Calico Horses and the Patchwork Trail

by Lorraine Turner

  Milla sat in the jeep with Flannel as her father went into his office. He had received a phone call as they were about to go meet the collie’s owners, but now they would be a bit late. Flannel was racing from side to side trying to decide which window had the best view of the mustangs gathered in the nearby corrals. She was pawing at the window, wanting to be let out, but Milla knew she would run among the wild horses and that was forbidden. Curious collies and wild mustangs were not a good combination. Horses defended themselves with sharp hooves and quick kicks that could kill a dog in an instant. She ran her hand reassuringly over Flannel, trying to calm her. The collie glanced at Milla with her tongue out, panting, and then barked loudly at the herd. “I bet she’s never even seen horses before,” Milla thought. Flannel was sitting very still watching an Appaloosa, stubbornly unwilling to share the hay on the ground, put its head down chasing away the other horses. Milla wanted to put a leash on the dog and go for a walk, but her father had been very stern when he told her to stay put. Why do adults always say that they will only be a few minutes when it’s always so much longer? she thought. And how come if I’m a few minutes late I get hollered at? These rules seemed unfair to Milla as she twisted her hair around her fingers while the collie whined in the backseat.

  Milla thought back to the days when sitting in a car with her grandmother was so much fun—how Grandma would tell stories of things that seemed so magical. She would listen intently as the stories came alive; it was easy to imagine the places and animals Grandma described. Minutes would melt away as Grandma wove a tale about the horses of the Calico Mountains. Each story was an adventure about the many bands that lived out on the desert. She would point to a herd grazing off in the distance and call them by name. Were they true or just stories, Milla wondered. That was the most mysterious part.

  Her dad explained that although Grandma had passed away, one day Milla would see her again. How, thought Milla? Is this a story her dad was making up or was it real? Like the many adventures of the mustangs that Grandma had told her, was this just another story? Grandma seemed quite serious when she told the tales. She always told Milla the truth, even when other adults seemed to shy away from a subject—like how her mom died when Milla was only four and why some people called her dad a wild horse killer. She thought back to her mother and the memories she held so dearly…of the blanket her mother had crocheted for her that she still slept with. Would she see them again? she wondered. She thought of the night last summer when her dad came to tell her that Grandma had fallen asleep and was not going to wake up—how she had wanted to go and see Grandma and although he said no at first, he finally agreed. Grandma was so beautiful; she seemed to be smiling that morning. But she was in a different place now and Milla wondered what it would be like to just sit and talk to her again. She’s happy and at rest, her dad told her. She was happy with me, too, Milla thought. Could she really be happier? Yes, the thought came. Most definitely…yes.

  “Ugh, come on, Dad,” she said, willing him to come out. Flannel looked over at the building, as if understanding, and then the door opened.

  “Finally!” Milla watched her father and Casey, one of the wranglers, step out onto the porch. The two men continued talking and Milla rolled her eyes. Enough, she thought, as she opened the door of the jeep to go stand beside her father. Flannel pushed through the small opening in the doorframe and ran barking toward the herd. The horses were startled and began to kick and run. Milla’s heart sank as she watched a stallion rear up about to stomp the unsuspecting collie.

  “Stay back,” her dad shouted as he and Casey ran toward the galloping horses, trying to catch the dog. The collie rolled out of the way of the rearing horse and raced out after the now panicking herd. Clouds of dust covered the scene and it was hard for Milla to see what was happening. She sat in the jeep knowing this was all her fault.

  “Milla!” came a holler from her dad. “Milla, come and bring me the leash!”

  She grabbed it and ran toward her father, who was holding Flannel by her collar. The dog twisted and turned, trying to yank away, longing to continue the chase. Although the dog wasn’t injured, Casey was standing beside a mare that had been crushed in the commotion and was now limping. Milla’s dad clipped the leash onto the dog’s collar and handed it to her. He nodded to the jeep and Milla quietly obeyed. She fought back tears, feeling miserable. After a while she looked up and saw her dad waving goodbye to Casey. She quickly flipped down her sunglasses hoping to hide her tears.

  “Keep a good hold on her while I open the door,” he said. Milla nodded and gripped the leash tightly as he got in. Flannel sat panting and wagging her tail, apparently very happy with herself.

  “I’m so sorry, Dad,” said Milla. “I didn’t realize she would jump out when I opened the door.”

  “It’s okay,” he said in a stern voice, glancing over at Casey, who was leading the limping mare away.

  “I think that horse will be fine, but the dog could have been killed. Those horses are dangerous, Milla, and you need to understand when I tell you to stay put, I have my reasons.”

  “I know, I know,” she whimpered. “I was just getting bored sitting here and I wanted to get out of the jeep.”

  “Well, next time…” he said as he petted the collie, “you need to pay attention and listen when I tell you to do something, because just maybe I’m doing it for your own protection. I’m not always able to explain all the whys and how-comes, Milla…but you’re pretty lucky this dog didn’t get hurt today. Can you imagine how the owners would feel if we showed up without her?”

  “Ugh,” Milla groaned, as she was sharply reminded of where they were going. She felt her stomach tighten and suddenly her mouth went dry when she remembered that she would meet the new girl today. The few days with Flannel had been so wonderful and now it would all come to an end. She thought about the words her father had spoken: “Next time.”

  Would there be a next time? she wondered. Well, maybe there wouldn’t be a dog sitting beside her as she waited in the jeep but he was right about one thing—there would surely be a next time when “I’ll only be a few more minutes” was promised. She tried not to think of the new girl who would be playing with Flannel or the empty summer days that she used to spend with her Grandma. The collie seemed to read her thoughts and rested her chin on Milla’s shoulder. She patted the dog’s head and just as she did…her dad patted hers.

  Chapter 16

  Shannon sat in the back seat watching her dad walk into the firehouse. Kelsie sat next to her, wagging his tail. Brian was unscrewing a cap on a can labeled WD-40 that her dad kept in the glove box. Too many times had she warned Brian to stay away from things that were dangerous and too many times had he ignored her. What’s the use? she thought. He always does stupid stuff and I get scolded anyway. She looked at the other kids sitting in their trucks; their dads were all volunteer fireman, too. She waved to them and they waved back. Kids of fireman were used to sitting in cars. You just never knew when the radio would blast a tone that meant, “Hurry to the firehouse—there’s an emergency! Come quick and bring your gear!” Today wasn’t an emergency; it was more like a casual meeting.

  Shannon and Brian were on their way to their grandmother’s because their mom had to work and their dad was fixing the deck. Summer was fun and all, but they never knew where they would find themselves. Sometimes they went to camp and sometimes they stayed home and sometimes they went to the beach with a babysitter. This summer already felt odd to Shannon without Carrie to hang out with. Just then Brian began to cry.

  Her dad walked back to the car and glanced at Shannon while she wiped her little brother’s face with a tissue. Brian had accidentally squirted something into his eyes when he was fiddling with the spray can and Shannon wasn’t about to tell her dad.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yep,” she smiled. “You know Brian…always crying about something.” Brian shot her a glare and moved away, hugging Kelsie tightly.


  “Lighten up, buddy,” their dad said. “Let’s go get a burger.” That’s how it always was with her dad. Mom would serve them cut-up vegetables, hummus, and fruit, while dad would buy them pizza, burgers, and fries.

  “When can I go visit Carrie?” Shannon asked.

  “Talk to Mom.”

  “She said to ask you.”

  “Well, I’m not sure. Carrie and her mom need to settle in before they have any visitors, Shannon. Maybe next spring.”

  “Next spring?” Shannon cried in disbelief.

  Brian spilled his soda onto Shannon’s lap and she screamed and was about to shove him hard when her dad stopped her.

  “I’m thirsty,” Brian cried. “I want more soda.” Their dad cleaned up the mess by throwing a roll of paper towels onto the backseat.

  “I’m all sticky now, Dad,” said Shannon in disgust.

  “Easy to fix,” he replied. “We’re headed to your grandmother’s pool.” At that Brian jumped up and down in his seat, Kelsie started barking, and her dad blasted the radio to drown out the noise.

  Shannon missed Carrie today more than ever. Little brothers could be such a pain and no one ever understood her frustration except Carrie, her best friend who had always been there for her, who helped distract Shannon from the unfairness of being the older sister who was supposed to somehow make her little brother behave. Whenever she and Carrie were hanging out in her bedroom, Brian would always interrupt but Carrie would make up silly games, sending Brian all over the house. They called it Brian’s Scavenger Hunt and they would make up wild, outrageous things to do that would take him forever. They would tell him he needed to do things in a specific order, like, 1) Go flush the toilet three times, 2) Hop on one foot from the kitchen to the big window in the living room and then back again, 3) Go out in the garage and line up all of the boots and shoes from biggest to littlest, 4) Brush Kelsie until he is real smooth and shiny, and so on and so on. Sometimes, if they were lucky, he would find something more interesting to do and not bother them.

  Her dad said goodbye as he drove away. Brian raced to the big tire swing hanging from a tree in the back yard. Shannon tossed her backpack onto the kitchen table and gave her grandmother a hug. Her grandmother smelled like baking and she always gave warm embraces that felt so reassuring. Grandmom never ever let go of the hug first and Shannon would soak it up with her head buried and arms wide, absorbing that special attention that was private and unshared with her little brother.

  “Any news yet?” asked her grandmother, who knew how much she was missing Carrie. Shannon shook her head and sighed.

  “You will.” Her grandmother walked into the other room. “Come see what I’m making.”

  Shannon was not in the mood to look at one of her grandmother’s sewing projects. She was feeling miserable and her pants were still sticky and she just wanted to hang out with Carrie. She rounded the corner into the little sewing room and stopped abruptly as her grandmother held something up. She stood in awe of this beautiful work of art. It was the beginning of what appeared to be a blanket made out of squares delicately stitched by hand. It seemed oddly familiar.

  “What’s this?” she asked, touching the tiny squares of blues, greens, lavenders, and golds.

  “Do you like it?

  “It’s beautiful, but what do you call it?” Shannon felt the tiny stitches in the fabric.

  “It’s a patchwork quilt. I can teach you to make one, if you’d like. You sew all the tiny squares together and it makes a quilt.”

  “So all of the flowers and colors become one design?” Shannon asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Did you invent this design?”

  “Well,” said her grandmother, “this form of needlework has been handed down through the generations. Older women taught younger women how to make warm blankets for cold winters out of scraps of old clothes or unused bits of fabric. See, it’s easy to sew with a little practice and before you know it you’ve made something lovely from old scraps.”

  “Wow,” said Shannon, now utterly amazed.

  “You take bits of colorful fabric and you fit them together and when it’s all finished you end up with this,” her grandmother said as she unfolded a completed quilt from within a nest of tissue paper.

  Shannon smiled as she looked at the masterpiece her grandmother was now proudly holding. I really do want to make one of these, she thought, looking at the unfinished blanket draped over a chair. It reminded her of a puzzle missing a few pieces. Her grandmother seemed to read her thoughts and wrapped the small blanket over Shannon’s shoulders.

  “You can make it all come together, Shannon, all on your own. This will help you stay busy when you’re lonely, and when you’re finished, you’ll have something to be proud of—your own special design which you made from forgotten fabric. Your very own Calico Patchwork Quilt.”

  Chapter 17

  Saddlecrest, Nevada – Save Our Mustangs (SOM) announced today that a palomino mare injured during the round-up was put out of its misery by rifle, leaving her young foal orphaned. A colt that collapsed and died after a helicopter chase was also among the first victims of the wild horse round-up in the Calico Mountains. In addition to the fatalities, a black stallion was injured Tuesday as he fought to avoid capture by jumping a six-foot fence and crashing through barbed wire. An eyewitness report was given to this publication along with photographs. The officials in charge of the round-up had this to say…

  Sam pushed a thumbtack to straighten the flyer that one of her guests had recently posted. It was part of a news article that had been highlighted in bright yellow and pasted on fluorescent green paper. Below the article in bold letters were the words: JOIN “SAVE OUR MUSTANGS” AND BE THE VOICE OF THE WILD.

  How sad, thought Sam, realizing she was only reading a portion of the editorial. The next paragraph trailed off the page in mid-sentence. There must be more to this story. Surely the purpose of the round-ups wasn’t to deliberately harm horses, was it? This news item was from a gathering last winter. Some of the members of Save Our Mustangs were meeting at the B&B to boost their membership and bring awareness to the problems facing the wild mustangs and burros. It was an ongoing dilemma, as people argued the best course of action for the herds that roamed the range. The wild animals, of course, had no say in the matter and so people tried to speak for them. That’s the biggest problem with this entire mess, thought Sam. If only the horses and burros could speak. They had their own language and a unique way of communicating but would people ever stop to listen?

  She heard a car door slam. Peering out the large picture window she spied the New Jersey tags. Finally, she thought, hurrying out to greet her best friend. Brenda was crying tears of joy as Sam gave her a bear hug. The girl got out of the car, grumpily looking everywhere for her collie.

  “Hi, Carrie,” said Sam, holding out her arms to greet her. Carrie allowed herself to be slightly squeezed and quickly backed away.

  “Where’s Flannel?” she asked, frowning. “Is she inside?”

  “She’s on her way. You’ll see her very soon,” Sam said, pointing toward the mountains. “Oh, I’m so excited you’re both finally here!” Brenda and Sam chatted and laughed as they began unloading the car. “Grab some of your stuff, Carrie,” Brenda said as she lugged a large suitcase up the front steps.

  Carrie was not one bit happy. Her mother promised that she would be reunited with her dog as soon as they reached Saddlecrest, but Flannel was nowhere around and nobody seemed the least bit bothered by it. What did Sam mean when she said, “She’s on her way”—and what was she pointing at, Carrie thought, looking around. The multicolored mountains she had seen earlier had turned a different shade now that the sun was much higher in the sky.

  She felt stiff all over and her body ached from the long ride. Carrie was so angry she felt like screaming and so she began stomping her feet. “This is so typical,” she said, kicking a small rock and watching it skitter beneath the porch. She looked at the
faded sign hanging on rusty hinges from the post nearby. The red wooden sign was decorated with an emblem of two spotted horses. The rearing stallions faced each other under black letters reading, “Musical Mustangs Bed & Breakfast.” Carrie thought it looked old and worn and hoped her bedroom was a bit classier. Just then her mom called out a window. “Come see where we’re going to live, Carrie. You’re not gonna believe it!”

  Carrie clomped noisily up the front steps, carrying her overloaded navy blue duffle bag and orange backpack. The backpack held all of her personal items that even her mom wasn’t allowed to touch, like old birthday cards, photos, a few toys, some books, her shell collection, and her most prized possession of all—her journal. She followed her mother’s voice and made her way down a hallway lined in photographs of animals she’d never seen before. She stopped to look at a photo of a baby mountain lion. The frame was made of rough wood and a small square of fabric was dangling from a corner. She lifted the fabric and looked closely. It was a square of green cloth with tiny pink flowers. Carrie’s face burned in embarrassment, as she knew her mom must have told Sam about her dreams. She didn’t think this was such a funny joke and she put the swatch of fabric back on the photo frame, pretending to ignore it, and quickly found her way to a bungalow that was connected to the rear of the B&B.

  Carrie saw her mom and Sam out back through a screened door. They were standing in a patio decorated with outdoor furniture and lined with big pots of thorny plants. She looked around and noticed the wooden floors, a fireplace, and a large coffee table where her mom had piled some boxes. This must be the living room, she thought, seeing the sofa, with its matching easy chair and large TV tucked into a corner hutch. “But where’s my room?” she wondered, plopping the heavy duffle bag onto the couch and heading toward the rear of the bungalow. The long hallway led to a tidy, small bedroom that was bright and sunny. The walls were fashioned with wooden planks the color of amber, dotted with large brown knots. The windows looked out toward the mountains and were trimmed with curtains made of strings woven together forming a type of pattern that reminded Carrie of a basket. Over the bed there was a large painting of a sparkling blue lake with a few deer drinking water along the shoreline. A hint of a bird was painted into the powder-blue sky and way off in the distance the wispy lavender and pink mountains looked almost magical. Carrie stared at the scene, wishing she were an artist. She slowly walked around the room, growing more curious of her new surroundings. A built-in bookcase held a few shelves filled with a collection of ceramic horses that must have belonged to Sam. She picked up one of the horses and examined it carefully. It was a galloping white horse with black-and-brown spots and a flying mane looking over its shoulder. She returned the statue to its place and began studying the collection one by one. They were about six inches tall and each figurine was painted in a realistic style, capturing their action. There were galloping mustangs, rearing stallions, a few bucking broncos, mares quietly grazing, and one mother with her newborn foal. Carrie loved looking at the tiny knick-knacks. They reminded her of her Aunt Lucy’s collection of stained glass lighthouses hanging on the kitchen window with tiny suction cups. She turned from the ceramic horses and looked around the room at the furniture.