Cowboy Junkie: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

[Author’s Note: This post marks the beginning of a completely new Lyndy Martinez story arc.]

Leaving the bustling interstate highway system behind, Lyndy Martinez found herself increasingly reliant upon hand written instructions and cartoon maps appended to Ted’s love letters. Putting faith in road signs or the guidance of strangers in overalls standing out front of camper vans was a dubious proposition. Not like there were many of those, hadn’t seen a car in the prior five miles.

“Ted Crawford you have the penmanship of a serial killer,” she mouthed. And yes, men wrote love letters.

Of all the dry western landscapes she’d rambled, working odd jobs for The Lovelace Corporation and Chan’s Bail Bonds, not once did she have cause to travel this high country, twenty miles apart from the Nevada border and north of Mountain Pass. She was beginning to wish she had. Sagebrush flats had given way to handsome terrain decorated by a forest of juniper and pinyon pine.

Across the steering wheel she unfurled a creased sheet of Strathmore paper—same stuff he wrote letters on—studying it while she drove.

Yeah, Ted wasted a fortune on paper.

An intersection marked by a triple cairn meant a reset of the odometer. Mileages were approximate, but it became especially important to keep tally as the county roads turned to one-lane byways, then eventually gravel tracks utilized mainly by ranchers. Encountering a gate meant stepping out, undoing several twists of wire, driving the white Ford through the gap, then reversing the process.

Using one fist she steered clear of the most punishing ruts and washouts. Her windows were open an inch; the air crisp up here in late September, a welcome relief compared to sizzling days in Amboy. Temps were unlikely to break the middle-sixties Fahrenheit for an afternoon high. At night, it may dip into the thirties.

Glancing to the back seat she was happy to have foresight enough to dig out her fuzzy “snow bunny” style ski-jacket, a short-cut furry thing both fashionable and functional. At least there had been no snow actually sticking to the ground yet.

Despite the mild climate The Spitfire’s outfit consisted of white gap-bought jean shorts, woven belt and a tight knit, shoulder and midsection bearing top. Hair layered, brushed at some point, half-down her back. New cowgirl boots with heel, because heck it’s a ranch. Eyelash enhancer—assuming that’s a thing. Her intentions were two-fold. Firstly to knock the socks off Ted, and two, hopefully to make his cowpoke pals shake their heads and go “wow, how does he do it?”

Coincident with the altitude, her spirits were heightening. In fact it was a fantastic cloud day, filled in with the white puffy variety floating like a blue sky version of icebergs. But almost too lovely to be real.

And then she heard a loud THUNK. That’s how well-crafted plans go. Seriously, why do we even make plans? Promptly her senses heightened, eyes drawn to the instrument cluster like a submarine commander who feels a sudden shake.

“Crap. Crap. Crap.” She held her breath. That kind of metallic noise was not your typical rocks on the fender wells. Sheet metal sounded different. Should she get out and look?

Not ready to dampen the mood she continued basking in the day, pretending it was nothing—like being on a rolling fantasy island. She tuned the radio dial in search of a decent music station, but reception was pitiful this far out from civilization. And moments later the temperature needle began to elevate, bouncing above the red 190 to near the boiling point. A blown engine would not be worth it. In a wide corner she allowed the car to drift roadside, resting a tire against a dirt road berm. For a spot to break down it had a nice view.

Unlatching her door and shutting off the motor, Lyndy stepped cautiously out. Curious how even the soil was different here, more clay and white decomposed granite, sporting a chalky grey color. The air smelled of this, clean and earthy.

Pushing her tangling hair from her face and looking behind, she saw the telling trail, a thin line of clumped mud indicating a leak.

“Aye, yai, yai,” she whispered.

Bending at the waist, craning her neck she attempted to spot the source. It didn’t smell much like gasoline. Bracing a hand on the white fenders she tried in vain to crouch low enough, but it was hard to see anything this way while maintaining balance.

Fishing with her hand, careful not to destroy her black polished fingernails, she undid the latch and raised the hood, propping it. Her face was hit by a blast of heat, yet nothing was obviously amiss. All rubber hoses were attached.

What a drag. Her new sexy outfit was doomed. Checking first for plumes of approaching autos, she set her butt down in the dusty road, then lowered her head and scooted under the car. Tailbone dragging, digging with her heels to maneuver, she was wishing now she had not been hell-bent on wearing a midriff baring outfit.

Checking first on the edges of the fragile oil pan, she could observe no damage. Caked oil stains around the aging gaskets predated this adventure. Repositioning she touched a hand under the steering box, feeling, but again it was coated in dry tar. From there her eyes traced to the radiator and as she did, a conical drop of fluid formed under its brass cover plate. Reaching out, she touched the back of her index finger to it and brought it close to her nose.

It smelled sweet, like honeydew. She exhaled a deep sigh. The radiator had been pierced somewhere, likely by a sharp rock kicked up from the tires. She scooted back out. This car was going nowhere without H20. She needed several gallons worth, but had none at all stowed—just warm tab cola.

She stood up and dusted herself off.

The world here was remarkably quiet, air still, no breeze at all. Standing next to the door she reached a hand in to retrieve her purse by its skinny leather strap. Undoing the flap, she scooped out the green pack of Newports.

Poking a cigarette between her lips, she paced to the front of the car and lit it with an orange Bic. Her nerves calming she gazed out over a sweeping vista: an unpopulated valley, green meadows, cobalt sky, more clouds rolling by, miles away a towering cumulous trailing virga at a thirty degree slant, perhaps a precious few drops reaching the sand. Just enough to dirty up a windshield, trap pollen.

Closer on the adjacent ridge large trees had taken hold. The tall pines here were hardy, adapted to drought. Had to be; been living this way since the last ice age thousands of years ago. To survive they spaced themselves widely apart, 50 foot radius at minimum. In between patches of buckthorn, maybe a juniper bush or clumping of aspens.

Those trees said: “Keep your distance pal and I’ll keep mine. Should lightning strike me, I won’t light the whole damn rest of us on fire.”

One could see why Ted Crawford had been extoling its virtue. This mountain had a sense of peace; ideal setting for an introvert. In spite of everything, that’s who she was too. Being amongst people was a necessary chore, felt draining. One could build a nice tidy cabin up here, forget the crowds But then again, who didn’t desire friends, want companionship? And who didn’t need money?

Being human was often a load of bull.

She exhaled another wallop of smoke, watching it trail off in gentle wisps. Checking her watch, 11:30. So then, was anyone else coming today? Only two recent traces in the road. How often did folks visit this guest ranch? Perhaps the Circle-Bar-Circle had issues with their marketing campaign. But damn, someone would come, right? If only she had a CB radio. Should have packed a lunch.

“I’m sunk,” she mouthed. Backing up against the bumper she propped herself on the hood, scooting backward she stretched out against the windshield, stuck sunglasses on her nose, taking a nap.

1 hour later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Ever watch one of those dating shows on TV and ten minutes into the thing you’re like: alright I can see why you two idiots are still single.

She’d been idly thumbing through a Cosmo magazine when she heard the bald tires crunching and the motor sputtering at altitude.

Her legs were folded. Perched atop the roof of the white mustang facing the roadway, she decided not to move, not bothering to reach for the pistol. The chances of these persons meaning harm was near zero.

The strangers were piloting a rusty IH ranch truck. It had a reddish patina, paint flaking, probably never seen a carwash in its existence.

The skinny-tired vehicle slowed as they approached the mustang, occupants probably wondering who is this alien creature seated atop a sixties fastback muscle car.

Pulling alongside they came to a complete stop, blocking the road. The driver a slim white man, blonde, perhaps fifty-five years old but hard to tell as his skin had weathered from living outdoors. His companion was much younger, early twenties, darker complexion with longish black hair.

The driver spoke in shouts out the passenger side window, but his tone was friendly. “Excuse me madam.” He grinned nervously, pointing a shaky finger, “Are you uh … uh … Miss Martinez?” He stuttered. “Ted’s sweetheart.”

She nodded, folding her magazine shut.

“Well welcome!” he set his parking brake then swiftly bounded out, not bothering to shut off the ignition. His darker haired companion stayed seated.

The fellow rushing to meet her had a sort of jolly old guy demeanor, sporting those wild untrimmed eyebrows, wearing a vest and bolo tie, plaid shirt underneath, capped off with a bronze belt buckle.

She smiled back pleasantly.

“I’m Wade Evans. This other fella here is my partner Nash. We work for the Circle-Bar-Circle ranch, mainly keeping up maintenance behind the scenes.”

“Man-o-man am I glad to see you two saviors. It seems I’m in need of roadside assistance.” She gestured to the nose of the car. “Due to this cursed gravel my radiator has decided it shall no longer hold water.” Unfolding her legs she used the rear pillar and the fastback as a slide to the ground, landing sturdily with both feet. “I wasn’t sure anyone would come. Got so bored I filled out a quiz titled, which skirt is correct for my personality.” She was standing in front of him now, her five-eight frame towering to five-eleven because of her shoes, tan skin on legs and hips showing.

Wade paused, rubbing his forehead and eyes, seeming to have lost his train of thought.

“Turns out none of them,” she added, cheerfully extending a hand to introduce herself. “Lyndy E. Martinez.” She waved to Nash by separating and wiggling her fingers Cathy Cookson style.

Nash remained in the shade of the cab, difficult to tell but seeming to wear a scowl.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Wade studied The Spitfire up and down like an old hand sizing up a greenhorn. He inhaled. “I uh … don’t often get to say this, but you are exactly as Mr. Crawford describes, right down to the fast talking.”

“My talking? Is that a compliment?” The Spitfire crossed her arms and grabbed onto her shoulders, not sure what to do next.

Wade didn’t answer, instead removing his hat and slapping against his thigh to remove accumulated dust. “Got some spare water jugs in the back here, but it’s not near enough. Plus we oughtta be halving it with coolant.” He stared at the stranded Ford. “Wouldn’t recommend running straight water up here anyways. Got freezing nights coming in the next few days, according the weather service.”

“Completely agree,” replied Lyndy. “I never trusted freeze plugs to do their job.”

Wade scratched the rear of his neck. “Say listen, the guest ranch is about two more miles on. You’ll have to squeeze in the cab with us. We’ll come back here after lunch with a patch and coolant for your … your …” he gestured at the white muscle car.

“Iron Lady.”

“Yeah, that deal.”

With a trick backhand motion, Wade flipped his hat back atop his head. “Truck cab is pretty tight. Sure you’re okay riding with us because …”

“What do you mean?”

“… being a … lady?”

She nodded. “Fine. Except I should warn you I got really bad cooties.”

He’d already started circling around to the driver’s side. “Aww shoot young lady. I already had em all when I was yer age livin in Nevada,” replied Wade. “Won’t say more than that.”

Lyndy smiled as she gathered her purse and belongings, making sure to bring the car keys. She was liking Wade already. Her luggage she could leave. No chance anyone would be by to steal. Too much effort.

Meantime Nash was opening his door. “I will ride in the bed,” he announced sternly, his face showing expectation of discomfort.

Whelp, per the usual things were starting out rather awkward.

“Are you two sure? I can just wait here,” Lyndy offered. “I got stuff to keep me busy.”

“It is fine,” said Nash, leaving the door extended for her. “I like the cargo area.”

“Okey-doke,” she mouthed, eyes cast downward as she approached. I wonder what’s for lunch? Beans? Places like this always had plenty of beans. Lyndy took a seat on the plaid bench purse in lap, near to the four-speed.

With a pump of the clutch Wade’s tractor-like harvester truck jerked and backfired as it started, then rolled rearward before crunching into gear and chugging forth uphill. Now at least she could stare out the window more. But she kept one eye on Wade as he drove, noting he had to spin the steering in an aggressive manner as it seemed to possess an outlandish ratio of turns to wheel angle.

Minutes later they passed through an opening in a wood and barbed wire fence, proceeding under a simple log-arch entry. Across the top were the words “Circle-Bar-Circle”, each five-inch letter torch cut from black iron and connected together with rusty rebar segments. The idea was to mirror one of those ornate entries you might find to a grand old Colorado guest ranch, except this was more sparing in design with raw unfinished logs as supports.

The terrain flattened out and soon they entered an enormous series of pasturelands, perfect for some old cattle baron. The road became a two-track, cutting diagonally through thickets and dense cured grassland.

The pastures were edged in more stands of aspen, these ones already showing yellow leaves, and an occasional ponderosa pine standing tall amongst the smaller trees. A wisp of a pebbly stream wove its way back and forth in the meadowlands, but one would be hard pressed to discover a tadpole in that little water, much less an edible trout. A pair of startled deer were seen darting away at the perimeter.

Rounding the next bend a cluster of rustic properties came into view. All were made of logs in the lodge style, the foremost of which had a surprising number of paneled windows about the T-shaped dining hall. Another large building appeared to be the stables and was surrounded in a patchwork of stalls and lean-tos for the animals.   

These people lived like pioneers.

As they came to a halt near a line of hitching posts, Lyndy eager to get out and explore, someone unseen immediately shouted: HELP!

Synopsis for Cowboy Junkie: This is the heartwarming tale of a young woman whose car runs out of gas on a snowy winter’s night, is rescued by a handsome widower and discovers a mountain town where they celebrate Christmas practically year round. Just kidding! It’s a Lyndy Martinez story so she’s back to cause trouble, challenge bullies, outwit her employers, drink Tab cola and step up her self-deprecating humor game. What were you expecting?

San Bernardino County in the 1970s; 20,000 square miles of sweeping backcountry and containing the best preserved stretch of Route-66 remaining in America. This all new adventure takes The Spitfire to an idyllic mountain ranch, Circle-Bar-Circle, where she befriends a like-minded young veterinarian named Annabel and the charming land-owner and cattle baron Jared. Lyndy soon perceives under the surface life in the backcountry is not as harmonious as it seems. Enter Holly Folsom, a bold Colorado socialite with an eye to a hostile takeover of the Circle-Bar-Circle and plans to construct a ski resort. Couple this with a freak early autumn snowstorm, a shooting competition and the race to save an injured wild horse. And when panic and the battle for survival sets in, The Spitfire must choose a side to fight on. But is the conflict with external forces, the natural elements, or is it with her own inner demons? Whatever the answer, a life-altering decision must be made on a moonlit walk through fresh fallen snow. Pull out your old lawn dart set, lay out some vinyl folding chairs and uncap an RC cola for this wild ride.