Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1 by Sarah Anderson Page B

him, and he knew he’d earned it. “This is the rez,” he added, trying to shrug it off. “Things are different here.”
    “Tell me something I don’t know.” She turned, looking at the whole of the clinic. He knew it had to come up lacking.
    Again, he tried to imagine what she’d given up to come, and why she’d given it up. Others had come, filled with misguided hope about saving the noble savages from themselves. Those were the ones that lasted weeks, if not days. But she gave no indication that was the reason, and he didn’t have a clue. “We’re glad you came,” he offered, hoping to make peace.
    “We?” She pivoted, and suddenly, Rebel found himself looking at Madeline.
    “Me. I’m glad you came.”
    Slowly, the smile developed like an old-fashioned Polaroid. Free from Dr. Mitchell, Madeline was beyond beautiful. It took everything he had not to step up, take that angelic face in his hands and kiss her. “Thank you for your help,” she said again, each word coming out precisely measured.
    “Anytime,” he said. “Glad to do it.” For you , he silently added.
    She held his gaze for a moment longer, and then, in a heartbeat, Madeline was gone. “Will you be gracing the clinic with your presence tomorrow?” Dr. Mitchell said, putting the desk between her and Rebel.
    That was it—the sign that he should not kiss her. Not tonight anyway. “Not if you don’t want me to.”
    She bit her lip, and he saw her. Madeline. Madeline wanted to see him tomorrow, no matter how much he irritated Dr. Mitchell. Who would win? “No,” she finally said with crushing certainty. “I do not want to see you tomorrow.”
    Second nature. She probably didn’t even know she’d done it.
    But he did.
     
    By the time he got the car back to Irma’s and had ridden over to Albert’s, Jesse was in full whining mode again. Just like he’d been when Rebel had last seen him.
    “Bro! Come on. At least change the channel for me. I’m dying over here.”
    The familiarity was comforting, in that pain-in-the-ass kind of way. “Suffer. You’re the damn fool who broke his leg. Not me.”
    “I don’t remember you trying to stop me,” Jesse huffed as he tried to shift on Albert’s couch.
    Rebel couldn’t help but compare Jesse’s whining to Nobody’s stoic silence. Damn, but he could go for a little stoic silence right now. “Jesse, I gave up trying to tell you what to do when you were seven.”
    “Some medicine man you are. Can’t even tell your own brother when he’s going to crash and burn,” Jesse muttered, giving up on shifting. He threw his arms over his head to block out PBS. “Just change the channel, Rebel.”
    “Suffer. You might learn something.” Like not to be a jerk, but after all these years, the chances were slim. “Seen your daughter today?”
    “ Hanyanke’ci ,” Albert hollered from the kitchen, where he was frying venison steaks. Tomorrow. At least Albert was keeping track of these things. But he always did.
    “I hate it when he talks Lakota,” Jesse whimpered, wrapping his arms over his ears. “I hate it here.”
    Which meant staying with Albert was good for the twerp. “Nelly doesn’t whine this much. You sound like a baby,” Rebel scoffed, turning up the volume on a program about seed pods. Static rippled across the TV. He headed into the kitchen where Albert already had the tea cooling. The tension eased out of his body. Man, it was good to come home.
    Albert looked over his shoulder and nodded with a tired smile. Yeah, Rebel wasn’t the only one who had to put up with Jesse’s bitching. But then he squared around. “You like her.”
    Not a good sign, not when Albert spoke English. “Just helping out,” he replied, hoping that was enough.
    Albert’s smile was a whole lot less tired. “Ayup, wacáŋto wagnaka ,” he said again, repeating himself in Lakota. The language may change, but the sentiment did not.
    His face shot hot. It could be worse. This was Albert. More than