The smell of beerfart and whiskeybreath squatted like a bullfrog on the floor. Uncle Nathan sat at his desk pecking away on his ancient Royal typewriter. A gooseneck lamp bent like Kokopelli shed forty watts of illumination upon the chaos of manuscripts and the crushed empty can of Olympia.
Leah walked straight to the window and pushed up the smudged panes.
"What gives, Niece?"
"Place stinks."
"Didn't notice. Hey, Artie. How's it going?"
"We're on the lam."
"Aw, Christ. What happened?"
"It was awful, Uncle Nathan," Leah groaned. "They think I'm a witch."
"Who thinks you're a witch?"
"The Church."
"That's fool's talk. Who specifically thinks you're a witch?"
"Bishop Carter, for one."
"Shit."
*
While Leah and Uncle Nathan convened in pow-wow Artie searched the pantry. Typical of a longtime batchelor, he was master of the one-skillet dinner. He fried up some roast beef hash with eggs and picante sauce. He served it on a large oval plate. Then he fried up some potato pancakes as a side dish. Too much food. Just like his Momma.
"Ok, folks, let's eat!"
Uncle Nathan appraised the meal, winked, and said, "Leah, you've roped yourself a good lad."
Leah blushed. Nodded. Handed Artie his leather jacket and stepped behind a dresser screen. She donned a clean denim shirt and shimmied into starched blue jeans. She could wear anything Uncle Nathan owned.
That rascal was first to belch. "Damned good, Artie."
"So what's the plan?"
"You guys get hitched down in Nevada."
"Then what?"
"Stay out of crime."
*
Out on the highway Artie chose the spot. The sun was blood orange above the mesa.
He led Leah by the hand to a bluff. Painted rock. He placed the engagement stone in her hand and gently squeezed that hand. Bonding him with her and the stone.
"Leah Cartwright, will you marry me?"
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