Payton laughed.
Maya laughed, too, as surprised by the sound of her own giggling voice as she was by the icy river.
Aunt Vi grinned and tossed her the shampoo.
Maya treaded water and then swam to a shallow spot on a sandbar. She sat down and squirted the shampoo on her head. When it was foamy, she squished it from her hair and massaged it all over her body, then dipped under, again and again, until the soap disappeared. I’m taking a bath in a river, she thought, and couldn’t help but wonder what Grandmother would think. But Maya didn’t care. She had never been so dirty or felt so clean.
Maya followed Aunt Vi out of the river. They spread their towels on the bank, side by side, and sat on them. The warm breeze dried their bodies.
Payton scaled up the bank and jumped back into the river, displacing a fair amount of water. When he sprang up, he waved.
Aunt Vi waved back and continued to watch him. “You know, Maya, when Payton’s at home, his three brothers tease him to distraction. On top of that, they’re all star athletes. They’re good riders, too, but Payton outshines them in competitions. I try to coach him as much as I can so he has one thing he’s better at than they are. He’s usually a more settled soul out here than he is at home.” Aunt Vi leaned over and nudged Maya with her elbow. “But I think you threw a monkey wrench in his summer. Don’t worry, he’ll adjust. Wide-open space does that to people. Slows them down and gives them time and legroom to sort out their thoughts and put them in the right order.”
Maya watched Payton swim toward a deeper pool farther upstream. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have three older brothers who tormented her.
“He’s a good swimmer,” said Maya.
“He’s good at a lot of things. At home, he just gets a little lost in the shuffle. Where did you learn to swim?” asked Aunt Vi.
“I had swimming lessons at one of my schools.”
Aunt Vi turned her head to look at Maya. “Is that the truth?”
Maya nodded, her eyes large and sincere. “One of my schools offered lessons and Grandmother allowed it because swimming is related to safety. She always worried that I might drown in the bathtub or a puddle or that there might be a flood. She … she worried about so many dreadful things.”
“She must have loved you very much,” said Aunt Vi.
Maya gave her a curious look.
“She wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to protect you if she hadn’t cared about you,” said Aunt Vi.
It had never occurred to Maya that Grandmother’s behavior was a form of love. “But she acted so mean … and she hated my mother. I wasn’t even allowed to say her name or I’d get in trouble. Grandmother got rid of all of my mother’s pictures, except for one that I kept hidden, and she said … she said that my mother took her son away from her … and killed him.”
A tiny frown crowded Aunt Vi’s forehead. “I had no idea, Maya. All I can say is that she must have needed somebody to blame for your father’s death. Probably made it easier for her. In a way, sadness is proof of how much you cared for the person who died, so it’s hard to move away from it. Some people get stuck in their sorrow and grab on much too tight to what they have left. The lawyer told Moose that your grandmother closed herself off from the entire world and tried to do the same to you. That makes me think she was just sad and afraid. I have to feel sorry for someone like that.”
“Was Moose ever sad and afraid when my mother died?”
“Sure. We all were. But we had each other to lean on and to share the sadness. We dragged each other out of the wallow so it was easier to get on with laughing and loving … and singing.”
“He still seems sad,” said Maya.
“Oh, that’s because Moose wears his heart on his sleeve. Know what that means?”
Maya shook her head.
“It means he wears his feelings on the outside instead of covered up on the inside. He gets emotional when he’s sad and when he’s happy. And during a beautiful sunset. Or at the drop of a hat.” Aunt Vi smiled.
“His wife died, too, right? My other grandmother?” said Maya.
“Yes, we lost Moose’s wife many years ago when your mother was just a baby.”
“So … my mother didn’t have a mother, either … just like me.”
“Yes and no. Back then, I was a young woman just out of grad school, teaching art history at a university in the East. When Moose’s wife died, I came home to help raise Ellie. She was my niece, and she needed me. I never regretted it. Secretly, I had missed my family and my horses but was too proud to admit it to anyone. Fig joined us when he became a widower, but even when he didn’t live at the ranch, he and his family were around all the time. We all played a part in raising Ellie. I guess I filled in as her mother.”
Aunt Vi sat up, leaned her elbows on her knees, and stared downstream, where Payton stood on the bank, skipping rocks into the river.
Maya followed her gaze, thinking about how much Aunt Vi, Uncle Fig, and Moose must have loved her mother, too.
“Your mother used to say that the Sweetwater wore a hole in her heart that she could never fill up with contentment from anywhere else. This spot was one of her favorite places, Maya. Here, and being out with the wild horses. You’ll see why tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’m taking you and Payton to see a harem band I’ve been watching. I keep track of several of the smaller harems so that when I take groups out, I’ll know where they are. We’ll probably see one or two of the stallions your father painted. He was a talented artist. You must have known that.”
Maya shook her head. “Grandmother said she destroyed everything. The only painting of his I’ve ever seen is the one in the living room at the ranch.”
Aunt Vi’s mouth set in a straight line and she shook her head. “All his beautiful paintings … well … I can at least show you what inspired him, and if we’re lucky, you’ll see the brown-and-white Paint your mother once rode.”
“That’s … that’s the picture I have.… She’s on a brown-and-white horse!”
“The horse’s name is Artemisia,” said Aunt Vi. “She was a yearling who was separated from her mother during a gather and taken to auction.”
“What’s a gather?”
“It’s a polite word for a roundup. I bought Artemisia and trained her for three years. She was a four-year-old, just like you, that last summer you and your mom visited. Ellie adored that horse and rode her the entire time she was here. She was my horse, Maya, but Artemisia and your mother had a connection like I’ve never seen before. When Ellie left, Artemisia pined for days. Later that summer, I moved Artemisia out here to the Sweetwater because I needed more remuda horses to outfit and guide a pack trip for a group of photographers. I let someone else ride Artemisia. That was my mistake.”
“Why?”
“We had been out all day, tracking a band of wild horses,” said Aunt Vi. “When we set up camp for the night, I was busy putting up a portable corral, and the photographers were taking off their horses’ tack. The woman riding Artemisia forgot to half-hitch a halter around Artemisia’s neck before she removed the bridle. About that time, a stallion with his harem came over a ridge almost in our laps. All those photographers went crazy, grabbing their cameras and shooting pictures. After it was all said and done, the woman noticed Artemisia had wandered off. By then, the stallion was already circling and posturing. He came up from behind and snaked Artemisia away, right out from under our noses. I was heartsick until I was able to see how well she adapted back to the wild. I spotted her a few weeks ago, right after she foaled. She has a new colt. I named him Klee.”
“Klee,” repeated Maya. “That’s a funny name.”
“I name the horses after famous painters.”
“How come?”
Aunt Vi leaned back on her elbows, and her eyes turned wistful, like when she sang around the campfire. “Look around. Out here in all this bigness, every single thing matters and stands out. Wh
en the horses run against the wind with their manes and tails flying, I think they look like fleeting brushstrokes of color. I consider them the artists on this enormous outdoor canvas, making it more beautiful. So I name them so. The male horses get last names and the females get first names just so we can keep the genders straight. I’m partial to painters of the American Southwest. Others are favorites whose lives I admire or artists I teach in my classes.”
Payton emerged from the bushes on the edge of the clearing. “Look what I found!” He ran toward them, a skinny black snake dangling from his hands.
“Payton …?” warned Aunt Vi.
He veered away and released the snake beneath an outlying willow bush. Aunt Vi shook her head and smiled at Maya. “A few days ago that might have ended up in your tent. There might be hope for that boy yet.”
As Maya dressed, she said, “Aunt Vi, I … I did unlatch the gate … on purpose.”
Aunt Vi nodded and pulled on her boots. “I know. Thank you for owning up. And Maya, I was a little hard on you today … on purpose. I didn’t expect you to fall, though. You gave me a scare. But you did good anyway. You’re a natural, just like a Limner.”
As Maya followed Aunt Vi back to camp, she hugged her towel. She couldn’t stop thinking about everything Aunt Vi had said. About her mother and the river and the wild horses. And about being a Limner. Her face pinked from the afternoon sun, but she beamed as much on the inside as she did on the out.
ARTEMISIA LED THE FAMILY TOWARD THE GULCH. KLEE high-stepped next to her with sprightly freedom. Since his birth only a few weeks ago, he had grown and filled out, his hair now fluffy with thick whorls of brown and white. With newfound bravado, Klee tried to prance in front of Artemisia, but she crowded his progress until he stopped. Georgia jogged forward to babysit, keeping Klee a safe distance behind their pilot.
As the band moved into the lowlands closer to the water hole, three figures appeared on the rise of the hill. Artemisia stopped and raised her head in their direction, ears alert. One was the familiar woman, who often watched them for hours but had never been a threat. Sargent’s ears twitched upright and he whinnied as if asking, “Is everything all right?” Artemisia whinnied back to him with reassurance and continued toward the drinking spot. Sargent wasn’t satisfied and continued to stare at the observers. His authoritative posture announced, “Don’t approach or you will have to deal with me.” When he sensed no danger, he followed the band.
Artemisia noticed that Mary, who was known to dally, slowed behind the rest, but then saw Sargent come up from behind and bite her on the flank. Mary loped forward to keep up with the others. Everyone was accounted for, except Wyeth.
Artemisia heard Wyeth’s whinny and looked toward the foothills. He stood alone, calling to them. He jogged forward, but Sargent turned suddenly, arched his neck, snorted, and pawed at the ground. Wyeth retreated to a small knoll, turning his head one way and then the other.
Wyeth was more than two years old now. It was time for him to be on his own; to find a band of bachelor stallions with whom he’d live in fraternity; to pretend fight, play rough, and chase the others with his neck outstretched in the snaking posture. It would all be a rehearsal for when he was older and strong enough to challenge a stallion with a harem, win a mare, and start his own family. Artemisia watched as Wyeth again took tentative steps in their direction. Sargent lunged toward him with an angry squeal. Even though Wyeth was Georgia’s son and had been in the band since birth, Artemisia and the other mares knew better than to interfere with Sargent’s fierce rejection and seemed resigned to Wyeth’s exile. Finally, he hung his head and disappeared over the hill. For the first time in his life, he had to choose his own path.
Artemisia turned her attention to the others. Georgia and Mary dropped to the water and rolled. Artemisia did the same and Klee copied her. She stood and walked from the water. Klee followed. Both shook off a rain of droplets. Artemisia nuzzled his face as if trying to absorb his presence. She draped her neck over his withers, reassuring herself that he wasn’t going anywhere with a band of bachelor stallions, at least for now.
“STAY CLOSE TO ME AND AWAY FROM THAT DROP-OFF,” said Aunt Vi. “I am not ready to lose either of you to the Great Divide Basin.”
Maya, Aunt Vi, and Payton sat on their horses at an overlook and gazed out at the infinite crater of desert. Below them, the Honeycomb Buttes rose abruptly from the basin floor in peculiar sandstone spires of rust, brown, and green. In the east, Continental Peak saluted, and in the west, the Oregon Buttes lay like a sleeping giant.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” asked Aunt Vi.
Maya shook her head. She might as well have been on an alien planet. Was she really here? On her way to see the wild horses? She’d hardly been able to sleep last night for thinking about this very moment. First thing this morning, Aunt Vi had been surprised to find her warming her hands over the campfire, already dressed and waiting. After breakfast, they had loaded Russell, Homer, and Seltzer into the gooseneck trailer, and Aunt Vi had driven Maya and Payton south along the Continental Divide.
Now, Aunt Vi turned her horse north, and Maya and Payton followed on theirs. The mirage of a shimmering lake appeared before them, but as they rode closer, it vanished. What Maya thought was a congregation of rocks on a hillside manifested into a herd of pronghorn. She gasped and chills ran up her arms as she watched them flee across the panorama in a graceful, white-bottomed ballet.
“It’s a mysterious place out here, Maya. I’m always amazed, too, at the beauty and the strangeness of it all.”
Maya nodded and felt an odd expectation, as if something unusual might happen at any moment. She knew it was a ridiculous notion, but she imagined that when she caught her first glimpse of Artemisia, she might see her mother sitting on the horse, too. Or would at least feel her presence. Out here, where the eye played tricks, it almost seemed possible.
They stopped, dismounted, haltered the horses, and tied them to the woody sagebrush. Aunt Vi led them to the crest of a hill above Oregon Gulch where they sat cross-legged, waiting.
“Aunt Vi, are there any ghost horses out here?” asked Maya.
Aunt Vi smiled. “Who told you about ghost horses?”
“My mother … She said the only way to capture a ghost horse is to paint the tail of the wind.”
“I can paint the wind,” said Payton. “Want me to show her how fast I can ride, Aunt Vi?”
“Payton, we just sat down. Now stay put. All you’d do is scare off every living thing for miles. There are a lot of ghosts out here, including Artemisia. It’s that stark white coat against the darkness that makes believers out of skeptics.” Aunt Vi almost whispered, “She’s the most beautiful, though.”
“Aunt Vi, why can’t you just take Artemisia back if she belonged to you?” asked Maya.
“Payton, why?”
“Because it would be too dangerous,” said Payton.
“That’s right. I’d need a group of wranglers to separate her from a possessive stallion. She was born wild and knows how to survive out here, so I’ve let her be. That decision wasn’t easy, though. And I miss her.”
“Won’t the wild horses try to steal our horses?”
“No way,” said Payton. “They only try to steal mares. Our horses are boy horses, and the stallion has to be the only grown-up boy in a wild horse family. He doesn’t like any competition. If another male horse came close, he would fight him and drive him away. Sometimes, one stallion tries to steal another stallion’s mare and then there’s a giant fight and they rear and bite each other and kick each other and there’s blood.…”
Aunt Vi put a hand on Payton’s arm to settle him. She lifted her glasses. “Look. There’s a family in the distance heading toward the water hole. Stay nice and still. No sudden moves.”
Maya’s mouth wetted with anticipation and she licked her lips. She looked through the binoculars and saw five horses emerge between the hollow of two hills.
Aunt Vi w
hispered, “There’s Sargent, the stallion. He’s the palomino behind the rest of them. Isn’t he beautiful?”
Sargent reminded Maya of the landscape, raw and untamed. His coat was marked with nicks and scars, his forelock dangling in stringy moplike bangs.
“And see the flaxen mare? That’s Georgia. And there’s Mary, the two-year-old. She looks more like Sargent with that palomino color. Artemisia is right in the front. Do you see her, Maya?”
Maya held her breath and then reminded herself to exhale. She leaned forward and tried to hone in on Artemisia, but the horse appeared blurry through the lenses. Maya took a deep breath to calm herself as she focused the binoculars. The image sharpened.
Artemisia didn’t have the sleek look of the remuda horses or the groomed and trimmed face of the horse she had seen in the photo. Witches’ knots tangled her mane and tail, dirt crusted on her round barrel, and her legs and face were shaggy with wispy hairs. But even so, there was a strength of character about her, in the way she walked, in the way she held her head with royal forbearance.
Artemisia gazed toward Maya as if she were looking directly through the binoculars and into her eyes.
Something fluttered deep inside Maya. “She knows we’re here.”
“She knows and so do Sargent and the others. But they’re used to me watching them and bringing people around. I like to think that Artemisia remembers me. Maybe something about my body posture or my scent.” Aunt Vi’s voice caught with affection. “Oh, Maya, look right behind Artemisia, between the other two mares. There’s the foal, Klee.”
Klee stood out in contrast to the others: His hair looked new and soft and fluffy, his face animated and almost whimsical. Maya wished she were close enough to touch him. She couldn’t take her eyes from his antics and found herself smiling. He was so curious and filled with spunk, and he seemed to love his mother with brazen adoration.
Paint the Wind Page 8