Medicine Man. Cheryl Reavis

know Miss Arley pretty well, too, huh?”

      “I…know her. Barely.”

      “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. Barely—because nobody in Window Rock ever heard of her. Imagine my surprise when I found out she and I were waiting to see the same Specialist Baron.”

      “What?”

      “You heard me.”

      “She was waiting to see me?”

      “That’s what she said.”

      “She didn’t say anything.”

      “No, she didn’t, did she? That’s all right, though. You can find out what she wants tomorrow. Oh, I forgot. You’re not helping. You know, for somebody you barely know, she didn’t bat an eye when I said I was your brother. Most people look at least a little surprised—I think it must be the red hair,” Patrick added with a grin. “Not our Miss Arley, though. I would have bet money she already knew a few things about Specialist Will Baron and his unusual family tree.”

      “I told her I had a half brother,” Will admitted. “I didn’t say he was redheaded and butt-ugly.”

      Patrick punched him on the arm—hard.

      “You still hit like a girl,” Will said, and they both laughed.

      “I’m glad to see you, bro,” Patrick said after a moment.

      “Did Sloan send you?” Will asked, thinking their aunt’s hand must be somewhere in Patrick’s sudden, unprecedented urge to drive a couple thousand miles to visit.

      “She’s…concerned,” Patrick said.

      “About what?”

      “She thinks you’re off the path.”

      Will made no comment. Sloan Baron-Singer, their father’s only sister, had been born and raised not far from here. She didn’t—couldn’t—really understand the Navajo concept of walking in beauty, regardless of the fact that she’d lived on the rez since Will was three. She did, however, understand the boys she’d guided into manhood—both of them.

      “So I figured we could hang out for a while—raise a little hell,” Patrick said. “And then I’ll tell her you’re fine. You are fine, right?”

      “Yeah,” Will said. “I’m fine.”

      “You just dropped the ball for a minute there, I guess.”

      “What is that supposed to mean?”

      “It means you forgot the honored teachings from both sides of the family. You know—the Southern no-staring thing, and the Navajo watch-the-eye-contact thing? Obviously you were wanting to drag Miss Arley off someplace and have your way with her.”

      “Patrick—”

      “Don’t worry, bro. I’m not going to tell the folks in Window Rock you’ve been running around looking at people—especially girl people you barely know.”

      “I’m not going to help her move.”

      “Then you can give me directions to Mrs. Bee’s house and I’ll help her. I understand you know the way. Hey,” he said, apparently because of the look on Will’s face, “it’s no big deal. I’ll just have to carry enough for the two of us.”

      Will tried to believe that, all through their boisterous dinner at the Steak and Ale, where Patrick entertained every waitress who wandered by their table, and then later when they were back at Patrick’s budget motel on the outskirts of town. Will was still hopeful the next morning when he woke up. Somebody’s radio was playing “I Want To Be Your Man”—which echoed in his mind throughout his entire early-morning run. The hope that he could rely on Patrick to do what he said he would do completely evaporated when Will was met in the barracks hallway by a determined-looking Copus.

      “Got something for you, son,” Copus said, looking down at the pink slip of paper in his hand.

      “What is it?” Will said, reaching out to take it.

      “Now, wait a minute. I didn’t take the message and Trask writes like a drunk chicken on roller skates. Let me figure this out—oh, okay,” he decided, turning the paper around. “He said…”

      “Who said?”

      “Your brother…?”

      “Patrick.”

      “Yeah, Patrick. He said to tell you he’d been in an all-night poker game—I like him already,” Copus said as an aside. “And…what with driving cross-country and staying up late talking to you—not to mention the poker playing—he’s got to crash now or die, and he can’t help with the moving this morning—who’s moving?”

      “What else?” Will said, not about to tell him.

      “That’s it. Oh, no,” Copus said, turning the pink slip over. “He says he needs some money.”

      “Great,” Will said under his breath.

      “Reckon how he found a poker game so fast?” Copus said.

      “If finding a poker game was a paying job, my brother would be Donald Trump,” Will said.

      “Like I said. I like him already.”

      Copus handed him the pink slip, and Will stood there looking at it, seeing nothing. He was under no obligation whatsoever to meet Patrick’s verbal commitment to carry furniture. None.

      He gave a heavy sigh and walked outside anyway, leaving Copus with his curiosity. Some things never changed. Will was the Baron family peacemaker, mediator, facilitator, and the saver of faces. And, for some reason, Sloan had sent Patrick here to take care of him. He wondered if she had forgotten what a burden Patrick could be.

      No. Not likely, he decided. Patrick and his total disregard for consequences had nearly cost her custody of Will after his father died. And yet Patrick was the one who had rescued him when Will’s birth mother had kidnapped him from the children’s receiving home—not because she wanted him, but because she wanted to matter. Will could still remember the secluded, ramshackle trailer where she’d hidden him, how afraid he had been—of her and of the drunken man she lived with. He’d been too afraid to cry, to eat, to sleep. And then he’d looked up and seen Patrick and Meggie’s not-yet-husband, Jack Begaye, lying in wait in the underbrush. Patrick, his incredible, redheaded big brother, had come running as hard and fast as he could in spite of the boyfriend with the shotgun, stealing Will right out from under the boyfriend’s and Margaret Madman’s noses. Patrick had brought Will, albeit sick and feverish, safely home again. It was Patrick who had read “Goodnight Moon” aloud a hundred times during Will’s convalescence and offered his hand for holding so Will could dare to sleep.

      Which was one of the reasons why Will got into his own beat-up truck now and headed to Mrs. Bee’s house. It was early still, and it was already hot. He was sweaty from his run, thirsty and still a long way from finding his harmony.

      He parked in front of the big Victorian house that reminded him a little of the Baron home place, which he’d seen in a photo Sloan had given him. He didn’t see anyone around. He stood outside the truck for a moment, then headed for the picnic table under one of the big shade trees in the backyard to wait. There was a slight breeze in spite of the heat, and someone had planted a well-tended garden nearby. He stood watching the bees work their way through an assortment of tomato and cucumber and squash blossoms. He could hear a radio playing somewhere and the rolling rattle of what he guessed was some beat-the-heat skateboarding going on somewhere down the street. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, and he wiped them away with the tail of his T-shirt.

      “Hey,” a voice said behind him.

      He looked around to find Arley standing a few feet away. She was wearing shorts and a midriff-baring top that had little ribbon bows on it, and she looked as hot and sweaty as he did—only she was beautiful.