The Ties That Bind Read Online Free PDF

display panels. Her skirt swirled around her ankles as she walked, the heels of her clogs making flat sounds on the floor.
    "So," Sage said to me. "Burger at the Mine Shaft?" She waggled her eyebrows and brushed a kiss across my lips.
    "Who can refuse an offer like that?" I followed her through the front door, pulling it shut behind me. We walked through the adobe-walled courtyard and emerged onto the one paved road that swung lazily through Madrid--New Mexico Highway 14, often referred to as the Turquoise Trail. Directly across the road squatted the Mine Shaft Tavern, a legendary bar bursting with bikers every summer where I'd tied a few on during my University of New Mexico days. It was well worth the fifty-mile drive from Albuquerque to hang out in a place where a sign stated "In Madrid, there is no town drunk. We all take turns." That and the green chile burgers ensured that the Mine Shaft retained a place of honor in my heart. A herd of Harleys sat out front in the dirt parking lot and music and laughter blared from the large, covered porch.
    Just past the Mine Shaft, Highway 14 curved to the left and various nineteenth-century structures resurrected from Madrid's past lined the road, most painted in bright pastels or primary colors. Many served as quirky art galleries and weird little shops, but a few were residences whose inhabitants displayed a special kind of patience during summers, as tourists often peeked in the windows. Cars lined both sides of Highway 14, making their own parking spaces, often jutting a bit into traffic. Which was okay, since nobody drove over fifteen miles per hour through Madrid. It was one of the unspoken rules here. Tourists caught on fast because locals would make sure they did. Jackson's courtyard wall hugged the roadside on the southbound end of that curve, making a nice target for drivers who might not be paying much attention to the road, instead trying to avoid pedestrians and the town dogs who wandered back and forth from one side to the other.
    We waited for a minivan to pass before Sage pulled me across the road toward the Mine Shaft where we ascended the steps to the porch, past the Harley crowd and into the dark interior.
     
     
    I PULLED MY cowboy boots on and arranged the legs of my jeans over them. Lucky for me, the Jacksons had thought to put a full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door and I inspected myself. I ran my hands through my hair, trying to arrange it in some semblance of professionalism. I wear it not too short and not too long. Lately it was hanging just past my jaw line. Sage referred to it as "wavy" and though I just said "dark brown," she said "dark chestnut," which I thought sounded nicer.
    I ran some water over my fingers and raked them through my hair again. Thank God I'd thought to bring gel. I doctored my hair a bit more and inspected myself one more time. I had just bought this shirt last week for this occasion. A loose-fitting off-white button-down. Multi-colored Guatemalan embroidery decorated the banded collar and shoulders. I smoothed it a bit, checked to make sure my belt buckle wasn't off-center, and picked up the duffle bag that held the clothes I'd had on earlier.
    I unlocked the door and emerged into the back area of Jackson's, where Maureen, Dan, and a couple of guys I didn't recognize were running around in a controlled chaos, carrying veggie trays, bowls of fruit, and bottles of wine. I checked my watch. Quarter to four. Trying to stay out of people's ways and avoid the various artwork and bubble-wrapped objects stacked on the floor against almost every wall, I emerged into the main gallery, where Sage was helping set the food out on the tables.
    She had changed into a lightweight faded red skirt that moved and fluttered around her calves with every air current. She'd chosen a long-sleeved cream-colored blouse cut to hug her sides, emphasizing her shoulders and back. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and I saw the silver