One Step Over the Border (3 page)

Juanita scampered toward the house toting a celery-wielding Philippe.

“Why did you promise that?” Hap said.

“She has to get out of this situation. That guy’s crazy.”

“But she chose the situation herself.”

“And we complicated it. The least we can do is to get her to her folks.”

“Then she’s ridin’ with you,” Hap insisted. “She had this romantic notion that I was comin’ up here to rescue her and the
baby, then live happily ever after. I don’t want her in my truck. No tellin’ what she’ll do.”

“Okay, she rides with me. But we caravan over to Grey-bull together. Right, partner?”

“Yeah, but we need the ropes. You think he’ll stay unconscious?”

While Hap untied Francis, Laramie found the switchblade knife.

“You think that’s the only weapon he’s packin’?” Hap asked.

“No, but I don’t intend to search him.” Laramie eyed the front door. “I wish she’d hurry up. Go in there and nudge her along.”

Hap threw up his hands. “Not me, partner. I ain’t goin’ in that house ever again. And for sure and certain, I won’t do any
nudgin’ with her.”

“But she’s your Juanita.”

“That’s the point. She’s not my Juanita.”

“Get both trucks running,” Laramie said. “I’ll see what I can tote.”

Juanita held the baby wearing a clean diaper, boots, and a T-shirt. Laramie carted a cardboard box and two brown grocery sacks
crammed with clothes.

The black dog raised up on his front paws and howled.

As they bolted to the trucks, Francis propped up on his elbow. “Where do you think you’re going?” He reached for his black
boot and brandished a hunting knife with a ten-inch blade.

“To a better place than you.” Hap hefted the sixteen-pound ebony bowling ball with the number 135 engraved next to the holes.
He bombed Francis’s upraised forehead.

“Did you kill him?” Juanita asked.

“I don’t reckon I killed him.” Hap trotted to the trucks.

“It’s all right with me if you did,” she called out.

Hap hopped behind the steering wheel of the black Dodge. With the door still open, he shouted, “Well, it ain’t all right with
me.”

The fifty-mile ride to Greybull took less than an hour.

Philippe slept in his mother’s arms as Juanita stared out the window at bleak prairie and irrigated farmland. Laramie gripped
the steering wheel tight and focused on the broken yellow line of Highway 14.

The hum of the tires on the asphalt dulled his mind. The air in the cab of the truck pulsed with strong garlic. He rolled
down the window. Juanita seemed to slump lower in the seat every mile they traveled.

Laramie mulled over how Juanita might have gotten herself into such a fix. He found it hard to believe that Francis was her
best available choice. But then, he had often thought the same thing about his mother.

Litter and dust swirled as they pulled into, then through, Greybull. The Bighorn Mountains towering to the east provided a
Wyoming landscape, but the rundown stores and abandoned cars reminded Laramie of many of the dozen or so Texas towns where
he grew up. He couldn’t help studying every bar they passed, expecting his dad to emerge. When he was young, he had teased
his mother about writing a book on the front-door architecture of bars, saloons, and honky-tonks.

He leaned toward the window and gulped the dry summer air.

Juanita pointed to the railroad tracks. “Pull in there.”

Laramie found himself cruising through an old abandoned brickyard and following a winding dirt road through the sage. He slowed
to a crawl in the foot-deep ruts, glancing at the sleeping baby each time. Gravel gave way to dirt, then two parallel paths
in the weeds. Hap’s dusty, black Dodge bounced along behind them.

A fortress of top-burnt cottonwood trees shielded three old singlewide trailer houses that curved in a U-shape. Several kids
played soccer in the hard-packed dirt yard.

“Are these all your relatives?” Laramie asked.

“Three of them are my brothers. Two are my sister’s kids. I can never remember who the other one is.”

Laramie parked his truck in the shade next to an International pickup with no hood or engine. “How many live out here?”

“Mamma says there’s fifteen now. But it changes all the time.”

Hap parked his rig next to Laramie’s, then lounged against the front of his truck.

Laramie grabbed the box and sacks of clothes. “Where do you want these?”

Juanita pointed at the center trailer. “On the porch by the blue one.”

A small, gray-haired Mexican lady draped in an old, long dress stalked out onto the porch and began to yell in Spanish.

“Who is that?” Laramie called out above the diatribe.

“My mother.”

“What is she saying?”

“She’s happy that I came home.”

The screaming intensified as they neared the blue trailer. Juanita said nothing. When Laramie shoved the box and sacks on
the porch, the woman leaned over and spat into each of them, then stormed into the house.

“What was that all about?” Hap called out from his position next to the trucks.

“She’s stating the rules,” Juanita announced.

“Spitting is part of the rules?” Laramie asked.

“That was for emphasis.”

Laramie’s voice lowered. “Are you going to be all right?”

Juanita twisted around. She let out a big sigh and shifted the baby to her other hip. “Now do you see why I wanted so bad
to go with Hap? But I am better off here than in Cody when Francis wakes up. I would rather be hit with my mother’s words
than his fists.”

“Take care of that baby. Philippe and I are pals, now,” Laramie said.

She glanced down at her grubby tennis shoes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to live with you?”

“I’m not the one you need. You can do a whole lot better than me.”

Four scrawny white chickens clucked and pecked their way across the yard.

“That’s a nice way of saying ‘no.’”

“Look after yourself and your baby. Find a job. You’ll get some breaks. You were right, Juanita; beneath all that gloom and
self-pity, you’re a pretty lady.”

The two cowboys drove back into Greybull. Hap pulled up in front of the Sportsman Bar & Grill. Laramie parked behind him.
Hap wandered back to his truck. “Did you ever eat at Frank’s Last Chance Steak House?”

Laramie studied the buildings along the street and watched the doors of each bar. “Nope. Where’s it at?”

“About fifteen miles on down Highway 14 toward the Bighorns. Leave your truck and ride with me. I’ll fill you in on the deal
with Juanita.”

Laramie slid out and locked the door. “You think it’s okay to leave my truck parked here?”

“Hey, this is Wyoming. You could leave it until February and no one would notice. How long have you known Dwight?”

Laramie flopped down on the passenger’s side. “About two years. I met him at a clinic in Amarillo and worked for him all winter.
How about you?”

“I was fifteen when he decided to teach me to rope.” Hap eased onto the highway headed east.

Laramie rubbed the back of his neck. “Dwight’s a great teacher. He pushes you to the point that…”

Hap tapped on the steering wheel. “You almost want to bust his crooked nose… but then it…”

“… dawns on you that he’s right, and almost in spite of yourself…” Laramie boomed.

“… he’s made you a better roper.” Hap glanced at Laramie in the rearview mirror. “Geez, we ain’t known each other for two
hours and we’re finishin’ each other’s sentences.”

“I’ve never known anyone better at sizing up a man than Dwight. That’s why I drove up here. If he says we should rope together,
it’s futile to argue.”

“Did Dwight ever take you to the jackpot ropin’ in Chugwater?”

“That’s the first place we roped together,” Laramie said. “He headed; I heeled. We won the money that night and I never argued
about his teaching tactics after that.”

“No foolin’? Same thing happened to me. I reckon we didn’t go over there until I was about sixteen. I headed, and Dwight heeled.
I’ve forgotten a lot of ropin’ since then. But I remember that night. We won the average with two 8.2 times.”

“This is uncanny,” Laramie added. “Dwight and I had two 8.2 times.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Maybe Dwight’s right. Maybe we are supposed to rope together.”

“How much did you and Dwight make that night?”

“My share was $155. I thought I was rollin’ in big money. Don’t tell me that’s what you and Dwight made.”

“Nope. We made $475 each.”

Hap pushed his hat back. “I’m glad to hear that. This was gettin’ weird.”

“I went out and bought a video camera so I could analyze my roping. Do you remember what you spent that purse on?”

“Yeah. On a date.”

“A $155 date when you were sixteen?”

“It was high school prom night. I rented a limo and ever’thin’.”

“She must have been quite a girl.”

“I’m sure she was. I just don’t remember her very well. She was an exchange student. But she was cute. And I remember her
name.”

“You remember her name?”

“It was Juanita. They are all named Juanita.”

Laramie leaned back and folded his arms. “What is this thing about you and girls named Juanita?”

The walls of the steak house displayed a wide collection of stuffed mounts, racks and heads of most every game animal in Wyoming,
plus a few from other continents. The tablecloths were linen, the dishware sturdy, and the floors polished hardwood. With
the massive grill in the center of the room, smoke swirled with scents of hot red meat and sweet sauces.

The cowboys finished their medium-rare ribeye steaks and thick-sliced fries, then dissected cherry cheesecake as Hap finished
the story about his fascination for girls named Juanita. “I reckon that all seems a tad strange,” he offered.

“No, not at all.”

“Really?”

“It’s not a little strange; it’s a big, totally bizarre strange,” Laramie chided.

“That’s nice. I’m glad you understand so well.”

“I don’t understand. There’s got to be more to it.”

“Yeah…” Hap pushed his hat back and rubbed his temples. “I suppose there’s somethin’ that keeps pushin’ me. Mamma used to
say it’s because I’m the middle of five boys. Brad can ride the wild broncs. Terry Wayne’s a natural-born farmer. Kenny quarterbacked
the football team, an all-around athlete. My youngest brother, Jeb, is a computer whiz at age fourteen.”

“So, your distinction is this Juanita obsession?”

“It’s an ice-breaker. Most people laugh when they hear about it.”

“You do plan to give it up some day, don’t you?”

“I ain’t goin’ to be chasin’ Juanitas when I’m thirty, if that’s what you mean.”

“I guess my only real question is, how does this Juanita obsession of yours affect us roping together?” Laramie pressed.

“Just don’t set me up with some buckle bunny that ain’t named Juanita. And if we pull into a café with a waitress named Juanita,
you got to back off and let me talk things up a while. Other than that, ain’t much to it.”

“Are we thinking about going down the road this week, this month, or when?” Laramie asked.

“You got some funds set aside?”

“A few hundred. And you?”