by Rhavensfyre
Rohanna wasn’t sure why she was willing to start a war today, especially since she spent most of her time avoiding one. Belinda’s face darkened like a thundercloud and leaned towards her. Her father wrapped his arm around her, pulling her away from her stepmother and against him. Please, please, Dad, stand up to her, Ro wished, Just for once—stand up to her for me.
“You worry too much, dear. Ro’s been out on these trails since she was the tiniest thing. She knows them like the back of her hand.”
“You spoil the child too much, John,” Belinda replied petulantly.
“I am not a child,” Ro started in again, but her father hushed her.
“Well, that may be so.” He nodded his head in agreement, then continued before Rohanna could protest again. “But it’s her birthday today, and I have another treat for her.” He turned to face Ro and winked at her. “How’d you like to go get an ice cream?” he asked. Ro squealed and threw herself into her father’s arms, hugging him fiercely.
“Yes! Oh, yes. That sounds great, Dad!” she shouted. “With sprinkles and everything?”
“Of course, Sunshine.”
Rohanna beamed up at her dad. It had been a long time since her father had called her Sunshine. For a moment, she relished the feeling of victory. Its sweetness was something she had never tasted before. Then her father turned around so he was facing away from his wife and Ro had a clear view of Belinda. The woman was glaring at her with as much venom as a snake could muster. Ro shuddered. She may have escaped for now, but she knew that Belinda would find a way to make her pay for her joy later.
“Are you cold, Ro?” her dad asked. “We can stop and get a sweater from the house.”
“No Dad, I’m good. Let’s go,” she said. No one else cared if she was wearing riding breeches and tall boots into town, her dad surely didn’t. Her flannel shirt was loose and clean and if she looked like a horse person, then so be it…that’s who she was.
She grabbed her dad’s hand and pulled him towards the pickup truck. As she buckled her seatbelt, Ro felt an odd sadness at how excited she was to leave. She spent way too much time trying to escape the farm. It wasn’t fair. She loved the farm and all the horses and she loved her Dad. She felt guilty about wanting to leave, and she resented Belinda for making leaving sound more appealing than staying.
***
Belinda glared at the rapidly shrinking image of the beaten up old truck as it bounced down the road. She waited until the dust cloud kicking up behind it obscured their view of her before dropping her façade. Her eyes narrowed in frustration, leaving only the slightest sliver of slate grey iris showing. Even in the bright afternoon sunlight, her eyes held all the warmth and color of a cold winter storm.
Crossing her arms in front of her, she tapped her fingertips lightly across one pale forearm while she considered the events of the last few minutes. Her plans for the day were completely and utterly derailed. Her guests, all thirteen of them, slunk out of whatever hidden place they had found and gathered around her.
“Something is wrong,” she muttered beneath her breath. They shouldn't have been able to leave like that, not when I wanted them to stay.
A tremulous voice piped up behind her, the mocking tone instantly grating on her nerves and fueling her already sparked temper.
“Belinda! I thought you had those two under control. What are we going to do about tonight?” the woman asked, blithely ignoring the waves of anger coming from the taller woman. The admonishment held an inexcusable note of disrespect that sent Belinda’s rage burning out of control.
She spun on her heels, turning so violently the other woman had no time to react. Long fingers wrapped around the older woman's skinny throat and squeezed. Ignoring the choking noises coming from the woman as she clawed at her arm, Belinda brought the wrinkled face up to hers, making her balance on the tip of her toes like some ridiculously aged ballet dancer. Belinda’s red hair flamed around her, a nonexistent wind whipping through and around her. The huge oak tree dominating the front yard danced behind her, its limbs whispering against each other in a dire warning. Her eyes glowed with displeasure as she spoke.
“First of all—you will never address me again in that way, Siandra. Secondly, you will never again presume to know everything I have planned.”
The old woman gasped in her grip, her face turning beet red as she tried to breathe past Belinda's vice-like grip. A gloss of fear floated opaquely across the old woman's rheumy eyes like a lump of spoiled lard. Belinda grimaced in disgust, then tossed her away as easily as waving her hand. Siandra landed in a crumpled heap on the manicured lawn. Belinda wasn't worried that she had seriously hurt the human witch. Siandra wasn't as frail as she made herself look. Not that it mattered—Belinda was in the mood to hurt someone and Siandra was a convenient target.
“My apologies if I offended, Bellaria,” Siandra rasped, rubbing at her tender throat with one hand while awkwardly trying to get up with the other.
“Do not use that name again, Siandra,” Belinda bellowed, turning on the woman who had made not one, but two mistakes in less than a minute. “I will not stomach such idiocy.”
Belinda turned in a circle, glaring at each and every one of them, making sure they understood her warning. Carelessness put her plans at risk, and she would not be thwarted in her quest for revenge. Each one of the women cast her eyes down to the ground and backed away, affording her the courtesy her position required and she demanded, but they gave themselves away. One moved a bit too slowly, another held her shoulders too proudly to perfect her obeisance.
Belinda growled, and the sound was nothing that should ever come from a human throat. The situation required action to satisfy her need for violence as well as reinforce her dominance over this little group of hers. She had twelve witnesses waiting to see what would happen, circling the two of them with all the intense hunger of a kettle of vultures.
Belinda drank the fear in Siandra's eyes and found the taste sweet. She ignored the outstretched hand, begging for mercy even as Belinda took from the woman the only thing she had left to offer—the power carried within her fragile shell of a life. The old witch wasn't going to need it anymore, and Belinda did. Even if it was a meager meal, the woman’s power added to her growing strength.
“Clean this mess up and find a replacement. Preferably someone with a stronger heart and a quicker mind than this old fool,” Belinda spoke into the silence that followed her little demonstration.
Twelve pairs of eyes followed her as she stepped over the crumpled body lying on the ground, but none repeated their cohort’s mistake. The breeze changed direction and brought the scent of fear with it. Belinda’s nostrils flared. The twelve woman left reeked of delicious terror. So tempting, she thought, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath in. She had to walk away before she succumbed to the temptation and simply destroyed them all. She could start over, there were always women looking for power and willing to do anything to get it.
“Too much time and effort,” Belinda grumbled, generating a flurry of movement behind her. If I didn’t need them, they would be gone tonight, she thought. The old woman had been right about one thing—she would have no need for them tonight.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ro hung on tight while the old pickup truck bounced along the dirt road that ran along the back of the farm. If her Dad’s wink hadn’t given their destination away, his choice of route surely did. It was a shortcut they had used often in the past, one that avoided the highway and lead directly to the racetrack. The old gravel road was a lot more fun than plain pavement but it also had a habit of tossing rocks about, which is why her Dad took the old pickup—another scratch or dent wouldn’t be noticed or cared about.
The ancient Ford was worn and abused and from the way the truck bottomed out in one of the deeper ruts, probably needed new shocks 50,000 miles ago. While she slid around on the faded and cracked bench seat, she wondered if the teeth-rattling ride compared to the wild bronco rides she loved to wa
tch at the rodeo.
The poor thing had seen better days. The paint job was peeling off in places, but under the heavy layer of dust, dirt, and rust you could tell that it used to be a glorious green and gold color. There were no embellishments on the old truck, no proud lettering that told anyone that the truck belonged to the MacLeod’s or their farm. Ro suspected that her stepmother would have a fit to see the MacLeod’s farm name anywhere near the racetrack, it being beneath her stature. The old truck was beneath notice too, she guessed. It sat far in the back of their lowliest barn most of the time, hidden beneath a paint encrusted utility tarp. Out of sight and out of mind, she thought. Sighing heavily, she wished she could do the same sometimes.
Back out on the main road, Ro and her father rode together in comfortable silence. The racetrack sat just outside of town, easily accessible from the main highway. Choosing the back road allowed them to take the more scenic route. The single lane road that snaked through the valleys and hills of the surrounding countryside took longer, but it was worth it to avoid all the traffic.
Now that the risk of a stone bruise was past, Ro rolled down the window to enjoy the breeze. The sweet smell of freshly cut alfalfa took over the truck cab, along with the wind that playfully blew through the truck’s interior. Her long blonde hair danced around her head, threatening to blind her whenever it whipped across her face. Her father noticed one of her repeated attempts to pull long strands of flyaway hair out of her mouth and grinned down at her. “Having trouble there, Ro?”
“A little bit.” Ro grimaced. She hated tying her hair back, but this was getting a little ridiculous. Not for the first time she considered how much easier it would be if she had short hair.
Reaching into the back, he grabbed a worn straw cowboy hat and plopped it on Ro’s head. The hat had been there for years and Rohanna had never paid it any mind.
“Here you go, sweetie,” he said, “try that on for size.” His eyes were glued to the road so when he tried to put the hat on her, it landed lopsided, plastering her hair against her face in an overgrown mess.
“Dad! I can’t see.” Laughing, she removed the tired hat so she could pull her hair back. As she gathered her hair in one hand, she saw something written inside the brow band. A name, the black ink faded from years of use and barely legible anymore.
The letters were written boldly, the backward slant told her that the writer was most likely left-handed. Her own scrawl held a similar slant, no matter how hard Belinda tried to correct it. Rohanna ran her fingers along the worn and sweat stained leather.
ERIN
My mother was left handed. This is my mother’s hat.
Hot tears gathered at the corner of Ro’s eyes, misting her vision before she could blink them away. “Dad?”
“Hmmm?” her father answered absently, keeping his eyes on the winding road ahead of them.
“Can I get my hair cut?” Her hands cradled the hat gently, its presence a welcome reminder of her real mother. She had worn this hat, and from its appearance it was obviously a favorite. Now it was Ro’s. A piece of her mother that Belinda hadn’t found and destroyed. Rohanna vowed that it wouldn’t “disappear” as other bits of her past had.
John risked a quick look over at his daughter. Rohanna’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, and she held the hat in her hands like it was the Holy Grail.
Repressed grief and guilt assaulted him simultaneously, sending a sharp pang deep through his chest and making it hard to breathe. John’s throat worked furiously, trying to swallow past the pain. Hot tears gathered and threatened to fall. He had to blink rapidly to clear his vision.
A red light gave him a moment to recover. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, willing the grief away. Rohanna had so little to remember her mother by.
With her gold-blonde hair and pixie face, Rohanna was a miniature version of his dead wife and a constant reminder of his loss. He had given Erin that hat the first year they were married. It had cost a lot of money back when they didn’t have much to spare. She wore it every day, traveling in the same seat that Rohanna now sat during their travels.
Erin rode in the western circuit. It didn’t make a lot of money, but was well worth the gas and time in how much happiness it gave her. She would come in from the arena after running her pattern, covered in dust from head to toe and smiling from ear to ear. He didn’t think she could be much happier. Then she would look at him, and her smile would become something more. Her whole face would glow, just for him.
His heart ached as he watched his daughter slowly place the old cowboy hat squarely on her head, brushing a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. His breath caught at the casual motion, it was so like her mother he shivered at the similarity.
Rohanna stared out the truck window. For a child of thirteen, she was entirely too serious. John had never seen such a somber child. His mother would have called her an old soul, and he would have been happy to believe that her quiet ways were due to that, but he had to face reality. She had been a happy little girl once. Now she didn’t even have playmates her own age to socialize with. Marrying Belinda had seemed like a good idea at the time, when he was dealing with his loneliness—or, he should say, not dealing with it very well. Together, they had made the farm profitable beyond his wildest expectations, but at what cost? Why had he not seen how lonely and isolated his daughter had become until now? Things needed to change, and change usually started with admitting you made a mistake.
“Dad? A haircut?”
John cleared his throat. He had gotten lost in thought and hadn’t answered his daughter’s question. “Sure, Sweetheart. Anything you want.”
Turning left, he headed away from the track and towards the center of town. A quick time check told him he could run this one extra errand and still make it to the track on time for his appointment—and Ro’s Ice-cream.
The small downtown area looked a lot like any other small town in America. Main Street was mostly a long row of brick buildings that had probably been built a hundred years ago, interspersed with a few fast food joints easily identified by their cookie-cutter appearance.
John parked in front of the salon and left the truck running. “I’m just going to run to the feed store real quick and pick up some supplies since we’re in town. Are you okay here by yourself?”
“Sure, Dad.” Ro took the money her dad held out and stuffed it in her pocket.
Rohanna watched her father drive away, then pulled open the door and looked around. A bell tinkled above her, and she scooted in to make it stop ringing. Once inside, the acrid scent of hair products and chemicals assailed her. Her nostrils flared. Rohanna felt out of place in the clean white interior of the salon. Peering down at her boots, she worried that she had dragged some part of the farm in with her, dreading the looks that an errant piece of horse dung would cause.
The sound of someone softly clearing their throat made her look up. A well-dressed young man stood in front of her, watching her expectantly. Looking past him, she stared at her image in the mirror behind him. Her eyes were large and frightened looking, her face overly pale despite the light tan she managed to hold each summer, making her freckles stand out darkly against the faded gold of her skin.
She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. She felt her stomach clench uncomfortably, the icy cold fear competing with the hot flush that colored her cheeks. She stood there dumbly, embarrassed and unsure what she should do.
The stylist smiled at her, his straight white teeth gleaming in the bright light. He introduced himself as Geoffrey and his kind voice put her at ease immediately. She returned the infectious smile with one of her own.
“Come on back, Sweetie. No one will hurt you here,” Geoffrey said, glancing out the window. “First time all alone?”
“Yes,” Ro admitted.
“You’ll be fine, sweetie.” He guided her to a chair in the back where she received her first salon shampoo. It was pure bliss. The young man’s fingers worked magic on her tangled h
air, massaging her scalp firmly with a minty smelling shampoo until it tingled. Rohanna relaxed into the salon chair, comforted by the friendly but subdued voices around her. The idle chatter contained nothing of importance, but held some humor. Rohanna found herself giggling at some of the young man’s stories.
Rohanna stared into the mirror, a black cape wrapped tightly around her neck and draped across her lap. Geoffrey held limp wet strands of her blonde hair out from her head while he talked to her about her options.
“What do you want done today?”
Rohanna felt a delicious sort of terror take over. It was her decision, no one else’s.
She licked her lips, almost afraid to say it. Then she looked up at Geoffrey and smiled. “I want it gone. I want to look like her,” she said, pointing at the poster on the wall.
“You’re the boss lady today.” Geoffrey picked up his scissors. He looked pleased at her choice and quickly dived into his job.
Ro watched in fascinated horror as long strands of gold hair dropped ignobly to the floor, while a girl not much older than herself idly swept them up from around her chair. The discarded hair joined other sprigs of hair cut from customers in nearby chairs. What the girl swept up into her pan looked a lot like what would happen if a calico cat sneezed too hard and lost its coat all at once. That thought made her giggle.
“Don’t move, sweetie,” Geoffrey reminded her.
“I’m sorry.” Rohanna bit her lip. She was afraid that if she started laughing again she wouldn’t be able to stop. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath to calm herself and focused on the rhythmic snip-snip sound of the scissors above her.
Rohanna fell into a pleasant daydream as Geoffrey did his work. She didn’t notice when the subtle noise of the scissors stopped until he touched her face.
“All done.”
She stared at the image in front of her. Short blonde hair framed an oval face, her high cheekbones stood out dramatically beneath large green eyes that widened even further in amazement. Geoffrey had put some kind of gel in her hair that had given her natural wave some body. The short strands lay like subtle flames licking the air around her head. She felt transformed. The new hairstyle made her look older, more mature “You’re beautiful, honey,” Geoffrey said. He looked proud, like an artist unveiling his newest creation. “Do you like it?”