Sandy’s mother had been snoring arrhythmically since they first sat down, but now she stopped and rolled forward on herself, kind of slithering into the aisle. Sandy called out for her mother and lunged across Manny’s lap.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.” He swiped a short pencil from the pew in front of him and knelt at her mother’s side. He sensed the eyes upon him again. He heard one woman shriek, “What’s he done to her?” and another shot back, “Oh, you know what’s bothering her as much as I do.” Pastor Tom called for order. Manny felt the woman’s pulse, which was very slow, but steady, and her breath barely perceptible. He’d roused enough people out of dope-induced stupors to know she’d be fine, but it occurred to him to use this unfortunate scene to his advantage. He waved away a few people who had gathered around.
“Please stay back,” he said. “This woman’s heart has stopped. Someone call an ambulance. I’m gonna try to bring her back.” He straddled her, stacked his hands at the base of her sternum, and pressed five times, but not so hard as to wake her. He repositioned, pinched her nose, and breathed into her mouth. He felt her lips move inside his and hoped she didn’t wake too soon. The longer she stayed passed out, the better the effect would be when he revived her.
He could hear the murmur rise and fall across the crowd. Prayers and speculations, even tears. Sandy chewed on the end of her braid, whimpering as tears ran down her cheeks. He continued the CPR for three cycles, then four, until finally he heard the woman making sounds and knew it was time. He jabbed the blunt end of the pencil into her ribs, and she shot up as if from a nightmare and howled. The congregants were silent for a moment. Ms. Blanchet panted and swayed. He held her hand gallantly and helped her lie back down. Then Sandy collapsed next to her mother.
“Oh, Mama,” she said, weeping, then jumped up and threw her arms around Manny.
Pastor Tom shouted, “Praise God!” and there erupted a vibrant chorus of “Hallelujah!” and “Sweet Jesus!”
“Come up here, son, and let us take a look at you,” Pastor Tom said with his arms spread wide.
Manny knew not to take center stage. “Sir,” he said, “might I stay by her side till the medics get here? It just doesn’t feel right to leave her alone.”
Pastor Tom stepped off the dais and strode toward him, embraced him with a great slap on the back. “Bless you, son,” he said.
“Only God is responsible and only He deserves your thanks,” Manny said loudly enough for the others to hear. Heroism had caught their attention, and humility would secure their loyalty. Country people ate that shit up with a spoon. “I hate to have disrupted the service, now let’s all get back to worshipping the Lord.”
“Everyone, this is Manuel Romero. He’s new in town. I hope you’ll make him feel real welcome.” To Manny’s deep satisfaction, they all began to clap. They filed past him shaking his hand. Women who had looked upon him as if he were a virulent leper now noticed the blue of his eyes and shyly offered their hands in greeting. Manny thanked God for sending Sandy’s mama to his aid.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kit set out to walking, unsure where she would go but compelled to leave the little house until the shimmy in her legs was gone. She could feel the hard, black scab on her shin rubbing against her jeans. It had been two weeks since Manny had shown up and Kit had managed to avoid him but not the rumors of his heroism at church. Something about it stank of old Manny, how conveniently he made such a splash when he rolled into town. Not knowing why he was there or what he was up to was eating at her like acid.
She had an urge to tear across the fields, faster than her legs could go. She ended up at Doc’s. Doc bumped the door open with her hip, in her hands a giant lop-eared rabbit.
“I need Warbucks for a bit.”
“You wanna get up on that nut?” Doc said, looking like she was holding in a list of follow-up questions. The rabbit kicked its legs and twisted, almost slipping out of Doc’s grasp. She snatched it by the loose skin behind its ears. “Baby, if you can catch eem, you can ride eem,” she said. “Throw him some food, whydontcha, while you’re at it.”
Kit tried Charlie’s alfalfa lure, and Warbucks came right to her, dipped his head low for a scratch and a nuzzle, and took the halter without a fight. He didn’t make getting on as easy for her. As she heaved the saddle up over his withers, he skirted away and she nearly fell over from the forward motion of forty pounds of leather. Once the saddle was on, he blew out his gut to keep her from cinching the girth too tight. She had to canter him on a lead rope and cinch it twice before it fit snug enough that she wouldn’t slide right underneath him. She was too short, her hamstrings too tight, to get on him using the stirrup, so she held the reins and saddle horn in one hand and pulled as she swung her right leg up and over. Her seat was still lopsided when he began to buck, more a flirtation than an earnest pitch. She knew that if he had wanted her off, she’d be pasture-bound and breathless in one two-legged kick.
They clopped the asphalt road through town and passed the diner, a few people lit up in the window, no doubt swapping stories about nothing in particular. The smell of fryer grease lingered long after they left the paved road for softer footing. This path ran past the bigger ranches—the Haggertys, the Fultons, and the Kingstons—wealthy folks, oilmen and cattle barons, too big to dwell full-time in Pecan Hollow. Having ridden without incident for some time, she felt emboldened to go faster and urged Warbucks with a squeeze of her thighs. As if he had been waiting for his cue all evening, he reared a little and surged ahead in an instant gallop. The rush of air cooled the damp on her face and neck and under her arms. The speed and the danger of losing her seat frightened her, lashed her attention to the task of staying balanced and hanging on. A fistful of coarse mane in one hand, the horn in the other, she recovered the flailing stirrups with her toes, sank her weight back into her heels, and found herself more secure. As she settled, she sensed the horse unwinding and drumming a steady rhythm.
Up ahead, she saw the chapel. The marquee read bible study 5pm, led by manuel.
“You gotta be kidding me,” she muttered. “It couldn’t be.”
She pulled back on the reins and strained to peer inside, but she couldn’t get close enough on Warbucks without giving herself away. She parked him by the hitching post, a carved statue of Jesus holding out a brass ring. As she approached the multipurpose room, its doors open for a cross-breeze, she heard Manny reading a passage.