At just before eleven, Delon rapped once on Gil’s door and settled into the extra chair, meaning this was going to be an actual conversation. Gil muted his computer and tossed his Bluetooth earpiece on the desk.
“I sent Carma upstairs to rest—she was looking a little peaked.” Delon folded his arms. “She’s an interesting woman.”
“I noticed. What’s that look for?” Gil snapped, when Delon kept staring at him.
“Your love life has been nothing but a series of right swipes and out-of-town overnighters since they invented dating apps. Now you’re planting your latest in our office? I’m trying to figure out what this means.”
“That we needed a receptionist, and one dropped right in our laps. Bing told me that Carma works off and on at Indian Health Service. You know what Beth deals with at Tori’s office, with all the insurance, juggling schedules, and crap from patients. If Carma can handle that, she can handle us.”
Delon considered, then grinned. “Damn. You almost made me wonder if that’s all there is to it.”
Gil flipped him off.
Delon paid no attention. “I’m also curious. Yesterday you said you’d only met her once—and that got cut short.”
“Yeah?”
“So how do you already have inside jokes?”
Gil flushed as if he’d been passing secret notes under his desk to the cute girl in science class.
“It must be karma.” He leaned into the sarcasm to cover his reaction, then asked, “Has Beni said anything else about how Quint’s getting along at school?”
Delon took a beat to decide whether to let him change the subject, then hitched a shoulder. “Not much. He says the kids are all kinda intimidated. They know Krista’s family is a big deal in Oklahoma City, and you know how Quint can be.”
Gil did. And he didn’t. Krista had assured him the boy was what the therapist had labeled naturally reserved, which was not the same as shy. Quint was extremely well spoken when he chose, or the situation required. He was just…discerning was the word the shrink had used. Freakishly mature, in Gil’s opinion, which was probably also a tad off-putting to the average small-town eighth grader.
Or Quint was learning that being Gil Sanchez’s son was not a blessing when it came to making friends in Earnest.
The town owed a lot to Sanchez Trucking. Only the school district had more employees, and drivers boosted the economy by renting or buying homes here. But Little League sponsorships and donations to charitable causes couldn’t erase memories, and Gil hadn’t had the time or inclination to try to win their hearts or change their minds.
Until now. He sighed moodily. “I just hope they aren’t holding my actions against him.”
“There aren’t near as many people who think you’re an actual spawn of the devil these days.” Delon laced his fingers over his belt buckle and studied the bridge he made of his thumbs. “Did you warn him about the other rumors?”
“All the money we supposedly rake in smuggling drugs? Yeah, as soon as it got back to me.” By way of the oldest Jacobs daughter, Lily, who heard all the dirt thanks to being a local minister’s wife.
Delon growled his contempt. “Our trucks never cross the border, and we have zero connections in Mexico.”
Definitely not through their dad. The Sanchez name was courtesy of a great-grandfather who’d taken it from his foster parents and died soon after passing it along to a single son, who’d done a disappearing act before little Merle could eat solid food. Merle had left his unhappy childhood home immediately after high school and lost touch with his mother and her kin. Then he’d created two sons who were Native by blood, assumed Latino, and raised in a lily-white town. No confusion there.
Gil picked up a pen and spun it between his fingers. “You haven’t heard the latest. Since the cartels are moving into the reservations, the word is we’re working with our Navajo relations to pick up shipments there and deliver them all over the country. And of course I have my former dealers.”
“Who all had medical licenses. I doubt any of them were peddling heroin out the back door of their offices.”
“You didn’t meet some of these people.” Gil curled his lip, recalling how freely some of those doctors had dispensed narcotics. “They weren’t exactly the cream of the health-care crop.”
And they were in four different states. Handy, living in the Panhandle where he could pop over to Oklahoma, Colorado, or New Mexico, playing the part of the chronic-pain patient in search of relief—and making it less likely that a pharmacy or medical office would catch the multiple prescriptions.
Even when he was a complete disaster, he’d been too smart for his own good.
Delon made a rude gesture in the general direction of town. “Well, screw ’em if they can’t give credit where it’s due. Speaking of which…have you looked at that contract from Heartland Foods?”
“Just a glance. I’ll dig into it this weekend.”
“Great. I’ll tell them to expect to hear from you next week.” Delon clapped his hands together. “Damn. I can’t believe we’re gonna land that deal.”
“You landed it.”
Almost single-handedly. When they’d learned that the second-largest grocery supplier in the country was building a new distribution center in Amarillo and would need a dozen reefer trucks dedicated solely to their loads, Delon had used his world-champion clout to wrangle an introduction to the CEO, who was an avid rodeo fan. Then he’d flashed his charm and Sanchez Trucking’s stellar track record to beat out dozens of other contenders.
Now it would be up to Gil to make good on all the promises Delon had made. And keep the rest of the fleet rolling. And figure out what was up with his kid.
And somehow find the time to get Carma all to himself.
* * *
At lunchtime, Carma sat down at the table in the apartment and took a can of 7UP from her cousin—their family’s cure-all for anything that ailed a stomach. Carma was ambivalent about the chicken casserole and mashed potatoes, but fully expected that Bing would also be able to dish up plenty of information.
First, though, Carma had to explain how she’d somehow become a full-time employee of Sanchez Trucking.
“And the next thing I knew, I was saying yes,” she said, as she accepted the plate Bing held out to her.
Bing rolled her eyes. “The Sanchez brothers tend to have that effect on women.”
“You’re telling me.” But she’d been hard-pressed not to climb out of bed and plaster her ear to the floor vent when she’d heard the murmur of their voices after Delon had sent her upstairs. She didn’t need ESP to know they were talking about her. “They also pay extremely well and offered me free use of this apartment.”
Which would be cash she could set aside in case the Patterson ranch wasn’t hiring. Their website welcomed volunteers, though, so she could probably hang out there as long as she could afford to be free labor.
She certainly couldn’t advertise or monetize her special skills. There was no license for what she did, and even among Natives she wasn’t a recognized medicine woman, shaman, or healer—titles bestowed upon those who studied the ancient customs and followed age-old traditions. Carma was just…well, Carma. She had always been odd, but as she’d matured, that oddity had manifested itself in ways she was still learning to accept—and apply.
“What’s this mean for you and Gil?” Bing said. “As far as I can tell he doesn’t even mix sex with his life, let alone his business.”
“Well, it’s a little late now. We’ve already seen each other naked.”
Bing’s elegant brows snapped together. “Since when?”
“Last night.” Carma held up a hand when Bing’s jaw dropped. “He wouldn’t let me take a shower alone in case I keeled over again.”
“So the two of you just…” Bing spread her hands in disbelief.
“Showered. Then he fed me Jell-O and tucked me into bed.” Carma sorted out a carrot, pushing it to the side of her plate. “And he dried my hair.”
Bing stared at her. “Gil Sanchez. The man who—if I heard correctly through that vent—just told one of his drivers he didn’t give a shit if he froze his dick off, he’d better get his ass out there and chain up his effing truck before he left Rapid City.”
“That’s the one.”
“Huh. Well…I guess Gil does look after other people”—Bing winced at another volley of profanities—“in his own way. He practically raised himself and his brother. Merle was a very hands-off kind of parent.”
“Still is if he’s gone fishing when they’re up to their necks and shorthanded.”
Bing shrugged. “He turned sixty-five last month. Analise says he’s been in the process of retiring for the last few years.”
That would explain why Gil had only seemed mildly annoyed by his dad’s absence. “What about their mother?”
“Rochelle. She’s Navajo, from out in the back country south of Shiprock. Her dad had a major stroke and her mother couldn’t take care of him alone. Gil was in the first grade, and if she’d taken the boys with her, they would have had to go to boarding school.”
Both of them grimaced. The modern versions were a major improvement on the original, grim institutions designed to indoctrinate the students into white culture—by force if necessary. But they were still institutions, not homes.
“And Merle and Rochelle are still technically married.” Bing pointed her fork for emphasis. “They were hitched by the justice of the peace here, but also had a traditional Navajo ceremony, and she only divorced him in tribal court.”
“I never get why people do that.” Carma sent another carrot off into no-man’s-land. “I would want to be totally finished, no strings.”
Bing shrugged. “Even do-it-yourself divorces cost money. And as long as neither of you wants to remarry…”
Or reconcile, which was apparently the case with Gil’s parents. “Who took care of the boys while Merle was busy trucking?”
“Mostly Iris and Steve Jacobs. You know, Jacobs Livestock, the rodeo stock contractor? That’s where Gil and Delon learned to ride bucking horses. Melanie and Hank pretty much lived there, too.” Bing made a face at the mention of her newly acquired if as yet unofficial stepson and daughter. “Not something Johnny is real proud of, pawning his kids off on the neighbors, but he was trying to run a ranch single-handed, and that wife of his was more harm than help.”
“With the ranch or the kids?”
“Both.”
So the legendary Miz Iris had gathered them all under her wing…shades of Grandma White Elk. “No wonder you fit in here. They make up family out of strays and almost-relatives just like on the rez.”
“Yep. They also raised Steve’s nephew, Cole, from when he was sixteen.” Sadness dug grooves around Bing’s mouth. “His parents and brother were killed in a car accident.”
God. A whole family destroyed in the blink of an eye…and Carma included the living among the casualties. No one truly survived that sort of loss. They would never be the person they’d been before.
Carma took a few more bites, then paused to let them settle. “You know, my first roommate at college was Navajo, and she lived with relatives in Albuquerque almost all the way through school. She called them her foster parents. None of Rochelle’s family would’ve thought twice about her leaving Gil and Delon here with their dad.”
“Plus Rochelle’s a full-blood from a very traditional clan. Her father was one of those who believed mixed marriage is the equivalent of genocide by degrees.”
Carma winced, but had to say, “It’s a valid issue.”
Smaller tribes like the Blackfeet had had to choose between inbreeding and diluting their genetic identity. With an estimated three hundred thousand descendants, the Navajo—or more correctly, Diné—had more options.
“It’s valid in theory, if you’re hung up on blood quantum as a measure of Nativeness—and worth.” Bing stabbed at a chunk of chicken. “For two little boys whose grandfather treated them like a disease their mother brought home? It’s no wonder they didn’t embrace their Native roots.”
Duty. Motherhood. Harsh reality. The poor woman must’ve felt like she was being torn into tiny pieces. “Speaking of kids, Gil’s son witnessed my grand entrance.”
Bing grinned. “Ah. Quint. The boy Yoda.”
“Huh?”
“A thousand-year-old soul in the body of a Disney heartthrob. Did he even blink?”
“I dunno. I was facedown in a trash can. But he asked if Gil had knocked me up.”
Bing spewed 7UP down the front of her blouse.
“Gil said it was Quint’s idea of a joke,” Carma added.
“Oh God.” Bing thumped herself on the chest, clearing the soda out of her pipes. “That is classic. The kid might not say a word for two hours, then he’ll drop a zinger like that.”
“His father was not amused.”
“I don’t imagine.” Bing grabbed a napkin to mop up. “From what I understand, Gil and Krista have never pulled any punches with Quint. He knows they were only together for about eight months before she got pregnant, why they didn’t get married, and all about Gil’s addiction.”
“How long has he been clean?”
“Since Quint was about a year old. He’s never seen his dad wasted, but I assume he’s heard a lot of cautionary tales from his mom’s side.” Bing mimicked a snooty, Southern tone. “You know how those Natives are with booze, and you’ve got his genes…”
Also a valid concern, and just as hard to stomach.
Bing gave a fatalistic shrug. It was what it was. “If anything fazes that kid, you’d never know.” Then she laughed. “Well, you might. It’ll be interesting to see how you read him.”
Carma wished it was that simple, like X-ray vision she could turn on when she wanted. Or better, off. What would it be like to stand in a crowded room and feel only her own feelings?
Most people were just background noise, barely registering unless they were experiencing something strong. Fear, anger, pain, and all their permutations—the negative stuff was the easiest to pick up. Carma could barely set foot in a nursing home, where the air was thick with the anxiety and confusion of residents suffering from dementia.
She also enjoyed secondhand bursts of joy, pride, love and its more earthy cousin, lust, but they were always fleeting. What was it about humans that made happiness so hard to hold onto, while guilt and shame clung like tar?
Modern psychology had an explanation for her gift: extreme empathy resulting in subconscious recognition of nonverbal cues and patterns of behavior. Most of the time she could work backward and identify the clues that had led to her conclusion. Not magic. Just logic. Well, except for how she’d been able to sense Gil’s secrets, but that was the extreme part of the empathy…wasn’t it?
If all the psychologists in the world couldn’t agree, Carma wasn’t likely to figure it out. Most people preferred to slap her with their own labels anyway. She was a Chosen One. She was delusional. The spirits spoke to her. It was some stunt she did to get attention.
More creative profanity wafted up from Gil’s office. Bing gave the floor vent a doubtful look. “Are you sure you can handle that all day long? You had to quit working in the resource room at the elementary school because of the ambient stress.”
“Teachers are under a crapload of pressure. Besides, that”—she pointed down—“is recreational rage. Sort of like watching professional wrestling.”
“All for show?”
“In a way. Gil runs naturally hot, but he can dial it back when he wants. Underneath, he’s all about control.” She sculpted a mountain of her mashed potatoes, then decapitated it. “Maybe I could learn from him.”
Bing reached across and squeezed her hand. “Sweetie…I know you’ve been struggling, but I don’t think Gil is the best example of healthy coping skills.”
“Hey, at least I won’t try to run his life. Can you imagine how he’d react if I started laying my you should lines on him?” Carma asked bitterly, echoing Jayden’s favorite complaint, although he was generally fine with blaming her when things didn’t go well. “Gil would crawl from here to Montana before he’d lean on anyone. He’s just looking for good sex and someone to answer his phone.”
Bing frowned. “You deserve a lot more than that.”
Did she? She’d contributed a lot of the dysfunction to her relationship with Jayden by being his crutch, and taking too much of the responsibility. And to be brutally honest, at least some of the time they’d been together because neither of them had found anything better.
And still Carma had been caught completely off guard when he’d dumped her for the blond. Stupid, fickle, so-called gift. Why didn’t it ever warn her about her own damn love life?
“It is so unfair. The instant I laid eyes on Johnny, I knew it was forever with him and you. Why can’t I tell how a man really feels about me?”
Bing sighed. “Maybe the Creator figures it’s something even you have to take on faith.”
“Well, I’m fresh out.” Carma forced down one last bite before pushing her plate away. “I’d rather have someone who’ll tell it to me straight, no games, no promises.”
Bing sighed again. “Then Gil Sanchez is definitely your man.”
No, he wasn’t. And as long as Carma didn’t pretend he ever could be, she could enjoy him, and learn from him, and hopefully leave Earnest, Texas, smarter than she’d arrived.
And wasn’t self-improvement most of the reason she was here?