Without realizing it, I had rolled onto my back. The stars blinked at me from between the dried leaves.
“Because even against all that blackness, they’re there. The darkness doesn’t scare ’em. In fact, you notice ’em precisely because of the dark. Because they keep going. In a dark, scary, noisy world, they shine out bright, quiet, and brave.”
I bit the inside of my lip, swallowing a lump. I wanted him to stop. And keep going.
“That’s when my da decided he’d had enough of the dark, had enough of bein’ scared and hidin’ behind the bottle. Had enough quittin’. He got up right that second, grabbed that scrawny bull by the horns, and dragged him into town. Sold him to the first person he saw. Problem was it was Sunday morning, and doing business on the Sabbath was against God’s law and man’s.” Pa chuckled. “Found himself on a boat to America not long after.”
So that’s what it was. He was trying to tell me to have courage, to do the right thing. Because leaving Oklahoma, fixing my foot, caring for Helen was the right thing to do. But I wasn’t no star. I’d never be a star. I was the darkness.
I blinked away the burning at the corners of my eyes. “Why didn’t he just wait one more day?”
Pa looked over at me, his eyes orange in the dying firelight.
“If he’d just waited one more day to sell that bull, he could have stayed in Ireland. Could have stayed home.” I spat the last word.
Across the flames, Pa sighed and pulled his hat over his eyes. “I don’t know, Kath. I just don’t know.”
I’d wanted to disappoint him. And I had. But I still hated myself for it.
A sudden breeze rustled the branches, dropping several dead leaves onto my stomach and revealing the North Star directly above my head. The directional star.
Leading me nowhere.
We drove three more days. I didn’t see any more stars. The nights were overcast and gloomy, though no rain fell. I knew I was being punished for being ugly to Helen and to Pa. I almost apologized. But only almost.
And maybe that’s why it happened. On that fourth day, the sun was too hot, even for July. The clouds broke, and the air was white; the drought had sucked even the blue from the sky. Pa and Helen didn’t notice from inside the cab. But in the back, I did. My skin prickled with static. The birds were silent, hiding. They could feel it too.
The truck shuddered to a stop. I knew before I saw it. Before the word came out of Pa’s mouth.
“Duster!”
In front of us, the pale sky had turned black. A mountain of dirt rushed toward us. From here, its jagged peaks looked like teeth, giving the appearance of a beast, feeding on the very ground it prowled. The smell of spoiled earth hit first. All around us, the ground trembled, sending particles of dirt rolling for cover. There was nowhere to hide.
Pa jumped from his seat. “Kath! Get up here! Quick!” He struggled to roll up the truck’s window. “Helen—get those blankets across the dash. We gotta keep that dust out best we can.”
My foot cried out as I tried to stand. My leg twisted, frozen in place. I couldn’t move. My brace was caught on the frayed rope holding Helen’s trunk in place. I pulled at the snag with numb fingers.
The sand beneath our truck started to tumble. Waves of dirt washed across the road, an ocean in the middle of the prairie. The first layer of dust coated my arm. It was getting closer now.
“Kath! Let’s go!” Pa moved to Helen’s side, securing her window.
I tried to call out that I was stuck, but the words wouldn’t come. I pulled on my foot. The rope held tight, its fiber twisting around rusted metal.
“Kathryn!”
The truck began to rock. The outline of the storm faded into a blur, too close now to make out its distinct shape. It was in my nose, on my tongue. I could taste Kansas. It was here, upon us.
I pulled again. Still nothing.
The wind slammed into me with a violent scream. Dust scraped across my bare arms like a nail file. Sand rolled beneath my eyelids. It hurt to breathe. It hurt not to breathe. My cry for help collapsed inside the cloud.
And then Pa was beside me. Grabbing my foot, ripping the strands that bound it in place. With surprising ease, he lifted me from my spot and set me on the ground. One hand covering his mouth, he yelled something that sounded like “Get in the truck!”
I took a step forward and reached for Melissa’s handkerchief. Before I could bring it to my face, the wind ripped it from my sweaty fingers, dangling it in front of me like an insult before whisking it away. I lunged for it, the blue-and-white pattern barely visible in the swirling dirt. It danced forward along the cracked earth. I stumbled after it blindly, my eyes burning.
“Kathryn!” My father’s voice. Desperate. Distant.
But I couldn’t stop now. A flash of blue and white. I was so close. I cried out as my body crashed into a hidden fence post. A tangle of barbed wire tore at my dress, slashing the skin beneath. It would not stop me. I pulled until I felt it give and stumbled forward. The handkerchief. Flashes of color in the angry air. If I could just reach it . . . And suddenly it was in my hand. I pressed it to my mouth, hoping for a clean breath, and turned to retreat to the truck.
But the truck was gone.
“Pa!”
The wind whipped around me, trying to force me to the ground. The air was black, thick, angry.
“Pa!” My scream was cut short by the sudden need to retch. I could feel the dirt inside me, filling my lungs, my stomach, my veins. I had to find shelter. Somewhere. Anywhere.
I stumbled in the direction of the truck. Or did I? I didn’t know which way was which anymore. Air and ground blended together all around me. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t breathe. And then I was falling. I cried out as sharp rocks tore my flesh. A bed of rocks. The wind was lighter down here. I eased my eyes open. A dry creek bed. And there—up there. A hollow embankment.
I crawled toward it, curling myself beneath the root-covered overhang. The wind shrieked. Midnight reigned in the middle of the day. I tried to cry, but all that came out was dust. This was the end. I was going to die out here. And maybe I deserved to.
CHAPTER SIX
MELISSA
I’d been embarrassed when Henry first bought me makeup. I’d never owned any, never worn it, never seen the need. It seemed like such frivolity. But the first time I brushed the rouge across my cheeks, I felt like Katharine Hepburn in Morning Glory. My freckles disappeared. I disappeared. Melissa Baile was pretty, but Melissa Mayfield was beautiful. I felt glamorous. I felt loved.
It was different when I put it on the morning after our first fight.
The powder did little to hide the swelling, but at least it muted the bruise. Perhaps it could pass as a new shade of blush. Or as if I’d gotten too much sun. I played up my eyes with liner and mascara. Maybe people would look at them instead.
Henry was gone by the time I awoke, his truck absent from beneath its usual spot under the oak tree. I busied myself making breakfast, tensing at each creak in the house, unsure how to act when I saw him or even who to expect when he reappeared. That man last night, the one with my husband’s beautiful face but malevolent hand was a stranger. I hadn’t known he was going to hit me, of course. He’d never done it before. But his eyes across the dinner table . . . the new set of rules I hadn’t known I’d broken, the guilt and the shame I hadn’t known I was supposed to feel. That was what unnerved me most of all.
“Good morning.”
I jumped as Henry’s arms wrapped around my waist from behind. I’d been so far inside my own head, I hadn’t heard him return.
He nuzzled into me, his stubble irritating my already-tender cheek, before spinning me around and kissing me deeply. The force of his need reopened a small cut on my lip. The taste of blood mixed with the Oklahoma air on his skin. When he finally pulled away, he studied me, his eyes lingering on my bruise. Or did it just feel that way?
I looked down, grasping my apron with shaking hands.
> He pulled one of them into his own. “I got you something.” Uncurling my fingers, he pressed a warm, solid object into my palm.
It was a brooch. A beautiful silver-and-turquoise brooch. Gasping, I ran my finger over the colored stone.
“I had to drive all the way out to that Indian trading post near Guymon. Doggone near wanted my scalp for it. I told him I’d pay him anything but that.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Because it was a gift for my wife.” He leaned in close, sending a shiver down my spine. “A new gift. For. My. Wife.” He paused after each word, his breath heavy on my skin.
“Thank you,” I whispered, keeping my eyes on the brooch. “It’s . . . it’s stunning.”
Henry lifted my chin, forcing my eyes to his. He ran a thumb over my swollen cheek before kissing me softly. “You’re welcome.”
It was a reset, I knew. A do-over. A chance to choose better this time around. And it was what I wanted, for sure. I wanted things to go back to before. Before I’d messed up, when there was only one set of truths in this world, when I knew exactly what was wrong and what was right.
Before he’d hurt me.
He could do that. If anyone had the power to turn back time, make everything right again, it was Henry Mayfield. But how could I tell him that it wasn’t a gift I needed? It was his words. His apologies and reassurances, his whispers of love and approval. As I stared into his eyes—once again as clear and beautiful as the prairie sky—my heart pleaded with him to say something that would heal the wounds makeup would never cover.
But he merely turned and settled himself at the table. “What’s for breakfast? We need to hurry or we’re gonna be late for church.”
The gleaming stained-glass windows and cheerful red brick of St. Paul’s Methodist Church seemed out of place next to its sun-bleached neighbors and scorched-earth lawn. The land withered away all around, but somehow the church remained untouched. Perhaps that’s why it was the most popular place to be Sunday morning. For a few short hours, we could pretend we weren’t in hell.
When Pa arrived in Cimarron County in 1908, there wasn’t much here. But there was Ma. And Ma went to St. Paul’s. So Pa, despite being raised devoutly Irish Catholic, went to St. Paul’s too. He struggled with it—I once heard him tell Ma that my maimeó and daideó were rolling in their graves—but his love for Ma trumped all. Plus, he said, it’s all the same God, right?
When I was a Baile, we sat in the back. After Ma’s death, it was during these times I felt her absence the most—and somehow her presence, too, a strange contrast that had never truly faded. Inside these walls, I could still hear her voice, soft but sturdy, rising and falling with the thrum of hymns, could still feel the rustle of her dress, starched and ironed, beside me and hear the crinkle of pages as she flipped through her weathered Bible. But on those first dark Sundays after she passed, Ma’s seat was just empty. Beside it, Pa, here in body but spiritually a million miles away, wrestled with the Lord and his overwhelming grief. In those black days, our family pew, once so comforting and joyful, contained only myself, an empty seat, a faraway Pa . . . and Kathryn.
As a baby, she would fuss and squirm, making the wooden pews creak. Pa—the shadow of Pa—was deaf to her cries, and though members of the congregation often tried to help by asking to hold her, I refused. She was my sister, a part of my mother, a part of me, and she would stay with us in our pew. I soothed her with whispered prayers and familiar songs, rocking her in my small arms. As she grew older, I tried my best to keep her entertained, drawing silly pictures on the bulletin or folding it into boats or birds or planes. I’m not sure she ever listened to a single word during the sermon. But at least she was there. And her being there made me feel a little less alone.
Her favorite thing to do during church was turn around and stare at the mosaic of St. Paul in the window behind us. Flanked by a cross on either side, he welcomed worshipers every Sunday with his outstretched glass hand. Most passed by without a sideways glance. Kathryn, however, was mesmerized. The shifting colors, the sparkling light. It was like nothing else in Boise City. Maybe that’s why she liked it so much. Because everything else in her life and in this town was bland.
I glanced at the window now as we stepped into the sanctuary. It looked duller today. Probably because of the dust. The pew was still right in front of it. Our pew. But there was no Baile in that pew this morning. The worn wooden seat was empty, waiting for worshipers who would never come. Not that it was any of my concern anymore. The Mayfields sat up front.
I had worn the blue dress at Henry’s suggestion. The one that made my hair look like copper. Brooch attached firmly at the collar, with a tight bodice and long skirt that rustled when I moved. Walking down the aisle to the Mayfield pew, the fabric was so loud it drowned out most of the whispers. But it couldn’t save me from the stares.
I’d put on another layer of powder before we left the house, but I knew the bruise was still visible. Or maybe it was more than that. Here was Melissa Baile, parading around like a Mayfield. Who did she think she was? I kept one hand firmly on Henry’s arm; the other shook in the folds of my dress. I’d never been more relieved to hear the preacher’s command to grab our hymnals. Losing myself in the gentle singing made me forget everything else . . . at least for a time.
The sermon was short. Something about the fruits of the Spirit. It seemed longer when I sat in the back. But before I knew it, I was standing again, ready to make the long march back down the aisle and into the stares of the congregation. This walk was slower, though. Everyone wanted a piece of Henry Mayfield. And he was only too happy to oblige.
“Mr. Mayfield, happy Sunday to you!” Mr. Taylor, the town councilman, shook my husband’s hand, flashing a gold watch in the process. He didn’t push it back under his sleeve.
“And to you. Where’s your wife this morning?”
“Bah,” he said, waving his arm. The watch flashed again. “Home resting her feet. Due any day now, you remember?”
Henry nodded in a way that indicated he did not remember. “Of course, of course.”
“Where’s your father this morning?”
“Laid up in bed with a head cold. Been pushing himself too hard, like he always does.”
“This dust makes every little sniffle a big deal. Better safe than sorry, I say. Please, give him—”
“Mr. Mayfield! Lovely to see you this fine morning!” Another man—balding, bearded, with skin way too pale for the Oklahoma sun—pushed his way into our circle. “I was just telling Pastor Brownstone how great it was . . .”
I held Henry’s arm and smiled, playing my part. But whatever it was the newcomer had found so great about Pastor Brownstone got lost in the noise. It was so hot in this dress, and there were so many people. Had there always been this many people at St. Paul’s? And why didn’t I recognize any of them? The Bailes left and a whole new town moved in, all of them strangers. Except for . . .
“Doris!”
Henry’s arm tensed beneath my hand.
Mr. Taylor stopped in midsentence.
I’d interrupted him. It was bad enough I hadn’t been listening, but now I’d interrupted him. The town councilman.
My face flushed. “I am so sorry, Mr. Taylor, Henry . . .” My voice trailed off as I looked at the other man. The newcomer. The one whose name I hadn’t bothered to learn. “Um, gentlemen. Forgive my manners, but there’s a . . . ladies’ matter I simply must attend to.”
Mr. Taylor waved his hand dismissively. “Of course, Mrs. Mayfield. Our business is of no interest to women anyway.”
I tried to release my grip on Henry’s arm. Instead, he pulled me back toward him. His kiss on my cheek was filled with every word he didn’t say. I was to hurry.
I rushed over to Doris McIntosh. Her family had lived down the road from mine for years. Our fathers shared a tractor. Our mothers shared everything else. Or at least they had before. Mrs. McIntosh had not been keen on Helen. But Doris and I had not let that stop us from being friends. I em
braced her, breathing in the scent of old towels.
As I pulled away, her gaze washed over my cheeks but did not linger. In fact, she did not look at me at all, preferring instead the frayed carpet beneath our feet.
“You seem well,” she said flatly.
“And you.”
“How’s married life? Ain’t seen you around town much.” There was a hint of accusation behind her words.
“I . . . I try to stay busy at home.” A drop of sweat rolled down my back.
She nodded, revealing a smudge of dirt under her chin. She still did not look at me.
“Where’s your mother? I don’t believe I saw her this morning. I’d love to say hello.”
She shrugged. “Ain’t feeling well. Coughing. Fever. You know her. It’s a sin to miss church, she says. But she just couldn’t do it today. Can’t keep the dust out of the house long enough to get her better.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, frowning. “I know how it is.”
Doris raised her chin, meeting my eyes for the first time.
Did she think I’d forgotten already? The dust, the sand, the never-ending dirt. Did she think the Mayfields somehow lived in a sterile bubble? “Well, please send her my well-wishes,” I said quickly. “I pray she feels better soon.”
She smoothed her dress. It was obviously an old one of her mother’s she’d tried to make new again. She was practically swimming in it. Patches of skin were visible through the worn material.
I crossed my arms over my own dress, ashamed. I never used to notice her clothes.
“Well, you better go,” she said quietly. “Looks like he’s waiting.”
“Right,” I stammered. “Of course. Well . . . it was lovely to see you, Doris. Please, stop by the house. Anytime. I’d love to catch up.”
Behind her nod, I saw the truth. She’d never stop by. And even though a part of me wanted her to, I was relieved. I didn’t want to think of what Henry would say if he found a McIntosh in his kitchen. And I didn’t want to think of what she’d say if she saw my new house. My new life.
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