If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  I invited a woman to our home to clean even though you expressly forbade it. She was here only twenty minutes ago, walking on your floor, touching your things. “I . . . I saw a black widow under the sink today.” What? Where did that come from? “I took care of it, but you know how I feel about those things. The drought is making them worse. That’s the third one already this month.”

  Henry chuckled and nuzzled my neck. His stubble set my skin on fire. “Oh, honey.” He kissed me behind my ear. “When I get home, I’ll check the house. Make sure there are no webs or eggs anywhere. Would that make you feel better?”

  I nodded shakily.

  “Good.” He tugged gently on one of my curls and smiled.

  It took every ounce of courage I had to smile back.

  Henry disappeared through the swinging door, and I turned to the sink, grateful for something to do with my hands. The water was lukewarm and soothing against my knotted fingers. Just a little bit longer, I told myself. A little bit longer and he’ll leave and you can relax.

  “Melissa? What is this?”

  The water chilled instantly. He’d found something. Annie left something and I’d missed it and Henry had found it. Oh, God. Oh, Lord, please help me.

  “Melissa!”

  I shoved my shaking hands into my apron pockets, feeling them prickle as the dry air sucked the water from my skin. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door. “Yes?”

  “What is this?”

  Henry stood outside the washroom, holding a green book in his hand. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Of course. I’d left it on the hallway table when I’d told Annie goodbye. “It’s . . . it’s a book.”

  “What’s it doing out here?”

  “I was reading it.”

  Henry’s lips pressed into a white line. “Reading it.”

  I nodded.

  “This morning.”

  I nodded again, slower this time.

  “Melissa, there’s too much work to do around here for you to be wasting your time reading. Especially a book like this. Witches and wizards and who knows what else.” He tossed the book at me. Unable to catch it, I watched it fall to the ground with a thump. “Garbage. And definitely not suitable for my wife.”

  I picked it up off the ground. My heart slowed, each beat painful. “It was Kathryn’s favorite book.”

  He rubbed his brow with his knuckles and sighed. “Of course it was.”

  I turned the book over in my hands, unable to look at him. This book, my family’s book, was more precious than anything in this entire house. And he didn’t know me well enough to understand that. No, it was more than that. He didn’t care to know me well enough to understand that. Any part of me that didn’t fit neatly into his world, any part that still whispered Baile, was dirty, something to be pruned.

  He took a step toward me and pushed the book down to my side. “I know you miss them, Melissa.” He lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “So keep the book. It’s fine. I want you to have it. Just, maybe, keep it in the library? And don’t read it during the day, when there’s so many other things you should be doing. Like making me another one of those delicious chocolate cakes like you promised?”

  That afternoon, I made Henry his chocolate cake. Not because he asked me to. Not even because I said I would. But because it was one more way to win, to pretend he was in control and everything was fine. And while the cake cooled, I settled myself at the table and read another chapter in Kathryn’s book.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  KATHRYN

  Chelee’s hooves were what finally did it.

  After several days, I had gotten used to the stench of riding two to a saddle under the glaring sun with a strange man. I’d gotten used to the sore butt and the cramp in my twisted foot as it dangled without a stirrup over the horse’s bony side. I’d even gotten used to the sour taste in my mouth from the lack of water.

  But the constant, never-ending quiet. A quiet so loud it made my ears scream. It clung to every bit of me, thickening the air, crackling through my bones, and making every sound echo. Mr. Hickory’s breathing was ragged, dry, and right-on-my-neck annoying. The wind scratched dirt across the pavement beneath us like sandpaper, prickling my skin. And the constant thunk of Chelee’s hooves carried across the prairie and right back into my ears, pounding through my brain.

  Wheeze.

  Scratch.

  Clip. Clop.

  Mile after mile after mile.

  Wheeze.

  Scratch.

  Clip. Clop.

  Louder. Slower. Trying even harder to drive me insane.

  Wheeze.

  Scratch.

  Cli—

  “Stop!”

  Mr. Hickory jerked on the reins, causing Chelee to snort unhappily.

  I didn’t wait for him to help. I slid from the saddle, landing painfully on my good foot. I did not allow myself to whimper. I had to get away. From him. From the horse. From here.

  I hobbled to the nearest tree, collapsing under its dead branches and into pitiful shade.

  Mr. Hickory remained on the saddle, watching me. “You gotta pee?”

  “No, I ain’t gotta pee. I need a break.”

  “Take us longer to get there that way.”

  “I know that,” I snapped, pulling off my shoe and wincing as the cramp flooded into full-blown pain. “I still need a break.”

  “Alright.” He dismounted and led Chelee to a patch of dead grass, dragging one leg slightly behind the other. He gave the horse a satisfied pat and then trudged up the hill behind me.

  “Where you going?”

  He did not turn around. “I’m gonna take a leak, if you must know. You best try and do the same. We ain’t stopping again until nightfall. I ain’t . . .” His voice faded as he walked away from me, toward the nearest hill. By the time it reached my ears, it was nothing but mumbles.

  I stretched out my legs, ignoring the scratch of bark at my back, and pulled Melissa’s handkerchief from my pocket. I laid it across my face and closed my eyes. It stank of old sweat, but for a moment, I could pretend she was with me. Like we were taking a break from chores, watching storms roll in like we used to. Back when it used to rain. I could imagine Melissa’s face, smudged with dirt, lifted to the sky. I could pretend the drops were on my skin. In my hair. Yes, I could almost feel it.

  A scream interrupted my daydream.

  I jumped up, ignoring the stab of pain in my leg, and spun around. The air was still. Chelee had not even looked up from his chewing. Good grief. Did even imagining rain make you go crazy?

  Another scream cut across the prairie, then a pop. Muffled. Far away. A gunshot? I fumbled with my shoe, cursing under my breath. It was stupid to take it off in the first place. I had no idea where we were. Had we wandered into Indian territory? Was there still such a thing as Indian territory? I should have paid more attention in school. Visions of Mr. Hickory’s bloody scalp played in my mind as I stumbled across the hill I’d seen him climb. They didn’t do that anymore, Pa told me. Indians were our friends and would respect us if we respected them. But Mr. Hickory wasn’t polite or respectful at all. Maybe peeing here was against their laws?

  I quickened my pace. “Mr. Hickory!” I scrambled up the hill, scanning the ground for traces of blood or hair. “Mr. Hickory! Mr. Hick—” My body slammed into something hard, sending me backward onto a sharp rock. “Ow!” I rubbed my butt, feeling a new tear in my underwear. My only underwear.

  The “something hard” turned out to be Mr. Hickory, who didn’t say sorry for being in my way. He didn’t offer to help me up either. He didn’t even look at me.

  My earlier panic faded quickly. “I was calling for you,” I said, rubbing the fresh scratches on my elbows. “Why didn’t you answer?”

  His eyes remained fixed ahead.

  “Didn’t you hear those screams?”

  His face was tight, a slight tremble in his bottom lip.

  “What—?” My words collapsed as my eyes finally
found what Mr. Hickory was seeing.

  In the valley below us, a hundred cattle were grouped together. If you could still call them cattle. Bones poked out from under their dusty skin. Patches of hair were missing from their hides, and scabs covered much of their bodies. Even from a distance, you could smell disease. They moved as one, shoving and leaning, some of them too weak to stand on their own. And they were screaming.

  Four men on horseback circled the herd. A pop pierced the air. Then another. Then another. Pieces of the horde began dropping off one by one like flesh from a leper.

  Pop. Thud. Pop. Thud.

  Too sick to run, they simply stood there, waiting to die. My mind struggled to process as another cow fell to the ground, its scream cut short. The men were shooting them. In the head. Like fish in a barrel.

  Bile rose in my throat. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. “Stop,” I whispered.

  More shots. More bodies.

  Mr. Hickory remained beside me, unmoving, unblinking. Was he even seeing what was happening? Why wasn’t he doing something?

  “Stop,” I repeated, louder. “Stop! Stop!” My screams freed my legs, and I started toward the slaughter. A pair of strong arms grabbed me from behind.

  “Don’t.” Mr. Hickory’s voice was calm but firm.

  I struggled against him as he pulled me up the hill. “Stop it! Stop it!”

  But the popping continued and Mr. Hickory didn’t release me until we reached the tree where Chelee grazed. I scrambled to my feet. “What are you doing? We have to go back!”

  “We’ll be doing no such thing.” He fumbled with Chelee’s reins.

  “But that’s someone’s herd! And they’re killing them!”

  “And it ain’t none of our business.” He reached for my hand to lift me into the saddle.

  I pulled away as if burned. “That’s someone’s livelihood down there!”

  I’d heard the stories. Desperate men slaughtering others’ livestock. “Hunger makes men do terrible things,” Pa said. Some of our neighbors had even resorted to armed patrols. Didn’t stop the thieves from coming in the night, though. Old man Ackerman just a few farms over woke up one morning to find one of his cows and two of his goats slaughtered. Picked clean. And not by no coyotes, either. Pa’d given him some of our winter meat to help out. And even though I knew it was the right thing to do, I sure did curse that charity when my supper was only half what it used to be.

  I slapped the tears off my cheeks. “You go on and be a coward all you want. I ain’t gonna let a bunch of criminals steal someone’s food.” I brushed past him, knocking into his shoulder a little harder than necessary and pretending it didn’t hurt.

  “Those ain’t no criminals.” He was up in the saddle now. He wasn’t going to stop me.

  “What?”

  “I said those ain’t no criminals. Didn’t you see the badges? Those is government men. They ain’t breaking no laws. You go down there and try to stop ’em, you’re liable to get yourself shot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Roosevelt.” He lifted his hat up slightly. “You know Roosevelt?”

  I puffed out my chest. “I ain’t no idiot!”

  Mr. Hickory held up his hands. “I didn’t say you were.” He led Chelee over to where I stood. “It’s Roosevelt’s grand plan to get the animals off the prairie. Stabilize the market, get the grass growing again—”

  “By killing them?” My voice was shrill, unrecognizable.

  “Cows are dying off anyways. It’s either this or let ’em starve to death.”

  “You’re lying.”

  He gave a half shrug. “Fine. I’m lying.”

  Only he wasn’t. Something in his voice told me he wasn’t. I stamped my foot, suddenly angry. Where was Melissa’s “good God” in all this? “That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Mr. Hickory did not disagree.

  I knew nothing of government beyond one lesson I’d only half paid attention to in school and the grumbles from the men in the sundry and supply. But Pa had said Roosevelt was a good man. I wondered if I’d get the chance to tell him how wrong he was. Melissa, too. “So Roosevelt ain’t nothing but a murderer.”

  Mr. Hickory gave a small shake of his head. “This ain’t Roosevelt’s fault.”

  “Not his fault? You just said—”

  Mr. Hickory grabbed my waist and lifted me onto Chelee’s back. This time I didn’t fight him. “It ain’t right, and it ain’t wrong. It’s just the way things are now.” I felt his body deflate behind me as he turned the horse back east. “Roosevelt didn’t do this. Wasn’t even God Himself that done this. We done this to ourselves.”

  We rode until sunset in silence. The loud sounds from before were drowned out by the cows screaming in my head. No matter how far we traveled, I couldn’t stop hearing them. Mr. Hickory was quiet. I wondered if he could hear them too.

  It was a relief to stop, and not just for my aching body. The nightmare we’d seen sat between us, so big I thought I’d fall right off the saddle. I scrambled from Chelee’s back the moment he stilled, but the hell of that Kansas pasture clung to me like manure.

  Mr. Hickory busied himself building a fire. I walked in circles around the campsite, looking for signs of rattlers. It was a routine we’d fallen into every time we’d camped. This time, though, it felt stupid. Gross, even. Who cared if there were rattlers? The world was garbage now. Let ’em come.

  “So how’d you know about Roosevelt’s plan?” I didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Beans and pickled eggs lay uneaten at our feet. I was hungry, of course. I was always hungry. But I couldn’t eat. Maybe talking would take the smell of death out of my nose and mouth.

  “I read it in the paper.”

  “What paper?”

  “A paper. In Colorado.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Fine,” I said, stretching back against the rock I’d claimed as my spot. “We ain’t gotta talk. If you’d rather sit here and think, that’s fine with me.”

  Mr. Hickory spat a wad of tobacco from his mouth with a sigh. “I’m from Texas originally,” he said finally. “Spent most of my life as a Texas Ranger.”

  Well, I’ll be. Here I was, riding with a real-life Texas Ranger. Melissa would have been so jealous. We’d all heard the stories. Seen the flyers down at the post office. Join up! they’d said. Protect our God-given homesteads! A pair of them had even come into town one winter and stayed at the Boise City Inn. Trevor Callahan said he’d seen one of them shoot a pinto bean off the top of a beer bottle without even rattling the glass. Trevor Callahan was a liar, but even I believed that story a little bit.

  “Did you fight the Indians?”

  “Comanches, mostly. It was hell. They’d kill us; we’d kill them. I was shot twice.” He patted his right leg. “Had to pull the arrows out myself. Lucky I didn’t bleed to death right then and there. Leg ain’t worked right since, though.”

  I glanced down, half-expecting to still see a wound. Wish I had a story like that to go along with my limp.

  “Rode with them until the Comanches had enough and the job was done. Or at least I thought the job was done. Then the government gets it in their head that killing Indians wasn’t enough. We had to kill their buffalo too. Had to make sure the Comanches didn’t have a reason to come back, see?” He shook his head. “But that weren’t right. It was just killing after killing after killing. What that does to a person’s soul . . .” He scratched at his throat as if the words burned.

  “So I left. Packed up and headed for Pritchett, Colorado. Ranchers there were hiring cowboys to help with the herd. Figured I’d earned me a nice, quiet life. And it was for a while. Out on the prairie, big open sky. And no more death. But then came the people. More and more and more, all thinking they was gonna make a fortune farming out here. ‘Every man a landlord,’ Congress was saying. Trouble is, not ev
ery man is fit to be a landlord. And not all land is fit to be lorded over.”

  I picked at the scab on my forearm. My family had been one of the ones who came. I’d never thought to be ashamed of it.

  “I told ’em and told ’em the dust was the wrong side up. West wasn’t meant to be farmed like that. It was meant to be grazed. But they just kept coming with their plows. Ripping up the grass, planting crops that ain’t got no business being planted. But ain’t no one gonna listen to naysayers when the rains are good and the harvest is better.” He poked at the fire with a stick and let out a low, ugly laugh. “I’m through with it. They done this, and they can reap till they rot for all I care.”

  I dug my nails into my palms. I’d spent all this time trying to get him to talk; now I wished he’d never opened his mouth.

  “I ain’t got the heart for it no more. I just want to get out of here.” He spoke softly, only to himself. “I can’t watch it all die. Not anymore.”

  His words hung in the air, heavy as smoke. So thick I could hardly breathe. “Take it back.”

  He lifted the brim of his hat, eyes wide. “’Scuse me?”

  I sat up straighter, hands on my hips. “You take it back now, you hear? My pa is a farmer. A good farmer. He didn’t cause no drought.”

  “I didn’t say he did.”

  “You might as well have! Whining and moaning like some yellow-livered Nancy. My pa ain’t got any more to do with this drought than you do with making the sun shine. So you take it back right now.”

  Mr. Hickory shrugged. “He might not have stopped the rain, but his plow took the grass. And without the grass, ain’t nothing to hold back the dirt when those spring winds blow.”

  I opened my mouth, then stopped. The grass. I’d ripped it up myself with bare hands before I was old enough to reach the curved handles of the plow. Me and Pa out in the field, turning up earth, changing the hills from green to brown. Even then, we’d watched the particles tumble and dance with the breeze.

  “It was one field,” I said finally, jutting out my chin. “Just one field. Not like we slashed up the entire prairie. There was still grass everywhere.”