An American Outlaw by John Stonehouse Read Free Book Online

porch steps. She pulled out a chair.
    I sat. 
    The dabs on her dress were flowers. Texas bluebonnets, I think.
    “I made a call,” she says. “About the horse.” 
    She poured the coffee.
    “You got somebody coming out?” I tried to make it sound casual.
    She looked at me.
    “Somebody coming up?” I says. “To fetch her?”
    She pushed a cup across the table to me. “Maybe later.”
    I put a hand against the bruise on my head. Felt the swelling under the skin.
    “Where you from?” she says.
    I thought about it. I'd never see her again. “Louisiana.”
    “What brings you here? Down in Texas?”
    I watched the line of distant hills—lit up in the sun. “Like to take off,” I says. “Time to time.”
    “In the wilderness?”
    “Something like that.”
    She turned the mess of silver bracelets at her wrist.
    “Supposed to be mountain lions,” I says. “Up in the hills. Never seen one. Kind of hoping I might.”
    She took a sip on her cup of coffee. “Wild cats can be dangerous.”
    “You ride around like that a lot?” I says. “Out in the desert.”
    “What's that mean?”
    “I don't know. On your own...”
    In her hand, she held a brushed steel Zippo. She flicked it open with her thumb. Flicked it closed. 
    “I don't scare easy.”
    Her dog sidled up the steps of the porch, to sit down by her feet.
    “What happened to your house?” I says. “Fire back there.”
    She turned the silver bracelets. Eyes hooded. “An accident.”
    I watched the sun on the hills. Color changing by the second. I drank the coffee, felt the heat hit my empty stomach. Turning my gut. 
    A wave of nausea swept over me. “You think I could use the bathroom?”
    “Through the house. Down the hall.”
    I pushed myself out of the chair, to my feet.
    “Last but one room,” she says, “at the left.”
    I tried not to stagger, walking in to the house. 
    Inside, the air was cool. A central corridor. Rooms leading off at either side. I walked to the last room but one. Took a right.
    It was a bedroom, a child's room. Neat-folded clothes laid out on a chair. 
    A girl's room—line of soft toys across the top of the bed. 
    I shook my head. Left , she told me, at the end. I backed out—feeling like I shouldn't have seen it. Closed the door. Found the bathroom opposite.
    I stared at myself in the mirror above the sink. Sweat and dust in lines on my skin. 
    I ran water from the faucet, threw some over my face. Its cold sting sharp against my scalp. I put my fingers in my hair, tried to feel around the swelling on my head. 
    I had to get out, get to Michael. No way I'd make it out on foot, the way I was. I could take her truck. Make up lost ground. But where were we? 
    I steadied myself. Pushed open the bathroom door.
    I walked back slow, out to the porch. 
    I wasn't about to hurt her. All I needed was to get the hell away. 
    She was smoking on a cigarette, now. One hand resting on top of her dog.
    “We on our own here?”
    “Why?” Her chin juts a fraction.
    “Kid's bike,” I says. “I saw a kid's bike out front.”
    She took a hit on the cigarette. Shook her head. But something passed behind her eyes. I saw it. A flash of something.
    “You can't stay here,” she says. 
    Whatever she liked of me saving that horse, she was done, now. 
    “I run you someplace?”
    I took a pull on my cup of coffee. Didn't answer. Bought a second, tried to think. 
    The world turned on a knife edge; I'd seen it enough times in the Corps. 
    “I've got a car. Up in Marfa.”
    She watched me from across the table. Turning the silver bracelets.
    “Is it far?” I says. “From here?”
    She nodded. “Around an hour.”
    “I got a ride down. I was going to trek up. Tell the truth, I'm a little lost.” 
    I could tell she wasn't buying it. But she wanted me gone. 
    I threw her a look. “You take me out to the highway?”
    She sat back a fraction. Took another hit off her smoke.
    It was worth a shot. No idea where I was.
    She