CHAPTER • 1
Being grounded was the pits. Even though it was her own fault for almost running away, she had come back. They hadn’t had to call the police or anything. Darla Jean Randall, DJ to anyone who wanted to remain on her good side, stared at the telephone and tried to forget the dumb things she’d done. She couldn’t even call her best friend, Amy Yamamoto, since the phone was off limits, too. Amy could be dying from chicken pox for all DJ knew—as if her mother cared.
Now . . . if someone called her, would it be okay to talk? DJ shook her head, her wavy, golden ponytail slapping from side to side. She’d never been grounded like this before. And the few times she had been, Gran, her mother’s mother, had been there to clarify the rules. Or bend them.
The thought of Gran turned the ache into a pain, one that seemed to surround her heart and squeeze. Last Saturday—three days and twelve hours ago—Gran had married soon-to-be-retired Police Captain Joe Crowder. Right now they were somewhere off the coast of Mexico, living it up on a honeymoon cruise.
DJ pushed herself out of Gran’s winged recliner and scuffed her bare feet all the way up the stairs to her bedroom. She crawled into bed and pulled the covers up over her head. Maybe it was a good thing school was starting pretty soon after all.
Pedaling her bike past Amy’s house in the early morning brought on another pang of loneliness, as if the again empty house she’d left behind weren’t enough. Is this what latchkey kids feel like? Am I a latchkey kid? She fingered the key she wore on a chain around her neck. She snorted and pedaled harder. At fourteen she was pretty grown-up to be called a kid of any kind.
Amy had to get over the chicken pox in the next couple days. Then at least they could talk on the way back and forth to the Academy where they both worked. Maybe if she could shoot the breeze with Amy, she wouldn’t miss Gran so much.
The horses nickering down the aisle brought the first smile of the morning to her mouth. She put two fingers between her lips and blew, the whistle echoing off the rafters of the low red barn. The nickers turned to whinnies, and where the stalls’ upper doors had been opened, her equine friends nodded to her.
“Hey, you about broke my eardrums.” Hilary Jones, one of the older riders whom DJ looked up to, strode out of the tack room, English saddle over her arm.
“Sorry.” The grin DJ shot her made the apology an out-and-out fib.
“Sure you are. And so are all your friends. You riding today?”
DJ shook her head.
“Sorry.”
DJ dug in the sack of carrots she kept in the stable refrigerator. “That’s okay. At least I won’t be grounded for the rest of my life.”
“Just seems like it?”
“Yep.” DJ picked up a bucket of brushes and combs. “I gotta get to work. With Amy home sick, I never get a break.”
“I’ll help you after I finish practicing. We’re still having trouble with the square oxer. Prince keeps dropping his back feet before the second bar, so either he doesn’t get it or I come down on him midfence.” As Hilary headed for her horse’s stall, she called over her shoulder, “Hang in there.”
“Right.” DJ hoisted her bucket to check to see if it contained a hoof-pick. If only Diablo were here. But the fiery chestnut gelding she’d been training and showing for the Ortegas had moved with them to Texas. There had been too many changes in her life lately.
She started down the line. Each horse got a carrot snack, a heavy dose of loving, and a thorough grooming. DJ clipped them on the hot walker while she shoveled out the dirty shavings.
“Easy, fella,” she cautioned a rambunctious school horse. “You’ll get your workout in a bit.” She snapped him to the crossties since he had a habit of sneaking in a nip or two. “You just think you own the world, that’s all.” She tapped his foot with the pick. The horse stood there. She ran her hand down the back of his foreleg and pulled at his fetlock. He snorted.
DJ stood upright and clamped her hands on her hips. “You would pick today to be difficult.” He turned to gaze at her. She could swear she saw an imp dancing in his eye. He nosed her back pocket. “No way. Bad horses don’t get second treats. Now give me that foot.”
This time, the horse let her raise the hoof and rest it on her bent knee so she could pick out the compacted manure and shavings. She could feel his breath on her rear. “You bite me, and you’ll be dog food for sure.”
She moved to the rear hoof. It took three tries before he let her pick it up. “What’s the matter with you, get up on the wrong side of the stall or something?” She glanced up to check his ears. Sure enough, they were laid back. “All right, knock it off.” She felt him relax. Only now he leaned his weight on her. By the time she finished, she could feel sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades. She trotted the problem horse out to the hot walker and, after snapping him in place, gave him a slap on the rump. “Work off some of that orneriness before your riders come.”
“You want to ride Gray Bar?” James, the former academy terror who’d only recently become DJ’s friend, stopped her dog trot to the next stall.
“I wish.” DJ wiped a hand across her damp forehead.
“Still grounded?”
“Right. You okay?”
James shrugged. “ ’Bout the same. I’ve been accepted at West Virginia Military Academy. Great, huh?” The look on his face said it was anything but.
“When do you leave?”
“I’m not sure. Too soon—or not soon enough if my mom and dad have anything to say about it.” He turned and continued brushing his gray Arab filly.
DJ stroked the filly’s broad cheeks and dished face. “She is so beautiful.” Gray Bar nosed DJ’s pocket. “Sorry, girl. I’m all out of treats.”
James brushed his way to the filly’s rump. “If you wanted to ride her, I wouldn’t tell.”
DJ could get away with it. Bridget Sommersby, owner of the Academy, wasn’t here; she had a meeting somewhere this morning. And none of the other student workers would rat on her. DJ wanted to ride Gray Bar so bad she could feel it like a toothache.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Thanks, James. But I gave my word. Not riding for a couple weeks never killed anyone.” She could hear Gran’s voice in her ear. A real lady always keeps her word. While being a true southern gentlewoman like Gran was not at the top of DJ’s priorities, she knew keeping her word was a mark of a Christian, too. And that was important.
“See ya, I gotta get back to work.” By the time she’d finished, the sun blazed well past the sky’s zenith. She could hear Bridget, back from her meeting, giving instructions to a class in the jumping ring—a class DJ would be part of if she hadn’t been grounded. Megs, Bridget’s mare, now retired from the show and jumping ring, needed a good workout. But jumping classes, like nearly everything else that could be called fun, were forbidden while DJ was grounded. Why, oh why, had she panicked and run like that?
DJ swung aboard her bike and pedaled toward home—and an empty house. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to escape it that morning, she could have packed a lunch. There was always tack to clean. But the rumblings from her midsection nearly drowned out the singing of her tires on the pavement.
How come an empty house even smelled lonely? She checked the machine for messages—none. After tossing a pound of frozen hamburger in the sink to thaw for tonight’s tacos, she stuck her nose in the refrigerator. Baloney sandwich? Nah. Tuna? Yuck. Grilled cheese? She pulled the block of cheddar from the door and cut off a chunk. The groan and then hum of the fridge made her jump.
When she ambled back into the kitchen again, evening had fallen. Chores, drawing, and making dinner had used up most of her time. DJ glared at the silent telephone hanging on the wall. Ring, you stupid machine. She paced into Gran’s studio, which replaced what would have been the family room in most homes. Another silent phone took up part of a lamp table. Silent like the entire house. A house that, until now, had always rung with Gran’s chuckles and her hymns on the stereo. Al
ways smelled good from something baking or cooking, and always wrapped comforting arms around those who lived there. Always. Except now. At least the tacos DJ had made for dinner canceled the empty smell. Her mother did like tacos if she hadn’t already eaten.
DJ glanced up at the clock. Her mother should be home from class pretty soon. Lindy Randall was on her way to a Master’s degree, earned after her day job selling guns, flak vests, and other supplies to police departments. Most of Lindy’s life was spent working, traveling for work, studying, and dressing in knockout clothes. She claimed her expensive wardrobe helped her make a better living for her family—or at least that was her excuse for spending so much money on the latest styles.
DJ looked down at her grungy jeans. The horses at the Academy where she worked and rode didn’t care if her jeans had a hole in one knee and smelled like a stable. In fact, they liked it. One shoulder of her navy blue T-shirt sported horse slobber to prove it. She glanced in the sink. She needed to put stuff in the dishwasher and wipe down the counters.
“The sprinklers. Gotta get that done first.” Even her voice sounded loud in the empty house. Bare feet slapped across the cedar deck to the backyard, where she turned on the sprinklers and stood watching to make sure the lawn and flower beds were getting their needed soaking. Now that evening had come to the Pleasant Hill, California, community, less water would be wasted in the heat. Gran and DJ had spent hours together learning how they could best help the environment.
How come everything pointed back to Gran?
Think of Major! A month after Joe and Gran came back, Joe would retire from the mounted patrol. His horse, Major, would retire with him. But Major wouldn’t be put out to pasture. He would belong to DJ. Joe said the $380 she’d saved from the pony parties and all her other money-raising schemes would be enough to pay for him.
DJ hurried back into the house and up the stairs to her horse-decorated bedroom. A picture of Joe on Major, both in uniform, perched in the middle of her desk. DJ flicked on the lamp. The white blaze down the blood bay’s face and his two white socks gleamed in the light. Joe said Major was the best horse and friend anyone could have. And he liked to jump.
DJ raised her eyes to the poster on the wall. The five entwined Olympic gold rings shone above the horse and rider jumping a triple. She repeated her daily affirmation. “One day I, DJ, will jump in the Olympics.” Grabbing her sketch pad, she flopped down on the bed. Within a heartbeat the drawing she’d been working on that afternoon absorbed her concentration.
“Darla Jean Randall!”
DJ’s gaze flew first to the clock—it was after nine—and then to the window. It was nearly dark. Where had the time gone? She leaped off her bed and down the stairs. The kitchen! She’d left the kitchen a mess.
“Hi, Mom.”
Lindy Randall stood at the oak dining room table, sorting the mail with one hand and rubbing her forehead with the other.
Uh-oh, that meant a headache. DJ closed her eyes. Not a good night to have left a mess.
Lindy dropped the envelopes onto the table and used the fingertips of both hands to rub her temples. “You’d think you could do the little bit I ask of you without being reminded.” The words came out hard and biting.
“But, Mom—”
“No buts. You made the mess, you clean it up. That doesn’t seem too much to ask.”
“I thought—”
“No, you didn’t. You never think, you just act.”
“I made dinner for both of us.” DJ reared back at the word never.
“You know how I hate a messy kitchen.”
“Yeah, well, excuse me. I thought maybe you’d like something to eat when you got home. Sorry I’m not Gran.”
“You don’t have to bring Gran into this. Your thoughtlessness is between you and me. I raised you to—”
“You never raised me. Gran did. You’re never home—you couldn’t raise a flea.” DJ spun around and headed for the kitchen.
“Darla Jean, you can’t talk to me like that.”
DJ threw the pans in the sink, the clatter making as angry a sound as her stomping.
Better cool it, DJ, she warned herself. But the fires raging at her mother’s accusations refused to bank.
A glass shattering against the cast-iron skillet in the sink brought her up short. A line of blood trickled from a spot on the back of her hand where a sliver of glass had embedded itself.
Say you’re sorry! “I’m not sorry,” she muttered into the back of her hand as she sucked the blood out of the wound. She could feel the piece of glass with her tongue.
“If you can’t be polite, you can just go to your room.”
“I’m cleaning up the kitchen, can’t you tell?” DJ let the door of the dishwasher clang open. How would she get the glass out? Blood dripped down over her fingers. Oh, great. What had she done? Cut a vein or something?
Gingerly she picked out the pieces of glass in the bottom of the sink and dropped them in the trash. She couldn’t apply pressure to the wound to make it stop bleeding. She ran cold water from the tap over her hand. Pink blood stained the white enamel. Maybe she’d bleed to death—then she’d find out if her mother really cared. At least there’d be no one around to leave a mess.
The cut stung like fury. “Stop bleeding, you stupid thing.” All the while she tossed stuff in the trash, put dishes in the dishwasher, and scrubbed the frying pan. “I shoulda just had peanut butter. Why’d I try to make something she likes? Never does any good anyway.” Her mutterings were drowned out by the running water.
The blood kept dripping.
She wiped up the counters. Each swipe of the dishcloth wiped up watery drops of blood. How long did it take to bleed to death? Could she be so lucky?
CHAPTER • 2
“Darla Jean Randall, what have you done now?”
“Cut myself, as if you care.” DJ leaned over the sink. Wasn’t she losing an awful lot of blood?
“Let me look at that.” Mom grasped DJ’s hand, carefully keeping it over the sink. “How did it happen?”
“Broken glass. There’s still a piece in there.” DJ wanted to yank her hand out of her mother’s, but the warm contact felt good.
“Here.” Lindy pulled off several paper towels and bunched them under the dripping hand. “Let’s go up to the bathroom where the light’s better. Maybe we can see the glass then and get it out with tweezers.” Her voice still hadn’t lost its hard edge, but at least she wasn’t yelling.
DJ bit her lip against the pain. How come such a little cut could bleed so much?
Upstairs in the bathroom with good light, a magnifying glass, and steady hands, Mom lifted the glass sliver free and, with both thumbs holding the cut open, sluiced water over it for several minutes.
DJ squinted her eyes against the sting. She would not complain—no matter what. Letting her anger rule her like that made her feel like sticking her head in the toilet bowl and flushing. Why can’t I control my temper? What’s the matter with me? I pray about it and pray about it, and look what happens. She didn’t dare glance up because she didn’t want to catch her mother’s gaze in the mirror.
“Here, put some pressure on this while I get out the Band-Aids.” Lindy looked up just as DJ did, and, sure enough, their eyes locked in the mirror.
“Oh, DJ, what are we going to do?” Lindy put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and squeezed.
“I’m sorry I left the mess and then mouthed off. I hate myself when I do that.”
“Join the club. Just because I had a headache was no reason to light into you.” She finished drying DJ’s hand. “How’s it feel?”
“Hurts.” DJ lifted her fingers from the cut so her mother could apply antibiotic ointment and a bandage. “Thanks for getting the glass out. I thought I might bleed to death or something.”
“Thought it or wished it?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. I remember being fourteen and fighting with my mother. Sometimes you remind me so muc
h of me that it scares the bejeebers out of me.”
“You used to fight with Gran?” DJ couldn’t believe her ears. “Gran never fights with anyone. She says a lady never raises her voice.”
“Gran wasn’t always as genteel as she is now. But then, I really knew how to push her buttons. Kinda like you do mine.”
DJ smoothed the ends of the tan plastic strip down with her forefinger.
“When you get a southern woman riled, you’ve got a real problem on your hands.” Lindy rubbed her forehead again. “I need to change and—”
“Mom, you’ve got blood on your suit.” DJ touched the spots on the lower sleeve of the cream silk. “I’m sorry.”
“It’ll come out. How about getting me a glass of water and two aspirins? If your hand works now, that is.”
DJ looked up in time to catch a smile lifting the corners of her mother’s mouth. Her mother was teasing her. Actually trying to make a joke. And after a big fight, too. Maybe miracles really do happen.
DJ took the stairs two at a time both down and up. She’d finish cleaning the kitchen later.
“Thanks, dear.” Lindy swallowed the tablets and collapsed on the bed.
“You need anything else?” DJ stuck her hands in her pockets.
“You wouldn’t have a spare million lying around anywhere, would you?”
“Sorry.”
“Good night, then. Guess I’ll just try to sleep this thing off.”
DJ bent down and dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek. The fragrance of expensive perfume filled her nose. “Night.” DJ turned at the door. “Thanks for fixing my hand.”
“You’re welcome.” Eyes closed, Lindy waggled her fingers from their place on top of the covers.
DJ fell asleep promising both herself and her heavenly Father she wouldn’t lose her temper like that again. One thing she was grateful for, her restrictions hadn’t been extended. Was that thanks to the cut? Probably a good thing she hadn’t bled to death after all. “When I have kids,” she promised herself, “I’m not gonna say ‘you always’ or ‘you never,’ like Mom does. Nobody does things ‘always’ or ‘never.’ ”
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