Mystic Cowboy(23)

It was only when he picked up that Madeline realized that she was about to make a fool of herself. She couldn’t just tell Clarence she was going to kill Rebel, and could she have directions to his secret hiding place, please? “Uh, hey, Clarence,” she backpedaled quickly, trying desperately to figure out how not to sound like a raving lunatic. “Uh, listen, I was looking for something arty for my sister, and—”

“You should ask Rebel,” the big man said with a yawn.

Excellent. She’d woken him up. But asking Rebel was exactly what she had in mind. Try to sound casual. Casual. “Oh, yeah. I’ll do that. Do you know where I can find him?”

“He ain’t easy to find.”

So I heard. She took a cleansing breath. “Would Albert know? I was going to call him next.” Like Albert would even understand her. She was pretty sure Albert and Rebel were related, but she hadn’t even gotten close to cracking the family code on the rez. She waited. She’d call Albert if she had to, but she didn’t think she’d have to.

Finally, Clarence sighed so heavily she swore she could hear him roll his eyes. “You don’t have to bother Albert. It’s summer. Rebel’s got a spot down on the White Sandy. Go west by the burnt-out bar until the road ends. Should be a short walk after that.”

The burnt-out bar. She’d driven past that on her way off the rez today. “Thanks, Clarence. And sorry to bother you on the weekend.”

“Yeah, yeah. And, Doc? Don’t get lost.” He hung up.

She wasn’t worried about getting lost. Rebel had rescued Mr. Steinman, after all.

By the time she got done, someone was going to need to rescue Rebel.



The road ended with no warning. One second, she was driving way too fast on a gravel road; the next, a gate overgrown with wild trees appeared out of nowhere. Madeline slammed on the brakes and careened to a stop with inches to go. Her heart, which had already been pounding in a simmering rage, kicked back up another notch. Damn that man. He was out to foil her at every turn.

A short walk, Clarence had said. But she didn’t see a river, or a creek, or anything that passed as water. Didn’t matter. Nothing—not even a gate—was going to keep her from putting that man in his place. She fished out a half-full water bottle and headed west as fast as she could in her boots.

After ten minutes, she began to wonder about the short walk she was on. After twenty minutes, she began praying for a hat to block the hot sun. By the time she’d been wandering around in what seemed like circles for half an hour, her feet were killing her and her water was gone. Suddenly, she crested a small hill and saw water. Stumbling through gnarly underbrush, she ran.

Only to discover that it had been a mirage. Nothing but more flatness.

Bad sign, she thought as she tried to re-orient herself west. Confusion and disorientation were bad signs. She was starting to think she’d be lucky if a coyote tried to eat her, because otherwise she was going to get heat stroke in the middle of nowhere. And there was nothing good in that.

Her legs got heavier and heavier, but she forced them to keep going as she kept her eyes off the horizon so they wouldn’t trick her again. Finally, she saw the smoke off in the distance. He was out here, she thought as she prayed she wasn’t hallucinating that thin, white wisp. She was closer than Mr. Steinman had been, so that was something.

Damn, but her feet hurt. The longer she walked, the more she wondered what the hell she was doing. This was one of her more poorly planned ideas, that much was certain. Tracking his ass down had seemed like a good—no, great—idea at the time. She’d been so furious on the drive back from the gallery that she’d decided to have it out with her professional pain in the ass once and for all.

But that was currently the least of her worries. She needed something to drink and a cold shower, and she needed them STAT. She’d been stumbling her way through scrub brush and tall grass for what felt like days in boots that were not designed for anything more taxing than plush carpeting. And she was paying the price. Big time. Grass was stuck up under the legs of her jeans, scratching her skin more with every step. Sweat was running down her scalp, and her underwear was sticking in places it was never meant to. By the time she found Jonathan Rebel Runs Fast’s camp, she’d be lucky if she didn’t look—and smell—like Bigfoot in need of a flea dip.

The sound of water reached her ears, the promise of cool relief almost enough to bring tears to her eyes. Water. Rebel would have to wait. She needed to bring her core temperature down before her symptoms began to cascade. It was the least she could do for her poor feet.