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

baby’s bottom. “Wow.” She didn’t know leather could be better than silk. This was brain-tanned? She’d overlook the gross factor. She didn’t have sheets this soft, for crying out loud. She studied the complicated pattern on the body of the bag. “What’s it supposed to be?”
    “The buffalo on the prairie after the spring rains, I think.”
    Madeline squinted, but she could see the brown things were supposed to be the buffalo, and the green would be the grass. Abstract, but also representational. Mellie would totally groove on this. “He carved the pipe himself?”
    Karen’s eyes were glowing with something between desire and awe. “He does everything by hand—even hunts the animal and tans the hide.”
    A man who both hunted and wielded a needle and thread? She would believe that when she saw it. “A local artist?” She didn’t know any local artists, but she knew semi-local Indians. She might be able to get non-gallery verification about this sales pitch. Clarence had to know someone who knew something. Clarence knew everyone.
    Karen pointed to a framed sheet of paper next to the pipe. “He lives somewhere out on the White Sandy Reservation, not too far from here.”
    Madeline froze the moment the word White was out there. That was local. Too local. Moving at what felt like a glacial pace, her eyes found the paper. There, under the title “Jonathan Runs Fast: Traditional Master of Fine Art” was a picture. Sure, the guy in the picture was minus the straw cowboy hat, and his white, button-up shirt was underneath a dark sports coat. But the man in the picture looked exactly like her professional pain in the ass—the vaccine-hating, non-translating Rebel himself.
    “Sure,” his voice came back to her. “I work. For me, myself and I.”
    “Do you know anything about him?” she got out, hoping she didn’t sound like she was having a coronary event. One of the most important artists in the country was spending his free time telling her patients not to get the flu vaccine? What the hell? The shock that twisted through her gut was beyond physically uncomfortable. It was downright painful.
    “Oh, my,” Karen said, her eyes going dreamy. “He’s such an...unusual man. He goes by the name Rebel. Mr. Steinman—the gallery owner—says he lives in a tent in the middle of nowhere. Mr. Steinman said he doesn’t have a phone, doesn’t own a car.” Karen’s tone of voice made it clear she thought the whole thing sounded like something out of a romance novel. No wonder the saleslady looked like she was in love with the bag. She was in love with Rebel. “He’s...amazing.”
    The shock twisted again, like a scalpel cutting without anesthesia. “Oh?” What kind of amazing were they talking about here? And why did that matter? Madeline choked down the confusion that swirled in her throat as she scanned the rest of the sheet. Master of Fine Arts from the University of New Mexico. Gallery shows in Rapid City; Taos, New Mexico; New York City; and Washington, D.C. Best in Show awards. Notable Recognitions. Outstanding New Artist.
    The pain in her ass was an Outstanding New Artist. He had an MFA.
    His name was Jonathan. Jonathan Runs Fast.
    “How do you get a hold of him if he doesn’t have a phone?” How did anyone get a hold of him? If Jonathan Rebel Runs Fast didn’t have a phone, how did he know when to show up at the clinic? The confusion was swirling right on up to cyclone territory. Fast.
    “We don’t.” Karen leaned in and dropped her voice from saleslady to co-conspirator. “Mr. Steinman went looking for him once, got lost and was almost eaten by a coyote. Mr. Steinman said that Rebel rode up out of nowhere and rescued him. He said Rebel took him back to his camp, and it was nothing but a tent in the middle of nowhere. He said Rebel was some sort of medicine man, said he kept souls in his tent. Mr. Steinman said he’d never been so afraid of dying in his life.” She looked over her