WILSON + WILSON

Dance at the Desert Rose      

The saloon holds still as stone. Ceiling fans turn slow, blades dragging dust into lazy spirals. Men at poker tables lower their eyes to cards they no longer see. I polish a glass twenty times. Maybe twenty-one.

Loretta sits back down, coffee cup about crushed in her grip. I can tell her heartbeat’s a hammer against her ribs.

Through the window, I watch Dance. His boots scrape dirt. He doesn't leave. Not yet.

The doors swing open once more, and he slides in with that coyote smile. Brushes sand from his suit. Whiskey still burnin’ in his eyes. "Fine show," he says, voice carrying like a whipcrack. "But bluffs won't win this hand."

Loretta doesn't rise. Doesn't even look up. She taps her nails against the rim of her cup — one, two. A warning note.

Above, Colt's guitar answers with a low, mournful chord. He shifts in the loft shadows, the creak of the floorboard loud as thunder in the hush.

Dance's gaze lifts. Catching the code, he narrows his eyes. "Your cowboy watchdog," he says. "How touching."

Loretta stands now, slow and steady. She sets the empty cup on the table, its tin ring sharp. "Leave, Dance. While you still can."

He laughs, gold cufflinks winking. "You'll regret this, Loretta. You don't win by force. You win by law." Reaches into his coat, he pulls out a leather folder thick with contracts, drops it on the table. "Deeds, debts, liens. The land'll come to me one way or another. This desert bends for no one, but the man who holds the paper."

Loretta glances at the folder, then back at him. "Paper burns."

Colt's boot scuffs above, shifting closer, and the poker players rise from their chairs at last, uneasy, ready. The air thickens, a storm waiting on its lightning.

I set the glass down and polish another.

Dance's grin falters. Just a flicker. "Is that a threat?"

Loretta seizes the moment. "You think money makes you untouchable. But men like you don't last out here. The desert chews soft things down to bone."

Dance's hand brushes the folder again, as if it could shield him. "This isn't over."

"No," Loretta says. "It's not."

He leaves then, for real this time. His car engine roaring into the night. Ferrari taillights curving toward town.

"More coffee, Maria." Loretta sits.

I exhale in one ragged breath and head over to pour another cup.

Que Dios nos ayude a todos. May God help us all.

 

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