Mystic Cowboy(77)

Shit, what had he done? She’d jumped to a conclusion—that he didn’t approve of her actions, of her—and he’d just gotten the hell out of her way as she went over the edge of the cliff. He knew that sentence had started with an if. If he couldn’t handle it, there was that door.

He’d wanted to tell her she had it all wrong. He hadn’t thought she was whoring herself for him. It wasn’t about her at all, really. The disgusting truth of the situation was that for ten minutes, she’d reminded him of Anna. Anna. Madeline had used sex as a last line of defense, at his bidding, and even that had just been empty promises and fake giggles. Not Anna. Flirting had always been her weapon of choice, and she wielded it as only a true master of the art could. Madeline had cooed, “Leon,” at the end of the conversation, and all Rebel had heard was Anna breathing, “Jonathan,” the first time they’d met. The first time he’d worn a sport coat and a bolo tie because that was what the gallery owner wore. The first time he’d felt like a fake.

As Madeline did her best for him—him—all he could think was the end.

The end.

Walter was chanting—Walter chanted a lot—but the sound was anything but soothing. Instead, each note was taunting him, reminding him that he was here with a bunch of sweating men and not there. With her.

And for what? Because she’d done exactly what he’d asked her to? He’d demanded results, and she’d done everything she could think of to give him just that. He felt delusional, all right. He’d deluded himself into thinking that the little world he’d made with her in it was above the reach of the outside world. He, of all people, should have known that would never be the case. He couldn’t exist only in this world, and he’d already failed at the outside world.

“Find your own way.” Albert’s voice pulsed into the void between each chanted note.

Odd, Rebel thought, his head snapping up. He didn’t feel like he normally did when he was in a vision. He could still see the inside of the sweat lodge in the dim light, still hear Walter going on and on. Nothing else had changed but the clear sound of Albert’s voice.

In English. He was serious about it. For the life of him, Rebel couldn’t tell if he was having another delusion or not.

“I cannot see my way, Tȟunkášila.” All he could see was the stricken pain on Madeline’s face. The pain he’d made her feel.

The chanting was unbroken. No one else reacted to his statement. Had he spoken out loud or not?

“Find your own place.” Albert sounded more insistent this time.

“I don’t know where my place is,” he replied, quieter this time. If he was talking to a spirit, there was no need to shout. And if he was delusional, well, he didn’t need to shout at himself. “I’ve lost my path.”

And that was the big difference. When Anna had walked away, he’d let her go because a part of him was relieved that he didn’t have to pretend any longer. He was sad to see her leave, but a new path—medicine-man-in-training, beadwork artist, loyal grandson—had been right there in front of him. All he had to do was walk it. He had done so gladly. It had been an honest life.

And a lonely one. He hadn’t realized how damn lonely he’d been until Dr. Madeline Mitchell had shown up, the outsider barging into his small little world. He’d never lied to her, never felt like he had to. Who he was had always been good enough for her. Even when she found out about the parts that weren’t really real, she’d never demanded anything more from him. Instead, she challenged him, excited him and, more than anything, loved him for who he was.

He was Rebel Runs Fast. And he loved Madeline Mitchell.

“I am proud of you, my son.” Rebel could almost see Albert nod his head, that warm smile on his face as he fried venison for dinner. Albert had always been proud of him, even when Rebel had given him nothing to be proud of. Like now. Nothing to be proud of, walking away from her.

He tried to tell himself he hadn’t just walked away. He just hadn’t wanted to continue that conversation in front of Clarence. But that didn’t have a damn thing to do with the fact that he hadn’t gone to her house last night, hadn’t come for her this morning. He’d let Anna go, but he’d walked away from Madeline. He was being a coward. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

Unexpectedly, time stopped. He couldn’t hear Walter. He couldn’t hear Albert. He couldn’t even breathe. In the total stillness that gripped him, he saw nothing. Then Madeline appeared, and he felt his gut unclench. Home, he thought as she got out of her Jeep and grinned at him. He was sitting on a porch, waiting for her. Where he should have been last night. Where he should be. The scene barely finished materializing before his eyes before it was gone in the steam.