sweeping the sand off the far end. As he swept, he saw Lorenzo appear in the yard. Finally. The Navajo always walked the two miles from Blue Gap, and he had a tendency to arrive silently, unexpectedly, like a ghost.
Eddy straightened up and leaned on the broom handle as the young Navajo walked into the shade of the church.
“Hello, Lorenzo,” said Eddy, trying to keep his voice even. “May the Lord bless you and guide you today.”
Lorenzo flipped his long braids back. “Hi.”
Eddy scrutinized his sullen face for signs of drug or liquor intoxication, but the eyes slid away from his as Lorenzo silently took the broom from his hands and began sweeping. Navajos were hard to read, but Lorenzo was harder than most, a loner, silent, keeping his own council. It was hard to tell if anything was going on in that head of his, beyond a craving for drugs and alcohol. Eddy couldn’t recall a single instance in which Lorenzo had ever spoken a complete sentence. Incredible to think he’d attended Columbia University, even if he didn’t graduate.
Eddy stepped back and watched Lorenzo sweep, his strokes slow and inefficient, leaving streaks of sand. He suppressed the urge to say something to Lorenzo now about the collection money. Eddy himself barely had enough to eat, and he had had to borrow money for gas again, and here was Lorenzo stealing God’s money, no doubt to buy drugs or liquor. He felt a growing agitation at the thought of confronting Lorenzo. But he had to wait to hear from the trader first, because he needed proof. If he accused Lorenzo and the boy denied it—which he would, the liar— what could he do without proof?
“When you finish up here, Lorenzo, could you please sort through the clothing that just came?” He pointed to several boxes that had arrived on Friday from a church in Arkansas.
The man grunted to signify he had heard. Eddy watched his fumbled sweeping a few moments longer. Lorenzo was high, there was no question about it—he had stolen the collection to buy drugs. And now Eddy wouldn’t be able to get through the week without borrowing money for gas and food.
He trembled wth rage—but he said nothing, turned, and walked stiffly back into the trailer to make his meager breakfast.
9
FORD PAUSED AT THE THRESHOLD OF the barn. The Monday morning sun slanted in, lighting up a storm of dust motes. He could hear the sounds of horses shifting in their stalls, munching feed. He ventured inside and walked down the center aisle, stopping to look at the horse in the first stall. A paint horse, working a mouthful of oats, looked back at him.
“What’s your name, pardner?”
The horse nickered, then lowered his head to scoop up another mouthful.
A pail rattled toward the other end of the barn. He turned to see a head poke out of the far stall: Kate Mercer.
They stared at each other.
“Morning,” said Ford, mustering what he hoped passed for an easy smile.
“Morning.”
“Assistant director, string theorist, cook, and . . . stable hand? You’re a woman of many talents.” He tried to keep his voice light. There were other talents of hers he’d been hard-pressed to keep out of his mind.
“You might say that.”
She pressed the back of a gloved hand against her forehead, then walked over, carrying a pail of grain. A wisp of straw was tangled in her glossy hair. She wore tight jeans and a battered denim jacket over a white, crisp man’s shirt. It was unbuttoned at the collar, and he glimpsed the soft swell of her breasts.
Ford swallowed, unable to think of anything to say except an inane “You cut your hair.”
“Hair does have that tendency to grow, yes.”
He wouldn’t rise to the bait. “It looks nice,” he said blandly.
“It’s sort of my version of a traditional Japanese hairstyle called
Kate’s hair had always been a touchy point. Her Japanese mother did not want her daughter to be Japanese in any way. She refused to allow Japanese to be spoken in the house, and insisted Kate wear her hair long and loose, like an all-American girl. Kate had given in on the hair, but when her mother began hinting that Ford would make an ideal American husband, it made her look all the harder for flaws.
It occurred to Ford what the new hairstyle must mean.
“Your mother?”
“She passed away four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
A pause. “Going for a ride?” Kate asked.
“I was thinking about it.”
“I didn’t know you knew how to ride.”
“I spent a summer at a dude ranch when I was ten.”
“In that case, I wouldn’t advise riding Snort.” She nodded to the paint. “Where do you plan to go?”
Ford shuffled a USGS map from his pocket and unfolded it. “I wanted to pay a visit to Blackhorse to see the medicine man. By car it looks like twenty miles over bad roads. But it’s only six miles by horse, if you take the trail on the back side of the mesa.”
Kate took the map and examined it. “That’s the Midnight Trail. Not for novice riders.”
“It’ll save me hours.”
“I’d still take the Jeep if I were you.”
“I don’t want to arrive in a car emblazoned with government logos.”
“Hmmm. I see your point.”
They lapsed into silence.
“All right,” said Kate. “The horse you want is Ballew.” She lifted a halter off a hook, entered a stall, and led out a dirt-colored horse with a ewe neck, rattail, and a big hay belly.
“He looks like a reject from the dog-food factory.”
“Don’t judge a horse by his looks. Old Ballew here’s bombproof. And he’s smart enough to keep his cool going down the Midnight Trail. Grab the saddle and pad off that rack and let’s tack up.”
They brushed and saddled the horse, bridled it, and led it outside.
“You know how to mount?” she asked.
Ford looked at her. “Foot in the stirrup, step up—right?”
She held the reins to him.
Ford fumbled with the reins, looped one over the horse’s neck, held the stirrup, and stuck his foot in.
“Wait, you need to—”
But he was already swinging up. The saddle slipped sideways and Ford stumbled to the ground, landing on his butt in the dirt. Ballew stood there indifferently, saddle hanging sideways on his flank.
“I was going to say, you need to check the cinch.” She seemed to be stifling a laugh.
Ford got up, slapping off the dust. “Is that how you break in the dudes out here?”
“I tried to warn you.”
“Well, I’d best be off.”
She shook her head. “Of all the places in the world you could be, I can’t believe you’re here.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I’m not.”
Ford suppressed a retort. He had a job to do. “I got over all that a long time ago. I hope you can, too.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that—I’m
“And what complication is that?” Ford asked.
“Forget it.”
Ford fell silent. He wasn’t going to get embroiled in anything personal with Kate.
“Afraid so.”
“More problems?”
Her eyes slid—warily, he thought. “Maybe.”
“What kind?”
