She was running after a man who should love her, but hadn’t turned back since he’d left so many years ago. He didn’t want her.
Rachiah was all alone. And it had never felt as achingly true as it did in that moment.
~~~
All night long, Rachiah couldn't sleep. The ache in her empty stomach throbbed, keeping her awake.
She couldn't sleep.
She couldn’t find Ratchet.
She couldn’t be honest with her friends.
She couldn’t talk to her parents.
She couldn’t be what she was raised to be, because she couldn’t believe anything with all of the lies.
Her list of impossibilities ate at her. She couldn’t give up.
Tracing her steps back to the last lead was how she kept going. The men in the diner had said Jeff could be found at Cook’s.
She had to go back into the tortuously delicious smelling restaurant and talk to those men. Maybe they would drop some food or something.
They would be regulars with the way they had come in the morning and acted like they needed to have their coffee immediately.
If she was already going in there, maybe she could scrape together one of the dollars out of her money and have something even if it was just a packet of crackers with her coffee. She shoved her hand into the crevice between the passenger seat and the shifting base.
The message button beeped on her phone. Rachiah turned her head and lifted the phone with her free hand. She squinted at the small writing. A text from Cyan read, “Emma is very sick again. She's even sicker than last time. You need to come home soon.”
Her loneliness from last night still echoed in her mind. Why would she want to go home? She didn't have anybody. Plus, Emma wasn’t anyone to her.
That wasn't true.
She didn't know Emma as well as the other girls did. But if Cyan and Sherri were hurting, then Rachiah was hurting, too.
Her fingers closed around a dime which she pulled out and sat up.
The few times she had met Emma, she had been utterly charmed. Emma’s sweetness and kindness were only eclipsed by her generosity.
All the things Rachiah needed in her life. Emma’s sickness reared its ugly head and based on previous bouts, she was most likely dying. Too much loss for the Montana Trail cousins. Definitely more than Rachiah could bear. She didn't want to hear anything else negative.
She needed something positive. Something to help her get out of her funk. More than a dime, more than a warm bed.
She leaned her head back on her seat and struggled to keep her emotions in check.
The dime wouldn’t help her. Desperation tingled down in her toes and tightened around her chest.
With how low her funds were, she needed to get a job or go home. Or starve to death.
The time had come to face reality.
Would she feasibly ever find him? What were her realistic chances? Was it worth her life?
With the rare clues she got close enough to imagine what she would say and then... nothing. She was dropped off the cliff of hope into that vast well of loss.
No chance at finding him.
The last lead delivered her a blond man who denied knowing him or having seen him.
What was she supposed to do? Keep going? Keep searching? Continue torturing herself with the constant rodeo ride of hope and despair? Just the thought of enduring the failure anymore sent a sharp burn through her chest. She couldn’t imagine going through that again, let alone over and over for another year or more.
On the other hand, she could quit. Go home and get on with her life. Eat food – home cooked meals like her mom’s and accept the fact that she wasn’t wanted by her father. The dull ache of not being wanted couldn’t be as bad as the horrible discouraging hopelessness she was subjecting herself to.
But giving up wasn’t something she did.
She couldn't give up. Not after everything she’d gone through. She'd been all over Wyoming, Southern Montana, and Idaho. Had sacrificed so much time with her family and friends.
She was so close. At least closer. She felt like the answers she was looking for were right there, just beyond her grasp.
She couldn't leave. Not yet.
North Fork wasn't exactly the size of town with jobs hanging off of trees waiting to be picked. The men in the diner seemed like a pretty knowledgeable set. If nothing else, maybe they could help her find a position doing something.
She didn't care what. She wasn't a princess. She would clean toilets if she had to. She needed money so she could eat.
Anything as long as she didn't have to stop searching. North Fork was as good a stop as any to stockpile some money.
She picked up her tattered backpack and sighed. She’d already been through the pockets, but once more wouldn’t hurt anything. Maybe a few nickels or something hid at the bottom.
Rummaging past the worn notebook and stocking hat, she brushed the edge of some crumpled paper at the very bottom. She closed her fingers around the mass and pulled it from the canvas case.
A wrinkled dollar bill sat amidst a torn list and paperclips. She stared at the green slip of paper as if it were an anomaly.
The simple dollar represented more than the fifty dollars she had on the bank card she only allowed for gas money.
Rachiah had nothing else. Fifty dollars might be enough for her to eke out enough gas to get home. At least to get home close enough MT could come get her.
The dollar. She needed to eat, even if it was just a piece of bread.
Not wasting any time, she all but sprinted to the diner. Inside, Rachiah waited at the counter, tapping her foot excitedly. She didn't want to stare at the group of men. Even though she would have to go down there and talk to them eventually.
First, maybe she could get some toast. A dollar wouldn’t buy much, but it had to buy something.
The last time Rachiah had been in, she hadn't noticed how extremely pregnant the waitress was. Behind the high counter, her mass was easier to hide, and yet Rachiah still felt bad that she’d missed that.
With a hand pressed to the small of her back, Marla smiled at her with a tired squint to her eyes. “You new in town, honey?”
Rachiah swallowed, she pulled back from the counter, nervous. “I'm the one that was in earlier. Yeah, I’m new.” She nodded toward Marla’s stomach. “How far along are you?”
The woman rubbed the polyester apron pulled tight across her bulky stomach. “Due yesterday. Thank heaven, this little one has decided to stay put for a little longer.”
“Then why are you here?” Rachiah studied the woman. Shoulders drawn back and her stomach thrust out, she resembled the women Rachiah's mom helped back on the reservation. When they were so close they didn't want to stop you could see it in their eyes – desperation to be done combined with fear at what came next.
They didn't want to take a break and let the baby and delivery naturally take its course.
Marla smiled softly. “They need me here. What can I get you?” She rounded the end of the counter to return to its hulking mass. She grabbed a white cloth and scrubbed at spilled syrup at a newly abandoned seat.
The cook stormed around the doorway. Looking around, his eyebrows raised. “Hey, you were in here yesterday. You looking to stay?” He brandished his spatula like a pointer lectern and the men at the end of the counter listened to every word.
Was this it? This could be Rachiah's chance. “I'm staying as long as I need to stay.” She nodded towards the waitress. “Though it looks like you need a position filled.”
“How soon can you start?” The cook didn’t look at his waitress. He stared at Rachiah, as if challenging her.
Rachiah shoved the sweat-dampened dollar bill into her back pocket. She followed the path Marla had taken behind the counter and picked up the cloth Marla had just put down. “How's now?”
The man grinned. He glanced at the waitress. “Marla, I think you found a replacement. Why don't you get on home and hav
e that baby? Your job will be here when you're ready to come back.” He placed his big square hand on her shoulder and met her eyes.
A wave of relief smoothed the lines around the waitress's eyes. She looked a lot younger than she had previously with the ease of the stress. She let out her air on a whoosh and untied her apron, handing it unceremoniously to Rachiah.
With tears in her eyes, she didn't even nod. She didn't say goodbye to the men at the table. Instead, she shuffled toward the front door, as if she couldn’t wait to get away.
A torrent of whispers reached Rachiah and the man from the group of men. Before Marla could reach the front door, the leader jumped from his seat with a collection of bills in his hand. He rushed towards Marla with his hand outstretched. “Marla, me and the guys want to give you something.”
She glanced over her shoulder, pausing with her hand on the door handle and watched as the man grabbed a large paper cup off the counter and dumped the bills inside. The cup overflowed with fives and twenties even as he handed it to her. She stared in amazement at the offering, her mouth half-open.
He held up his finger, his voice gruff with emotion. “You served us plenty great over the last few years, Marla. We want to make sure you want to come back. That's all we have among us. Go have that baby and tell that husband of yours to take care of you.”
Overcome with emotion, the pregnant woman nodded shortly and offered a very slight smile. She turned and walked from the diner.
Eyes bright, the leader turned and eyed Rachiah with suspicion. “Are you planning on serving us? Or just standing there looking like an Indian princess?”
“Oh, funny guy. This will be fun.” Rachiah tied on the apron Marla had handed it, wrapping the string around her waist twice before she could tie it. She grabbed the coffee pot and made her way down to their seats. She nodded toward his chair. “You wanna sit there, cowboy? I can play these games all day.”
His friends and cohorts hooted and hollered around them. “We've got ourselves a live one!”
Finally, Rachiah's circumstances weren't as dim as she’d feared. With some money coming in, she could maybe buy some food. Her strength of will would require everything in her to ignore the smells wafting from the kitchen.
She refilled their mugs and returned the pot. Cleaning would be part of her responsibilities and most likely stocking. She’d have to get started on seeing what she had to do.
The boss wiped his hand on a large stained apron then held his hand out to her. While she shook it, he spoke. “I’m Tom. Every four hours you work earns you a free meal as well as your hourly pay.” He eyed her up and down with fatherly concern. “You look like you need a few meals. I’d hate to see you pick up a tray and fall over.” The cook brandished a few more details Rachiah couldn't focus on.
He promised her food.
She'd work twenty-four hours a day, he’d just earned her loyalty.
She busied herself at the counter. It wasn't the first time she had waitressed. Thank heaven for the casino on the reservation. She had had more jobs there than anyone. She could do anything. And finally all of her experience was going to pay off.
The bell above the door jingled. Rachiah finished pouring another cup of coffee into the leader’s mug. She arched an eyebrow and smirked. “You gonna drink us dry today?”
His friends snickered, acting more like high school boys than men wearing NRA hats over gray hair tufting out of their ears. “We just might.”
She lifted her eyes in time to see one of the group wave over to the man she recognized from the mechanic shop the previous morning.
Her customer called out. “Hiya, Ratchet. Why don't you sit with us this morning?”
Ratchet.
Rachiah caught her breath, careful not to trip over her shoes at the sudden revealing name.
Ratchet’s gaze jerked in Rachiah's direction. Their gazes clashed.
Ratchet. He knew she recognized the name.
If Rachiah didn't know better, he knew a lot more than he let on.
Chapter 4
Damon
Damon wiped his brow with a wrinkly red and white bandanna. He shoved it back into his rear pocket and grabbed both handles of the post hole digger.
The worthless drill hadn’t been able to get through the rocky soil. The man at the rental agency had laughed when MT had made Damon return it. In the man’s words, a river had run through there thousands of years ago, depositing millions and millions of river rock on the bank which ended up being the reservation land.
He had even mentioned something about old riverbeds being magical.
Magical nothing. The only thing the riverbed was doing for Damon was giving him a knot under his shoulder blades and pain in his lower back.
MT crossed his ankles while he leaned against the work truck on the side of the road, watching Damon and Ryland while they worked. He’d been making snide comments all morning and the newest ones weren’t any different. “So, what are you guys going to do now? It sounds like the Montana Trails don’t have anything going for them. What did you guys do? Disband?”
Damon bit his lip. He grunted as he thrust the post hole digger deeper into the rough ground. Keep working. Keep working. We need the money.
Ryland stopped shoveling and leaned on the long handle. He commented before Damon could let his desire to make a sarcastic remark win. “Nah, we’re just taking a break. Emma is pretty sick again. At least that’s what we were told. The Montana Trails are more than ranch hands, we’re family.”
MT grunted. “Family. Yeah. That Kyle is a real piece of work. I can’t believe Sherri picked him.” MT glared into the shadows. His bitterness was palpable in the warm fall sun. He’d loved Sherri for as long as he could talk.
Kyle had mentioned it to the Johnson brothers while he’d been dating Sherri. Sherri’s decision to be with Kyle added to MT’s reasons to resent the white cowboys even more and the family Kyle belonged to.
A jumble of words came garbled out of the radio at MT’s waist. He pulled it out and asked for a repeat. After a moment, he lowered the piece and spoke toward Ryland and Damon but didn’t look directly at them. “We’re out of cement. Take a break over there while we wait for DJ to get here.” MT motioned toward a gathering of trees and brush beside an old decrepit mailbox.
Damon and Ryland didn’t hesitate as they ran for the shade. They were having what was referred to as an Indian summer. Even in the fall, the days could get hot, while the nights chilled out to frost the vegetation.
The trees hadn’t even opted to start turning colors and the abundance on their limbs offered welcome shade.
Ryland kicked the base of the mailbox, the untreated wood rotten at the base.
The door to the small box fell open, revealing a stack of weathered newspapers and uncollected mail. The side of the mailbox had faded lettering on it, spelling out Metcalf. He knelt down and grabbed the ones that had fallen, cursing himself the whole time.
Damon watched his brother, mulling over the name Metcalf. What were the odds there would be another Metcalf family in the state of Montana?
Damon didn’t join Ryland as he finally slumped in the shade against the large trunk of a tree, with his legs drawn up and his hat angled over his face. Instead, Damon moved to stand at the edge of the trees with the shade protecting most of his body. He held his hand to his hat brim and adjusted it to see better in the sunlight.
The house at the end of the drive wasn’t much better off than the mailbox. With shutters hanging at odd angles, multiple chips in the paint, as well as fallen foliage and sagging deck skirting, the house looked haunted more than inhabited.
He studied it. Maybe no one lived there. The home had an abandoned look to it with stacks of cardboard boxes leaning on the side and what may or may not have been rotting squash in the garden with its slumped fencing.
Damon’s shoulders slumped, and he turned to join his brother and MT in the shade. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement by the side steps.
A little old woman with a long white braid draping down her back struggled with the bulk of a rolling garbage can. The stiff plastic tires didn’t seem to want to move on the rocks in her drive.
Without hesitation, Damon broke into a jog to get up her drive fast. “Excuse me, ma’am, let me get that.” He gently took the handle from her wizened grip. He smiled, as if to reassure her he wasn’t going to run away with her garbage can.
Sharp dark eyes peered at him from under fine white eyebrows. A toothy grin spread her lips, creating a dimple in either cheek. She patted his elbow and murmured, “Such a nice young man.”
She hobbled along beside him as he pulled the nearly empty garbage can to the end of the drive. “My son is usually here. But he had to go out of town this weekend. It is a hard weekend for him. It’s a hard time of year for all of us.” Her cryptic message along with her slight accent was difficult to decipher.
“Are you Mrs. Metcalf?” Damon leaned down so she could hear his question.
She smiled, nodding her head and patting his elbow further. “That is me. Until the day I die. Or remarry.” She winked with a coy tilt to her head. “Are you asking?” She cackled as if she had told the funniest joke and a crowd of many laughed with her.
“I wouldn’t presume to be that lucky.” Damon’s answering grin came in spite of himself. He held his pace steady beside her, a bit slower than he was used to, but slow never hurt anyone. “I went to school with a young girl. Her last name was Metcalf. Do you have a daughter?”
The light in her eyes faded, and her smile disappeared. She shook her head, glancing around her as if remembering herself. “No. I have a son.” She patted his elbow again before turning and walking back towards the house. After a few steps, she paused, and turned back to him. “He had a daughter. We don’t talk about Melissa.”
Had. As in past tense. Melissa.
Damon couldn’t ask anymore, he didn’t know how to push the topic without being rude. Not to mention the discovery of the girl he’d been searching for had finally come to an end – maybe more so than he’d hoped.
Forgotten Trails Page 3
