Page 38 of Nomad

“Let’s go.” She was already waiting at the door when she finished that sentence.

Two hours later they were back in the room with clothes that were cheap but dry, bottles of water, fresh fruit, specialty crackers and peanut butter from across the border.

Bud took a shower before dining on oranges and peanut butter crackers while Cann marveled at how adaptable and upbeat she was. Considering all the changes she’d gone through in a scant three days, it was amazing how she took it all in stride.

“What are you thinking about?” she said.

He refocused his attention on her. “That you’re not like most girls. You’ve handled yourself really well.” He paused and looked over at her. “Admirably.”

“Wow, Johns. That sounds a lot like a compliment.”

“Intended.”

“Then thank you.”

“Welcome.”

“You think there’re any English shows on TV?”

Cann smirked. “Go ahead and look. But your Spanish is never gonna get better that way.”

She did find reruns of “I Love Lucy” with Spanish subtitles. She curled up under the covers and was asleep in minutes. Cann put down the book he’d brought along in the backpack and looked at her. She seemed younger when she was asleep, all the cares and strain gone from her face with nothing left behind but the flawlessness of youth. He turned off the TV and got under the covers of his own bed.

“I’m not leaving any of this stuff behind. What if we don’t have a chance to get more?”

She was talking about three bottles of water, two oranges, a half-eaten jar of peanut butter and a few crackers.

“Suit yourself, but if you’re bringin’ it, you’re carryin’ it.”

“Fine by me, but then you don’t get any.”

Cann rolled his eyes.

A guy named Marco had shown up five minutes before and identified himself as their driver. They followed Marco down the hall without being self-conscious about ill-fitting clothes. They had other problems. Like the brand new dry socks that had gone damp within minutes of pulling on boots. Their boots wouldn’t be completely dry for days and, even then, would never be comfortable again.

Bud knew the drill. Cann got into the front seat then Bud claimed the back. When they were loaded into the nondescript sedan, they turned west. Cann said, “Del Rio’s the other way, friend.”

Marco said, “Going to Chihuahua, señor.”

“Chihuahua? Why?”

“Closest airfield.”

The Chihuahua airport was just an hour’s drive. It was small, but new. They didn’t stop but went past to a row of private small craft hangars. A four passenger prop plane was waiting on the tarmac looking surprisingly spiffy with bright yellow paint and spotless windshield.

When Bud got out of the car, she hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” Cann asked.

She stepped close to Cann so she could speak without being overheard. “I’ve never flown before.”

Cann looked from her to the plane and back again. He smiled. “Then it’s gonna be a helluva first experience. Flyin’ in big commercial jets isn’t really flyin’. This is. You’re gonna love it.”

She figured she hadn’t gone wrong by trusting the big biker so far. So she might as well be all in and see it through. No matter what. So she pushed the fluttering in her stomach down and told her feet to walk forward.

The pilot spoke to Cann in Spanish.

Cann said, “You need to go to the ladies’? Cause it’s gonna be about four and a half hours in the air.”

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