Everything smelled good near his house. Spearmint and anise cradled deep pockets of grass. Even the fodder smelled good. The sweet, blood smells of farming were heat in her lungs. And all these smells and all the things around his place became a part of him, a part of a new life she imagined. She lay down in the cool grass to listen to him moving beneath stars. Irrigation pipes were throats on his back singing with wind. Sometimes she would hear him singing too. He would strum his guitar, sing mournfully about women and cows.

She had seen him buying oatmeal and mousetraps in Malick’s store. Jules Bart had long-fingered, rein-bitten hands, and the bills looked small in his palms. As he leaned up against the counter she could see the boots he wore, golden leather roses on powdered elk skin. She had seen the same boots in the store catalog, but she had never seen anyone wearing them or anything like them. They were fancy riding boots that called attention to a man, and she imagined he’d have to be a fighting man to wear them. But Louise couldn’t tell what type of man Jules Bart was. He was a man people liked to talk about but didn’t seem to know. Louise had watched Jules Bart leaving the store. Sunlight was rose colored and changed his skin to a shade near her own. She turned to Mr. Malick, feeling the heat rise to her face. She wondered if Jules Bart was aware she had been watching him that summer. She had learned that secrets were rare in small towns on the reservation. Everyone knew your business.

“Works out by your grandma’s place,” Mr. Malick had said, and Mr. Malick had puffed up proud to tell her that Jules Bart was a champion rodeo roper as if he himself claimed the honor. “Who doesn’t know that?” Louise had said, and then felt ashamed of herself.

That same week she saw Jules Bart again sitting on the tailgate of Eddie Taylor’s pickup eating a sandwich and wearing a different pair of boots. She walked past him, kicking the warm dust with bare feet. She crossed the street, pretending to be going to the Dixon Bar, but the nearness of him made her feel awkward. Who cares if he’s here, she told herself. Her knees hit together so she swung her arms more. She coughed, cuffing her hands together. She looked at him once and pretended to be looking somewhere else, because he wasn’t looking back at her.