The blood orange sun awoke, stretching and yawning. It caressed rosy cirrus clouds as they floated over eastern Oregon. Artie was cleaning the Indian. Rubbing it as if it were a woman. Leah loved that.
"The house sold well," she said. "I was surprised."
"Me too. Not much equity, but we'll be fine. After all, we ARE gypsies!"
"Nomads!"
"Nomads!"
"You don't mind going back to Utah?"
"Not in the least. Dipshit is dead."
"Settled, then." Leah amazed Artie with an impromptu cartwheel.
*
A line storm swept up from the prairie and shook the timberland. Artie was running on empty. He never worried Leah about such matters. Civilization had ebbed for miles. It was a dirt road now. Leah was not an idiot. She was sure he was lost. Red cedar and white pine obscured their path, boughs plunging and soaring. Hillsides were brown and loamy with Threebear topsoil..
"Stop! Stop right now," she shouted into his ear.
"What?"
"It's getting worse and we need to talk!"
He pulled beside a pine and quickly hoisted a tarp. Lightning struck a nearby tree. Leah screamed.
"Easy, Darling. We'll be fine." He hugged her and set her down.
"We're out of gas, aren't we?"
"'Fraid so."
*
In the morning the world smiled. Leah walked into the woods to make her toilet. From the loamy soil rose shoots of Ute Ladies Tresses. Rare now, except in deep country.
Her anxiety suddenly evaporated.
Something told her they would be all right.
Artie did his business too.
When they were mounted up he kick-started the Indian and they found an improved trail.
Soon the woods cleared and there was a pasture and a log cabin covered in wild lilac.
"Oh, Heavenly Father," Leah sighed. "Thank you for that last drop of gas."
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