Scraps of Evidence: Quilts of Love Series

by Barbara Cameron

But Stu’s jaw muscles worked side to side. “Dry radiator, again?” He scowled at her. “I can’t keep giving out free services to you people,” he said. Harold stood in back of Stu, narrowing his eyes at Stu, the same way he’d seen his dad do when other men looked at her.

  “All’s we need is a little water to make it home,” she said. Stu was such an ornery cuss—he got maybe three customers on a good day. The wind came up and gusted against her cheeks, then died. Frankie tasted dirt.

  They all turned back toward the road. A rumble and dirt-colored cloud trailed a government truck. Stu waved them back. “I got a real customer. You’ll have to wait.”

  Frankie and Harold moved a couple feet and set down the cans. She poked Harold and pointed to a drinking fountain. “Go get a drink,” she said.

  The white pickup, with “Bureau of Land Management” in raised letters on the door, braked to a stop. She folded her arms. Let Stu attend to Mr. Important.

  A light-skinned but dark-haired lanky man stepped out. His eyes were hard to see under his hat’s brim. He wore cowboy boots and an agate belt buckle. The buckle gave him away. Most of her male relatives wore the same type of agate buckle. He had to be part Lakota—and who knew what else. The man, in his tan government uniform and all, sparked something in Frankie. His voice was deep, melodic. “Can you fill it up?” The man wasn’t sarcastic the way Hank Sr. always was. No, this guy was more than polite and didn’t let Stu’s attitude chase him up a tree. The man nodded at the most expensive gas pump. “I reckon the government can spring for ethyl,” the man said.

  Stu nodded, although he seemed a tad disappointed he was serving another Indian. Stu went to work, the gas pump dinging. “Can’t say I’ve seen you round here.” Stu pulled a squeegee across the bug-encrusted windshield. “You new?”

  The stranger smiled; his teeth were white and straight. “Nick Parker,” he said, touching his hat’s brim. “Just transferred down from Nebraska.” He took off the hat and used his forearm to mop his brow. “I’m still getting used to the heat.”

  Harold snorted. Frankie elbowed her son, but it was too late. The man turned. “You from the Rez?”

  Frankie and Harold looked at each other. The local Pima-Maricopa reservation?

  Harold shook his head. “Nope.” He raised his chin. “Lakota.”

  Frankie’s throat burned, but she couldn’t force herself to move away from the stranger. “Go on, son, and get a drink.” She pointed again to the fountain.

  “Ma! Stop treating me like a kid.” He sat on the curb.

  Nick seemed interested in the boy. “Where you from then?” He sat next to Harold, arms resting across his knees.

  A guy who likes kids, Frankie thought. She watched out of the corner of her eye as the man spoke with her son. Nick’s thick, coppery hair swept back from his forehead. But the handsome ones could be dangerous.

  Stu pulled the gas nozzle out and hung it on the pump. He came over. “Want me to check the water and oil?” He shot Frankie and Harold a look. “You can overheat pretty easy on a day like this.”

  Nick laughed, and his eyes brightened and sent a chill up Frankie’s back. “Sure,” he said. “Don’t want to overheat out here, right?”

  Right. Her breath caught, as if she were viewing the Milky Way for the first time. Whoa. She didn’t believe in love at first sight anymore, especially when love later grew fists.

  An awkward moment passed, as if he’d heard her thoughts. He stood up and turned to the pair. “Are you here to stay or just passing through?”

  Frankie drew her shoulders back. The man stood straight, proud; his eyes were a whiskey shade of brown. It would be easy to get sucked in, too easy. She locked her heart. But in the next moment, Frankie let the wind take her caution. “We’re hoping to make our home here.” She laughed, forcing her hand to stay at her side. “It’s the wrong time of year to be snowbirds.” She wished again she’d worn red. “As Harold said, Lakota,” she said. “We’re Lakota.”

  Nick’s eyes lit up. “Not many Lakota this far from South Dakota. What made you want to come live in the desert?”

  Frankie shrugged. Why they’d left South Dakota was complicated—too complicated to talk about. “We thought we’d like the nice, cool Arizona summers,” she said. “I’m Frankie and this is my son, Harold.”

  Stu barged into the conversation again. “That’ll be three dollars,” he said. Nick dug out a bill and handed it to Stu.

  “I’ll get your change,” Stu said.

  Nick turned to Frankie. “Huh.” He paused. “What a coincidence. Growing up, I spent my summers at Pine Ridge.” He used his hat like a fan. “It’s got to be a hundred and ten.”

  Stu corrected him. “Hunert and eleven.”

  Nick grinned. “Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk.”

  Slouched beside a gas pump, Harold broke his silence. “Ma overheated the truck ’bout a mile back,” he said, pointing to the water cans. “She just had to buy thread. Today.” Frankie gave him a look, but this was a good sign. If Harold said more than two words, it meant he liked you.

  Nick picked up the cans. “Let’s get these filled,” he said. He looked deep into Frankie’s eyes and held his gaze steady. “Could I give you a lift back to your truck?”

  Nick spooled out the water hose and filled up the cans, studying the young woman and her son. Prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on. Her free-falling black hair danced in the wind as she said, “Oh, no, we can make it all right. But thank you.” She looked away, giving Nick a moment to appreciate her profile. Water overflowed onto his boot. It’s what he got for gawking. He prayed for forgiveness.

  She spoke softly. “Harold, get a drink before we go, OK honey?”

  Harold dragged himself to the drinking fountain attached to the side of a soda pop cooler outside the repair bay. For five cents, the cooler’s top slid open and you could pull out an ice cold drink. Summers in Pine Ridge, Nick and his buddies had pilfered a soda or two from a machine like that. Then, got beat up by a bully named Moose.

  He let the water hose reel itself back in and picked up the full cans. He faced the woman named Frankie, the wind pressing her thin blue dress against her body. “These things weigh a ton,” he said. Her figure was better than the Rodeo Princess up at Prescott. He said, “You got a bum radiator?”

  Frankie shrugged. “Got to get that thing fixed.”

  Nick hoped he wasn’t too pushy, but he didn’t try to stop himself from being drawn in, either. “Your old man won’t help you?” He set down the water, which sloshed onto his boots again.

  She ran her fingers through her hair. “Not exactly.” Her hands were plain, capable and strong, not fancied up with polished nails or jewelry or even a wedding ring. Nick liked simplicity. A practical sort, not like his ex, Carolyn. She’d about driven them into the poorhouse with her beauty parlor treatments and whatnot. He preferred her story to Carolyn’s version, hers blamed Nick and a friend named alcohol.

  The bottle had claimed his dad and half his relatives at Pine Ridge. Nick had nearly ten years sober, and had broken the Parker family tradition—Carolyn hadn’t give him enough credit.

  He tried to make eye contact, but Frankie stared at the horizon. “You planning on staying out here?”

  Her gaze flitted to Harold at the drinking fountain and back again. “The kid’s dad died in South Dakota.” She paused, as if thinking up a good explanation. “Hank Sr., that’s my husband, used to say he had relatives here, so I thought, ‘Why not?’” She took a breath, and finally returned his stare.

  He took off his hat and got lost in her deep brown eyes. He said, “Sorry. Got to be tough on the boy.” He wanted to ask if she was seeing anyone, tell her he liked her simple beauty, offer to cook her dinner sometime. His tongue balked.

  Before he could say anything, Stu’s voice rang out. “You thievin’ injun, pay up!”

  Harold raced past Frankie and Nick, with Stu in pursuit. A wet stain down Harold’s shirt looked suspicious. Frankie fi
ngered the spools of thread in her pocket, wondering if Stu was in a bartering mood as Harold hid behind his mother.

  The attendant wagged a finger. “All right, Frankie Chasing Bear,” he said. “That’ll be a nickel. And I’ve got a mind to charge you for the water. That boy of yours is getting to be a real headache.”

  Nick gave Frankie a puzzled look, but dug into his pocket. “Here,” he said, producing a nickel. “Indian head, no less.”

  Stu took the money.

  Frankie pulled Harold around to face her. She spoke in a low, even tone. “You did this?”

  Harold looked ready to cry. “No, Ma.” He raised his tee shirt to reveal his waistband. “See?”

  Frankie nodded. “Look Stu, my kid didn’t take anything.”

  Stu narrowed his eyes. “How do I know he didn’t stash it somewhere?”

  Nick stepped toward Stu. “The kid says he didn’t steal it.” He dug out more change. “But we’d like cold ones for the road.” Nick strode to the cooler and brought back three bottles.

  Stu glared, but nodded and straightened his cap.

  Nick handed a cold, sweaty bottle to Frankie. “Thank you.” She wouldn’t let on, but RC Cola tasted like heaven. She elbowed Harold. “Where are your manners?”

  “Thanks.” Harold tipped back his soda and began walking back down the road.

  “Harold! Wait!”

  But Harold waved her off and kept walking. The kid could be as stubborn as his dad.

  Nick brought her attention back. “Let me take you back to your rig.”

  Frankie hoped her son’s moodiness wouldn’t embarrass the both of them. “Harold’s got a mind of his own,” she said. “Some days I think one of us won’t live to see Christmas.” She smoothed her bangs with her palm. “Sure, I’ll take a lift.”

  Nick smiled too. His forehead and cheekbones had a noble hint that tugged at Frankie. She wanted to ask him which Lakota band his mother was from, was he related to any of the famous chiefs. He tilted his head toward the truck. “C’mon, let’s get that rascal.” He held the driver’s side door open.

  Frankie climbed into the cab and slid across the bench seat, still gripping the soda bottle. Nick got in after her and started the truck. When he slammed the door, she picked up a whiff of sage.