Page 90 of Never Stay Gone
“What d’you say to makin’ this Shelly’s restin’ place? Bring her out here?”
Shane’s jaw dropped. His lips moved, but nothing came out.
“She should be someplace like this. Someplace beautiful. And if she’s here, close by, you can come see her. We both can.”
“Dakota—” For the second time that day, Shane couldn’t say anything. Dakota wrapped him in his arms until Shane stopped shaking.
He and Shelly had loved the same man, and that bound them together. Maybe if they’d met, if she hadn’t been killed, they could have become friends one day. Maybe Shelly would have liked Dakota, eventually. Maybe they could have double-dated. Maybe Shelly and her husband and their kids could have come to visit their little cabin. Visions of a different life, something that would never be.
But he could give her this.
A few days later, Dakota dug Shelly’s grave by hand, all six feet of it, under the shade of the trees. Shane was still too weak to help dig, but he passed Dakota bottles of water, massaged his cramping hands, brought him new gloves when his first pair wore out. When the grave was ready, they buried Shelly together at sunset, and after, Shane planted a wild rose bush in place of a headstone. He set his hand down on the dirt and whispered, “I’m sorry, Shell. I’m so sorry.”
Dakota felt the wind whispering through his hair, smelled wildflowers and the rain and lightning in a bottle. He’d never spoken a word to Shelly, but he thought he heard her voice in his ear, a gentle brush of movement on the back of his neck.
Be well, he thought.Wherever you are, I hope it’s good for you.
The wind rose and fell, and then was still.
* * *
Six weeksafter Shane was shot, the bruises had faded and his ribs had healed enough that it didn’t hurt for him to move, to breathe, to be alive, he said.
Dakota had kept an eagle eye on him every day, checking on his ribs, his collarbone, measuring his bruise, watching the color fade. Dakota let him take off his sling, at first only so Dakota could massage his shoulders and rub his arm. But finally, Shane was able to help put some of the finishing touches on their home. Together, they hung the porch swing, hauled a real mattress from the truck and into the bedroom. Screwed in the light bulbs around the porch.
To celebrate—the house, them, being alive—Dakota drove him into Rustler for dinner at Manuel’s.
Shane was the toast of the town, though, and it wasn’t so much a dinner for the two of them as it was Shane’s hero’s welcome for having taken a bullet to the chest to save Dakota and stop the murderous son of a bitch who’d killed all those girls. It seemed that everyone in Rustler stopped by to shake Shane’s hand, thank him for his deeds, and buy him a drink—until they had beer bottles covering their table, more than they could ever consume. Dakota watched the praise settle inside Shane like a new set of bones. He was shy with theatta-boys, blushed when people called him a hero. But a smile gradually spread over his face, like he’d been waiting all his life to hear someone tell him, “Well done.”
Shane was the favorite son again. Pictures of him in his deputy’s uniform were in the corners of the shop windows on Main Street, like his football picture had been years ago.
Alejandro boxed up all the unopened beers and said he’d load them into Dakota’s truck when they wanted to get going. “Y’all will be drinking for a month without having to come in here.”
After dinner, Shane and Dakota moved to the bar, accepting a shot each from Alejandro. He poured a fourth and left it to the side, saying, “For Shelly.” The three of them toasted her name, Alejandro pumped Shane’s hand, and then he disappeared to take care of the rest of the bar. Whether it was everyone wanting to see Shane on his first trip into town after the shooting, or whether it was just another night in a small-town watering hole, the place was jam-packed.
It was also, Dakota discovered, karaoke night.
“Oh God.” He groaned, spinning away from the karaoke machine being hauled out from the back. “We gotta go.”
“You don’t like karaoke?”
Dakota shot Shane a guarded look. “I like karaoke fine.”
“Youkaraoke.” Shane beamed, his eyes lighting up. “You? Dakota, you used to blush so hard the teachers thought you were breaking out in hives whenever you had to read out loud in English class.”
“Yeah, well.” Dakota cleared his throat. “I wasn’t drinkin’ shots in English class.”
“I’ve heard you sing. Never louder than a whisper, but I always thought you had a beautiful voice. I’d like to hear it again.”
“It ain’t my voice that’s the problem.”
“What is the problem, then?”
Dakota fiddled with his empty glass. Spun it in his hands. “Problem is, it’s all I can do to not go holdin’ your hand down Main Street. Gimme half a chance, and I’m gonna be up there singin’ love songs to you.”
Shane smiled. He laid his hand on Dakota’s knee. Squeezed, and left it there.
They were already sitting close, closer than two guys at a bar normally sat. Dakota shifted sideways, leaning into Shane, then away. He pushed his knee into Shane’s thigh and hooked his bootheel around the rung of the stool.
