Page 78 of Spring's Arcana
Nat had to lean uncomfortably close to reach for her backpack in the footwell behind her seat; she was getting used to the confined space. It seemed almost natural to brush against his suit-clad shoulder, and the gangster stayed very still. At least he wasn’t trying to poke or pinch her; she’d probably scream if he did.
For all the good it would do.
Still, she’d driven off Friendly, right? Except maybe that wasn’t an achievement. She had the sinking feeling she might see him again, just like she’d known about Sister Roberta’s stroke.
Witchgirl, creepy Natty. Freak!
“I liked the Elysium better.” She wriggled back into her seat, reaching for the door handle.
“Eh.” It was a very male sound, just like the one Leo made when he didn’t agree or disagree, just wanted to let her know he’d heard. “Stay put. I come to your side.”
Nat’s unease deepened. “Okay.”
“Nowyou a good little girl.” Dmitri snorted, and opened his door.
I was certainly raised to be.Nat watched him stalk around the front of the car, his head up, still inhaling deeply. His sharp nose twitched, and his suit was far too thin for this weather.
Dumpling. Mind your mama. Do as I tell you, Natchenka, and do it now.
So far, being a good, obedient little child hadn’t done a damn thing. Maybe it was time to change.
RANGER
The place was packed; hard to believe such a tiny town could hold this many people, even with beer on tap.
It smelled of sawdust and fermenting yeast, the close fug of winter-damp woolen jackets steaming when they were brought inside, and black earth stamped from hardworking boots. There were two jukeboxes, but only one was playing—she thought it was Hank Williams, who Leo calledreal American musicand sometimes found on the ancient Bakelite radio when Mom was out shopping.
Of course, Maria hadn’t left the little yellow house for a while, Nat realized, not until the night she collapsed and the ambulance had trouble finding their address. Since Nat’s last year of high school, Mama’d been practically a shut-in.
Hank was moving the little dog over; the interior of the bar was a sea of heads with slicked-down hair bearing the indentation of cowboy hats—said headgear occasionally placed on tables or held in work-roughened hands—flannel-clad shoulders, and women with no-nonsense ponytails and dainty point-toed boots.
Every eye in the place settled on them, but it didn’t go quiet. In fact, though there were several hard stares from men in denim jackets or apple-cheeked women holding bottles of Coors, the hum of conversation continued apace. A shiny brass rail ran under the bar, which looked solid and true as a deep-root oak. Even the mirror behind the shelves of liquor was polished, every reflection a glowing jewel.
There were pool tables here too, a drift of cigarette smoke hanging around them, but the clack-clatter of balls didn’t go straightthrough Nat’s head and the men playing took pauses to consider the fields of green felt, conferring in drawled syllables between long shoals of quiet attention.
Two waitresses moved like small tropical fish through the table-reefs, both wearing knee-length denim skirts. One had black tights, the other striped blue and green; both had shirts with piped yokes as well as high-teased bangs frozen with hairspray. The crowd only appeared a homogenous mass; as Nat got closer she picked out short or tall, stocky or rangy, cowboy or hiking boots, jeans or Carhartts. Most of the faces were brown; threads of Spanish slipped through the conversation, sharply accented.
Dmitri glanced at Nat, his eyebrows up. Clearly she was supposed to know what to do here, and maybe she would have figured it out if a cheery “Well, hellooo there,” hadn’t pierced the crowd’s murmur like a silver needle.
The greeter was wearing a cowboy hat, and it was a real ten-gallon number in dove gray. Maybe it had been white once, but hard use had turned it soft and rain-colored; broad shoulders filled out a red flannel shirt under a hip-length, dun-colored rancher’s jacket. Ebon skin gleamed, a faint roughening of windburn on his cheeks, and he was lean-hipped in butter-soft, hard-broken jeans. His boots were only slightly like Dmitri’s, their toe-caps dull iron instead of burnished silver, and his belt buckle was a plain iron oval. Still, boots and buckle were both heavy, and probably antique.
A broad white smile bloomed on the cowboy’s face; the crowd parted for him. He came to a stop just before Nat, burning with that vitality that shouted he was like Dmitri, like Mama used to be. He even doffed that gray hat, swinging it gently between two fingers, and his springy, close-cropped hair was sable too. “Last time I saw, you were just a glint in your mama’s eye.” He had a nice, cheerful, ringing baritone, but slung low on his hips was an honest-to-gosh gun belt, and two revolvers nestled in leather holsters. “Drozdova, right? Or are you takin’ another name now?”
The guns made her nervous, but then again, what else did a cowboy wear? “Nat,” she said, cautiously, and held out her hand. “Nat Drozdova. How do you do.”
“Ranger.” His grasp was warm and firm, and an electric thrill slid up her arm. “At least, for the last fifty years or so. I’m sorry about your mama.”
“She’s sick.” Nat’s throat threatened to close around a lump. “That’s why I’m here.”
“That so?” The cowboy glanced at Dmitri, and though his expression didn’t change, his hazel eyes held a steely glint. “Well, come on in. Let’s get you a drink, ma’am.”
Iron spurs clung to his boots, solid and well-used like the rest of him, but they didn’t jangle as he turned, a little stiffly, and offered her his arm. Dmitri said nothing, so Nat tentatively took hold and found herself whisked through a crowd of drinkers suddenly paying no more attention to her than they would a fly buzz-staggering well above their heads. A rill of laughter started near the pool tables, but for once it didn’t feel like it was directed at her clumsiness.
Ranger aimed for the right of the bar, where an arched doorway was masked by a dusty red velvet curtain. He swept it aside with a flourish; the room beyond was bright and cozy, not to mention antique as his belt buckle.
Stepping over the threshold gave her the same strange internal hiccup as Coco’s boutique, Jay’s mansion, or Dima’s black car bumping from dirt road to pavement, a small inward jolt like the thump of ear-cracking bass from a passing vehicle.
The room behind the curtain had clapboard walls, fitted together with neat precision; a well-scrubbed stone hearth held a crackling blaze. Suspended over the fire was a blackened iron cauldron; a brass poker, shovel, and brush sat on a trim little rack to the right. A wooden table, looking handmade, stood along the left wall under a window curtained with red check gingham. The back right corner was hidden by a colorfully striped wool blanket held by bone-colored rings on an age-polished rod.
