Sixteen . . . twenty . . .
I turn my focus away from the suicidal bugs when Kipling begins to softly sing aloud. His voice is full of heartache and twang and works as a balm against my secret red-hot wounds.
Look at our photograph of’en,
the one from the night we firs’ became lovers.
Keep it in the pocket ’gainst yer chest,
so it can seep into yer wounded heart.
Lemme dance there from time t’ time,
’cause I still remember how nothin’ mattered
when you had yer arms wrapped round me.
I promise t’ make it a slow one.
Underneath his worn ten-gallon hat and rugged exterior, a playful smile tugs at Kipling’s eyes, like he can see something in the distance that is hidden from me.
“Where exactly are you taking us?” I ask.
Mira shifts her gaze from the barren desert floor that races past the window to the maverick cowboy at the wheel. I note how much only three days on the road have hardened her. All the innate softness in her nature is now buried somewhere deep inside or gone forever.
Kipling lifts his right shoulder in a shrug, and his smile spreads from his eyes to his lips.
“Well, it ain’t exactly on a map.”
Mira and I exchange a sidelong glance just as the shabby truck veers wildly off road and into the open desert, our bodies slamming hard into the passenger window.
“That’s why you wear your seat belts,” Kipling says, chuckling to himself.
I wish I shared his humor.
All at once the flat land drops into a massive canyon, and my mouth falls open in wonder.
Wind, water, and time have painted perfect layers of red, white, and soft pinks into the ancient rock. The sheer canyon walls plummet hundreds of feet to the valley floor, dazzling me with nature’s vitality. There’s green in every hue imaginable: forest green in the scale-like leaves of the juniper trees, patches of kelly-green grass, pure jade in some species of subshrub, and the surprisingly bright emerald green of the familiar prickly pear cactus.
I’m drawn away from the picturesque view when Kipling stops the truck. He steps out and invites Mira and me to follow him.
“It’s a bit of a hike, but somethin’ tells me ya’ll are used to walkin’.”
We trek for a mile before I spot a curious rock formation ahead. A tall, thin rock shaped like a steeple juts out from the ground with a larger, heavier rock balanced on top.
“Fascinating, ain’t it? They’re called hoodoos,” Kipling explains. He turns to point out the toadstool-shaped arrangement to Mira.
She nods but doesn’t engage in conversation. She just keeps walking and I walk with her, never letting her get too far away from me. But Kipling isn’t following, and I turn to see him standing in front of the dark mouth of a cave.
The hoodoo is a marker.
I didn’t see it before, a trick of the eye with shadows or angles, but now that it’s been revealed to me, the elusive entrance is clear and unmistakable.
Kipling beckons to us before disappearing into the veil of darkness. Mira and I cautiously follow, inching our way into the opening.
Four steps in, pitch black fills my vision. The sun—only minutes ago a nuisance—cannot reach its light this far into the cliffside chamber. I sense open space surrounding me and detect the scents of sweat and musty, damp earth.
And rubber?
Work lamps turn on in unison throughout the cave, revealing the mystery: automobiles.
Mira and I each release a small, breathy noise of astonishment. Half a dozen different makes and models, some of which appear to be barely more than scrap metal, but others look like highly valuable vintage cars. It’s as if we’ve stumbled into a version of King Tut’s tomb.
“Where did all of these come from?” I murmur, keeping my voice low in fear I’ll unleash the mummy’s curse.
“I build ’em. With no horses, a cowboy has to have somethin’ to ride.” He winks good-naturedly and leads us to the back of the cave.
I spare a glance at the rocks that hang like sharp brown icicles from the ceiling and motion Mira ahead of me, lost in speculation. How does a man in the middle of the desert have all these cars? Especially the foreign models. Even if he did build them himself, where was he able to acquire such rare overseas parts? I carefully eye the cowboy walking in front of me, his stride sure and cheerful.
Kipling must be a dealer on the black market. Maybe the names on Father’s map are all part of some interconnected underground network, and they sell illegal goods to fund their interests, interests that I’d bet include more than just smuggling people across the States. Was Father somehow involved with this group, or did he simply know this network could lead us to safety?
Whatever the answers, Mira and I are a part of it now—whatever it is.
Kipling pauses next to an object draped in white linen and motions us closer. He dramatically pulls back the sheet to reveal a perfectly restored Triumph motorcycle, the name emblazoned with pride underneath the silver handlebars. My eyes rake over the bike’s sleek black frame in appreciation. He’s converted the gas engine into an electric motor, there’s a sturdy headlamp attached to the front, and the seat looks like it’s been extended to perfectly fit two small bodies.
Mira’s and mine.
“I’ve been waitin’ for ya’ll,” Kipling says. “My momma waited too. Had it down in my station notes for years that two girls might be comin’ my way.” His hand glides through the air like he’s performing a verse of poetry. “They will speak the words of Whitman.”
He settles his hand on his ornate belt buckle and stares at us for a long moment before he speaks again.
“I never thought ya’ll would ever come.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Mira turn away, avoiding his stare. “The bike’s been paid for too?” she asks.
Kipling nods and moves to wheel the bike forward, excited to show it off. “Ya’ll must be somethin’ special. This beauty cost a pretty penny.”
“We’re just trying to make our way through like everyone else,” Mira responds promptly.
“It ain’t none of my business,” Kipling says. He lifts the kickstand shaped like a bird’s wing with his foot. “It is my business now to teach ya’ll how to ride.”
Mira’s arms wrapped around my waist, I curl my hands tight around the motorcycle’s grips, my fingertips pushing against the steel throttle, increasing our speed.
It’s a thrill to race completely exposed through the elements, to feel the power of the wind tearing at my body, the earth rushing past me in a terrific blur. I feel like a bird flying through the endless, open sky.
“What are ya’ll gonna name her?” Kipling asked after our riding lessons on the canyon floor. He told us it’s tradition for every vehicle to have a name and that it has to mean something.
“Lucía,” Mira said immediately.
I smile at the memory and at the idea that Lucía is helping us speed across the desert toward the last stop on a map that exists safely inside my mind.
The hostile hands loosen their grasp on my lungs, allowing me to breathe a little easier.
Somewhere outside Boise City, Oklahoma, dusk settles around the vast, untouched countryside.
I turn on the bike’s headlamp, our beacon of light as we rip across a desolate back road. We haven’t seen another soul in over fifty miles, and I wonder when’s the last time a human eye has actually looked on these remote lands outside the view of a drone’s camera.
This leg of our journey—from the cave where we said good-bye to Kipling to Denver—will take less than six hours. It took us an exhausting three days and two sleepless nights to make it from our home in Dallas to Dalhart. It’s maddening how much simpler travel is with a vehicle. I think Mira actually was going mad from our foot odyssey through the desert.