I took some beans out of the refrigerator and set them on the stove so they’d heat faster when I got hungry. There were books in Cassie’s room that I wanted to look at, but I hadn’t been back in there since that thing happened with the necklace. It was enough to make you wonder if the Navajos didn’t have the right idea about dead people.
Still. I wanted to look at the books, and I knew I wasn’t going in there after dark. I was standing in the doorway talking myself into it, when I heard the Bronco driving slowly up the wash, the engine cutting off, the slam of the door. I stepped outside, shading my eyes from the sun.
He came straight to me and put his arms around me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Those goddamn bowhead bitches.”
I had to laugh, remembering that he never did tell me what a bow head was, although I had a pretty good idea. “It’s not a big deal.” I sat down on the steps and watched the dust settle over the Bronco. “We can’t go inside. Cassie’s asleep. She’s been really sick.”
“Yeah, I wondered why she wasn’t there. Too bad she didn’t get to see you graduate. What’s she got, anyway?”
“Some kind of virus or something. She’ll be okay. It just takes time.”
He sat down beside me. All at once I noticed the small, square white box in his hand. He straightened the blue ribbon that held the top in place and thrust it at me. “It’s your graduation present.”
“Will, I wish you wouldn’t do things like this.”
He looked exasperated. “Why can’t you just say thanks? For once, why can’t you just enjoy getting a present?”
“Because I didn’t get you anything. It makes me feel weird.”
“You don’t have to get me anything. I just saw this, and I thought it would look great on you.”
I wanted to tell him how it felt taking presents from him, that it was like being paid for with his family’s money, but he’d never understand in a million years.
The bow fell loose with one pull of the ribbon and I lifted off the top, folded back the flap of tissue paper.
“Oh…” was all I could say.
It was a heart, only about an inch across, made of odd-shaped small nuggets of gold. I lifted it by its chain of flat S-links, let it settle into my palm, feeling its coolness and its weight.
“It reminded me of you,” he said, obviously pleased with himself. “Pretty but strong.”
“It’s beautiful. It’s really…so beautiful.” I was afraid if I said anything else, I’d cry. For some reason, I’d been getting all teary over any little thing lately. He took it out of my hand and fastened it around my neck.
Then he pulled a piece of paper out his shirt pocket. “I need to give you this, too.”
I unfolded it. A phone number. Area code 303. Colorado. A coldness settled over me. “What’s this?”
“That’s where I’ll be this summer—”
“What? Why? I thought because of your dad, you’d be—”
He took my hand. “It’s just for the summer.”
“But who’s going to run the ranch?”
He looked away awkwardly. “Chuck.”
Of course. This is how it works. Chuck and Nora send Will away for the summer. It suits Chuck because it lets him be in charge of the ranch, and it works for Nora because it keeps him away from me. Out of sight, out of mind. Surely the boy will come to his senses after a summer away. When he has time to consider the consequences of marrying some little—
“—be working with this guy Darryl Hutt. He’s a trainer and a farrier and he’s been making a lot of waves with this new way he has of training horses. And he’s been working with some of the wild horses, tagging them and testing their blood. He thinks they’re descended from the original horses the Spanish brought over.”
My head was spinning with admiration for her cleverness. How perfect. The one thing he couldn’t resist. Oh, Will. My sweet, stupid Will.
“And he’s trying to get some land set aside as a historic preserve just for them. It’ll be great for me to work with someone like that.” He finally stopped talking and looked for a long time into my eyes. “It’ll be hell being away from you, but it’s only till August. Then I’ll be back.”
He’ll be back. Of course he will. He lives here. But it won’t be the same. Not without Asa. Will’s too afraid of rocking the boat, afraid to cross his mother, scared of what Chuck thinks. He’ll say he loves me, but he can’t upset them right now. It’s not a good time.
Hell, when would be a good time to give up the Cameron Ranch for Miss Avery James—named after a necklace?
“You can call me collect whenever you want. As soon as I get up there, I’ll make arrangements. We can make up a name for you to ask for, and then I’ll call you back.”
“When?” I said. “When do you go?”
The tops of his ears reddened.
“There’s a guy from 3D down here to pick up Tombstone and take him back, so I’m going to go back with—”
“When?” I said it louder.
“Tomorrow.” He mumbled it. “Avery, I know what you’re thinking.” He took both my hands. “But you have to trust me. This is good for us. What I can learn from Hutt, that’ll make me worth something to the ranch. Chuck won’t be able to just blow me off. He’ll have to listen to me. As soon as you turn eighteen we can get married—Avery, goddamnit, look at me!”
I did, but I couldn’t seem to focus. He looked blurry and very far away. Halfway to Colorado in his mind.
thirteen
The next day I took Cassie’s social security check to Begay’s and ran into Delbert. I had to buy enough so he wouldn’t get suspicious, but I hated spending the money on food that wasn’t going to get eaten.
“Hey, Avery.” He smiled at me. “How’s Cassie getting along?”
“Not too bad. She’s just got kind of a cold or something.”
“Still?” His brow creased. “She’s been sick for a week or two, hasn’t she? Maybe we ought to get Doc Parsons out there.”
“I told her that, but you know how she is. She doesn’t want him poking around on her.”
“Yeah, but it’s been too long. At her age, she could get pneumonia or something. You let me know if she’s not up and around by the first of the week. The doc might have to just stop by and talk to her.”
“I will, Delbert.”
Two mornings later I woke up early. I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt, stuffed the rest of my clothes in a canvas bag. The floorboards in Cassie’s room creaked as I stepped around the big box that contained all her clothes. Amalia said she’d come by soon and pick them up.
I opened the drawer and took out the cigar box. I didn’t look inside; I just slid a rubber band over it to hold it closed and threw it on top of my clothes. Then I turned to the books. When I picked up the old clothbound herbal, a bunch of papers slipped out and scattered on the floor. I bent down to retrieve them.
They were covered with writing, some in Cassie’s cramped scrawl, some either written by someone else, or written by Cassie a long time ago before she got arthritis. I laid them gently back inside the front cover and wedged it along the side of my sack so they wouldn’t spill out accidentally. There was nothing else here that I wanted.
In the kitchen I cut two pieces of bread and some cheese, wrapped them in a handkerchief sprinkled with water. I washed the knife, dried it, put it away. I made up my cot and started out to water the garden. Then I realized I was stalling. That garden was going back to the desert, whether or not it got watered today. Cassie was dead and Will was gone. There was nothing here for me. I felt bad about not telling Amalia I was going, but I figured she’d know.
She had the gift, after all.
It was still early, probably not even eight yet, when I ambled up to Dollar Gas. Things were quiet but there was a mud-splashed blue Ford Ranger truck at the pump, a guy in a dusty cowboy hat filling the tank. A fast glance around confirmed that this was not just my best bet, but my only bet.
I slipped the gold he
art on its chain down inside my shirt and walked over to him. “Where you headed?”
He was tall and bowlegged. He had on faded jeans and the low heel, Dan Post kind of boots that working cowboys wear, not those pointy-toed, high-heel ones like you see on drugstore cowboys. He looked like one of those guys who never takes his hat off, and if he did, his head would look funny.
He shifted the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Gallup.”
The pump clinked and stopped. He gave the trigger two quick squeezes to top it off.
“I’m going to Albuquerque. Any chance of getting a ride?”
He looked at me again, no expression, then passed his hand across his whiskers.
I looked up at him under my eyelashes and there it was—that flicker, the silent double take that happened whenever they got a look at my eyes for the first time.
“I can give you some money for gas.”
When he grinned, deep lines fanned out around his eyes. He didn’t exactly look old though—just like he’d been rode hard and put away wet, as Cassie would’ve said.
“How much is some?”
I pulled my folded bills out, peeled off two tens and held them out.
He took the money. “Okay, little sister. Hop in.”
The bed of the truck was full of junk—one suitcase, a toolbox, a beat-up saddle, a Styrofoam cooler, some cardboard boxes full of canned food and breakfast cereal. I threw my sack in with it and climbed up in the cab. As he headed for the cashier’s window, I hollered, “Get me some Marlboro Lights, okay?”
The inside of the truck was at least as dirty as the outside. It smelled like dust and old leather and stale beer. The windshield had a big crack running from a rock crater in the center all the way to the upper-right corner. Some kind of religious medal dangled from the rearview mirror. Kind of a weird thing for a guy who looked like him. I hoped he wasn’t some kind of born-again lunatic who was going to try to save my soul all the way to Albuquerque.
I hate the taste of cigarettes, but they come in handy when you’re stuck in the cab of a pickup in the middle of nowhere with some guy you don’t know. For one thing, smoking gives you something to do. Between that and the radio fading in and out, there wasn’t much need for conversation. For another thing, a cigarette can be a good thing to be holding sometimes. Some guys can’t keep their hands to themselves till you plant the business end of a lit cigarette on one of them.
This guy didn’t seem like that type, although you never know till you know. He told me his name was Ed Farrell and he was a broncrider. I must’ve looked like I didn’t believe him, because he mumbled, “Not that I done much ridin’ lately, but I used to be…pretty good.”
I looked straight ahead at the landscape divided by the crack in the windshield. Scrubby hills, some fields of dry grass where skinny cattle grazed, red sandstone bluffs on either side, framing the valley like parentheses. “So what have you won?”
His laugh rumbled. “A bad back and a bum knee and a foot that can tell you if it’s gonna rain. And some belt buckles that I lost playin’ poker.” The radio crackled with static. “What’s in Albuquerque? You know people there?”
“I’m going to school.”
“Smart girl. You’ll be glad you did that.”
He fiddled with the radio knob for a minute, but nothing came in except a Navajo station, with a guy doing that singsong talk that they do, interrupted every few minutes by commercials for “Calhoun’s Auto Parts.”
“You like Willie Nelson?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
When he leaned across me to rummage in the glove compartment for a tape, his hand brushed my knee and I jumped.
“Easy, kid. I ain’t like that.”
I glared at him. “That’s what they all say.”
“Can I steal one of them Marlboros?”
I hit the pack against my left hand to shake one out for him. I pushed in the lighter, but he pulled a pack of matches out of his shirt pocket. He opened it, bent one forward, closed the cover behind it. Then with his dirty, ridged thumbnail, he scraped it along the sandpaper till a flame jumped up. A grin split his face.
“Pretty good trick, huh?”
I folded my arms. “Won any belt buckles with it?”
He sighed. “You’re about as friendly as a rattlesnake on a hot skillet, little lady.”
“I’m not looking for a friend. All I want’s a ride.”
“Okey-dokey.” He popped the tape in the tape deck, and Willie Nelson’s gravelly voice came grinding out Whiskey River, take my mind.
Ed Farrell responded to the suggestion by producing a flask of Old Crow and taking a couple small sips. He raised one eyebrow at me.
“I don’t drink,” I snapped. “And don’t you go getting drunk. I want to get to Albuquerque in one piece.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted me with the bottle, screwed the top back on, and set it on the seat between us. By the time Willie got to the last song on the tape, Ed Farrell was singing harmony with him, and I have to say, his voice wasn’t half bad.
“You ever been to a rodeo?” he asked me when the tape clicked off.
A memory stirred unexpectedly. Hard wooden bleachers, sun setting behind big, lead-colored thunderheads. The smell of cow shit and popcorn and rain about to fall.
“Once. In Colorado somewhere. It was a long time ago.”
“What event did you like best?”
“I don’t remember.”
He seemed amazed. “You don’t remember anything?”
“Yeah. I remember thinking if there’s reincarnation, I don’t want to come back as a calf.”
When he laid his head back to laugh, his eyes closed and the headrest pushed the Stetson down low on his forehead.
“Watch the road, Farrell.”
That made him laugh even harder. “You’re enough to piss off the Good Humor man. Where the hell’d you come from?”
“Alamitos.”
“No kiddin’. I’m from Durango.”
I could tell he wanted to start talking names and places, so I reached for my cigarettes. “Never been there,” I said.
“Haven’t been back in a while myself. I hear it’s a regular Coney Island, now. T-shirt shops and fudge factory. Forty-dollar sunglasses and the like.” He rubbed the back of his leathery neck and straightened his hat. “Not like when I was growin’ up.”
With that, he launched into an account of growing up in the fifties in Durango. His father worked at the post office, his mother stayed home and cooked and took care of her boys. His younger brother, Dan, went off to college at Fort Collins and became a geologist for an oil company in Houston.
He droned on about him and Dan riding their ponies, playing high school football and making out with girls in their dad’s Chevy truck, stealing the cow sign off the top of the grocery store to decorate their bedroom, getting their asses whipped for it—all the usual growing up bullshit legends. I puffed on my Marlboro, watched the trailing smoke get sucked out the open window, all the time there was this big lump in my stomach like I might barf, only I hadn’t eaten anything.
When he finished telling me more than I ever wanted to hear about his goddamn life in Durango, he slapped the steering wheel with his open palm.
“Listen to me, wouldja, makin’ more noise than a breedin’ jackass in a tin barn. Tell me somethin’ about your people in Alamitos. That’s big potato country, ain’t it? How’d you get down to Florales anyhow?”
Maybe it was because I was starving, or maybe I was remembering Cassie lying there on the couch, or maybe it was knowing that I’d looked into Will Cameron’s stormy blue eyes for the last time.
Or it could’ve been just that this jerk was trying his damnedest to be nice but he was making me feel like shit—but something just broke loose inside, and I started bawling like a little snot-nosed kid.
Thank God, Ed Farrell just kept driving.
When I got through hicupping, he pulled a red bandana out from unde
r the bottle of Old Crow and handed it to me, all wadded up. I swiped my face and blew my nose and tried not to think about what else it might have been used for. I fumbled around for another cigarette.
He said, “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“This your first time away from home?”
I almost laughed. “No. My gram died. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure sorry about that. Never did know my grannies—either one. Both died pretty young.” For one awful minute I was afraid I was about to get some more of his family history, but he said, “I’ll try to shut up for a while.”
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. When I jerked awake sometime later, the sun was high and I had the uncomfortable feeling that we weren’t where I thought we should be. Not on 125, for sure.
“You had a pretty good nap,” he said.
“Where the hell are we? Why aren’t we on the interstate?” I bent my head from side to side, trying to work the stiffness out of my neck.
He frowned. “Relax, kid. We’re on New Mexico 14. The Turquoise Trail.”
“I’m not interested in scenery. I just want to get there.”
“Well, you ain’t drivin’. And I’m interested in eatin’. There’s a pretty good dive just the other side of Cerrillos. Owner’s an old friend of mine.”
In my head I was calculating how much money I’d have left if I had to buy lunch.
“My treat,” he said, like he knew what I was thinking.
I pulled the cigarettes out, then changed my mind and smushed the pack into my pocket. “I’d rather eat my sandwich. I’ll just get a Coke.”
“You’ll change your tune once you get a whiff of them sopaipillas and enchiladas, and Bettina’s green chile. That stuff’ll take the top of your head off. Man, it’s fine.”
My stomach was making a noise like a whimper. “I’ll just have a Coke.” I didn’t need to be letting some yokel buy me lunch and then start thinking I owed him something besides gas money.
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