrounding him had to be full of fools and saints. Nothing in between. The normal people were all home sleeping in their beds. They weren't running around in circles all the time, chasing and being chased, never quite certain whether they were getting close or getting away. Normal people weren't desperate. Desperate to catch some elusive pleasure, desperate to avoid getting caught by some shadowy threat. The worst of it was, they could be, as he well remembered, one and the same...

"Ben Pipestone?" The pale, beefy bartender tucked the telephone receiver into the pocket of his shoulder. "There's a woman asking for you. You here?"

Ben tugged at the dip in the brim of his hat, taking refuge. Damn, she was like a bloodhound. He'd just barely gotten a buzz on. He was just getting comfortable with the blue cloud that hung in the air, the boozy laughter, the whiskey voice gliding along a greasy steel guitar track, bewailing a loss of some kind.

"A woman or a wife?"

"If you got a wife, I'm bettin' this is her."

"Get your cowboy ass home,
right now,
Ben Pipestone," someone taunted.

"Like hell," Ben grumbled. "Nobody tells me when to go home."

"You sure? I hate to hang up on 'em when they sound like this."

"How does she sound?" He didn't know why he was asking. He wasn't interested.

The bartender shrugged. "Like she really wants you home."

"Like she's moaaanin', moanin' the blues," came the old favorite croon from somewhere down the barstool line.

"Shit." Ben leaned back and flashed a grin over his shoulder. "I used to wish I could sing, Jimmy. Now I wish you could sing." He turned to the bartender. "Tell her I just left."

"Tell her yourself." But when Ben shook his head, the bartender chose a line from his vast repertoire and bellowed it into the phone. "You just missed him." Pause. "Well, he'll probably be along pretty soon. Everything closes up here in about half an hour." Pause. "I wouldn't know that. Sorry."

Ben rapped his knuckles on the bar for another drink.

"She wanted to know if you were driving." The bartender shoved the phone under the counter and eyed Ben's empty glass.
"I
wanna know if you're driving."

"You can ride with us, Ben," came the offer from another barstool.

"Thanks, Jim."

"We're all ridin' with her." Jim White Hawk leaned back, peering past a row of shoulders hunched over their drinks, and gave Ben a nod. "The one at the table, drinkin' the pop and givin' you the eye."

Ben swiveled on his stool, locating the source of interest. The face was a blur. "You takin' me home, honey?"

"Well, sure, cowboy. Where's home?"

"Anywhere I hang my hat. Anywhere I damn well feel like..." He slapped his hand on the bar. The gold band on his third finger glared up at him. He made a fist. "I ordered a drink here."

"This is last call."

"Just for me?"

"For everybody."

Ben scowled at the pasty-faced bartender. "You married?"

"Yep."

"Guess that's okay for a bartender." Auto mechanics, too. After an argument with Clara that morning, Ben had admitted to himself, finally, that he was just another two-bit grease monkey. He was never going to fill his PRCA permit by winning enough money during a season to qualify for professional rodeo cowboy status.

He stared at the bottle in the bartender's hand as though it contained deliverance. "The only thing in this life I ever wanted to be was a rodeo cowboy. And I used to be pretty damn good at it. Then I got married."

"And?"

"And I've been married ever since. Come next spring, I'll still be married."

"Come the spring after that, he'll
still
be married," Jim White Hawk gibed good-naturedly.

"Workin' forty hours a week. Mowin' the goddamn grass for no good reason. Crissake, if you're not puttin' up hay, why cut the damn grass?" He watched the plastic beak on the upended bottle measure amber liquid into the shot glass next to his beer. "Tell you what, though, every goddamn time I wanna leave the house, she wants me to come up with some kind of a reason." He raised the shot glass, toasting the bartender. "I'm goin' on a drunk, hey. How's that for a reason? She's got her friends, goddamn, I got mine."

"Do yourself a favor, cowboy. Go on home."

And that was true. They had since moved to another house, but it was still true. She was home. She was where his heart was. But he was no longer welcome there.

The third day of the ride was a true test of Clara's endurance. She started out sore. By noon every muscle in her body cried for mercy. The cold wind had coated her face with a layer of fine dust. She tasted it in the corners of her mouth. Talking became a gritty task. Simply staying on the horse required her continual effort. The only way to put an end to the torture was to give in to the demands of good common sense, quit the saddle and crawl into a pickup, as Toby Two Bear had done during a midmorning break. It was either that or embrace the misery by telling herself that quitting was not an option for her.

She couldn't stop, she kept telling herself. No stopping. If she stopped, the aching would only get worse. If she stopped, she would get left behind. If she stopped, she wouldn't be there for Anna. If she stopped, she would be a quitter. Nothing worse than a quitter. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Only babies quit. Only girls quit. Only losers quit. Quitters never lose and losers never quit. She knew the whole routine. She'd been put on notice at an early age, and she was the consummate overachiever. She firmly believed that if she made it through today, it would be easier tomorrow. And she would make it through today.

There were fewer photographers with them now than there had been when they'd started. There were
a
couple of video cameramen committed to taping the entire ride. Several foreign journalists were in for the long haul as well. There was, in fact, greater interest from foreign press than domestic. Robert Cady and his faithful truck, Harvey, were still with the program. The vehicles often traveled over a different route, but they had their copies of the itinerary, and they were never too far ahead or behind.

They stopped at the edge of a field for the noon meal. Clara smelled burning sweet grass, and her eyes followed her nose to the source. Dewey had taken the fasters aside for prayers. More and more she appreciated the sacrifice those five men were making. Bologna sandwiches and oranges seemed like a feast, even though every bite was peppered with grit. It was hard-earned grit, blown into her face across the hard-won miles. A little coffee washed it down easily.

The people from the support caravan, particularly the youngsters, were eager to relieve the riders of their horses during the break. Toby Two Bear was talking about "getting back in" soon. He'd been kicked in the foot by one of the other horses, he said, as evidenced by his limp. But he was okay, and he wasn't quitting. Just resting up a little.

"Hey, you know what, Mom? I think I'm developing my own saddle pad." Anna indicated her inner thighs. "It's gonna be like cowhide, no lie."

Ben was laughing when he came up behind them, just polishing off a sandwich. "I've been ridin' all my life, Annie-girl, and I'm here to tell you, it ain't gonna happen. You wearin' long johns?"

"Silk ones, like Mom's."

"Hmm." He raised an appreciative brow as he popped a corner of crust into his mouth. "Tight as those jeans are, I don't know how you'd be gettin' chapped. I've been meanin' to comment on the cut of those jeans, little girl." He gestured for a pirouette, shaking his head with fatherly disapproval as he watched her turn around. "I don't know. I thought the relaxed style was in these days."