The Dust and the Roar Page 33

There, in the dust the mustangs leave behind,

  Their roar.

  Let me unfurl before your majesty

  Oh, take me in

  Let my weary limbs embrace you

  Hold me, baby

  Fill me

  All of you

  You

  You and all of me

  In that quiet wild place that is ours

  Where we run free.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed Wreck and Isi’s story. Want to see how Miller, Dig, and Boner’s lives explode in Meager years later? Dive into Lock & Key, book one of the four book Lock & Key Series for their continuing adventures and their intense, emotional love stories. Included here for you is an excerpt of Lock & Key. Turn the page for a taste of Meager, South Dakota in 2014 with Miller all grown up and a member of the One-Eyed Jacks and finally having a chance at the woman of his dreams. He wants her, she wants out, but the Jacks have other plans for the two of them. See how fate twists lovers lives apart and finally brings them together in this unique second chance romance…

  Author’s Notes

  Wreck’s Vietnam

  The memories of Vietnam that plague Wreck are actual memories of a US army medic who served in Vietnam as documented in an article he wrote for the New York Times.

  Pine Ridge Reservation

  In 1973 on the Pine Ridge Reservation, two hundred Sioux Native Americans, led by members of the American Indian Movement (AIM), occupied Wounded Knee, the site of the infamous 1890 massacre of three hundred Sioux by the U.S. Seventh Cavalry. The occupation lasted for a total of 71 days, during which time two Sioux men were shot to death by federal agents and several more were wounded. AIM leaders and their supporters eventually surrendered. Violence continued on the reservation throughout the rest of the 1970s, with several more AIM members and supporters losing their lives in confrontations with the U.S. government. In 1975, two FBI agents and a Native man were killed in a shoot-out between federal agents and AIM members and local residents.

  Native Americans have always had a higher suicide rate than non-natives in the U.S., especially on Pine Ridge. In 2015, more than one hundred Pine Ridge youths between the ages of nine and twenty-four attempted suicide. At least nineteen succeeded.

  Whiteclay, Nebraska

  In 1904, U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt signed an executive order that removed 49 of the 50 square miles of the Whiteclay Extension from the reservation. Soon after, a trading post was set up to sell alcohol to the Lakota who lived two miles north across the border on the reservation, where alcohol consumption and possession are prohibited. In 2010, Whiteclay’s four liquor stores sold an estimated 4.9 million large cans of beer per year, sold almost exclusively to residents from the reservation. After years of protests and court cases, in 2017 the Nebraska Supreme Court shut down the four liquor stores that comprised the town of Whiteclay.

  Wild Mustang Sanctuary in the Black Hills

  In 1988, Dayton Hyde, an Oregon rancher, raised enough money for a down payment on a sanctuary near Hot Springs, South Dakota which was first shown to him by then South Dakota Governor George Mickelson. They convinced the Bureau of Land Management to send their unadoptable wild horses to live and roam freely on this 8,300 square foot property which Hyde named The Black Hills Wild Horse Sanctuary. The Sanctuary, whose aim is to protect both the land and the horses, is privately owned by a foundation set up by Mr. Hyde which accepts donations and is open to visitors.

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  Prologue

  Grace

  Once upon a time I lost everything.

  Then I ran away.

  But I returned because I had to, and I stood on the edge and looked over.

  Truth is a painful sword. It cuts deep and stings, but the pain evaporates, the blood dries, and in the place of such savagery is a gleaming absolution and an absolute purity.

  It’s blinding.

  It hurts.

  And it is utterly beautiful.

  You can’t escape it. Truth demanded a leap, I took it.

  This is a story of my love for two men at two different moments of truth in my life. One man is gone forever; the other is very much alive.

  Love not only stings when you lose it, when it’s ripped away. When it first bites, it can sting just as deeply.

  This is also a story about the love between my sister and me, and our redemption through two families—one bonded by blood, the other by brotherhood—that tore us apart yet bound us together forever.

  Real life is messy and strange, and our ride through it left plenty of bruises, slashed hearts, a few lifeless bodies, and blood and smoke in its wake.

  But it’s our story, this rather mangled tale.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Grace

  I should have left when I had polished off that first drink.

  That had been my initial plan, but the Doobie Brothers “Eyes of Silver” was playing on the jukebox, and that really deserved another drink for old time’s sake. Not for the sake of the future, though. Isn’t that why I’d stopped here in the first place? I was just over an hour outside of Rapid City, but I wanted to put off harsh reality a little while longer.

  Just one more drink.

  I gestured at the bartender with my empty glass. He winked at me.

  My motel room across the highway was most certainly not a fabulous destination, and I just couldn’t face another night watching bad reality TV or the usual sitcoms as I had done the night before at the motel in Montana. Tonight was different. No, I couldn’t sit still tonight. The walls of the room seemed to stretch to hold me in. Dead Ringer’s Roadhouse was a much, much better alternative.

  It hadn’t changed much in the sixteen years I’d been away. License plates from all over the fifty states still covered the walls, but that original poster for a Doors concert in California was thankfully now secured in a thick brass frame. A dramatic spotlight glowed over it for all those who came regularly to pay their respects. I suppose the owners finally realized its worth. A vintage photograph, it too now solidly framed, of an old locomotive stuck in over twelve feet of snow during the infamous blizzard of 1949, took pride in its place on the opposite wall. Gentrification had arrived in this little corner of South Dakota. The same beer-soaked smell filled my nostrils, though.

  Three pool tables stood on a raised section of the room where several older pot-bellied bikers played a game. The dart boards still dotted one wall as did the myriad of hunting trophies peering down at us from overhead—an eccentric variety of antlers, furry, glassy-eyed heads, and even a few stuffed fish, all mute, somber witnesses to the whirligig of flesh and alcohol below.

  Hey up there, remember me?

  I took in a deep breath and leaned back against the extremely long bar. In the center of the spacious Roadhouse was a sunken dance area, its long stretch of wooden floor polished and worn from years of use. Glass mason jars glowing with the light of votive candles spotlit each of the crowded tables surrounding the dance floor. I lowered myself back on my barstool and waited for my refill. The lights lowered a notch as the couple to my right laughed uproariously at a joke the waitress had told them.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. I definitely needed to have a laugh and relax before I got into town tomorrow and faced the music. I was too wound up to sleep tonight. All my belongings, and there weren’t many, were packed in my Toyota Land Cruiser. It’s good to be mobile at a moment’s notice, like I was when my sister called me a little over a week ago.

  “Grace, I need you, honey.”

  She wouldn’t have asked me to come home if it wasn’t serious. I think both of us had been in denial over just how serious it was. I quit my job that day, packed my essentials, and came back to South Dakota.

  Anything for Ruby. Anything.

  But I wasn’t going to think about all that right now. Right now, I was going to try to enjoy myself. Well, at least have a laugh or two. Or something. That’s why coming to
Dead Ringer’s had seemed like such a good idea after I had checked in to the motel earlier. My home town was located almost two hours away on the other side of Rapid City, so there wasn’t too much of a chance of anyone recognizing me here tonight.

  After I had checked in at the motel, I’d taken a long hot shower, scrubbed the grime of the road off me, and eased the ache in my lower back from driving most of the day. I’d put on my black jeans and my favorite charcoal-gray T-shirt dotted with studs and tiny rhinestones along the wing design, shoved on my oldest pair of engineer boots, then set off for Dead Ringer’s. My legs always felt solidly weighted into the ground with these treasured puppies on, which was always a good thing, especially now. They were definitely a nice change from the high-tops I had been wearing to stay comfortable as I drove.

  I raised my chin and inspected my appearance in the huge, cracked antique mirror that hung behind the bar next to the Roadhouse’s famous antique photograph of a nineteenth century gold prospector in the Black Hills. My grape lip-gloss had faded, of course, but my thick brown hair that I had highlighted off and on over the years had, as usual, achieved full volume all on its own. I had kept it bound in a ponytail all through my days of driving to keep it out of my face and off my neck. I combed my fingers through the layered waves that cascaded to my shoulders.

  “There you go, hon.” The bartender blocked my view, breaking my girlish reverie. He slid a whiskey neat towards me on a small white napkin.

  I shot him a smile. “Thank you.”

  I drew deep on the amber liquid, and that delicious warmth flowed through me once more and settled in my blood. A Miranda Lambert song flared up, and suddenly a rumble echoed over the old wood floors as a good number of eager couples, both young and old, scrambled to the dance floor. Laughter and whoops swirled through the room. I took another swallow of my whiskey and savored its richness in my mouth.

  This was good, comfortable. I tugged a strand of hair from one of my long silver earrings.

  Was I really an upgraded version of the Grace Quillen who ran away from Meager, South Dakota sixteen years ago?

  Ran away, absconded, escaped…

  “Are you really drinking that without ice?” a deep male voice vibrated through me.

  My eyes snapped up to my left, and I had to raise them up a bit higher to see the face behind that firm, almost purposeful tone. My fingers slid down my glass.

  I drank in the large, almost black eyes lined with thick dark lashes that were pinned on me. His face was full of planes, angles and high cheekbones. He sported a long nose that must have been broken at some point, because it had an odd bump to it and a small scar on its side that travelled down his cheek. Those flaws may have blunted any overt handsomeness he might have been blessed with, yet they gave him an unforgiving, grim quality. My gaze settled on his full mouth. His smooth skin was a light bronze hue. He definitely had Native American blood in him.

  He had to be over six feet tall with pronounced shoulders and a closely cropped head of dark hair peppered with just a bit of gray. There were faint traces of stubble on his face, and a small silver hoop hung from his right earlobe. His long arms and broad chest filled out his black hoodie that was zipped up most of the way. Faded and frayed blue jeans hung low and loose just below his waist and extended down a long pair of legs, which ended in heavily scuffed black leather boots. A worn-out road warrior.

  He leaned against the bar, one feathery dark eyebrow quirked higher than the other at my glass of whiskey. “Never met a chick who liked it straight,” he said.

  I choked on the swirl of liquor at the back of my throat. He swallowed his drink, his solemn eyes on me as he waited for a response to his ridiculous remark. With my eyes locked on his, I put down my glass.

  I smirked. “Well, well. Lucky you.”

  He shifted his weight and leaned in closer. “I meant the drink, not …” I could swear his irises had silver threads in them at this angle. His full lips tightened. He didn’t break into chuckles or a flirty pose. He really wanted an answer to his question.

  “Yeah, I got it,” I said with a slight smile. “Ice only dilutes the flavor. Why order a great whiskey if you’re going to insult it with water or sugary soda?”

  He studied me for a moment, perfectly still, then he nodded once and drank from his ice-filled glass, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “Very true. Insult—that’s perfect.”

  I turned back to my drink. He moved in closer. “It’s just that most women order everything with a diet, you know?”

  “Women or was that ‘chicks’?”

  He let out a laugh. His face seemed almost boyish, then in an instant the relaxed look was gone and the somber returned.

  “I hate soda,” I said.

  His dark, languid eyes riveted on me once more, and I swallowed hard. I could soak in those soothing pools of darkness.

  “Guess you’re not most women.” His voice was warm, almost gravelly, and his eyes glinted at me as he drank. The chunks of ice in his glass clinked together, the sound filling the thick air between us.

  “No, I’m not.”

  His teeth crunched on ice as he studied me. “I’ll bet you don’t like much diluted or watered down, huh?”

  I tore my gaze away from those dark eyes of his and cleared my throat. “What are you drinking?”

  “Vodka. Thought I’d change it up from beer tonight.”

  “Good idea,” I murmured. “Change is always good.”

  “Keeps the blood flowing, right?”

  I glanced up at him again. He was trying to make conversation with me. Being friendly to strangers is good for one’s karma, isn’t it? And I needed all the help I could get in the karma department. Why not indulge in conversation with the attractive Mr. Vodka On The Rocks?

  “Ever tried it with a slice of lemon?” I asked.

  A hint of amusement passed over his eyes, and I grinned. “The drink, I mean.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “No.”

  “You should.”

  My gaze swept over him once more. A tattoo crept across the base of his neck from his shoulder. Was it a feather? I tried not to stare at it too long. He looked to be around my age. There were lines around his eyes and mouth to match my own budding crow’s feet. His face was a bit weathered. A wise, dry humor flashed from the crooked angle of his brief smile, which I liked. No, he wasn’t some young’un hoping to score a cougar. My eyes rested on the bulky silver ring of a sculpted eagle’s head he wore on the hand that was wrapped around his glass. I frowned.

  He leaned over the bar and plucked a thick slice of lemon from the tray of condiments and dropped it into his glass. He swirled the vodka around the ice and the lemon and took a swig. His attractive lips puckered.

  “It adds a little something without overwhelming it. I like it.”

  “I’m Grace, by the way.”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Pretty name. Nice to meet you, Grace.” He tipped his glass in my direction. “I’m Miller.”

  “Hi, Miller.”

  He signaled the bartender for another round for both of us.

  “You don’t have to do that.” My hand darted out to his long arm. The wiry muscles under the plush softness of his hoodie tightened, and I snapped my hand back right away as if I had been burned.

  “Why not?” His eyes scrunched together. He leaned in closer, his one elbow grazed mine on the bar top, his warm breath fanned my neck. “I usually don’t do this sort of thing, but tonight, for a woman like you, I’m going to splurge.”

  “Oh, a woman like me?” I smirked into my empty glass. What did that mean? Mature? Older? “And why does a woman like me get the formal treatment?”

  His eyes gleamed. “Because I admire your respect for that whiskey,” he said in a smooth, honeyed voice that melted right over me.

  I straightened my back as I absorbed his dark gaze. A buzz zipped through my veins. I knew I was already in trouble here, but this was ... fun. Isn’t this why I came here tonight? T
o unwind, distract myself before the hell of tomorrow? What’s a little flirting? It had been so long since I had actually felt attracted to a man.

  Really attracted.

  “I appreciate your appreciating it,” I said. He grinned, and my mouth abruptly went dry.

  The bartender slid our new drinks in front of us and took our empties away. My gaze shot up at Miller. His eyes were softer this time, like dark pools of full-flavored coffee. There was something calming to me about his gaze, like the calm that suddenly comes after a violent storm. Or was that before the storm?

  He held up his glass and clinked it against mine. It might as well have been an alarm bell heralding our move into new territory. We had shifted gears, and we both knew it.

  “To appreciation, then,” he murmured.

  His eyebrows bunched up for a second, and he let out a laugh at the banal sentiment. I liked that small, unfettered laugh of his. He immediately segued into serious once more, and we swallowed our liquor, our eyes fastened on each other.

  Danger, Will Robinson.

  My face heated, and I quickly diverted my gaze to scan the increasing number of patrons lining the bar. All I really wanted to do was look into those rich eyes again. I held my breath and tamped down the urge. Blake Shelton’s “Ten Times Crazier” blared loudly through the Roadhouse.

  Miller’s glass slammed on the bar. “Come on, Grace. Let’s dance.” My head jerked back to him. He seized my hand and tugged me off my bar stool, his long calloused fingers pressing into my flesh.

  “Dance?” My eyes widened, yet all the while I enjoyed the firm heat of his hand over mine. He led me through the crowd to the dance floor.

  “I’ve got you, no worries,” he whispered in my ear.

  His arms slid around me and pulled me close to his solid frame. I tried to ignore the shiver that zipped across my skin, but it was useless. His very masculine scent of leather and musk intoxicated me immediately. My stomach fluttered as we moved easily to the music across the floor, his hand pressing against my back. He tucked me in closer, and our hips swayed against each other.