By the time he topped the Continental Divide and rolled down the east slope of the Rockies, David’s fists were sore from pounding the steering wheel in frustration. At the town of East Glacier, Highway 2 spit him out of the mountains and onto the prairie without warning. He arrived in Browning twenty minutes later, low on fuel, so he drove on through town to find a station that could accommodate his extra-long rig.
The four-lane main drag was cluttered with out-of-state RVs, campers, boats, and other tourist paraphernalia heading into Glacier National Park. The locals drove rattletrap Buicks with mismatched doors and beefy four-wheel drives caked with enough mud to make David squirm with envy. Obviously, the drought hadn’t dug its bony fingers into this part of the plains.
He stopped at a red light and waited for a greasy, bearded man to shuffle across the street, followed by a mangy dog. They joined a pair of equally grungy women lounging against the boarded-up front window of what had once been a gas station. One of them passed a paper bag to the newcomer.
Street people? In a little town like this?
The light turned and David went on, past more boarded-up buildings interspersed with businesses making a visible effort to attract the tourist trade—a mercantile with Indian patterns stenciled around the top of the walls and a row of miniature metal tipis along the front sidewalk, a motel that had some age on it but no trash along the curbs, a brightly painted burger joint with one whole wall sided in shiny chrome and colorful flags snapping in the breeze out front.
The road made a ninety-degree turn in front of a massive tipi built of concrete. The sign out front advertised espressos. Then another stretch of derelict buildings before David spotted a large gas station and convenience store called the Town Pump. Traffic whizzed by in both directions as he maneuvered into the jam-packed lot, around an SUV towing a pair of Jet Skis and a dually pickup covered in decals that declared the owner the champion of a team roping held three years earlier. The process was complicated by several stray dogs wandering aimlessly through the chaos.
Both diesel pumps were occupied, as were most of the gas pumps. As David waited his turn, a constant stream of people trickled in and out of the store carrying snacks, sodas, and beer by the case or the extra-large bottle.
Just past the Town Pump was a cluster of pristine, newer buildings that a sign declared to be Blackfeet Community College. Beyond that, the town ended and the hills rolled away. There wasn’t a tree in sight, but the green of the grass was still fresh as spring, which he supposed it was this far north. Where the Blackfeet reservation ended, Canada began.
When his turn came, he filled his tank, wincing at the hit on his gas card. Not only was Browning eight hours out of his way, but he’d lost all the income he would’ve made from the horses he’d lined up to shoe in Hermiston. He pulled around the back, locked his rig, and went inside for a soda and something cheap to eat. The deli served damn near anything that could be made in a deep fryer, plus individual pizzas and precooked burgers and such. David shelled out five bucks for chicken strips with ranch dressing and half a dozen potato wedges.
He accepted his change—yes, even the penny, because they added up—and stuffed it in his pocket. “I was told there’s a rodeo arena in town?”
“Yah.” The big guy at the register had a glossy black ponytail that hung to the middle of his back. “The Stampede Grounds. Right past the casino.”
David had seen the casino as he came into town. A blocky building dressed up at the front with a covered entry and painted pillars and what looked to be a brand-new hotel next door. He retraced his route and discovered the Charging Horse Stampede Grounds, bigger and cleaner than he’d expected from the size and look of the town.
The last rays of the sun were just spearing over the mountaintops as he rumbled to a stop beside the stock pens. The clock on the dashboard said 9:46 p.m. If a man worked daylight to dark this time of year, he could wear himself to the bone. David eyed a metal water spigot. With any luck, he could hook up the hose and have decent pressure for the shower he needed even more after cussing and sweating all the way across the mountains from Kalispell. The water pump was one on a long list of repairs his aging trailer needed, but keeping tires under it was all the maintenance he could afford.
He should’ve filled the propane bottles, though. The wind had a bitter edge, like it had rolled straight down off the mountain snowcaps. David grabbed a jacket from the pickup, checked out the stock pens, picked out the largest, and made sure it was free of weeds, trash, or moldy hay. Then he tested the water spigot. Nothing. Figured.
He was backing Frosty out of the trailer when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. A car rolled to a stop behind his rig. Blackfeet Tribal Police. The officer was probably thirty years old, thick-bodied, with ebony hair clipped into a bristly square top.
He rolled down his window and braced a beefy forearm on the frame. “This facility ain’t for public use.”
But Kylan’s girlfriend had said—
And she most likely didn’t have David’s best interests at heart. Might’ve even set him up just to get even. David swallowed a curse. If he couldn’t stay here, he’d have to go on to the next town, another twenty-five miles. More gas money down the drain, and that much farther from wherever they’d taken Muddy. “I just need a place to camp for the night. I have business in town—”
“I know what your business is,” the cop said, and his tone made it clear he wasn’t the welcoming committee.
So. That’s how it was gonna be. Did they think they could scare him off? Not hardly. Before David could figure out the best way to tell the cop so without ending up in the local slammer, a faded black pickup rumbled in and parked next to the police car, stirring up a cloud of dust that drew a curse from the cop when it rolled in his open window.
David cast an envious glance at the pickup’s flatbed, loaded with half a dozen bales of hay. Nice-looking stuff, worth at least ten bucks a square in Colorado these days. The man who climbed out looked as road-tested as his pickup with his battered black hat, wire-rim glasses, a sprinkling of silver in his brushy black mustache, and a rolling hitch in his gait as he ambled over to join them.
“Hey, Galen,” the cop said. “I was just tellin’ this guy we ain’t runnin’ a campground here.”
The newcomer frowned, but at the cop, not David. “Don’t be a dick, JoJo. Ain’t gonna hurt nothin’ by lettin’ him stay here.” Galen turned to David with an apologetic shrug. “Kylan’s his cousin.”
David nodded, thinking this would be a good time to shut up and see what happened next.
The cop’s face set into mulish lines, but Galen waved him off. “I got this. Go be a real cop and get a doughnut or something.”
JoJo grumbled and shot David another glare, but wheeled his car around and left.
“Sorry. JoJo’s got a soft spot for Kylan, but that ain’t the way to go about helping.” Galen stuck out his hand. “Galen Dutray.”
“David Parsons.” Which Galen obviously already knew. They exchanged a quick, hard handshake.
“Are you in charge of the fairgrounds?” David asked.
“Nah. I work for the Blackfeet livestock department.”
Livestock department? Would Galen demand to see Frosty’s brand inspection, health certificate, Coggins test? Not that it would be a problem. With the number of state lines David crossed in any given week, all of his papers were in pristine order.
“Nice-looking horse,” Galen said, eyeing Frosty. “I like grays.”
“Thanks.”
Frosty turned a lot of heads with his near-white coat, flowing mane and tail, and classic Quarter Horse head. Definitely easy on the eyes…and hard to lose in the dark. Always a plus.
“Mary asked me to come down and see if there’s anything you need.” Galen dangled a set of keys. “I’ll turn on the water on the way out, and I brought hay in case you’re short.”
David blinked, stunned. “Mary sent you?”
Galen shrugged. “We got a mess on our hands, for sure. No sense being assholes while we’re sorting it out. You got your papers and stuff for the brown horse with you?”
“Yes. You wanna check ’em?”
“Nah. Tomorrow mornin’s soon enough. I’ll swing by, bring you to her lawyer’s office at nine.”
Crap. She was serious about the attorney. David had hoped it was a bluff. He couldn’t afford even a few hours of a lawyer’s time. But why should he have to? Muddy belonged to him. He could prove it. Case closed.
Galen gave him a sympathetic look. “He’s a hell of a horse. Must have been tough to lose him.”
“Yeah. It was.” Then David realized what Galen was saying. “You already know he’s mine. How?”
“Even out here on the rez, we got Google. We found pictures.”
“Then why—”
“We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll be here a little before nine.” Galen strolled back to his pickup, dragged two hay bales off the side and stacked them on the ground, then left David alone with his jangled thoughts.
He hunched his shoulders against the wind, watching it whip Galen’s dust up and away. Mary knew she’d have to turn the horse over. So why force David to chase her back to Browning? Then again, David still had no idea how Kylan had ended up with Muddy. And it had been a woman who’d hocked his saddle in Billings.
Maybe the visit with the attorney wasn’t about trying to keep Muddy. Maybe Mary was trying to keep herself out of jail.