“I checked there,” she said, riffling through each drawer. In the topmost one, she caught a flash of silver. Grabbing it, she realized it was the bar rod she’d found outside the back door after the alarm had tripped. She eyed the top of Soledad’s head as she searched the patterned rug beneath the desk. Would her friend recognize it? Soledad’s father was a silversmith living on the rez. She might know more about the skull brand on the rod than Sassy had been able to discern.
“Did you take it home?” Soledad asked.
“I may have…” Sassy considered it, shoving the bar rod into the desk. That creeped-out, intrusive feeling had stuck with her since the night she’d checked for burglars. But she’d been over the security footage again and found nothing. No intruder. No one casing the joint. Not even a back-alley drug deal inadvertently caught on camera.
The brand on the bar rod wasn’t a harbinger of night or death or anything dangerous and/or nefarious.
She shoved the drawer closed and stood up. “I must have carried it home,” she reasoned. “Are the paintings I set aside ready for travel?”
Soledad adjusted one of her large hoop earrings as she rose to her knees and peered across the desk. “I just finished packaging them. Do you want me to run them to the hospital for you? You said your truck was running rough this morning.”
Sassy had had to borrow her neighbor’s jumper cables to get the Bronco running. “It’s the cold,” she excused. “She’s had a long winter, just like the rest of us. Plus, those old bones aren’t what they used to be.”
“You’ll call if you need a lift?” Soledad pressed.
Sassy nodded. “If I can’t reach you, I’ll call Nick or…” She trailed off, remembering that he hadn’t canceled tonight’s shift. She’d seen the half-moons of fatigue under his eyes last night and doubted they were much improved after one night’s sleep. She tried not to dwell on how stubborn he was…or how concerned she was about the amount of work he piled on himself regularly or where that might lead.
He placed too much on his own shoulders—too much responsibility, blame and guilt he refused to process…no matter how many years it had been since his father’s passing.
The guilt and blame weren’t his to carry. That was something she’d never been able to make him understand. He’d spent years fighting his mother’s grief and negative coping mechanisms and hardly any time dealing with the trauma he had walked away from Dark Canyon Wilderness with as a fatherless boy who’d seen and experienced far more than any child should.
As for his mother…no one wanted him working himself until he was sick, least of all Margot. He couldn’t take care of her without taking care of himself first.
She’d offered to help him pay for his mother’s tenure at River House, even if it was just a loan. Any one of her cousins, his friends, would have been happy to do the same for him.
He hadn’t accepted, no matter how many times she’d pushed the issue.
Soledad helped her carry the paintings for the new pediatric wing of the hospital to the Bronco. She danced on her toes as a cold wind whistled through the back alley, shoving a strand of her bicolored hair behind her ear. “Hey, I don’t know if you remember me mentioning that guy? The one I’ve been seeing.”
Sassy thought about it. “Yeah. What was his name? Fletcher?”
“Yeah.” Soledad bit her lip. “It’s still new—the relationship, I mean. But I’ve seen some of his work.”
“That’s right,” Sassy remembered suddenly, setting the paintings carefully in the cargo bed and shutting the back hatch of the Bronco. Pulling her gloves from her back pocket, she tugged them on one at a time. “You said he was an artist.”
“I know we primarily showcase women’s and Indigenous work,” she pointed out. “And he knows you own a gallery and hasn’t hinted even once that I should ask on his behalf. But I think you should check him out.”
“Is he local?” Sassy asked.
“Sort of,” Soledad said measuredly. “He’s Utah-born. He left shortly after high school to study out of state.”
Sassy had done the same thing. Her art studies in New York hadn’t panned out—her career as an artist hadn’t launched the way she’d wanted it to. But she’d walked away with a career in business that had led to Zephyr Gallery becoming what it was, so she had few regrets on that score. Especially when she got to nurture and curate local artists. “What medium does he work in?”
“Metals,” she said. “Like Dad.”
Sassy shook her head. She’d never heard of a local metalworker by the name of Fletcher. But Soledad had an uncanny eye for artistry. “If he’s willing to let me look at some of his pieces, I’d be happy to consider them for the gallery. Does he have representation?”
“No. He says life got in the way of the dream.”
“I can understand that,” Sassy said with a nod. “Talk to him and see if he’s interested. If so, help him pick out a few pieces for consideration. We’ll have dinner, the three of us.” She offered her friend a sly grin. “This isn’t the first time you’ve brought him up. You must really like him.”
Soledad grinned sheepishly. “Maybe I do.”
He better treat her right, Sassy thought.If not, he’ll have to answer to me and mine.“I should probably meet him then, anyway.” Soledad was practically a sister at this point. The sister Sassy had never had.
“As long as you promise not to challenge him to a hot dog–eating contest,” Soledad cautioned. “Like the last man I dated.”
Sassy spread her arms. “The guy said there was no way I could eat more than he could. What was I supposed to do?”
