“I stayed put. A whole lot of whispering and whickering went on, and then Bill said to me, ‘Well, you got a bitty chance. But I will say he is not real pleased.’
“‘It’ll be just fine,’ I said, but now, right up next to Lightning, I was feeling that nervous. One, he was a big horse, bigger’n I’d thought. And a sight bigger’n that old catfish. Two, I was all of a sudden not wanting to look stupid in front of Bill. Just in case this didn’t work out quite the way I had things planned.
“But if my mama didn’t raise no fool, she didn’t raise no coward, neither, and she was always preaching, ‘The only thing to fear is fear its own self.’ So I took a deep breath, held out my hand for Lightning to nudge at, then settled my boot in the left stirrup and swung my leg up and over.
“We walked two steps together, Lightning and me, and then he seen Bill standing off to his left. Which must have been about the time he realized that I was the one on his back. He took one startled look over his shoulder, then bucked his back feet so high, there was no way in tarnation that I could have held on. I was up and out of that saddle afore I could blink.
“Remember when I told you Bill took that fireworks tail up north? Well, now I was seeing what he must have seen on his trip. I was so high in the sky, I went right on through the middle of the afternoon clouds gathering to make us some well-needed rain, skinned on out the top, and thought I’d burn my flailing fingertips on the sun.
“And then I started down, straight on down, gravity pulling at me the whole way. When I bottomed out of them clouds, I could see Bill and Lightning both looking up, seeming real interested in what was happening to me. Then Bill reached up and took his rope off Lightning’s saddle horn, done something fancy with some knots, looked at me again, and swung. That lasso sailed up like it had a life of its own, sailed right past me, and then settled around my shoulders, neat as a wedding veil floats over a bride.
“Next thing I knowed, I was being gentled back to earth, brought down like a favorite quilt being took off the laundry line on a quiet Sunday.
“I landed, and my feet did a quick-step version of the Cotton-Eyed Joe to help keep me upright. I had just about caught my breath when Bill come up to me, coiling his rope, and said, ‘Ma’am, that were the bravest thing I ever did see. Will you marry me?’
“I looked into them blue eyes with the laugh crinkles, and I done thought a long time, long enough that Bill fidgeted some and Lightning whickered at me. I was wanting to say yes, but I didn’t never plan on being tied to any man. So I said, ‘Thank you, Bill, but I got to think on that.’
“Bill, he said, ‘Hmm,’ Lightning snorted a horse snort, and away they went.
“I thought that was that and I never’d see either of them again. But the next morning, bright and early, who should be knocking on my front door but Bill? He stood on my porch, all gentlemanly. His hat was in one hand, and in his other was a basket of the biggest, reddest strawberries I ever done seen.
“‘Little present for you, ma’am,’ he said, sounding kinda bashful.
“What could I do? I invited him in, made him coffee, sliced up some bread, and sat down to breakfast. Lightning watched us through the window. After we was done eating, Bill said, ‘Ma’am, will you marry me?’
“But there was something held me back, and all I could say was ‘Thank you, Bill, but I got to think on that.’
“Next afternoon, up to my house comes Isabelle Swann, the town’s brand-new postmistress. My place was starting to look like a watering hole in the middle of the prairie, with all these visitors. Isabelle was carrying this big book, and soon as I seen it, I knew it was the brand-new Wishing Book. If you ain’t seen one, let me tell you, there’s everything in there from stoves to dishes, from tools to dresses.
“Isabelle, she and I had talked a little and she knowed I was looking for a posthole digger so I could fix that falling-down fence around the corral, so she’d brought that Wishing Book right out. We was sitting on the porch, drinking cold tea, when she opened the book to a page of white, white wedding dresses.
“‘Must have marked the wrong page,’ she said. ‘These aren’t posthole diggers.’ Her red scarf fluttered in the hot breeze. The mirrors on the scarf flashed in the sun. ‘Huh. Oh well, this one’s pretty, don’t you think, Sue?’ Her finger and that scarf both tapped a picture of a light, lacy-looking thing, long and bouncy with hoops and a bustle.
“I got to tell you, I’ve always thought both hoopskirts and bustles was the most useless things ever. And I got to admit, I still thought so. But there was something about that dress, yes sir, and damn if all of a sudden didn’t I want both a useless bustle and a useless hoopskirt! I sighed, ‘Oh, that is downright lovely.’
“Two days later, at dusk time when you can just start to count fireflies, Bill showed up at my house again. This time he was carrying a bunch of bluebonnets, the same color blue as his eyes. I invited him to sit a spell while I put them flowers in some water. When I come back, Bill says, ‘Ma’am, will you marry me?’ and Lightning, he whickered and dropped his muzzle over the porch rail.
“I thought on the strawberries and the bluebonnets. I thought on trying to ride Lightning and Bill saving me. I thought on Isabelle and the Wishing Book. And I thought, Third time’s the charm, just like in the fairy stories.
“What could I say but yes? ‘But there is one thing I need to do before I can marry you, Bill.’
“‘And what would that be?’
“‘Get me that storybook wedding dress I done saw in the Wishing Book.’
“Bill allowed as to how he guessed he could wait a bit, and I hurried into the house to grab my mail-order book. Now, you order some things from the Wishing Book and it does take an amount of time to get to you. And, tell you true, the wait for that dress was a good thing. Gave me and Bill some few weeks to think this wedding thing through, make sure we was doing the right thing. Although, ladies, you’ll understand when I say that after that first kiss, I was past being anything but sure.
“Took about four weeks for my dress to arrive through the Wells Fargo, and by then Bill and I’d become right accustomed to the idea of a wedding. So it weren’t no problem, once that dress was there, to go right on ahead with the thing.
“We decided to ride Lightning to the church, it being such a fine fall day, and Bill being of the belief that as long as he was riding with me and Lightning, we’d both be just fine. But as soon as I went up on that horse’s back, what did he do but buck all over again? This time, though, Bill grabbed for me, which kept me from flying any higher than the church steeple before I came back to earth and bounced, once, on my bustle. The bustle bounce tossed me back up toward Bill, who caught me on the upswing and settled me in the saddle once again. Guess you never know what’ll come in handy. He and Lightning must have had a little talk while I was in the sky, because this time, Lightning walked, sedate as an old draft horse, straight on down the road and then right on into the church.
“Seemed like Lightning and me, we’d finally come to an understanding.”
When Sue comes back to the waiting area, she’s jubilant. Not only did she get out there and tell her story, she knows for a fact that Lightning approved of the telling. He and Toby are standing shoulder to knee on opposite sides of the tent wall, and they’re both nodding their heads. And the people in the audience? They look pleased, happy. They’re even clapping. For her! Bill would be so proud.
Sue leans against Lightning, truly relaxed for the first time since she’s come to the market. Rosey, the last teller, comes by and says, “No magic there. None at all. Only flying catfish, talking horses, and love, the biggest magic of all.” She laughs a small laugh. “That was wonderful.”
Rosey feels the confidence spell curled up in her mind, a little something extra just in case. She looks at Mama Inez, her grandmother, who nods encouragement. Samson swirls once around her head and then flies off to wait with Franz and Roberto. Sue smiles at her, puts her hands on her shoulders, and tur
ns her toward the telling area. Lightning breathes into her hair, and the next thing she knows, she’s sitting on the gold teller’s cushion, ready to go.
Rosey and the Wolf
“I’M WALKING THROUGH THE woods on my way to my gram’s house, and I’m wearing red. Bright red. Think of just-picked homegrown tomatoes. The heritage kind.
“It’s midsummer. The woods are every shade of green you can imagine, and a few other greens as well. Everyone always tells you not to wander alone through the woods, because they all know, for sure, that the head choppers will get you. This is something I’ve never really believed, but still, head choppers or not, the woods can be a dangerous place. And here I am, decked out in my mother’s best red shawl.
“I love this shawl. It’s got fringe, and tiny brass bells, and even though I don’t need a shawl in the middle of July, I’ve lifted it and left before anyone knows it’s gone. Which just shows that I have no common sense.
“So—here I go to Gram’s. Over the river and through the woods, sweating in a stolen shawl dyed the reddest red you’ve ever seen. I’m like a walking target against all that green.
“And I’m at the midpoint of my trip. The place where, if you decide to go back, it’s going to take exactly the same amount of time as it’ll take if you just keep moving on ahead. The sun is dappling through the trees, the butterflies are flitting through the wildflowers, a bird even sits on my shoulder. He’s a cardinal, bigger than normal, with an orange beak with two yellow stripes. He stays for so long that I give him a name. I call him Samson, and I decide to sing for him. ‘The Golden Vanity.’ It’s a tedious kind of song, but there are lots of verses, which keeps your mind occupied. I’ve hit the point where the cabin boy dives overboard, and all this singing has kept me from digging into Gram’s basket, has kept me from adding cookie theft to my sins.
“Singing. Butterflies. Sunshine. Birds. Big man in the center of the path. Which of the above doesn’t belong?
“I know, right away. And not only is it a big man, it’s Eric Marston, one of the nastiest guys in town. Eric is only a few years older than me, but if they’d kept him in school, he’d be a few years behind me. He works out, but he never works. And he’s not just lazy, he’s criminally stupid. In and out of the juvenile court system enough that I think he knows all the judges and bailiffs by name. Theft. Breaking and entering. Drinking. I’m almost positive that his last birthday dropped him out of juvie and into adult, so I’m hoping he realizes that assault is a major, go-to-jail kind of thing.
“Ignore him, or say something? I’m sweating, and now it’s not just from the heat. I want to take off this dumb red shawl and tie it around my waist, but I’m not about to stop walking, put down my basket, and take time for a little primping.
“‘Rosey,’ says Eric, and I cringe. Believe me when I tell you it’s not what he says, it’s how he says it. Like I’m his best friend in the whole wide world. Like we could get cozy and snack on the goodies in Gram’s basket, sit under a tree, and have a little party.
“‘Hey, Eric,’ I say, all business, and I keep on walking.
“He steps in front of me. He moves fast. Predatory. Like a wolf. Samson, startled, flies up to an overhanging branch.
“‘Where you going?’ he asks.
“I smile, a tight, forced little smile. ‘Just across the river.’
“‘I could walk with you.’
“‘Oh, gee, Eric, you don’t need to do that. I mean, you must have something to do that—oh, I don’t know. Needs to be done?’
“‘Rosey. Don’t be silly. You can’t walk through here alone. With that red on, you stand out like a sore thumb.’
“I hate this shawl with a sudden passion. I will never steal it again. I will never steal anything again.
“My inane response to Eric is ‘It’s my mom’s. The shawl.’
“He grins, and now he not only moves like a wolf, he looks like one, too. ‘Looks real good on you.’
“‘Right. Well, see you, Eric. Got to get going. My gram’s waiting for me.’ And I speed up my walk. I look like I’m racewalking, and maybe I am. Racing to get as far away from Eric as I can.
“Eric paces me. ‘Where’s your granny live?’
“‘Powton. So, see? I don’t have far to go. I’ll be just fine.’ And I smile that tight little smile again.
“We’re almost to the bridge that crosses the Spring-hill River. It’s a picturesque, narrow little bridge built more for decoration than transportation, because who’s stupid enough to want to walk through the woods to actually get somewhere? But Powton—the edge of it, anyway—is in sight as soon as you get to the top of the bridge. And Gram is on the edge of town. She likes living at the edges of places, my gram.
“Not far.
“Almost there.
“Three feet.
“‘Rosey,’ Eric says, and he moves fast and blocks the bridge. ‘Come on, sit and rest. You’re walking real fast. You’re all red, you’re so hot, moving so fast. Isn’t there something to drink in that basket?’
“‘No, Eric. I really don’t think there is. Excuse me.’
“‘Looks real heavy. I can carry it for you.’
“‘Not necessary. I’m fine.’
“‘Aww, Rosey. I just want to keep you company.’
“When I think of it, it’s like a flash of light. A flash I should have had as soon as Eric started to follow me. I put the basket down, off to the side, and stretch my arms a bit. Samson settles back on my shoulder, red on red. ‘You know, Eric, you’re right. This basket is getting kind of heavy,’ and I look at him, waiting.
“As soon as he steps over to his right, steps over to pick up my basket, I hit the bridge, running like my life depends on it. Maybe it does. Samson flies ahead of me, urging me on. Behind me, I hear Eric yelling, ‘Rosey! Hey, Rosey! Wait up!’ He does not sound happy.
“I do not wait. Up the bridge, down the other side, that’s all I need to be safe. My feet slam against the wood of the bridge, slam so hard I raise puffs of dust.
“Eric is behind me. Unbelievably, when I grab a look over my shoulder, I see he’s carrying my basket. Now I know what’s clinking: the glass jars full of strawberry-rhubarb preserves, canned tomatoes, apricot jam, and Mom’s prize-winning garlic dill pickles. What a mess if they break.
“But fast, Rosey, fast. Broken glass is the least of my problems. I pant, my red shawl slips, its bells jangle, and from behind me comes the rattle of jar against jar.
“‘Gonna get you, Rosey,’ breathes Eric, and he’s not even trying to pretend he’s my friend, not anymore.
“The curve of the ornamental bridge is higher than I remember. I grab the handrail to help pull myself along, and something digs into my palm. Splinter. Long splinter, and it hurts. I just keep going. Samson wings around my head.
“Almost to the top. Almost have Powton in view. Then, behind me, a change in the rattling. I spare a glance over my shoulder, and I’m just in time to see the thing that might save me. Eric trips, and down goes the basket. Down goes Eric. He’s so much closer than I was letting myself believe. I hear him swear as he hits, full length, on his stomach. The bridge quakes. And then, for the whisper of a minute, I feel the tips of his fingers catch on the back of my soft red shoe.
“Just as those fingers start to slip down my heel, I stomp as hard as a person can stomp while running, and I hear him swear again. Maybe those shoes aren’t so soft after all.
“I reach the top of the bridge and see Powton spread out before me. I look back one more time before I start to run down the other side, the side where gravity will work in my favor. Eric is halfway up, on his hands and knees. Won’t be long till he’s after me again. I do a sprinter’s kick, and I go. It’s all downhill from here.
“Bam! I knock, just once, on Gram’s door. When she doesn’t answer immediately, I try the knob. Open. I go right on in. By the time Gram comes into her tiny living room, I’m bent double, dragging air into my lungs in hungry gulps. Samson si
ts on the mantel, his red chest rising and falling with fast bird breaths.
“‘Rosey! What’s the matter?’
“‘Eric Marston’—gasp—‘in the woods’—gasp—‘following me.’
“‘Oh, Rosey. I…’
“I wait for the lecture; the never-go-into-the-woods-alone lecture. I wait, and I breathe.
“What I get is ‘I’m so sorry. A girl ought to be able to walk in the woods.’ Gram sounds angry. But not at me.
“I take my hands off my knees. I breathe more like a regular person now. I look at Gram in disbelief and say, ‘You’re not going to warn me about the head choppers?’
“Gram snorts. ‘Ridiculous. Silly stories for silly children.’ She looks straight at me. ‘You, Rosey, are not a silly child. You are the kind of person smart enough to know a fairy tale when you hear one.’
“I think of all the times my mother has warned me about the dangers of life. Dangers that she sees everywhere. Believe me when I tell you that ‘head choppers’ is only the smallest part of her litany. ‘Are you sure, absolutely sure, that you’re related to my mother?’
“‘Positive,’ Gram says, and she gives me a grin.
“Gram’s door bams again, and this time I know it’s not me.
“‘Rosey.’ Eric’s voice is low and growly. ‘You forgot your basket.’
“I cover the space between where I’m standing and the door in one balletic leap. The door’s just cracking open. I shove against the wood so fast, with so much force, that the damn splinter goes even deeper into my hand. I yelp, but that’s all I do. The door slams so hard, the whole cottage shakes. I twist the lock to the right and watch and wait to see what will happen next.
“‘Rosey, what are you doing?’ Gram says.
“‘Keeping him out,’ I breathe.
“I don’t hear a thing from outside, not now, so I face Gram and say, ‘That’s Eric Marston,’ and it comes out like a low-level wail.
“‘Yes,’ Gram agrees, ‘that’s what you said earlier. Now, what’s wrong with your hand?’
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