Lakota Legacy: Wolf DreamerCowboy Days and Indian NightsSeven Days

by Madeline Baker

  The dog sniffed, stretched and snorted with indifference.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Ryder said, smiling down at her in the shadows.

  “His ‘what’ is missing?”

  He laughed as he rolled to his back, taking her with him so that, with a little shifting, he propped himself up against the padded headboard and had her riding him astride.

  Again she whispered, “Oh, my…”

  “Your what, funny lady? Your breasts?”

  He lifted her, tongued her, suckled her until she rolled her hips and rocked, rubbing Ryder exactly the right way. Oh, but he had a rhythm about him. He knew all about gaits and how to work one against the other to make the ride last. “My Meredith,” he whispered. His words made her shiver. “I want to make you merry.”

  “I want to make you wild,” she said.

  “I want to make you mine.”

  He taught her how to take him for a ride, then slow down a bit and go along for the ride, then to post him while he petted her until they couldn’t tell who was riding and who was being ridden, until nothing mattered but riding all the way, all the way, all the way home.

  It was a long, luxurious night. It was a night for discovering wonders, for dozing and drifting in each other’s arms, and then stirring each other to discover more. When morning’s first blush began to brighten the space around them, illuminating the pale cabbage roses on the wall, the creamy soft curtains and the painted glass lampshades, they were still gazing sleepily across the pillows into each other’s eyes. The intimacy between them was so complete that it was expressed in the smallest gesture, the mere touch of his finger to her face, her hand on his shoulder.

  She broke the silence.

  “What would you like for breakfast?”

  His slow smile was as sweet as sunrise.

  “Besides that,” she said.

  “A long soak in a hot tub and a tin of that horse liniment I mentioned before.”

  With a sassy smile, she snuggled close. “Was I too much for you, cowboy?”

  “Almost,” he said, snaking his arm beneath her pillow. “But I’m already looking forward to another go-round.” He frowned as he pulled an interloper from underneath her pillow.

  “Is this what I think it is?” He held the teddy bear aloft. “Am I being watched by a jealous bear?”

  “Some people have their turtles, others have their bears.” She tried to take the old toy, but Ryder held it out of her reach.

  The well-loved brown bear bore his closer scrutiny. “Somebody blinded him.”

  The pronouncement sounded harsh, considering the identity of the perpetrators. Sitting up, Meredith took the bear away from Ryder and stroked its worn face.

  “Ken almost choked on one of the eyes, so I took the other one off. When I dug him out of storage and gave him to Collin, he cried and threw a fit because the eyes were missing. He wanted Daddy to fix them.”

  “Makes sense,” Ryder allowed as he propped himself up beside her. “His daddy’s a veterinarian.”

  “Instead, Ken came up with a story about Nosy, the bear.”

  “No See? Sounds like a good Indian name.”

  “His name is Nosy, not No See.” She bumped Ryder’s shoulder with hers as she posed the bear on her upraised, sheet-draped knee. “Nosy’s an old bear who came with kid-unfriendly button eyes. He’s gotten along quite well most of his life without them, and that’s because he has a super nose. Ken made up a wonderful story about Nosy, the super-nose bear.”

  “And how did he get left behind?”

  “He was a gift. A trade for Lydia.” She smiled sadly. “Kids don’t miss a trick. When I was saying my goodbyes, Collin knew that, um…” She glanced down at Raven, who was awake, ready, waiting for his signal to start the day, just the way Lydia had been every morning. Meredith’s throat tingled. “She sticks with Collin from the time he gets up until the time he goes to bed, but at night…”

  “Nosy slept with Collin, and Lydia slept with you.”

  “Yep.” She nodded, keeping the stiff upper lip. “So, we traded.”

  “It’s probably just as well ol’ Nosy can’t see me. I don’t smell too bad, but if he saw me, he might not approve.” He took her free hand in his, lacing brown fingers with white ones. “We’re an odd match.”

  “We’re a nice blend.”

  “Do we smell good together, Nosy boy?” He lifted their hands to the bear’s fuzzy nose. “I’ll bet we do. Clean livin’ and good lovin’.”

  She laughed. “Let’s bottle it and call it ‘Cowboy Days and Indian Nights.’ Talk about a great blend.”

  “I generally don’t,” he said quietly. “Talk about it, I mean. I used to try to blend, but in the family that raised me, I stood out like a fly in the milk, and they let me know it. I stood out at the wrong time in all the wrong ways. Got so I hated hearing my name called. I imagined becoming invisible, started pretending I had the power to disappear. I was there, but they couldn’t see me. I could do anything I wanted, as long as I didn’t make any noise.” He rested his head against the headboard and stared at the screen for the projection of memories—the bedroom ceiling. He sighed. “When I left, I just slipped out the back door.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. “Whose way of leaving would that be?”

  “The invisible kid’s way.” He reassured her with a smile. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve cleaned up my act, learned some manners.”

  “I was impressed with your winning ways almost immediately,” she quipped cheerfully.

  “Almost?”

  “You have to admit, it took you a while to get in the door. After that…” Working hard to reject niggling doubts, she lifted one shoulder. “…things moved pretty quickly.”

  “Light-of-day regrets? Look at me, Meredith.” He lifted her chin with his fingertips. “What do you see this morning that hasn’t been there all along?”

  “The man who…”

  Don’t say it, just because you feel different. Men don’t think that way. If you say it, he’ll be laughing on the inside. He won’t…

  “The man who made love to you last night is the same one who came looking for a place to stay.”

  “You don’t feel anything—”

  “Oh, yes, I do. I feel something.” He nodded, considering. But he glanced away, echoing softly, “I feel something.”

  “Enough to invite me to the rodeo?”

  He turned to her again and looked at her for a moment, so seriously she thought he might crack.

  And then he did. He cracked a big, bright smile. “Why not?”

  Chapter 6

  The only pickup truck Meredith had ever ridden in belonged to her uncle Marvin, who had a small dairy farm in southeastern Minnesota. Ryder’s truck might have been built the same year she had last visited Uncle Marvin’s farm, when she was about twelve. It was the year she’d found out that most of the bottle calves were destined to become hamburger and that the old dairy bull that had broken her uncle’s foot was in the baloney sandwiches Aunt Carol had made for lunch. Until a few days ago she had considered Uncle Marvin’s farm to be adequate experience with livestock and pickup trucks for one lifetime.

  But today would be different. The bulls would not be featured on the lunch menu. She understood that people would ride them and fight them, but as long as she stayed away from the hot dog stand, she didn’t have to think about them being eaten.

  “Do they get thrown to the ground?” she mused. Ryder had become such a persistent resident in her thoughts that she could almost feel him taking an active role.

  “Who?”

  Pop went her bubble.

  He rolled down his window and claimed a ticket from the parking ramp machine.

  “The bulls,” she said, mentally lopping off the of course. “Isn’t there a part where they grab them by the horns and throw them down?”

  “Those are steers.” He handed her the ticket with a gesture toward the glove box. “No, honey, the on
ly bull that gets thrown at a rodeo is the verbal kind. Otherwise, the real bulls get to do all the throwing.” Perched between them on the bench seat, Raven got a pat on the head from his master while they waited for the ramp barrier to retract. “You got some special affection for bulls?”

  “Not really. Not any more than any of God’s other natural, innocent creatures.”

  “Would that include me?”

  “No.” She put her arm around Raven’s shoulders and scratched his chest. “You fall into the special affection category. Reserved for other than natural, innocent creatures with bizarre but undeniable appeal.”

  “So if it’s a choice between me and the bull…”

  “Hmmm.” Squinting, she wagged her finger between imaginary alternatives. “Eeeny, beany, who’s the meany? The thing is, the bull isn’t the one who chooses to be part of the show.”

  “Me or him?” he insisted. “Who’s your pick?”

  “You,” she decided. “Definitely you. The bull has size and weight on his side. I always root for the underdog.”

  “I’ll take it whatever way it comes.” He licked his forefinger and chalked one up. “Okay, let’s go up the ladder. Between me and…” He spared her a glance as he arced the wheel sharply to claim a parking space. “Who’s your favorite Beatle?”

  “Paul. Between you and Paul, I’d choose you. But I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you. Pit yourself against Russell Crowe, and you’re done for.”

  “Wanna bet?” He slid her a grin that made her forget where to find the door handle. “His arena or mine?”

  He had suffered Meredith’s gender-biased inspection of his makeup case before they’d left home, and now he permitted her to carry it for him as far as the performers’ entrance to the event center’s “backstage” area, where he would “prepare for battle.” Even as he made light of it, his demeanor had begun to change, his focus shifting to a contest she had yet to fully appreciate, a task that would challenge more than his wit. She could feel his edginess.

  “Say goodbye to Ryder Red Hawk for a while.” He took the battered leather case from her and gave her a smile. “You’ve got your ticket?”

  She nodded, feeling strangely bereft.

  “I’ll meet you right here after the show,” he promised.

  A twinge of jealousy taunted her as she glanced at Raven, who could barely contain his tail-wagging excitement. I get to go with him.

  “Don’t I get to watch you put on your makeup?” She practically whined.

  “You do not. It’s a transformation.”

  Her voice flew up an octave. “But how will I know it’s you?”

  “By my hat.” Hands full, he reassured her with his cocky wink before he turned and walked away.

  He’d left her with plenty of time to buy a program and read it cover to cover while she munched on popcorn. Three clowns were listed, but Ryder “Turtle” Red Hawk had top billing. It had been several years since he’d won his last bullfighting championship, but he’d taken the top honor three years in a row. Meredith couldn’t tell how long ago his press picture had been taken. She might not have recognized him under the makeup if she’d passed him on her way to the seat he’d selected for her. His bio boasted a list of rodeo accomplishments he’d said nothing about, but it told so little and showed nothing of the face of the man she knew.

  Meredith had never been much of a sports enthusiast. As a teacher she had attended basketball and football games, but rules and strategies held no interest for her. She enjoyed watching her students, and later her son, play their hearts out. But watching grown men try to stay on the backs of a wild horses until the timer went off was a bit like watching dough rise. Either it came through all puffed up and proud, or it fell flat.

  She devoted her attention to the clowns.

  The best one wore a beaded turtle on his cowboy hat. Beneath the brim was a vaguely familiar face painted in ripples of red and white, which lent a mime’s visual vitality to each change of expression. He wore oversized high-water overalls over a long-sleeved red shirt, red tights and black tennis shoes. A red bandanna hung from his back pocket, and a huge red feather adorned his beaded hatband. If bulls really got angry when they saw red, Ryder was about to infuriate them.

  The announcer even called him Red—or Turtle, which prompted him to move like one. Because he was not miked, the announcer relayed his jokes over the loudspeaker. Meredith wasn’t particularly amused by the one about mistaking a pair of bald men for one large woman, but the audience laughed generously. Meredith preferred Raven’s tricks to the silly jokes. The contrast between the sleek, smart dog and the facile fellow in the baggy pants was pure fun as Raven showed his master up at every turn.

  The bull-riding event was the true test of Ryder’s quickness and athleticism. As he had promised, the bulls got to do all the throwing. Once a cowboy was on the ground, it was the clowns’ job to see that he had a chance to make his exit without getting run over by the bull. Their colorful costumes and antics provided entertainment for the audience and distraction for the bull. Each time a cowboy hit the dirt, the ensuing hubbub provided equal parts of terror and delight for Meredith. Ryder poked around, dragging his feet and making swimming motions with his arms, lazily doing his turtle act until the bull took a notion to make soup of him.

  Suddenly Ryder turned from the tortoise into the hare, evading the charging bull by a mere hairs-breadth. Escaping to the safety of a rubber barrel painted like a turtle shell, Ryder took an occasional flight through the air courtesy of bullpower. The bull’s horns served as a handy rake, used to make tossing a clown in a barrel look as easy as pitching straw. Once the pickup men had herded the animal into a pen and closed the gate on him, ol’ Turtle would emerge from his shell with a tentative expression on his face, followed by a victorious grin. He would have an exchange of jokes with the announcer, find his hat, and get ready for the next bull rider.

  But one red-and-white bull with particularly large horns and snake-like moves was in no mood to play. He unseated his rider so quickly, the poor cowboy had no time to free his hand from the rope, which left him flopping like a puppet tied to the bucking bull’s shoulders.

  Flanked by the other two clowns, Ryder instantly positioned himself within inches of the animal’s hazardous head. Anticipating changes in the bull’s direction, he danced away from the horns, giving horsemen and ground men the chance to free the cowboy and pull him out of harm’s way. Ryder dodged the animal’s head, only to be clipped in the head by a flying hoof.

  It all happened so fast that Meredith didn’t realize she was standing until someone behind her asked her to sit down.

  Sit down? When Ryder was facedown in the dirt? And he wasn’t moving?

  She stepped on a few toes and leapt over a lap or two on her way to the aisle. The steep steps nearly served as a slide for her descent to the ground-level floor. Along the way she caught a glimpse of chaps-clad cowboys holding a gate on the far side of the arena for two clowns carrying a third. That was where she was headed.

  But the Target Center was huge, and there was no direct route to the gate. She thought she’d pinpointed her personal target, but there were escalators and multiple levels and circuitous approaches to be negotiated. She lost track of her direction. Each time she asked for directions, she was told, “You can’t go back there.”

  But she was going back there, come high water or bull hockey. She finally tracked down the right gate, guarded by more cowboys. It led to the locker rooms.

  “I’m here with one of the performers,” she explained to a beefy but approachable-looking cowboy. “The one who was injured by the bull.”

  “You mean Red?”

  “Where is he?” she demanded, still trying to catch her breath. “Are they taking him to a hospital? Which one?”

  The cowboy shouted to someone out of Meredith’s limited view. “Hey, is Red Hawk still back there, or did they haul him off?”

  “He’s back there counting the doctor’s fingers,�
�� a voice shouted back. “If he gets the answer right, they’re gonna let him finish the show.”

  “That’s crazy,” Meredith said, her desperation unexpectedly mounting. “I need to see him.”

  “Tell Red his mama wants to see him,” the gate man shouted down the hallway.

  “Meredith!” she shouted, standing on tiptoe as though every inch of elevation might count for something. “My name is Meredith, and I’m a close friend, and I simply want to—”

  “What’d he say?” the gateman asked the invisible messenger.

  “Says it’s about time she showed up.” Another cowboy hat appeared, but this one shaded the reassuring smile of a messenger-cowboy, who slid the bolt on the portable steel gate. “He’s okay. Come on back.”

  She found him sitting on a massage table, face half washed, hair sticking up here, flattened out there as though he’d just gotten out of bed. Elbows planted on his knees, hat dangling between them, he looked disgusted.

  A kid, she thought. A big kid beaten up by a huge monster on Halloween night.

  “Ryder, that was so awful,” she blurted out.

  He looked up at her, puzzled or dazed, she wasn’t sure which. “The rider got away, didn’t he?” He glanced at the medical technician, who was stowing the tools of his trade in an emergency kit. “He’s okay, isn’t he?” Ryder questioned insistently.

  “I’m betting it’s a sprained wrist the way it swelled up, but the X-rays will tell us for sure. You’re both lucky.”

  “Lucky, hell. I know my job, and I do it well.” He turned to Meredith, who was more concerned about how well he was than how well he’d done. “Once the cowboy loses his seat, I’m his bodyguard. That’s my job.”

  “You might have been killed. What’s under this?” She lifted her hand to the bandage on his forehead.

  “I lost my feather,” he grumbled.

  “I don’t remember any feathers growing out of your head.”