June 1977(3)

There were bikers in the house, big, ugly, hairy dudes. Some of those guys were freedom-loving rebels; others were actual fascists. There were also cowboys and Indians, students and farmers— and I wondered which way the night would go.

As if she'd read my mind, Rachel said, "Cantina scene tonight."

A few days before, Rachel and I had gone to see Star Wars.

"Lotta weirdos," I agreed. "Not sure this means we're at the start of an epic adventure, though."

She smiled. "You're not getting Leia'ed, if that's what you mean."

“Solo again," I grumbled.

She winked at me, then went down the bar to pour a shot for a short, stocky biker in a black leather jacket.

Rachel was an enigma, a conundrum, a paradox—all those vocab words Mom made me study (for naught, since I bypassed college for the Marines). Anytime I tried to find out more about her-about life on the rez or where her family was or how she'd ended up here, of all places, in this rotten saloon in Butte —I hit a wall. She wasn't a good liar, didn't have a prepared story about who she was. Anytime I pried, she just closed up, flicked her attention past my shoulder, and waited for the conversation to move on. I had secrets too, of course, and sometimes I wondered who had more to hide.