“Kyle.”
He removes the screen, hardly making a sound. Our fingers touch—mine warm, his cool—as we slide the window open. I crawl out and throw myself, awkward and clumsy and delirious with happiness, into his arms. I whisper, “My boots are locked in the jeep.”
“I’ll carry you,” he says into my ear.
He removes his duster and wraps it around me. Then I climb onto him piggy-back style—my feet already freezing from the cold. But guilt twinges in my stomach. “I can’t just leave my dad,” I say.
Kyle takes his hat from his head and tosses it into the motel room. With my arms twined around his neck he carefully shuts the window, the glass silently gliding along its track. We’re down the stairs and half-way across the parking lot before he says, “Graydon’ll figure it out.” Kyle has never called my dad by his first name before. I look back. The motel is dark.
Though we’re moving downhill, it’s not long before Kyle’s hot and sweaty. When we reach his old Ford I say, “Sorry you had to carry me.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he unlocks the door and lifts the front seat, digging a pair of old Moon boots, a wool coat and a dark scarf from among the tools stored there. He tosses it all into the passenger foot well. “Put that stuff on,” he says. Then he drops the seat into place and turns round, releasing me to the cold leather cushion. I’m reaching for the Moon boots when he crawls onto me, pressing me flat to the seat, his body covering mine as he kisses me and kisses me and kisses me. He tastes like tears.
I ask, “How’d you ever find me?”
He buries his face in my hair as his arms curl beneath my shoulders. He holds me tight. “You are all I want, girl. You, across a lifetime! You’d think I’m asking for the sun to rise in the goddamn west! I’ve been sick with worry since your dad took you. Em’s been messing something fierce with my house. I got into it with her today, bad. She came at me and I caught her fist in my hand, like I’d catch a ball. For a minute I considered breaking her arm. I was sorely tempted to rip it off her body! I’m that tired of her! For three days I’ve been begging and pleading and crying like a baby to get my mom to tell me where to find you. And even when she caved she couldn’t tell me where you were for sure—just where you might be! I drove five hours, not even knowing if you’d be here. But now I’ve got you, Aspen. I’ve got you and I won’t ever lose you again. It’s a sign, the only good thing to happen to me since three days ago when I put you in your dad’s Jeep. I’m furious with Graydon. Madder than I’ve been at anybody, ever. I just want to be with you! I just want us to be together! Why does it have to be so hard?”
Kyle sobs then, his raw emotion as furious as a slot-canyon flood. I cling to him, stroking the back of his hair, though I don’t know what to say. I haven’t handled my own feelings all that well these past three days. I’ve made things worse with Dad, not better. Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Or maybe it’s because I’m scared.
Maybe that’s where Kyle is. He spent his strength finding me. He’s on the edge. It’s my turn now, to fall apart or help us forward. So I decide I’ll be strong, even though I don’t feel strong, even though I’m nervous that this will all become too much and he’ll step away. I push aside my worry that he’ll think I’m not worth it. I tighten my hold on him and whisper, “I love you, Kyle. Don’t give up! I’m so glad you found me. We’ll get through this, ‘kay? I want to be with you. We are together! We’ll figure it out. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he says. For minutes after that, we both cry.
Too soon, Kyle pries my arms from around his waist. “We’ve gotta go,” he says. He sounds miserable. “Sit up, girl.”
“But we’re far away from the motel. Can’t we just hold each other for a while?”
“We’re too easy to track. When your dad wakes up he’ll follow our trail through the snow. It’s the first thing he’ll do. He’s angry. I’m angry. I’d fight him if I had to, but a fight like that. There’d be things said and done that can’t be fixed.”
“I’m mad at him, too,” I say.
“Yeah.” Kyle rubs the tears from his eyes. “The worst part is, for as mad as we are, I’ve got to take you home. I promised my mom we wouldn’t run off. She made that part of her deal. I promised I wouldn’t do that to her and it’s a promise, for at least tonight, that I’m gonna keep.”
Kyle pulls the driver’s door closed. He digs his key from his pocket then pokes around the steering column until he finds the starter. The truck roars to life. “Put on those clothes then fasten up,” he says. “It’s a rough ride out.”
“Where are we?”
“Up near Cony Mountain.”
“I don’t know where that is.”
Kyle laughs, though it’s not a happy sound. “You and ninety-nine percent of the rest of the planet. Cony is the middle of nowhere. Your dad’s uncle or brother owns the hunting lodge where you’ve been staying. Something like that.”
I feel stupid, but I say, “I don’t know about his family. He never talks about them. My mom wouldn’t either.”
“I’ll set you straight, then,” Kyle says. “You come from the Brands.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say softly.
“Google them sometime. They own property in Jackson, down in Swan Valley, bordering Yellowstone. They’re an old ranching family, with acreage butting up against federal land all over Wyoming. They’re your people, girl. I don’t get why you don’t know that. You’re more Wyoming than the rest of us put together.”
I don’t know what to say. All this time, and I just accepted Dad’s past for what it was. I never thought to research it. I never thought about snooping on my own. Has everyone around me known my history all along? Did everyone just assume I knew it too?
My mind spins with options. Genealogy sites. Public records. If I wanted, I could find Dad’s parents. I could find his siblings, if he has them. His cousins and aunts and uncles. I could find the family I never knew I had. I could meet them, if I dared.
The thought of that is thrilling and terrifying, all at once. I mean, if I were to contact his family, would Dad ever speak to me again? Or maybe, by running away, I’ve already crossed that line.
Whenever I went to Mom with a problem she’d force my dilemma back on me. She’d say Use your head! She’d tell me Think things through. Maybe now she’d ask me: For as angry as you are, Aspen, are you ready to lose your father too?
The road is deep with snow and under that, ice. Kyle drives slowly, gripping the wheel with both hands, fighting the elements as he works the truck down the mountain. It takes an hour. Once we turn onto the main highway he pulls over, saying, “I’ve gotta take off the chains.” I pass him his duster; he steps down from the truck. He’s been outside maybe ten minutes when he opens the door and tosses his cell phone into my lap. “For you,” he says.
I take the phone and slide it to ‘on.’ “Kyle Thacker!” Dad yells. “You will bring my daughter back to me!”
“Um.”
Dad launches into swearing and threatening and shouting things I didn’t think my father even knew to say. I hold the phone from my ear, listening. He’s still ranting when Kyle jumps into the truck. I say, “My dad’s pretty mad.”
“No shit.” Kyle puts the truck in gear, driving it forward a few feet. Then he steps outside again. A nerve-rattling clank shakes the truck every time he tosses a tire chain into the back.
I swallow, hard. “Dad? Daddy?” Dad doesn’t say, “Aspen! I’m so glad you’re okay!” He doesn’t say, “Sorry,” or take back any of his threats. He just screams and screams and screams until I yell, “Shut up!”
“You listen to me, Aspen,” Dad yells back.
“I’ve been listening! All I hear is that you’re a jerk.”
“Aspen Madeline Brand. I’m warning you. You get back here, and now!”
“No.” The word feels oddly fabulous, like a flowering lily pad has just blossomed from roots deep inside my heart. Dad told me I have the r
ight to define myself, like he did. Like Mom did. I don’t want to lose my dad. But I’m not losing Kyle. “I’m not going back to that motel or lodge or whatever it is,” I say. “I’m not going back to Portland! I’ll be at Kyle’s house. I’ll wait for you there. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there tonight.” Dad disconnects our call.
When Kyle climbs into the truck he’s got tears in his eyes.
“What?” I ask. I sound angry. I don’t explain my anger is for my dad.
“I love you, girl. So much it’s like my heart beats inside your chest. I promised I’ll never leave you. And I won’t. But I’ll take you back. If it’s what you want.”
“Are you insane? I want you.”
“I’m just sayin’. I don’t want you feeling like I forced you to do my will the way you were forced to do your dad’s. If you want to go to him, I’ll take you.”
I grab Kyle’s coat and pull him into a kiss. We kiss like it’s our last, like we’re exchanging souls. When we surface for air I say, “Did you drive all this way just to give me up?”
“No. I’m not—”
“Then here’s the deal. I’m going where you’re going. If we go back, it’s together. You might have to move to Portland for a while. If we go forward, it’s together. I’ll fight my dad to stay in Gillette. I want you, Kyle. If you want me too then take me home! You have a promise to keep to your mom.” I return his phone, face forward and buckle my seat belt. “Let’s get on with it.”
Kyle shifts the truck into gear and we start down the highway. “Damn,” he says after a while. “Your stubborn streak is hot.”
“So up there. In the parking lot. Maybe I just imagined it, but did you deflate the Jeep’s tire?”
“You saw that, huh?” He draws a deep breath, holding the air in his lungs before he lets it go. “My guess is your dad won’t show up until breakfast. After that though. We’ll both need to be ready to run. Might be he gives us no choice.”
Run?
I rest my head on Kyle’s shoulder. If we run, my immediate future will take shape in ways I’ve never imagined. I have no clothes but those I’m wearing. No shoes but a pair of too-big Moon boots. No proper coat. My ID is in my bag, buried somewhere in the snow on Cony Mountain. I have no access to my money. To get into my house means I break in; I have no key.
Kyle wraps his arm around me, gathering me close. He hums a song I’ve never heard before, one with a happy, hopeful tune. The mile markers tick by and I count them: ten, then fifteen, then thirty-five. I want to talk, but my mind is blank as slate. I close my eyes after mile marker forty-two, and drift into sleep.
40
MY HEAD ACHES. Touching the pain, my fingers come away wet. Am I bleeding?
After a moment I realize I’m on the floor of the truck. It’s still night—the same night as when I fell asleep?—and raven dark. Looking toward the passenger door all I see are stars floating above a black horizon, as separate from Earth as oil is from vinegar. Bitter wind ruffles my hair. There’s a faint gurgling sound somewhere outside. Water.
I whisper, “Kyle?”
Nothing.
Did my seatbelt break? My head rests against a tangle of wire and plastic. Someone’s legs are beneath me—Kyle’s?—and the emergency brake or the clutch or maybe the gas pedal is stabbing me in the back. The gear-shift, which normally sticks up from the center of the floor bed, seems bent. The angle of the truck is wrong, like we’re about to launch. I follow Kyle’s shin to his knee. Finally, I find the steering wheel and grab hold of it. My equilibrium rights itself a bit.
“Kyle?”
Nothing.
From outside the truck come footsteps. Light at first, but deliberate. They crunch against the frozen ground, growing louder. I wiggle for the passenger foot well, inching around the gear-shift like an uncoiling snake. Were we in an accident? Did someone see us crash? I try to yell, but cough instead.
A girl’s voice says, “You come on out, Kyle Thacker,” and a sharp crack sounds. The back end of the truck drops a sudden few inches.
I freeze.
“Next time I shoot, it’s you, got it? You don’t just break up with me, Kyle. Especially for a girl dressed in left-overs. You don’t ignore me and walk away. You don’t come to my house and tell me to stay out of your business when you damn-well know your business is mine. Now get on out of the truck.”
God. It’s Em.
41
I HOLD MY breath to keep from crying. Tears won’t help me now—I need traffic. I need a car to pass. I need a cell phone. I feel around for Kyle’s phone, searching his coat pockets. Nothing. Except for the trickling sound of water, the night is silent.
I’m on my own.
Kyle’s head rests against his window. For all of Em’s threats, he hasn’t moved. I gather his hand in mine, aching to pull him down to safety in the foot well with me. But if Em sees him shift she might think he’s trying to get away. Who knows what she’ll do then. “Kyle, please,” I whisper. “Please wake up.” I kiss his fingers. They’re warm against my lips.
Warm has to mean he isn’t dead.
I reach across him, find the thin black knob I know stands like a golf tee next to his window and, pressing it down, lock his door.
Then I inch toward the gaping passenger exit. The truck shifts with my weight, settling against its perch like a cautious bird. My heart falls with it, landing heavy on my ribs. Em yells, “I’m not waiting on you much longer,” and I slip from the cab, dropping into a narrow space created by the running board, the awkward position of the open door and, I think, a guard rail. Around me the air feels hollow, almost empty, like I’m crouching in a void. The sound of water is louder now. Nearby, there must be a river.
Something bashes against the truck and I jump. Was it the butt of Em’s gun? Her boot? She screams, “Get the hell out here!” She beats the truck again and I slip under it, returning for a second to grope beneath the passenger seat.
It’s right where Kyle left it the day he had to change out the flat tire for the spare. The tire iron.
On my elbows and knees, I crawl beneath the truck army-style, clutching the cold iron in my hand. The ground stinks of oil and gas, and it’s slippery. When I reach the other side I’m inches from Em’s boots, but I dare a peek. Her white coat practically glows. Her arms are steady, one bent tight at the elbow, one held straight out from her body, pointing what I have to assume is a gun at Kyle’s door. My stomach heaves. I’m almost sick, thinking on what she might do.
“You know I’ll shoot,” she says. “You know I will. And it’ll be your fault, Kyle, just like it always is. You don’t have to get me this upset. You could have returned my calls, or my texts or my email. You didn’t have to come over today and pick a fight! But maybe this is what you want, huh? Maybe it’s your dream to die clinging to a steering wheel, just like your stupid brother.”
For the first time ever, I hate her.
I launch the tire iron like I would throw a really heavy Frisbee. Em screams. Her gun clatters somewhere as she drops to the ground, howling like a wounded dog. I roll from under the truck and jump on her.
We both go crazy—thrashing, scratching, hitting. She crams her hand up under my sweater, digging her fingernails into my back. I grab her hair and yank. She yells, “Where’d you come from?” over and over. She claws my face. Then she grabs my scarf, pulling me close as she twists the fabric tight around my neck. Suddenly, I’m hacking for air.
“You’re an annoying little thing,” she hisses.
I make a fist and punch, catching her on the jaw. She screams. My knuckles explode with pain. My thumb feels broken. Without thinking, I cradle my hand against my chest.
Em tucks her elbows and rolls, pitching both of us toward the truck. I slam against the snow-encrusted running board then sit there, confused and startled. My left leg lies trapped beneath Em’s body. Her arm is pinned between me and the Ford. She hits me in the crotch—with her knee or fist or the palm of her fre
e hand—I don’t know. I almost pass out for how much it hurts. She yells, “I’m gonna kill you, Retro.”
“Not if I kill you first!” I slap her so hard my hand burns. While she screeches I pull the scarf clear of my throat and toss it away. If I’m going to die, it won’t be by strangling.
My body throbs. My knuckles and thumb hurt to where I almost can’t bend them. My head aches and I’m dizzy. I want to crawl off and nurse my wounds. I want to know if Kyle is okay. I yell, “I want you out of my life!”
Em tries to punch me and I push her arm away. Then I lunge at her, hitting her with wild, clumsy fists, feeling blind with fury. I don’t know how to fight. But I can let go. So I beat on her, screaming crazy things and hoping, as I wail like a tantrum-throwing three-year-old, that what I’m doing will be enough.
42
I GET OUT from under Em only to have her find the tender place where she kicked me just a few weeks before. The more I try to defend myself, the more she lays into me. We spill onto the road, me trying to re-group, Em attacking. Her fists grind against my ribs. I taste blood. She screams, “You . . . are . . . going . . . to . . . die,” each word delivered with a punch.
I swing at her and miss. It’s the pain in my side, maybe. Or the freezing cold. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. The air is shrapnel in my lungs.
Em shoves the butt of her hands to my shoulders and I’m suddenly airborne, flying onto my back. My head whacks the pavement; my thoughts glitch. She grabs my hair and drags me to my feet, yanking so hard I swear I’m being scalped. She whips me toward the side of the truck. I collide with steel and my left wrist cracks. Hurt travels all the way to my elbow.
For a second, I give into crying. Kyle’s right there—right there!—his head still slumped against the glass. I try to open the door. Why did I lock it? I pound the window. “Kyle! God! Kyle!” Did he move? I can’t tell.
Painted Boots Page 18
