Cool Hand Hank / A Cowboy's Redemption: Cool Hand Hank / A Cowboy's Redemption

“And Zach told me if I had any problems, he could be back in twenty-four hours.”

“No worries, mate.”

“If I were a worrier, the words creative and plan might give me pause.”

“I’m glad you’re not.” Arms around her legs, she drew her knees up for a chin rest. “Because if I had a plan, I’d really want to tell you about it. I would really value your thoughts. You strike me as a practical man. And I’m a creative woman.” She gave a slow, sensual smile. “Yin and yang.”

“Hmm. If I were a thinking man, my first thought would be…” He winked. “Somebody’s yin-yangin’ my chain.”

She groaned. “Is that what passes for humor where you come from?”

“Well, there’s Indian humor, and there’s edumacated Indian humor.”

“Edumacated?”

“Half-assed educated, which is a dangerous thing.”

“Zach says you’re the best doc he knows.”

“If they ain’t broke, I can fix ‘em up good enough for the next round. You can’t take the cowboy out of the rodeo unless he’s out cold. Then he can’t argue.” He tossed his chewed grass. “'Course, I’m not a doctor. Started out to be, got myself edumacated.”

“Meaning?”

“Got married, had a kid, dropped out of school.”

“Happens to a lot of us. Even without the marriage and kid part.” She thought twice, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. “What happened to your son?”

“He got hit by a car. He was in a coma for six months. By the time he died…” He drew a long, deep breath and sighed. “By the time we let him go, we had nothin’ left.” He lifted one shoulder as he scanned the hills. “Bottom line, I thought she was watchin’ him, she thought I was watchin’ him.” He shook his head, gave a mirthless chuckle. “It’s not the bottom line that kills you. It’s all the garbage you have to wade through before you find it. And when you do, hell, there’s no way to forgive if you can’t even look at each other anymore.”

Sally could not speak. Her throat burned, and she knew it would be a mistake to open her mouth. She knew hospitals. Technicians with their tests, nurses with their needles, doctors with no answers—she knew them all. She imagined them easily. She knew what it felt like to be poked and prodded and eye-balled. It could be painful. It was often scary. When it became part of life’s routine, it was miserable, maddening, frustrating, and it hurt. Physically, when it was your own body, it hurt. Sometimes you thought, if this kills me, that’ll be it. Over and out. She could imagine that part. Easily. What she could not imagine was sitting beside the bed rather than lying in it, watching over your child, losing your child piece by piece until finally the terrible word had to be said.

She reached for his hand. He flinched, but she caught him before he could draw away and kissed him, there on the backs of his healing fingers, rough knuckles, tough skin. She met his wary gaze. Her eyesight was a little hazy, but her heart was not. Whatever she was feeling, it wasn’t pity. Wouldn’t give it, couldn’t take it.

He smiled, just enough to let her know he understood.

“So.” He glanced away, withdrew his hand, gave a brief nod. “Back to the plan.”

Hank thought it over on the ride back. She was pretty quiet—must’ve talked herself out—and he had time to watch the evening sky begin to change colors while he thought about the land, the horses, Sally and her big plan. She wanted to publicize the merits of the sanctuary and the appeal of owning a once-wild horse. She’d done some Internet research and pitched the idea of a documentary, but only a couple of documentary producers had responded, and they’d said the story had been done. She needed a new angle.

“I have a killer idea that I haven’t told anybody about except Hoolie. And now you.” Her secret Henrys, she’d called them, but he couldn’t see her keeping any secrets the way this one had tumbled out of her. She wanted to hold a competition for horse trainers. They would choose a horse from the best of the three-and four-year-olds, and they would commit to conditioning, gentling and training the horse to perform. She would bring in experienced judges, award big, huge cash prizes and auction off the horses. “It’s got everything,” she’d claimed. “History, romance, suspense, sports, gorgeous animals in trouble, beautiful people who care, and lots and lots of money.”

Hank had enjoyed the sound of her enthusiasm so much, he hadn’t asked whether the beautiful people cared about the animals or the money. He hadn’t asked where the money would come from. Maybe Zach’s brother, Sam, would sponsor the whole thing. He’d hit the jackpot, and he seemed like a good guy.

Covering the last mile between a job well done and supper, Hank knew one thing about the woman riding at his side: she lived for wild horses. She was the real Mustang Sally. She was serious about her dream, and no matter how big the undertaking, she would do what she had to do to make it come true. He was sure she had him figured into her doings somehow. It would be fascinating to watch the woman roll out the rest of her strategy. She’d already shown him she could get something out of him he never, ever gave.

Now it was his turn. She was keeping something close to the chest, some heavy weight that bore down on her. He’d seen it knock her over. He’d watched her get right back up. He wouldn’t press her—she had enough pressure—but she was going to have to strip off more than her clothes. Whatever she was figuring him for, trust would be the price for Night Horse insurance.

They crossed paths with Hoolie on his way out the back door. The way he said hope you two had a nice time made it sound like he was mad about something—supper, maybe, although he said he and Kevin hadn’t waited—and Hank questioned Sally with a look. She smiled, shrugged it off, said we did to the slamming door. “Grumpy old men,” she stage-whispered.

“I got twenty-twenty hearing, big sister.”

“I love you, too, ya big grump.” She lowered her voice. “The older he gets, the more he sounds like a mother hen.”

“Thirty-thirty,” was the rejoinder from the yard.

“Shoot me, then,” Sally called back, eyes sparkling. “Chicken sandwich anyone?” she whispered.

She wasn’t kidding about the chicken. Hank was used to cold suppers, but not like this. Sally piled on the fruits and vegetables, fresh-picked garden greens, potato salad and whole-grain bread. At first glance, it struck him as a woman’s kind of meal. At first bite, a man found himself taking his time. No rush to fill up when there was taste and talk on the table.

“I think your plan for a horse-training contest could work.” He could tell he had her at work, but he added, “I’d compete.”

“I was hoping you’d help me run it.”

“That wouldn’t play to my strong suit. I’m not much of a runner.” He leaned back in his chair and eyed her thoughtfully. “Especially behind a friend’s back. What do the newlyweds think about running a contest?”

“They’re on their honeymoon, for which I thank you very much.” Sally popped a green grape into her mouth. “Annie thinks we’ve already bitten off more than we can chew. She’s very careful, very conservative.”

“And she married a cowboy?”

“You toss careful and conservative out the door when you fall in love. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.” She went for another grape. “I don’t have time for conservative. Or patience. I know it’s a virtue, but time doesn’t stand still while we take small bites and chew thoroughly. This land and these horses look tough, but they’re vulnerable. They’re right for each other—they need each other. We’ve come a long way getting them back together, and we can’t backtrack. Every acre we add to our program is home for another horse.” She lifted one shoulder. “Okay, a tenth of a horse, which is why we need more acres. They need space. Wide-open space. You can’t have wild horses without wild places.”

“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 mounted the back steps, crutch thumping, black shepherd in tow. He told the dog to stay outside, but she took off as soon as the door closed, presumably in search of somebody else to herd.

“Have you guys edumacated Phoebe and Baby yet?” The word was Hank’s. She felt giddy about knowing it and saying it, like a girl with a crush. She laughed at the funny look Hoolie gave her. “Hank’s teaching me to talk Indian. He got himself edumacated. I guess it’s learning the hard way.”

“Seems like a real smart fella. Zach says he’s halfway to bein’ a doctor and twice as good as most of them he knows. Guess he’s met a few.” He glanced down at his cast. “So, if I have any more trouble with this, I can probably…you know…”

“Ask him to take a look. I doubt if he’d charge you much.” She pulled a chair out from the table and spun it around. “You know, you’re supposed to use two crutches.”

He ignored the comment, but he accepted the chair.

“I didn’t mean to get testy last night. You were gone a long time, and it’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse.”

“It was wonderful.” She positioned a second chair for his footstool. “It was just what the halfway doctor would have ordered. If orders were in order.”

“What’s he chargin’ for fixing up Tank’s hooves? He’s out there now gettin’ set to work on him. You might wanna go watch and learn.”

“Like I’ve never seen horseshoeing done before.” She headed for the coffeepot.

“Not like this. Hank’s firing up for a hot shoeing. Got his portable forge out. Took his shirt off. Got a nice set of tools all laid out.” He nodded his thanks for the coffee she handed him. “Sometimes they charge extra for hot shoeing, but they say it’s worth it.”

She laughed. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were playing a game that has everything to do with firing up, nothing to do with horseshoes.”

“Game? What game? I’m just sayin'…”

“I have a couple of volunteers coming in today, and I thought we’d get them started on—”

“Mowing the ditches along the right-of-way and putting up the new snow fence. I’m already on it.” He raised one unruly eyebrow. “In case you wanted to take Hank something cold and wet, there’s pop in the fridge.”

“I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. I’ll just take him some ice water.” In a tall, sweaty glass.

The smell of burning charcoal drifted through the barn’s side door, where Sally was greeted by wagging tails and canine smiles. Phoebe and Baby were buds. The Dog Whisperer had spoken.

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