by Kari Bovee
It didn’t take long for Grace to adjust to the rhythm of her mare’s gait. The horse performed beautifully, and Grace had never been more thrilled in her life. Chet, too, looked comfortable astride his horse and experimented with different gaits. He’d trot the horse, then lope, then gallop, then come back to a brisk walk.
Deerhunter and Mayor Wade rode ahead, their mounts walking close together as they talked, probably about political matters and town concerns.
Grace glanced back at Donovan. His face had taken on the hue of day-old oatmeal, and he’d resumed gripping the saddle horn in terror. Grace, however, had quickly figured out that if she held on to the horn, she had less control of the horse. Constant but slight contact from the bit to her hands kept the horse in check. She hoped silently that Donovan’s horse wouldn’t do anything unpredictable to further embarrass the man. Though annoying, she didn’t wish any harm to come to him. The wagon, pulled by two gray nags, ambled behind the party with the reporter and photographer on board.
Chet trotted his horse out ahead of Grace. Not wanting to be left behind, she lifted her body in the saddle and squeezed gently with her legs. The horse moved forward into a fast walk, almost as if the horse was jogging. Grace relaxed and moved with the horse’s rhythmic cadence. Then she lifted her body again, squeezed her legs harder, and the horse moved into a trot. Finding the violent bouncing uncomfortable, Grace set her weight onto her right hip. Instantly, the horse’s left leg jumped forward, and the mare’s pace changed to a slow, rolling lope. It didn’t take long for Grace to catch Chet and pass him.
“You ride well,” Chet said as his horse matched her horse’s stride.
“You too.” Grace urged her horse a little faster. Chet kept up the pace and rode his horse ahead of her Palomino. Not to be outridden by him, Grace prodded her golden steed even faster and soon passed him again, offering him an I-dare-you smile. Chet took the bait and spurred his horse into a gallop. She followed suit, and the two horses sped through the desert. When they passed Deerhunter and the mayor, Grace beamed at the shocked expressions on their faces.
The longer the two horses remained neck and neck, the more Grace laughed with delight. The hot wind blew across her face and made her clothes flap in the wind, and her body hummed, her heart pounding as the exhilaration of freedom made her want to shout for joy. Out here, with the wind in her hair, she didn’t have to be anyone except Grace Michelle.
From Chet’s concentrated expression, it seemed he’d taken the challenge to heart, which made Grace laugh even louder and squeeze the horse’s girth again. As she passed him, she saw his look of surprise and determination.
“Whoa, not so fast, Grace.”
She squealed like a child outrunning the boogeyman and leaned down low over the horse’s neck. She could feel the mare’s legs pump and her rib cage expand and contract with rapid bursts of air. The mare snorted and huffed, foam dripping from the bit in her mouth.
Chet raced forward and maneuvered his way in front of Grace to slow her down. Her horse eased her stride, and soon they slowed to a quiet lope. Chet steered his mount close to Grace, took hold of her reins, and brought them to a halt.
“Poor sport.” Grace gave him a pout. “You couldn’t stand being bested by my trusty Golden Ray.”
“Ha! We beat you hands down. I stopped you so we wouldn’t get lost out here in the middle of nowhere. Look,” he said pointing behind them. Deerhunter and Mayor Wade were mere specks on the horizon, and there was no sign of Donovan Green.
“Over there,” Grace said, pointing to a cluster of white brick buildings to the northeast.
“That must be our destination.”
Side by side, they walked the horses to let them catch their breath. Both horses had worked up a foamy sweat. Grace felt sorry for having run them so hard; they must have been thirsty in this searing, dry heat. She squinted into the sunlight.
“Here,” Chet said, leaning over. He pulled her hat off her back, where it had been anchored by the leather strings coming from each side, and plopped it back on her head.
“Thanks. I didn’t realize it had come off.”
“I never pegged you for a competitive sort.”
She shrugged. “Me neither.”
Quiet, and now moving at an even slower pace, Grace surveyed the land around her. She never imagined she would see anything like this landscape. Pale green and violet hues painted the sandy, burnt sienna–colored desert floor with scrub brushes, silver-flecked granite boulders, and blue, majestic mountain ranges to the east and the south. The Rio Grande, like a ribbon of brown silk, shimmered in the distance in front of a thick forest of cottonwood trees the Mayor had called the ‘bosque’, which he said meant ‘forest’ in Spanish. If only Sophia could have seen this beautiful land with her, Grace thought, her heart aching with a longing she rarely allowed herself to feel. Her sister would have loved this.
They soon reached the buildings where there stood a large wooden sign with the words St. Cecilia’s Indian Orphanage in large white letters, welcoming them.
As if they had been awaiting them, a mass of children and Franciscan nuns greeted them. The children surrounded the horses, their faces open, eager, and freshly scrubbed.
An elderly nun approached them. “I’m Sister Antoinette. You must be Miss Michelle.”
“Yes,” Grace said, dismounting. “And this is my . . . friend, Chet Riker.”
The nun smiled, never once removing her hands from under her crisp, black-and-white habit. Chet tipped his hat and glanced at Grace. She diverted her eyes and focused on the children who were caressing her clothes and hair.
“I don’t believe they have ever seen blond hair before,” Sister Antoinette said. “We always keep our heads covered with our habits.”
Grace looked down at the adoring brown faces, most of them with the wide cheekbones and proud foreheads of their Indian ancestors. Others looked characteristically Mexican and had large brown eyes.
“We expected more in your party.” Sister Antoinette looked out into the desert.
“They are on their way,” Chet assured her.
Two of the older boys hung back from the rest of the children. The slightly squinting eyes and the wary tilt of the older one’s head exuded suspicion, or despair, Grace couldn’t tell.
“Enrique, Manuel, water their horses, por favor,” Sister Antoinette called to them.
The two boys obeyed, their eyes avoiding Grace’s.
“You must excuse the children’s behavior. Those two lost their families to the Spanish flu. We’ve mostly been spared, but we did lose some, may they rest in peace.”
“How terrible.” Grace bit her lower lip. “I know what it’s like to lose a family—” Her voice caught. “My heart aches for them.”
Sister Antoinette lowered her head in an empathetic bow. When she raised it again, her serene eyes met Grace’s. “Would you like to freshen up from the ride?”
Grace nodded to the nun and followed her toward a small building next to the massive one.
“Mr. Riker, there’s lemonade inside and a fresh basin of water in back. Please, make yourself at home,” the sister called back to him. “And children, leave the gentleman alone. Go play stickball or something.”
The children ran to a wooden crate beside the door and retrieved leather gloves, homemade balls, and narrow sticks.
Inside the little brick building, a cool wave of humid but comforting air washed over Grace’s face. Sister Antoinette led her to a small room with a long, skinny cot, a chipped but sturdy wardrobe, and, in the corner, a small kneeler adorned with rosaries. A fresh basin of water and a cloth towel rested on the vanity.
“I’m afraid we have no plumbing, but the water is fresh from the well.”
Grace smiled and thanked her.
Once she had freshened up, Grace returned to the front of the building and leaned against one of the sturdy posts supporting the shaded overhang. Donovan, Deerhunter, and Mayor Wade stood at the water trough across the
way, deep in discussion with Sister Antoinette, patiently waiting as their horses drank. The photographer busied himself setting up his equipment.
Soft, tinkling laughter distracted her. Three more nuns, their hands over their faces as they giggled, gathered at the far end of the building. Having seen her, they quickly stifled their amusement and approached her, offering warm greetings.
“We were laughing at the ball game over there.” The nun with a small, button nose pointed to several of the boys and Chet. Atop the pitcher’s mound, Chet had shed his coat and hat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He threw a slow, underhanded pitch to a skinny, knock-kneed girl of about six years old. She swung fiercely with her stick and missed. Several of the children giggled, and the more they laughed, the more the little girl’s lower lip protruded.
Chet stopped the game, handed the ball to an older boy, and approached the girl. He knelt down in front of her and wiped her tears away until a grin appeared between her dimples. He motioned her to the plate again. This time, he stood behind her, his arms over hers, and helped her guide the stick to hit the pitched ball. Contact was made, and the ball soared over the pitcher’s head and into the outfield.
When Grace witnessed the girl’s face radiating with pride, a lump formed in her throat. Chet pushed the little one gently toward first base, and the girl ran, her skinny legs pumping fast. Grace’s hands curled into fists as she silently urged the girl forward. She flew past first base and over second.
A boy in the outfield scooped up the ground ball and aimed for third base. He threw. The third baseman missed. The girl’s feet skimmed over that base, too. Chet yelled, encouraging her to run faster. The ball arced toward home plate, but the outfielder overthrew, and the ball skipped past the catcher like a stone thrown flat on the water.
The girl ran over home plate and into Chet’s arms. He lifted her high in the air and spun her in circles, her squeals of delight like the sound of a wind chime floating on the breeze. Chet raised her onto his broad shoulders, and she smiled wide. Her teammates surged forward, cheering and jumping around Chet and the little girl.
Grace’s heart swelled. Chet’s tenderness and encouragement of the girl created an ache she couldn’t describe, an affection that made her head spin, her heart pound, and her limbs tingle. Was it respect, admiration, or something more?
Looking around to make sure no one saw her, she wiped the tears that had escaped from her lashes and tried to find some reason to harden her heart to the man who served as her bodyguard.
It didn’t work.
The tour of the orphanage began in the dormitory where beds with crisp white sheets had been stacked one on top of the other, three beds high. Between the crowded bunks sat small end tables. Grace’s heart warmed over how thoughtful the compassionate nuns had been in designing and furnishing this small orphanage that housed too many children.
Now seemed as good a time as any to reward them. “I have something for you, Sister Antoinette,” Grace said. When the nun turned to her with a questioning look, Grace presented her with the check. The pop of the photographer’s flash made Grace jump once again. Would she ever get used to it?
“You are so kind, Miss Michelle.” Sister Antoinette offered Grace a teary smile. “We will use the funds to expand the orphanage and build indoor plumbing.”
“I will see about donating more later.” Grace made a promise to herself to make it happen. Even if she had to come up with the money herself, she would help these children.
At 3:30 p.m., Mayor Wade announced that the party needed to head back to town. Two boys retrieved the horses, and the party mounted up, all except Donovan Green, who hung behind to speak with Sister Antoinette. Grace hoped it concerned another donation.
When Donovan completed his conversation, he approached her. “I’ll arrange for Flo to send more money at the end of the month. He’s going to love this.”
Grace drew in an appreciative breath and nodded her approval. Donovan patted her knee and then walked around the back of her horse to get to his. Her horse immediately began bucking and kicking, thrusting Grace from her seat. She grasped the horse’s mane and then reached both arms downward to encircle the mare’s neck.
Though Grace managed to hold on like a bug clinging to a windswept vine, onlookers shouted and jumped away from the horse’s flying hooves. Grace tried to speak to the mare in soothing tones, but the wild-eyed horse bucked again, propelling Grace forward. She grabbed the mare’s mane and held fast as the horse bolted, taking off at a dead run. Grace tried her best to hang on while being jerked back and forth as Golden Ray raced into the desert. When several large boulders lay in their path, the horse zigzagged her way through them. The horse’s quick athleticism jolted Grace from the saddle, but she managed to hang onto the horse’s taut and pumping neck. Seconds later, she felt her grip loosen and the weight of one of the stirrups drag on her leg.
Golden Ray of Light cleared another rock bed and, likely agitated by Grace hanging on to her mane like a wild beast, ran even faster, her hooves thundering across the desert. Soon, Grace’s arms tired and began to slide down the horse’s mane. She gripped the hair as best she could, but her fingers, numb from holding so tightly, slipped free. Her upper body slid from the saddle, turning upside down, one foot still stuck in a stirrup. Her head and shoulders slammed into the ground, and her body jerked backward with the force of the horse’s speed. She frantically struggled to release her foot from the stirrup. Grace’s body bounced against the hard dirt and unforgiving brush like a limp doll. Then the world went black.
Chapter Seventeen
Grace opened her eyes to see Chet’s face looming over her. Perspiration dotted his knitted brow and dripped from his temples. “Grace?”
She rolled her head back and forth, trying to make sense of her surroundings, the hard, spiky ground digging into her bones. “Where? What . . . ?”
“You were thrown from your horse. Don’t move. Tell me where it hurts.”
Grace swallowed, the dirt and grit in her throat feeling like a thousand straight pins. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. “Everywhere,” she whispered.
“We have to get you back to town. Can you feel your legs?”
Grace moved them slightly and rolled her ankles in slow circles. “Yes. But I’m not sure I can stand.” Pain seared her head, but she tried to focus on her arms and legs. She felt as if she’d been crushed in a rockslide.
Chet carefully placed his arms under her knees and the small of her back, lifting her effortlessly. “I hope this doesn’t hurt too much,” he said, adjusting her weight.
Grace winced at the movement. “Not any more than I already hurt.”
She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. In a single sweep, he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted the bay, never releasing his hold on Grace. Once they were on the horse, she lost consciousness nestled in Chet’s arms.
“What in the hell did you think you were doing?” Chet shoved Donovan Green up against the wall of the railcar’s parlor. “You could have killed her.” He imagined ramming one of his fists down Donovan’s throat but instead clenched his hands to stifle the urge.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Donovan said.
“Like hell you don’t. Flo put Grace specifically in my care, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anything happen to her. Now you tell me why you spooked that horse.”
“I didn’t.”
Unable to control himself any longer, Chet grabbed Donovan by the collar, turned him around, and shoved him up against one of the antique mirrors. The mirror shattered into a million shiny fragments around Donovan’s head. The terrified look on the publicist’s face gave Chet satisfaction, and he wanted to see more.
“I saw you prod that horse in the flank, you pathetic liar. Deerhunter said not to go behind the horse. Now you tell me why you would want to hurt Grace.”
“O-okay.” Donovan’s eyes brimmed wide with fear. “Just put me down. I’ll tell yo
u everything.”
Chet released his grip, and Donovan fell to the floor, the remaining shards of mirror clattering down around him. Chet moved closer to him and stood over the trembling man.
“It was Flo.” Donovan wiped his mouth with his sleeve and ran his hands through his hair, releasing another shower of mirror fragments. “He wanted me to cause a commotion at the orphanage.”
“What are you talking about, man?”
“Publicity. That’s why the photographer and reporter were along.”
Chet planted his foot on Donovan’s chest and shoved his torso to the floor. “Why do something so stupid?”
“Sensationalism . . . Drama.” The gasping man placed his hand around Chet’s ankle, trying to relieve some of the pressure. “Flo ordered me to make sure Grace gets in the newspapers as often as possible. He needs her debut in the new show to make the Follies wildly popular, so the more press, the better. He’s in a bind with Marciano and needs this show to be a big moneymaker.”
“So you thought getting her thrown off a horse and dragged through the desert was a good idea?” Chet eased the pressure on Donovan’s chest.
“I didn’t think the horse would take off. I promise, I just thought it’d buck a little, long enough to snap a few photographs.”
Chet gave his foot one last push and then turned away from the sniveling publicist. That ingrate Flo would do anything to keep his neck out of the ringer and his name in the papers—rob his own wife, even risk the life of his rising star, a girl he claimed to love like a daughter. Chet rubbed the stubble on his face and shook his head in disbelief. “What else? I know there’s more.”
“Nothing!” Donovan, rising to a sitting position against the wall, spit the word out, his lip curling with disdain.
“What about Lillian Lorraine? Why is she here? Did Flo send her to cause trouble, too?”
“I swear, I don’t know.” Donovan shook his head, his hair getting mussed against the wall.
