“A little. You always learn something out here.”
“Such as?”
“All sorts of things. You’re stubborn. You like to finish things.”
“Don’t you?”
She paused for a minute. “Not always. Sometimes I just-walk away. Go somewhere else.”
“Stubborn. That’s not much.”
“And you’re jealous.”
“Of whom?”
“The ranger.”
“Well, he was after you.”
She smiled. “You see? That’s what I mean.”
“You just didn’t notice.”
“Oh, I noticed all right. That was just cabin fever, you know.”
“Cabin fever. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Window shopping,” she said. “There’s a difference. One can tell. Like you.”
“I’m that obvious.”
She nodded. “Your eyes.”
“When?”
“At the ranch, the music-every time. I always feel your eyes.”
“Do you like that?” he said, his eyes touching her now, moving over her face.
“What do you think?” She leaned forward to kiss him. “But you are jealous.”
“I can’t believe everybody doesn’t see you the way I do.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” she said, kissing him again. “Tell me some more.”
“Are you flirting with me?” he whispered, his breath close to her.
“No, I told you,” she said, brushing his cheek, “I’m just getting to know you. Isn’t it lovely here? This place? Didn’t I tell you?”
Then he kissed her full on the mouth, she lay back on the packed earth, and there it was again, the quickness to his touch, as if her whole body were always waiting for even a trace of a signal. He lay over her, his elbow poking into the ground, everything dark except for a sliver of moonlight. His feet felt the rim of the tire behind them.
They heard the car before the headlights swept up the road, catching them in the beams like the surprise flash of a camera. Connolly looked up, his eyes dazzled, then rose to his knees, brushing himself off as he stood.
“You folks all right?” the ranger said, pretending he had not seen. Connolly caught the eager tremor in his voice. He got out, keeping his motor running, his lights still shining on the small screen of an unexpected blue movie.
“Flat tire,” Emma said, getting up and dusting her blouse, her voice cool and matter-of-fact.
“Well, sure,” the ranger said. “These roads. Let me give you a hand. Lucky I happened along.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Emma said, and Connolly could hear the faint beginnings of laughter.
The ranger looked at her, not quite sure whether he should grin, then at Connolly to see what would be allowed. But neither said anything, and Connolly saw him fall into awkwardness, backing away from the silence with an embarrassed shuffle, as if he were the one who’d been caught. For a moment they stood there, listening to the hum of the idling motor, unable to move. In a second, Connolly knew, Emma would laugh, turning the scene, the ranger’s own excitement, into an off-color joke. But suddenly the ranger took charge, bending down to inspect the tire, moving the spare into place. Emma watched, amused, as he twirled the lug wrench, fitting the tire with sure, swift movements in some exaggerated sexual display of competence. Connolly stood nearby, not even asked to help, frowning as he followed the performance. Then, in a minute, the ranger pumped the handle of the jack and lowered the car with an absurd sigh of climax. He stood up, wiping his hands on his pants.
“There. That ought to hold it. You want to be careful in the desert. Not a place to be at night.”
Connolly glanced at him, alert to innuendo, but the ranger had lapsed into official courtesy, unaware of any effect he might have had.
“You best follow me out. I’ll just go on ahead. Holler if you need anything.” And then, his point made, he swung into the carryall and started down the road.
Emma looked at Connolly, her eyes laughing. “Well, there you are,” she said, wiping her hands against each other as if she had done the job.
“Cabin fever, my ass,” Connolly said, throwing the tools in the trunk and slamming it.
So they drove north for half an hour in the path of the ranger’s red taillights, dipping and swerving while Emma coaxed Connolly into the laughter of a private joke. The stars rolled out in front of them, the darkness dissolving the horizon so that everything was sky. Connolly hunched over the wheel, watching for holes in the road, and when they finally reached the pavement of the highway and waved goodbye to the ranger, his shoulders were sore. They had the road to themselves again, the Nageezi post no more than a darkened shadow when they passed it. Emma fiddled with the radio, but in all this space even the soundwaves seemed to have been swallowed by the dark, trapped on the other side of some tall unseen mesa.
“I could use a drink,” he said.
“It’s Indian land. Not a drop for miles. Maybe when we get to Madrid.”
“Will anything be open by then?”
She ignored him, leaning closer to the open window. “You can smell the sage.”
“We have to eat sometime.”
“Hmm,” she said, but her voice was content, as if the rich night air were enough.
And after a while he didn’t mind either, following the small circle of their headlights in a trance. Once he saw a rabbit bounce near the side of the road, but then it vanished, just a dreamy speck of white, and they were alone again. He forgot the time, stretched out now to match the distance so that they became interchangeable, and the car sailed lazily by itself through both. There were no signs or markers. They had driven off the map.
It was almost another hour before he saw the light, a firefly wink, and then a candle until, finally, it became shafts of light pouring out the windows of a long building. A few dusty pickup trucks were parked alongside, their hoods catching the dim neon reflection of a beer advertisement. When they got out of the car, he could hear Western music. The place was as raw and makeshift as the buildings on the Hill, and for a moment he was afraid he had imagined it. There seemed no reason for it to be here in the empty landscape, just something conjured up because they were tired and hungry.
Inside, there was a brightly lit general store and next to it a dimmer bar area filled with smoke, beer signs, a gaudy swirl of jukebox, and a few wooden booths that looked filled with slivers. At the far end of the bar several Indians in jeans and ranch shirts were drinking silently, barely talking to one another, the bar in front of them a sea of beer bottles. Nearer the door, two old ranchers in Western hats were parked on stools. Everyone looked up when they came in. The Indians quickly retreated into their quiet huddle, but the ranchers looked openly at Emma, then smiled and tipped their hats. Behind the bar was a tall Indian woman, clearly of mixed blood, her long Anglo face set off by unexpected high cheekbones and long braided hair. Her breasts, drooping from years of nursing, spilled into a white blouse decorated with beads.
“Can we get a drink?” Connolly asked.
“Sure,” she said, her face as expressionless as her voice. Without asking, she set up a boilermaker of whiskey and a beer. There was no sign of anything else. Connolly handed one whiskey to Emma.
“You’re like to catch your death in them shorts,” one of the ranchers said to Emma, nodding toward her legs.
“Like ’em?” Emma said, stepping back to display them.
The rancher laughed, surprised at her boldness. “I guess I do.”
Emma took a drink. “Thanks. Me too. That’s why I keep them to myself.”
The rancher laughed again. “Well, I guess so.” Then, to Connolly, “I don’t mean nothing by it. You don’t see that every day around here.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a look,” Emma said.
“Well, I guess not,” the rancher said good-naturedly. “Where you folks coming from so late?”
“Chaco.”
