If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!”

  The crowd hushed. The voice came from beside me. Henry.

  Like a ray of light in a dark cloud, he parted the crowd as he led me to the center of the group, where a beet-faced man in ripped overalls stood fuming.

  “Nice of you to finally join us, Mr. Mayfield,” the man said gruffly, removing his dusty hat.

  Henry tipped his head in a way that seemed part apology, part reprimand. “Al.”

  That was all it took. Al melted back into the group.

  “Thank you all for coming out.” Henry’s voice was even. He would not lower himself to shouting above the rabble. The smell of corn whiskey was strong. The men watched him as though jealousy and awe battled within; unsure which would win, I shrank behind him, careful not to let go of his hand. Henry scared me. These men—angry, ruined, and mostly drunk—scared me more.

  “Gentlemen, as you may have noticed, we are under attack. But this time, our scourge comes not from above, from the dusters and never-ending drought. No, my friends, this time the plague comes from those we should have mastered long ago. From those with whom we’d be happy to share if only we had something to share. I’m talking, of course, about the good-for-nothing jackrabbits.”

  A murmur of consent rippled through the audience. A hundred angry eyes bored into my skin, each face the same. Filthy. Hungry. Exhausted. And while I knew each one had a name, a family, a life, they were the same—for they all had the same story.

  But not Henry. Beside me, he beamed, his greased hair slicked into place, his white shirt the brightest thing in the room. “This drought has taken our land, our homes, and most of our crops. We cannot let the vermin take the rest. Not when our very survival depends on it. This is our land! It’s time we start acting like it!”

  Howls of approval shook the crumbling walls, scattering a few pigeons from the rafters.

  “I know many of you have heard about the roundups in Dalhart and Guymon. It’s time for Boise City to do the same. I’ve talked to old John McCarty down there, and he assured me . . .”

  Henry’s mouth continued to move, but I couldn’t hear him. Blood filled my ears. After that, everything moved in slow motion. The fist pumps and muted shouts of agreement. The crowd spilling from the barn and into the sunshine. The gathering of bats, clubs, and guns. Henry’s kiss and mouthed assurances to wait, it would be worth it. The sudden, stifling stillness as the men disappeared.

  I wanted to flee but sat in the back of Henry’s truck, unable to move, the ache in my heart stopping my breath. The beautiful morning had morphed into an ugly, airless day. The blue of the sky felt cruel, the landscape harsh. The Oklahoma I’d known my entire life did not feel dead until this moment, waiting for the nightmare to return.

  The wind kicked up suddenly, pressing my dress against my stomach. There was an ominousness to it. This was no passing breeze. With it came the sound of screaming. Squinting my eyes against the gray, I saw the horde appear on the horizon. Hundreds of fast-moving blurs, growing larger as they approached, kicking up dust in their wake. On their heels, the men. Spread out in a line, herding them toward me. Bats in the air, drunken curses echoing across the plain. Shots fired. I crumpled to my knees, clapping my hands over my ears.

  It wasn’t long before the rabbits reached me. Their mass shook the truck, filling the air with panic. Confused and scared, they fell right into the trap and headed for the open barn door. I wanted to scream for them to stop, but my voice choked on dust and dread.

  A hand grabbed my arm. “Come on!” Henry shouted.

  I shook my head.

  “You need to see this!”

  I shook my head again, yanking my arm free.

  Henry’s eyes flashed at my act of open defiance, unblinking despite the burning sand. The wind whipped my hair, stinging my face. But I didn’t dare look away. In the darkness of his gaze, I saw it. He knew I’d lied. There was no hiding from Henry Mayfield. This was his way of making sure I knew that. My lip quivered slightly before I was able to stop it.

  A smile crept across his face. He didn’t press for the truth. He didn’t need it. Exposing my weakness—and his strength—was enough.

  He pushed away from the side of the truck with a smirk, blowing me a kiss with two fingers as he retreated. On his way into the barn, he crushed three rabbits with one swing of his club, never breaking his stride.

  The sound from that barn would haunt me for years to come. The dull clunk of wood against bone. The whoops and hollers. The thump of bodies being thrown against the closed door, desperate for escape. The wails and cries from animals slaughtered for just trying to survive. But above it all, I would never forget how far away God seemed in that time and that place, how alone I felt in the face of such reckless and pronounced evil. It would echo in my soul for days, as loudly as the sound of those screams.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  KATHRYN

  “So just where was it you were fixin’ to go with that scoundrel?”

  They were the first words Mr. Hickory had spoken to me since Frank Fleming’s sudden departure. If that’s what you wanted to call it. We’d given up on sleep, but the cowboy wasn’t exactly a conversationalist. Not that I was in the mood to talk anyway.

  My arms burned where Frank had held me down. I tucked my foot under my knee. I didn’t want to look at it. Even though it was still in my shoe, it was naked now. Uglier, somehow.

  I’d wished that brace gone every single day of my life. But for it to be disassembled and sold for parts—all to fund Frank’s stupid, empty lies—was worse than being crippled. I was a part of it all now. Somehow I’d gone and made bad worse. Like I always did.

  “What’s it matter?” I spat, kicking a rock with my good leg. “I ain’t getting there.”

  Mr. Hickory stared at me over the flames, cup of coffee clutched in his hands. “Alright.”

  I wished he’d stop looking at me. I took a swig from my mug. The coffee was bitter and turned my already-irritated stomach. I kept drinking it anyway. Maybe sickness in my stomach would keep it away from my heart. “I was tryin’ to get to Indianapolis. I just ain’t meant to get there, I guess.”

  He spat a wad of tobacco into the flames, causing them to flare. “Whatcha gonna do in Indianapolis?”

  “What do you care?”

  Eyebrows raised, he rolled his shoulders and took another sip.

  I hated that I was being so ugly. He hadn’t attacked me. Stolen from me. Darkened my life with another shade of just how repulsive the world really was. No, that person was probably halfway to Wichita by now.

  But it wasn’t just Frank. Oh, I hated him, sure. And I was angry at him—angrier than I’d ever been at anyone in my whole life, even Helen, which is saying something. But when it came down to it, the one I was most angry with was God.

  If all Melissa’s preaching about how good He was, how much He loved me, how He’d made me special, was true, then why did He pick on me so much? He’d twisted my foot, made me kill my mother, brought Helen to my doorstep, and dried up the land beneath my feet. He’d forced us from our home, taken Melissa away, separated me from my pa, and—because I hadn’t been punished enough—sent Frank Fleming my way to steal my brace and leave me abandoned in the middle of nowhere.

  No, Melissa might have thought He was a loving God—and maybe He was, to her—but He didn’t love me. I wasn’t sure that anyone did.

  Not that I blamed them. I didn’t love me either.

  I sighed. “I was going to see the Wizard.”

  “’Scuse me?”

  “I said I was going to see the Wizard.”

  Mr. Hickory ran his tongue over his teeth and poked it into the side of his cheek. He didn’t say a word.

  “What? Ain’t you never read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz?”

  “Ain’t much for reading.”

  “’Course you ain’t.” I rubbed my temples with my fists. I had a headache.

  The sun finally broke free of the hills. The first ti
me I’d ever wished it away. The orange light stole all the shadows. I couldn’t hide my foot anymore. It was there in all its twisted glory. Mocking me. Challenging me.

  “You need the train outta Kansas City.”

  “What?”

  He drained his coffee cup, spitting the dregs into the embers. “Train outta Kansas City goes straight to Indianapolis.”

  “And how far is Kansas City?”

  “About one hundred fifty miles as the crow flies.”

  I threw my hands up in the air. “Well, too bad I ain’t a doggone crow. I ain’t even barely a person, if you hadn’t noticed. One hundred fifty miles might as well be a million.”

  Mr. Hickory poked at the ashes with a stick, releasing a cloud of sparks into the sky.

  I pushed myself off the ground with balled fists, feeling the coffee slosh in my empty stomach. Straightening my dress, I noticed Frank had ripped my sleeve. Perfect. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. I was done with all this. With traveling, with strangers, with this world outside Boise City that didn’t make no sense. I was going home. Whatever was left of home. Even a sister who was not my own and brittle land that was now owned by the Mayfields was better than this.

  “Well, thanks for the coffee. But I best be on my way. So . . . bye, I guess.” I tried to turn my crippled foot forward. It did not cooperate. I commanded it to straighten. It didn’t listen.

  Mr. Hickory spread the ashes at his feet, pretending not to watch me.

  A lump rose in my throat, hot tears stinging the corners of my eyes. Don’t, I screamed inside my head. Not here. Not in front of him.

  Gritting my teeth, I took a step, landing awkwardly on the side of my foot. Pain shot through my calf, seizing my thigh. I teetered on my good leg, grasping at the air for balance. It did not hold me. I fell to the ground with a thud.

  Cheeks hot, I gripped my knees with sweaty hands. Don’t you look at him, Kathryn. Don’t you dare.

  Instead, I looked at the fire. It was dead now, nothing more than a pile of smoldering sticks. Sticks! Tightening my fists, I pushed myself up, and careful not to put much weight on my throbbing foot, I took a step. Dragging my other leg behind me wasn’t the classiest move, but it worked well enough to get me where I needed to go. I grabbed the largest stick from the ashes and held it up to the light.

  Charred but not completely destroyed. I put the tip on the ground and leaned against it. It bowed slightly but held. It would have to do. Satisfied, I nodded at Mr. Hickory. “Well, goodbye again.”

  Still he said nothing.

  Leaning heavily on my makeshift crutch, I took another step forward. The pain was excruciating. Like every muscle in my leg ripping in two. But I didn’t feel like I was going to fall over anymore, and that was something. I took two more steps, my skin chilling instantly as I left the fire circle. An unexpected shiver ran down my spine.

  One step. Two steps. Three—crack! The stick splintered under my weight.

  I didn’t even have time to curse. I simply collapsed, banging my elbow on the hard ground.

  “Indianapolis is that way.”

  I spun on my butt, holding my wounded arm. “What?”

  “You’re going the wrong way. Indianapolis is thataway.” He gave a slight jerk of his thumb.

  I puffed out my chest and raised my chin, willing the tears back into my eyes. “I know that. I changed my mind. I ain’t going to Indianapolis. I’m going home.”

  He shrugged. “Alright.”

  I turned my eyes west once again. “Get up,” I whispered to myself. “Just get up.” But I couldn’t do it. Both my legs ached. My foot cramped inside my boot, curling itself into a ball. And now my elbow hurt, too.

  A joke Melissa used to tell when we were little suddenly popped into my head. When Pa would tell us to do some chore she didn’t feel like doing, like cleaning the chicken coop or clearing the tumbleweeds, she’d get all dramatic, putting her hands over her face. “The spirit is willing but the body is weak,” she’d say.

  My body was weak alright. But now my spirit was too. There was nothing in the world going to get me up off this dry ground.

  “Well, if you’re going, you might need these.”

  I turned just in time for something soft to hit me in the face. Socks. It was a pair of Mr. Hickory’s smelly, rolled-up socks. Making a face, I heaved it back toward him. “I got no need for your laundry.”

  The cowboy caught my toss easily and threw it right back toward me. It landed by my leg noiselessly. I did not pick it up.

  “They ain’t for you to wash. Stuff ’em in your shoe. It’ll help cushion your foot so’s you can walk.”

  I glared at him, unmoving.

  Finally he sighed. “Suit yourself.” He turned around, busying himself packing up his campsite.

  I scowled. Who did he think he was? He wasn’t no doctor, that was for sure. Telling me all I needed was a pair of rolled-up socks to be able to walk. Ha! I unlaced my boot and shoved the socks inside. I’d show him. I wasn’t going to be the only one feeling stupid today.

  I stood on rubbery legs. I could feel my heartbeat inside my foot. But pain was worth knocking the self-righteousness from Mr. Hickory’s face. Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward. It hurt . . . but not nearly as much. I took another step. There was no ache crawling up my leg. No loss of balance. Another step. I could walk.

  Doggone it. I could walk.

  I glanced over to where Mr. Hickory stood. He still was not looking. With a huff, I took off toward the road. I was not going to say thank you this time.

  “I’da taken you to Kansas City.”

  I spun around, furious. “What?”

  “I’da taken you. Heading that way anyway.” He gestured behind him. Tied to a pathetic scraggle of a tree was a horse. How had I missed that last night?

  I opened my mouth and then closed it. Then opened and closed it again. I didn’t know this man. I didn’t need this man. And the last time I’d trusted a stranger . . .

  “No.”

  Mr. Hickory shrugged again, his mugs clinking in his bag, then turned and walked toward his horse. His body leaned heavily to one side each time he stepped, but he mounted the beast with ease.

  I’d made up my mind. I was going back to Boise City. I was. But . . . there weren’t no doc in Boise City these days. It could be months before I got a new brace. Months of hobbling. Or worse, crawling. How Melissa would fawn over me. Treat me like a baby. In front of the Mayfields. Because she was a Mayfield now too.

  And then there was God. God Himself who seemed to be pushing me back, telling me I couldn’t do this, throwing everything He could against this journey. Against me. My anger at Him alone was enough to push me forward out of spite.

  I didn’t like how Mr. Hickory looked at me. I didn’t like how he talked to me. Or rather, didn’t talk. But if I was going to do this, a horse would get me to Kansas City in just a few days rather than the few weeks it would take me on my own. I might even catch up to Pa.

  “Wait!”

  Mr. Hickory pulled on the reins, turning his horse in my direction.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll go with ya. But I ain’t looking to be friends, you hear? We’re just . . . traveling companions. Like in the Old West.”

  The horse trotted toward me, Mr. Hickory’s boots jingling with each step. When he reached my side, he held out his hand. I hesitated for a moment before letting him pull me into the saddle. I tensed against his body, the memory of Frank’s weight still fresh in my mind.

  But he didn’t linger. Instead, he hopped down and grabbed the reins, turning the animal toward the rising sun. “No need to worry about that, kid,” he muttered. “I ain’t got no friends. And I sure ain’t looking to get one now.”

  Mr. Hickory’s horse was barely a horse at all. Ribs stuck out from under the saddle at all angles, and his hide was so thin, I worried it would fall off if I touched it. His fur was gray and patchy, with hair matted into greasy clumps. His worst features, however, were
milky eyes soured with a look of permanent annoyance.

  The spittin’ image of his master.

  I rode for a while with Mr. Hickory walking beside, but it was slow going that way. The hobble in the cowboy’s step became a full-up limp the longer he walked. Eventually he hopped up and rode behind me. I didn’t like him being so close. But seeing as how it was his horse and I wasn’t in any fit shape to be walking, I let him sit behind me without too much of a fuss. I kept my back straight and my body tensed, ready to flee just in case. Mr. Hickory, though, kept his hands on the reins and his eyes on the horizon. As if I wasn’t there at all.

  But being invisible was hard work. I felt like I should talk to him, be polite and make conversation, but I also felt like I shouldn’t. In the end, boredom won out.

  “So, the horse. He got a name?”

  “Chelee.”

  “Huh?”

  “Chelee.”

  “What kind of a name is that?”

  Mr. Hickory grunted.

  “It mean something?”

  I couldn’t see him. Turning around in the saddle was impossible, and even if I could, Chelee’s back probably would have broken from the strain. But I could feel Mr. Hickory’s irritation.

  “Apache.”

  “Apache for what?”

  “Horse.”

  The horse’s name was Horse. There was nothing I could do with that answer. We fell back into an awkward quiet, the slow clip-clop of Chelee’s hooves on dirt carrying for miles.

  The sun beat down on us without mercy, not a single cloud daring to intervene. Sweat soaked through Mr. Hickory’s shirt and onto my dress. It wasn’t like I could scoot farther away. My throat swelled, raw and dry and itchy, but I didn’t dare ask for a drink. What little water he had was now divided between us and the horse. But try as I did, I couldn’t make myself not be hot or thirsty or crippled.

  After two days, I knew he regretted asking me to tag along. And Kansas City was still nowhere in sight.

  “How much farther?” It was the third night. We were camped under a cottonwood tree, the sky moonless.