The Long Trail Home (Quartz Creek Ranch)

by Amber J. Keyser

  “That sucks,” said Rivka.

  Cat let out a big breath. “More than you know.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cat was on lockdown for a week.

  For sneaking her smartphone out of the desk drawer in the office, she was sentenced to cleaning the chicken coop. For scaring everyone while she was missing, she forfeited free time and got extra chores. Worst of all for someone who liked her space, the Bridles had put her on the buddy system 24/7. Madison was even sleeping in the bunk below her. She rode during lesson time with the rest of them. It was the only time Rivka ever caught a smile on her face, but even that was fleeting.

  Every morning Rivka worked with Rowdy. He was exactly what Madison had said—a stubborn one. If she didn’t sit the right way and use her legs the right way and hold the reins the right way, he stood there like a rock. But slowly the pieces were coming together. She was figuring it out.

  Rivka just wished she could figure out Cat.

  They hadn’t talked again about the blowup in the arena. Whenever Rivka tried to talk to her, Cat answered in short, clipped sentences.

  When she finally earned her free time back, Rivka, Sam, and Lauren set up the net and corn hole board for Cat’s crazy, made-up game.

  “Wanna play Frattleprat?” Rivka begged.

  Cat shrugged and kept reading her comic book.

  “Come on,” said Rivka, tugging on her arm. “We all want to play, and we need you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Two on two,” Lauren prodded.

  “I can add.”

  “But can you do the Fibonacci sequence?” Sam asked.

  Rivka rolled her eyes. Cat ignored him.

  “Look,” said Rivka, flopping into the hammock next to Cat. “I apologized! I know I got you in trouble. I’m sorry.”

  Cat didn’t look up. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  Cat turned the page in her comic book. “Take-home message,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “Don’t try to make nice. There’s no freaking point.”

  “But there is,” Rivka protested, on the verge of tears. “I don’t want us to be the Antisocials.”

  Rivka caught a tiny twitch at the corner of Cat’s mouth. Desperate to turn that twitch into a proper smile, Rivka grabbed three beanbags in each hand and flung them over the net, yelling at the top of her lungs, “FRATTLEPRAT!!!!”

  At that exact moment, Carla and Paul walked around the corner of the house, deep in conversation. A beanbag whizzed toward Paul, and he dodged just in time. Another nearly whacked Carla, but she snatched it out of the air like a professional baseball player. The others thudded to the ground.

  Their expressions were so shocked, so utterly surprised, and so completely hilarious that all the kids lost it. Rivka thought she might pee her pants from laughing so hard. Even Paul and Carla cracked up.

  “What on earth is Frattleprat?” Carla asked, when she finally caught her breath.

  “A net-bounded, target-trajectory game that eschews rackets,” said Sam in a clipped monotone.

  Carla’s mouth fell open.

  “I told you,” said Paul, trying to keep a straight face, “this is the best group we’ve ever had. They’re like kidbots or something.”

  Sam did a warped version of the robot dance in their direction. “Do. You. Want. To. Frattle. Prat?”

  “Ohmygosh,” gasped Carla. “Y’all are hilarious. Come on Paul,” she said, pulling on his arm. “Let’s dance or frattle or whatever.”

  Rivka held out a hand to Cat. “Truce?”

  Cat frowned at her, but she took Rivka’s hand and squeezed it.

  “Will you play?” Rivka pleaded.

  “Oh, fine,” said Cat, rolling her eyes, and pretty soon, there were beanbags flying everywhere.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  Rivka’s good feelings didn’t even last through dinner.

  There was a knock halfway through the meal, and Mr. Bridle greeted and ushered in a stocky, bowlegged man who looked like he’d spent his whole life on horseback.

  He had black hair, dark skin, and a weathered face. Sadness edged the corners of his eyes and mouth. He took off his cowboy hat and held his hand out to Mr. Bridle.

  Mr. Bridle hugged him instead, and Paul rose from the table to do the same.

  “Hola, Álvaro,” said Paul, bear-hugging the man and whacking his back man-style. “I am so sorry. Can’t believe old Gooselegs is being such an a—”

  Mr. Bridle cleared his throat loudly, and Paul swallowed the rest of his sentence.

  “Shoot,” said Paul, releasing Álvaro. “I’m spitting mad.”

  Álvaro nodded slowly, worrying the brim of his hat in his hands. “It has been a shock.”

  Paul shook his head in disgust. “He was always a big-headed jerk when we both ranched on the Big R.”

  “I appreciate your help,” Álvaro told him and Mr. Bridle.

  Ma Etty joined them and gave Álvaro a peck on the cheek. “You’re always welcome here.”

  He kissed her back. “You have a big heart, Henrietta.”

  She turned back to the kids at the table. “We’re going with Álvaro to pick up his things. I need you kids to help Madison and Fletch with cleanup and then get some sleep. Don’t let the bed bugs bite!” She tried to sound cheery on that last bit, but no one was very convinced. “All right, gentlemen,” she said, reaching for Paul and Mr. Bridle. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As soon as Paul, Álvaro, and the Bridles were out the door, Cat said, “What in the heck was that all about? Ma Etty looks like she’s going to a funeral.”

  Fletch and Madison had some sort of silent conversation across the table.

  “What?!” Cat demanded.

  Fletch let out a big sigh. “There’s a lot going on at the ranches around here.” He pushed back from the table. “Let’s get to these dishes.”

  Cat crossed her arms over her chest. “No way. Not until you tell us what’s up.”

  More silent glances between the trainers.

  Cat let out her breath in a huff. “Fine. We’ll just imagine the worst, then.”

  Rivka looked up from her hands. How did Cat know that that was exactly what she was doing?

  Finally Madison caved. “Álvaro is—was—a ranch hand on a big ranch farther down the Colorado River. He’s a dang good cowboy. But the foreman is this guy that everybody calls Gooselegs.”

  “Real name is Herman Graves,” added Fletch. “He’s descended from one of the first pioneer families in the area. Fell on hard times a few years ago. Lost the family ranch, and now he’s bitter as heck about having to work someone else’s land. Blames the Mexicans for everything.”

  “Álvaro isn’t even Mexican,” said Madison. “He’s originally from Peru.”

  Fletch nodded.

  “Did they try to beat him up too?” Rivka asked in a small voice.

  Madison shook her head. “Gooselegs fired him. Apparently he said something like, ‘From now on, only Americans work for me.’ ”

  Fletch’s expression turned stony. “ ’Course, what he meant was ‘white people.’ ”

  Rivka heard the hurt and the anger in his voice, and underneath that, a hint of fear.

  And she knew exactly what that felt like—the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the way she’d looked differently at people on the street, wondering if that man or that woman was the one who’d painted the swastika.

  This was why she couldn’t be Jewish anymore.

  This was why she couldn’t go through with the bat mitzvah.

  It was just too scary.

  The riled-up voices of Madison, Fletch, and the other kids tumbled through her: “Poor Álvaro” . . . “Not fair” . . . “That’s horrible” . . . “What about his family?” Rivka dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands under the table. She had to get out of here, right now. Before she completely lost it. The second that Fletch herded the other k
ids toward cleanup duties, Rivka took Madison aside.

  “I don’t feel good,” she said. “I need to go lie down.”

  Madison felt her forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever.”

  “My stomach hurts.”

  “Do you want some Tums or something?”

  “I want to lie down.”

  Madison nodded. “Okay. Off to bed with you. You’ll owe these guys on dish duty, though.”

  “Got it.”

  Sam was already complaining when Rivka slipped out the front door, but she let Madison deal with the blowback.

  The horses were still in the pasture. Rowdy, as usual, had his nose in the tallest clump of grass he could find. She helped him reach the tastiest bits, and he nuzzled her shoulder while he chewed. Rivka scratched the whorl under his forelock. Why couldn’t everything be as simple as a pony eating grass and getting his itchy spots taken care of?

  Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.

  That’s what her parents said about her refusal to return to the synagogue for any reason. Rivka had no idea how to make them understand. Rowdy was stubborn too. She liked that about him. It forced her to work hard. She had to sit right, ask right, encourage right, to get him to respond. Madison said that made him feel safe, because Rowdy knew that she wouldn’t take him someplace he shouldn’t be or ask him to do something dangerous.

  She heard voices from the kitchen. Everyone inside was finishing up. Rivka didn’t want to be caught shirking on chores. She didn’t want to have to explain how being with Rowdy calmed her down. And she definitely didn’t want to talk to anyone. She gave him one more scratch and a kiss on the nose and ran to the bunkhouse.

  By the time the others came in, she was in her bunk pretending to sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Okay, everyone,” Ma Etty announced after breakfast a week later. “This is the big moment. Cat, will you do the honors?” The old woman held an old coffee can full of slips of paper.

  “Me?” Cat looked surprised.

  It had been a weird week. Rivka had kept to herself. Cat had been sulking around the cabin reading comics. Sam had picked up a new obsession, bird-watching, which meant that all he ever did was crane his neck up to the sky with a pair of binoculars stuck to his eyeballs. And Lauren was just Lauren.

  Ma Etty smiled at Cat. “Yes, you.” She held out the can and shook it.

  They had settled on three top choices for the foal’s name: Biscuit, Peanut, and Nugget. Everyone who came to the ranch got to vote. Rivka had been lobbying hard for Peanut, which had been Cat’s suggestion. It seemed like the least she could do after what had happened.

  Cat took the can.

  “I’ll tally for you,” Sam offered, grabbing a notebook and pencil off the counter. In big block letters, he wrote the three names, and as Cat pulled each slip out and read it, he made a hash mark under the appropriate column.

  In the last week, there had been several late-night meetings with ranch hands from the surrounding areas about mounting a protest at the upcoming anti-immigrant rally. Rivka didn’t like overhearing the meetings. She didn’t like the raised voices that came from the big house or the way fear clung to visitors.

  But Ma Etty had asked Rivka and the rest to help out with the little children that came. Usually they taught them to play Frattleprat until the shrieking and laughter got them banished to the barn, and then they let the kids give treats to the horses. One night they’d gotten them to vote on a name for the baby. Translated into Spanish, the names were Galleta, Maní, Pepita. Odds were high on Maní—Peanut. The Spanish-speaking voters hadn’t been keen on giving the little colt a name that was a feminine noun.

  Sam and Cat got to work tallying up all the votes. Rivka bounced in the chair next to Cat, peering over her shoulder.

  “While you’re all gathered here,” said Mr. Bridle, “we’ve got a bit of an announcement.”

  Cat and Sam paused. Rivka noticed the worried look on her friend’s face and hoped no one was in trouble, but then she saw Paul’s huge grin and relaxed.

  “Ma Etty and I have checked in with your trainers.” He gave a nod to Fletch and Madison. “And we understand that you are all making great progress in the saddle.”

  “Definitely!” Madison chimed in.

  “And you haven’t been giving them any trouble.”

  Fletch agreed. “Unless you count making us all memorize the birds-of-Colorado list.”

  Everyone laughed, including Sam, but he didn’t look up from his work. Mr. Bridle patted him on the shoulder.

  “Paul has offered to take you all on a pack trip,” the old man continued.

  “What’s that?” Lauren asked.

  “Only the best thing ever!” Madison said. “We take the horses and head into the mountains and camp out.”

  Lauren looked dubious. “Like on the ground?”

  “Exactly!” Paul crowed. “Fishing, campfires, and fun. What more could any kid want?”

  “Disney World?” said Cat, flattening another strip of paper.

  Paul pretended that she had stabbed him through the heart. “Just you wait, Cat. It’s going to be a blast.”

  Rivka had never been camping. Her dad was a fan of hotels with crisp sheets and daily housekeeping. A pack trip—she rolled the unfamiliar words around in her head. It sounded like an adventure, and that seemed like a great idea.

  “Well,” said Ma Etty, turning to Cat and Sam, “do we have a winner?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cat said, taking the sheet of notebook paper from Sam and holding it up. She grinned at Rivka and gave a little fist pump.

  The people had spoken.

  The foal’s name was Peanut!

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  Planning for the pack trip was a huge undertaking. Each day, before free time, the kids planned and prepared. They had lists of camping equipment, horse gear, and personal items. They’d written menus and made shopping lists. They’d scoured the map of the surrounding national forest land and laid out their route.

  Tomorrow they were off!

  Rivka couldn’t wait.

  The mound of gear they were assembling seemed massive to Rivka. Carla had helped them pull together two first-aid kits—one for the humans and one for the horses. Paul had found saddlebags for each kid’s horse. They would also have three pack horses, which would carry what he called panniers. They looked like two duffel bags connected by straps that went over the horse’s back.

  “Personal gear in the saddlebags. Sleeping bag tied behind the saddle. Everything else we take has got to fit in these babies,” said the ranch manager, indicating the panniers. “No non-essentials.”

  “Like your harmonica?” Cat teased.

  “That’s essential!”

  “What if there’s no room?”

  “I will leave behind my toothbrush,” Paul said in a serious voice.

  Fletch came up behind them and made a face. “I’m not sharing a tent with you.”

  Paul pretended to cry.

  “Poor, sad panda,” said Madison, patting him on the shoulder.

  Mr. Bridle chuckled. “This crew might not make it past Fool’s Butte.”

  “I’ll take that as a challenge,” said Paul and began hustling the kids into action. “Sam and Lauren, I want you guys to come to the grocery store with me to pick up the last of the fresh food. Cat and Rivka, you’re in charge of packing the dry food and cook kit. Ma Etty can help you.”

  The girls saluted and headed to the big house.

  “Down here,” said Ma Etty, leading them into the basement. Shelves lined the concrete walls. Some held jars of peaches and strawberry jam. There were rows of pickles—cucumber, asparagus, and dilly beans—and brightly colored chutneys. At the far end were trays of mismatched silverware, various sizes of dented pots, and stacks of metal plates and cups.

  “You’ll need seven sets,” she said. “One for each of you kids and also Madison, Fletch, and Paul. I’m sure sad that Mr. Bridle and I aren�
��t coming along.”

  “Someone has to keep an eye on Chickpea and Peanut,” said Rivka.

  Ma Etty nodded. “That’s true.”

  Cat picked up one of the plates and examined it. The white enamel finish covering the metal plate was faintly scratched with silvery tine marks. In several places, the black enamel stripe around the rim had chipped off, and the tinge of rusted metal was visible. “These look like they are about a hundred years old,” said Cat.

  “Could be older,” said Ma Etty. “Mr. Bridle’s family has been here for a long time. Back in the old days, that was fine dinnerware.”

  “Were they pioneers?” Rivka asked. “Did they come here in covered wagons?” She’d always been fascinated by Lewis and Clark and the Oregon Trail. She wondered what it would have been like to travel so far and know that you’d probably never see your family back home ever again.

  “Mr. Bridle’s great-grandpa was one of the early settlers here in Quartz Creek. But his grandmother was the one who really knew the land. She was Paiute, one of a long line of leaders in their tribe.”

  “That’s cool,” said Cat.

  Ma Etty nodded in agreement. “Mr. Bridle is one quarter Paiute, and one hundred percent Colorado dirt. Don’t worry ’bout the math.” She helped them select the pots and pans they would need, and they carried everything upstairs to the kitchen. “Better give these dishes a quick wash. The basement is super dusty.”

  Cat filled one side of the sink with warm, sudsy water, and Rivka prepped the other side of the sink for rinsing. As Ma Etty sorted through ranch mail at the table, she hummed to herself, something a little folksy, a little country. Rivka had never liked that kind of music before, but here on the ranch it seemed like the perfect soundtrack to the clouds and the green and the chickens and the horses. She hoped that Paul would take both his toothbrush and his harmonica.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rivka was in the barn before anyone else got up. By the time Fletch came in, she had taken care of breakfast for all the horses.