11

What in tarnation did you ride in on?” Bud asked, squinting through the dirty window at the front of his shop.

Fleeta took a deep breath and clasped her hands hard in front of her. She was shaking from the cold and the sudden realization that she had basically stolen her cousin’s motorcycle. The exhilaration of setting out on the machine had given way to worry as the wind bit her cheeks and cut through her mittens, making the motorcycle even harder to handle. She’d wobbled a time or two and it had taken her longer to get here than she’d expected. But here she was. She released the air pent up in her lungs and held her hands out toward the wood stove that seemed to do little more than keep the frost off the insides of the windows. Her hands still shook, but she didn’t think Bud was paying close attention.

“It’s Albert’s motorcycle.”

“Hunh. Albert trusts you more than I would. ’Course you ain’t exactly a typical female.”

Fleeta tried to take the comment as a compliment, even though it bit almost as deep as the wind had. She shrugged the words away and turned to the older man. “Albert said you wanted to see me.”

Bud grinned as wide as a barn door. “That I do. Seems like we might be able to move our timeline up for you taking on this here business.” He said the last word as if it were three words—biz-e-ness.

Fleeta felt her heart flutter and her stomach clench. “How’s that?”

“My sister down in Florida wants me to come live with her. I can’t stand the cold like I used to, so it’s sounding awful good to me. Sunshine and oranges all winter long.”

Fleeta didn’t even know he had a sister, but that was beside the point. “So you’re leaving?”

Bud rubbed his chin and got a cagey look. “I’m thinking awful hard about it, although I’m not quite ready to turn all the way loose of what I have here. Plus, you seemed pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to buy me out anytime soon. That right?”

Disappointment tamped down the happy flutters Fleeta was experiencing. “No sir, but I’m closer than I was.” And once Hank gave her the second half of his payment, she’d be closer still.

“That so? What if you gave me what you’ve got as a sort of down payment, then you can use the place while I’m in Florida. I’ll come on back around May or June, and if I decide to make this change permanent, maybe you’ll have saved up enough by then to buy me out.”

Fleeta realized she was shaking again, only this time it wasn’t the cold. “That might work.” She didn’t want to sound too eager, but the thought of her dream being within reach made her feel faint.

“How much you got?” Bud drummed the fingers of one hand on the counter in front of him. He seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped.

Fleeta did some quick calculations in her head. She didn’t want to give him every penny she had, but neither did she want to offer too little. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked at the floor. Of course, Hank was going to pay her a fair amount when he returned before Christmas, and she could use that for the basic supplies she’d need. Swallowing hard, she offered up almost all her savings.

Bud pursed his lips and looked toward the ceiling. “Hmmm.” He counted on his fingers. “Not counting December, you’ll have five months to earn some more.” He scratched his head and let tobacco fly into a spittoon near his feet. Fleeta eyed the places where he’d missed and thought cleaning that up was the first thing she’d do if this all worked out.

“All right then. You bring me that amount by day after tomorrow and we’ll have us a deal.” He stuck out his right hand. Fleeta shook it as though the strength of her grip alone would hold her dreams together. She’d figure out how she was going to do this and take care of her family later.

The air was even colder and the evening heading rapidly toward dark as Fleeta made her way home. She’d had an even harder time starting the Indian the second time around, and she feared it might be out of gas, but it finally caught. Now she was riding as slow as she dared over the dirt roads. She was ecstatic over the deal she’d just struck, yet at the same time she was pretty sure Albert would skin her alive when he found his motorcycle missing. Never mind what Uncle Oscar and Aunt Maisie would have to say.

Still, she managed to spend most of the trip home imagining how she’d fix up Bud’s shop. There was a small kitchen in back and a bedroom upstairs. Of course, she’d never been up there, but Bud assured her it was a spacious sleeping room. She’d been in the back room and saw how it needed lots of work. The sink with its hand pump was stained with iron, and the stove looked like it might fall apart if the wind kicked up, but she was plenty handy, and her cousins would help. She made a face. Well, they would if they ever forgave her for running off with Albert’s motorcycle and planning to abandon them.

Almost home, Fleeta wished she could remove one hand from the grip long enough to tuck her nearly frozen fingers under her arm. But she was already shaky with both hands firmly grasping the handlebars and she was afraid to attempt it. She squinted down the road, not knowing how to turn on the motorcycle’s headlamp. It was more than a little dark.

Making the last turn onto the road that led to the farmhouse, Fleeta let out her breath and relaxed as much as she dared. She’d have to face the music tonight, but she’d get someone to run her back over to Bud’s with the money she’d promised, and just like that she’d have her own gun shop. More or less.

Lost in thought in the darkness, Fleeta caught a glimpse of a deer bounding through the woods out of the corner of her eye. The animal was huge, even larger than the motorcycle she was riding, and suddenly filled the road in front of her. Fleeta liked to think she was trying to avoid hitting the deer, but she supposed it was mostly instinct that caused her to twist the handlebars and lay the machine down in the rocky roadbed. There was a terrible sound of scraping metal, roaring engine, and maybe her own screaming. Then just the sputter of the dying motor.

Fleeta lay in the road and looked off to the left where a massive buck stood watching her. He had at least eight points on his wide-spreading antlers. He was dappled with a white underbelly and chest and brown spots cascading across his back. With a start, Fleeta realized it had to be the same buck she’d missed shooting the day Aunt Maisie lost her baby. The ghost deer. Even in the gloaming she could see his eyes—warm, brown, and with an expression of . . . pity? With a flick of his ears and a snort, he turned and ran off, leaving Fleeta to shake off the impression that a deer felt sorry for her.

“What in the name of all that’s holy is going on out here?” Uncle Oscar’s unmistakable voice accompanied the bouncing light from his Big Beam flashlight.

Fleeta flinched, almost hoping she was hurt badly enough to avoid her uncle’s wrath, not to mention Albert’s.

“Fleeta, darlin’, is that you?” Her uncle set his light down so he could lift the motorcycle, which Fleeta realized was pinning her leg to the ground.

Uncle Oscar knelt beside her and winced when he saw her leg. Fleeta looked too and blanched at the sight. She never had trouble with blood—unless it was her own. And in spite of having two pairs of pants on, she could see blood soaking her calf. A wave of dizziness made her lay her head down in the grit of the road.

Albert appeared over her uncle’s shoulder. “I think you’re in worse shape than the motorcycle, Fleeta.”

She marveled that neither of the men seemed angry, just concerned. For her.

“I’ll be all right.” Her voice cracked, and she bit her lip to keep from crying. “Did you see that deer?”

“Let’s get her inside,” Uncle Oscar said. “She’s talking nonsense.”

Albert wheeled his precious Indian over into the yard and came back to help Fleeta to her feet. With the help of both men, she hobbled to the back door and into the brightly lit dining room. The whole family—even Elnora with her husband and son—sat around the empty table, watching her. Fleeta noted that Simeon’s book was lying in front of him, closed.

Aunt Maisie stood and braced herself against the table. “Thank God you’re still in one piece. I’ve never been so worried in my life. Oscar, is she all right?”

“Looks like a pretty good cut on her left leg there. See if you can’t get her britches off.”

Aunt Maisie and Elnora shooed the boys from the room and began stripping Fleeta’s extra layers off like they were handling a newborn. Once they’d exposed her bare leg, Fleeta refused to look at it. She stared at the ceiling instead, steeling herself for how bad it must be. They might even need to stitch it up. What if she lost her foot?

“Well if that isn’t the luckiest thing I ever saw.” Aunt Maisie stood back, hands on her hips. “Sweetheart, it’s more motor oil than blood. You just have a little ole cut there. Let me dab some Mercurochrome on it and you should be fine.” She headed out of the room at her usual slow pace.

Fleeta blinked back tears, trying to take in this latest news.

“Does anything else hurt?” asked Elnora.

Fleeta couldn’t stand it anymore. “Why is everyone being so nice? I stole Albert’s motorcycle so I could go meet with Bud Lyons and make plans to leave here.” She grabbed Elnora’s arm. “I’m going to run off and abandon you all. And I’ve been underhanded about it. Why isn’t Uncle Oscar yelling at me?”

Elnora laughed and shook her head. “Oh, Fleeta, Albert loves you more than that silly motorcycle, and no one expects you to stay here and carry the load that’s this family. You have dreams and plans of your own.” She pursed her lips. “I’m still pretty skeptical about this business of making guns, but if that’s what you want to do, then I’m proud of you.”

Now the tears did flow. “But I ruined Albert’s motorcycle.”

“I only hope you did, but I suspect he’ll have it up and running again before tomorrow’s out. And even if you did spoil it, you’re far more important than some piece of machinery.”

Fleeta choked on a sob. “I don’t deserve”—she gasped—“I don’t deserve . . .”

“None of us do,” Elnora said, tears glinting in her eyes now. “But you’re family, and one mistake isn’t going to change that. We love you.” She smiled. “I love you. And if you feel like you need to be punished, well, Mother with Mercurochrome will likely prove sufficient.”

Fleeta smiled as well and hugged her cousin, whom she realized was more sister than she had any right to expect. “I love you too.”

“I’m going to pay you whatever it costs to fix that thing,” Fleeta told Albert two days later as he tinkered with the Indian. She was sore, and her bruises were worse than the cut on her leg, but she was grateful it hadn’t been worse.

“I thought you were sinking your savings into Bud’s place.”

Fleeta squirmed. “Not all of it.”

“Aw, it won’t cost me anything. I just need to figure out how to trade for a new frame. This one’s bent too bad to straighten back out. Merle says he can rustle one up for me, and you know he loves a good trade almost as much as cash.”

“What will you trade him?”

Albert wiped his hands on a rag. “Might let him have my bone-handled knife.”

Fleeta jerked up straighter and flinched as pain shot through her bruised shoulder. “That’s your favorite. You use it all the time.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes you have to shift your priorities.”

“Surely we can come up with something else.”

Albert laughed. “Here he comes now—if you can come up with something he’d like better than my knife, I won’t stop you from offering.”

Fleeta’s hand went almost involuntarily to her mother’s pin, where she wore it under her sweater and coat. Ever since that day at the bookmobile, she’d continued to wear it pinned to her underthings—it made her feel as though her mother were close by.

“Howdy, young’uns,” Merle hollered. He always talked too loud, probably because he was usually talking over gunfire. “Only way I could get you a frame was to go ahead and buy the whole motorcycle. Figured if you didn’t want it, I could fix it up and sell it to somebody else. ’Course it’s gonna be a mite pricier than we originally talked about.”

Fleeta saw her cousin’s shoulders sag. “How much pricier?”

“Weeell,” Merle said, dragging out the word, “enough that I’m gonna need more than a shoat or a speckled pup to trade for.”

Albert reached for the knife he wore at his waist. Fleeta grabbed his arm. “What about cold, hard cash?” She’d thought to offer him her brooch but just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“Well now, that’s about my favorite thing to trade for—just the right color and always fits.”

Fleeta could see Albert squirming, but he let her go ahead. “How much do you think would be a fair price?”

The two of them went back and forth a few times, until Merle finally agreed to a number that was going to make it impossible for Fleeta to give Bud the amount they had agreed upon. Even so, Fleeta went to her hiding place, leaving the men to talk, and retrieved the money. While it pained her to hand it over, making things right with Albert was more important than anything else right now.

Merle tucked the cash in a jacket pocket and almost jogged back to his truck, where he brought out a motorcycle that looked to be in even worse shape than Albert’s. He waved them over.

“Check it out real good.” He ran a hand along the motorcycle’s frame. “It’s seen better days, but the frame’s as straight as a Baptist preacher, and I reckon you can get other parts off’n here.”

Albert walked all around the machine, then peered into the back of Merle’s truck. “Hey, is that a sidecar?”

“Sure is—you can have that too. Don’t have much use for a sidecar without something to drag it around.”

The look of utter delight on Albert’s face made Fleeta’s sacrifice feel almost worth it. Almost.