Clayton had been horrified at the idea, and brokenhearted that Sarah had not stood up to the ex. And it wasn't only that he'd been thrown out of the house; any future contact had been forbidden. It had been positively medieval, the whole thing, and the emptiness in Clayton's heart had yet to heal. But this was a start, and it was all because of his favorite uncle.
"Thank you, Uncle Bill," said Clayton. "I really mean it, this is something special."
"And you can clear your head of all that hate for her ex, and let the high prairie soothe your heart while you drive, you hear me?" asked Uncle Bill.
"Yes, Uncle Bill," said Clayton obediently, but it was with a smile. He was Uncle Bill's favorite nephew, after all.
This idea of his uncle's would work. It would break the ice with Sarah and allow them to rebuild their relationship. He missed her something fierce, and he missed the way Shawn would look up at him with wide eyes when Clayton told of his drives across the country. And then he'd call him Uncle Clayton, and Clayton's heart would melt like butter on a hot griddle. He missed all of that, and more, and he wanted it back. Uncle Bill had just given him a shove in the right direction.
CHAPTER 2
Ricky Patterson was an older man, with thin, silvery-grey hair, wire spectacles, and an expression in his eyes of curiosity and wonder, like he was seeing everything for the first time, every time. He wore suspenders to hold up his jeans from slipping off his slender waist and, in every way, he was articulate and thoughtful.
His skill at reassembling the leather sheath was amazing, with every bead in the exact place it had originally been, but now snugly arranged against new, thick deerskin. After they'd met at the bowling alley, Clayton had paid Ricky with an old-fashioned check, which was how Ricky preferred it, waved Ricky off as he drove away in his car, then went back into the bowling alley, which was a warm hub of pre-Christmas activity.
The only problem was, as Clayton had ordered a drink, and turned for a moment to grab his wallet, someone had taken the Bowie knife and beaded sheath from the bar. In the noise and light and holiday hubbub, Clayton imagined that the smoothness of the leather had caused the sheath to slide from the counter to the floor, so for five full minutes, he searched, hunkered down and squinting. It didn't take him much longerthan that to realize that the beautiful gift intended for his nephew had been stolen. Someone had seen it and wanted it and had taken it.
The police arrived soon after Clayton's hasty phone call, where he felt foolish, thinking all along he'd find the knife and sheath right where he'd been looking, or that some kindly waitress would, smiling, hands held out, bring it back to him. But no such thing happened, and Clayton's heart pounded as he explained the situation to the cops while the bubble lights on the top of their cop car in the gravel parking lot burbled blue and red.
They knew Ricky; he was a well-known tradesman in town, skilled with leather, and he knew about Native American art and craftsmanship, so they didn't suspect Ricky. They shook their heads when Clayton couldn't identify the person, or persons, who had taken the sheath. In his mind, the beads twinkled, and the leather was soft beneath his hands. Only now, that was just a brief memory.
"This is a good town," said one of the cops. "People don't steal from each other here."
"Well, someone stole that sheath," said Clayton, doing his best not to snarl at their lackadaisical attitudes. Either they didn't believe him, or they thought he was lying, both of which were based on the fact that he was not one of them.
They could certainly check with Ricky that there had been a knife and sheath to begin with, or even the bartender behind the counter, who had seen it and nodded his appreciation of it when Clayton had placed down to grab his wallet. But even their verification that Clayton wasn't lying wouldn't be enough to bring the knife and sheath back.
"You want to stick around for a few days while we look for it, Mr. Nash?" asked the other cop.
Clayton scrubbed his hands through his hair. He'd already hung around Dickinson for three days while Ricky had carefullycut through supple sheets of deerskin leather, taken close-up photographs of the beadwork from every angle, and taken up needle and sturdy, thin thread to recreate the design laid down by Adeline so long ago.
Clayton had come into Ricky's house to watch him in his craft room from time to time, silent and admiring, and then spent the rest of his time watching sunsets over the frosty fields, whiling away a few hours improving his game at the bowling alley, and eating biscuits and gravy, his favorite, every morning at the local diner. He'd spent enough time in Dickinson and he needed to get a move on if he was going to make it to his sister Sarah's house in south Denver by Christmas Eve.
It'd been Luke that Clayton had called first, when he'd arrived in Dickinson. Luke had a low, masculine voice on the other end of the phone as he assured Clayton that yes, he was more than welcome, that the guest room was already ready for him, and that Shawn, his ten-year-old nephew, was wild with excitement that Uncle Clayton was coming for Christmas.
"And Sarah?" had asked Clayton, quite softly.
"I think she feels bad about all of it," said Luke. "Not abouthim, but about you and how she let him treat you the way he did."
"And you don't care that I'm gay?" asked Clayton. He needed to make sure about this, as he didn't want another scene like last time.
"You could be a purple people eater for all I care," said Luke. "I heard about how you were there for Sarah when your folks passed away. Real quick it was, within a month of each other. You helped her with the house, and all their possessions. You were there for her. You've always been there for her. She knows that. As for Shawn, he's losing his little mind that you're going to be here. I don't think he even cares about any presents from you, it'syouhe wants to see."
Now, only days before Christmas, Clayton couldn't bear thethought of letting the little family down. He didn't want to disappoint young Shawn, or his sister Sarah, or Luke, even though the two had never before met. There was a Christmas waiting for him, and the chance of acceptance and family, only it was all ruined because a thief had decided that his needs were more important than a ten-year-old boy's.
He needed to call and let them know. To do anything else would be the coward's way out.
"Can we contact you at the motel, Mr. Nash?" asked the first cop, and it was easy to see that he felt that was the best way. That Clayton should hang around just in case the knife and the sheath were found.
"No," said Clayton, his voice flat. "I'm going to go home for Christmas."
He left out what he really wanted to say, which was that he'd be damned if he was going to stay in Dickinson waiting for something, the miracle of the gift being found, because not only would that drive him crazy, the thief was probably long gone. Dickinson was miles from anywhere, but the roads, which were open, led to all points south. There'd be plenty who'd be interested in buying stolen property without any concerns about the provenance of it, nor the idea of a sad little boy whose Uncle Clayton would arrive empty-handed at Christmas.
As the cop car pulled away, the bubble lights turned off, Clayton looked out over the gravel parking lot at the grey-tinged sunset. Clouds were moving in, a low eggshell-smooth sheet that promised snow and lots of it. Behind those clouds was a boiling fury of a blizzard waiting to be unleashed.
Clayton had driven across the plains too many seasons not to recognize the signs. He should get going before the storm moved in, but first he needed to call Luke, Sarah's new husband, and explained why Shawn's face would not be so bright when Uncle Clayton arrived.
The bowling alley, once a cheery haven in a quiet town, wastoo loud, so Clayton got into his car and drove the short distance to the slightly shabby ten-room motel in the center of town. It was one of those that had been built in the 50s when driving across the country was a newly grown rage after the war, and little spots along the highways led to tiny towns, each with a small motel of their own. This one was called the Dewdrop Inn, which finally made sense after Clayton had been in residence a few days: Do drop in.
