Page 47 of The Lonely Road

I don’t.

“It’s extraordinary.”

“You can touch it. It’s empty,” she offers.

I shake my head. “Something that old—it belongs in a museum.”

“Beading is a thread between our ancestors and us, and we keep it alive by passing it down to descendants,” she tells me without ceremony, like it’s a fact she’s been raised with. “A famous Ute artist, Mariah Cuch—her work hangs in museums—says that beadwork should be touched and worn. It should be alive.”

She walks to the front door and opens it.

“What is…ah…brain-tanned hide?” I ask as I step out onto her front porch.

“It’s soft and breathable leather! They soak, stretch, and smoke the hide with,” she pauses for a dramatic moment as she locks the door, “the animal’s own brains.”

Pause.

“You’re making that up.”

She puts her hand to her heart. “Hand to God! I’m not.”

I shoot her a skeptical look. “The animal’s own brain?”

“Nature’s perfect tanning agent.” She winks at me. It’s cute. “Every animal has just enough to tan its own hide. Someone figured that out a very long time ago.”

We reach the truck. I open her door.

“And they make pipe bags with the hide,” I say.

“And moccasins, and shirts, and…,” she trails off.

“You learn something new every day,” I remark as I hold the passenger door open for her.

CHAPTER 11

mason

The restaurant is very French, very tres chic.

White linen, high-end glassware, and long-stemmed candles that are burning without dripping wax.

It smells like expensive food and wine—and after The Rusty Spur and Horseshoe Diner, I, for one, have zero complaints if they want to serve me trout amandine with brown butter, along with a glass of Montrachet.

The maître d’ seats us by the window.

Outside, the dark presses against the glass. The mountains are invisible but present, the way they always are in this part of Colorado. You feel the weight of them at the edge of everything.

Taya picks up the menu.

This is a pretentious place, so the menu is in French on one side and English on the other. I flip it over and read the English while she peruses the French side.

She tells me with enthusiasm how much she loves French food, so I set mine down to just watch and enjoy her.

“There was this time…first spring break in Harvard, and my roommate insisted we go to Paris.” She stops and raises her head to meet my eyes, noticing that I’m focused on her.

“What?”

I flick my gaze toward her, humor tugging at my mouth. “Did you go to Paris?”