Free Hotshots by Judith Van Gieson Page A

for her daughter. How much did that mean to Ramona? Speculation was useless, but easy in the big empty. She had saved my life. But why mine? I had to ask. Why not Hogue’s? If I was yelling for help, hadn’t he been yelling, too? The even bigger question was what had caused the East Canyon fire that had endangered me and killed Hogue?
    We stopped at Bruno’s Restaurant in Cuba and sat in the courtyard under the ceiling of latillas so freshly cut that the leaves were still on. I had a sopapilla stuffed with meat and green chile. Nothing like a hit of green chile to clear your head.
    The Kid bit into his burrito and the chicharrones crunched. “You learn anything about Ramona?” he asked.
    â€œLots of people can’t wait to get away from the place they grow up. You did it, I did it. Right?” I hit the ground running when I departed Ithaca, New York. The Kid and his family had been forced out of Buenos Aires and into Mexico.
    â€œRight,” he said.
    â€œCould you or would you want to go back?”
    â€œIn the beginning I did, but not anymore.”
    â€œMe neither.” But we didn’t come from the Navajo Nation with traditions that went back forever. “Ramona’s job must mean a lot to her.”
    â€œIt’s a good job, no?”
    â€œIn some ways. It’s also very dangerous.”
    â€œThat’s why the pay is good.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œSome people like the danger. I’m hiring a new guy next week.” Legal or illegal, I didn’t ask. The Kid’s business was expanding. He was making it in his new world.
    â€œGood,” I said.
    ******
    We saw a lot more beauty before encountering the fast-food strip at Bernalillo and I enjoyed every bit of it. I could have turned into a white light or a black hole on Thunder Mountain, but I wouldn’t have been seeing any red cliffs, tasting any green chile, listening to the Gipsy Kings, or resting my head on the Kid’s shoulder if it hadn’t been for Ramona. I called her the minute we got back to Albuquerque, but there was no answer.

9
    T HE NEXT DAY I slept until noon, snuggled up in my adobe home. Nothing like a mud hut to make you feel cool, calm, and sheltered. As I couldn’t cough and sleep at the same time, sleeping gave my throat a chance to heal. The Kid had spent the night but gone off to work without waking me. Usually when he stays over, he just kind of shows up. But last night he’d planned far enough ahead to bring a change of clothes, and yesterday’s blue jeans dangled from the bedpost.
    He’d already called Anna to tell her what had happened on Thunder Mountain. I called her to find out what had happened in my office.
    â€œNot much,” Anna said. “How you doin’? You okay?”
    â€œI’m all right.”
    â€œThat Indian woman saved your life?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou owe her.”
    I already knew that. I called Ramona again and got no answer. Then I called Sheila McGraw’s office and made an appointment for the following day. After that I went back to sleep. Sometimes sleep is an elusive lover, but sometimes it’s there when you need it. This was good sleep, deep sleep, sleep with the potential to heal. I didn’t wake up again until the Kid arrived with Lotta Burgers and curly fries at six, and even then he had to shake me to rouse me.
    â€œWho is Joe, Chiquita?” he asked. “You were talking about Joe in your sleep last night.”
    â€œI was?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI was doing that in the hospital, too, the nurses said. Joe’s my father.”
    â€œI never hear you call him Joe.”
    â€œUsually I called him Dad, but he liked to be called Joe. That’s how I remember him. When we were little he taught my brother and me to skate on the Irish Pond. Every winter he measured the ice to see if it was thick enough, and when it snowed he shoveled the snow off for us. When I wanted