Catcalls followed. Anne grasped the fence and leaned against the rough wood. She saw Morgan gather the rope tighter, until he was almost nose to nose with the horse. He ran his gloved hand along the bay’s tense neck and said, “Take it easy, boy. I won’t hurt you.”
Anne watched as Morgan retrieved a bridle that dangled from the back pocket of his jeans. Expertly, he slipped the bit between the animal’s teeth. The horse protested, half rearing. Anne gasped, as she saw the hooves strike the air near Morgan’s head. Morgan maintained control with the rope, using his strength to force the bay down. Dirt flew from the horse’s hooves. The men shouted more encouragement.
Tossing the reins over the horse’s shoulders, Morgan stepped to one side and, catlike, sprang onto the bay’s broad bare back. A cheer went up. In the gathering light of dawn, Anne could make out the tenseness of the horse’s muscles. They looked like springs waiting to uncoil.
“Here goes nothing,” Morgan announced. He leaned forward and whipped the bandanna off the horse’s eyes. The bay struggled to dip his head and then exploded into a bucking, twisting banshee.
Morgan stayed with the horse for what Anne thought was a long time. Then, the horse flung him off, and Morgan flipped through the air and hit the ground hard on the far side of the corral. She squealed in spite of herself.
The minute the horse was relieved of his burden, he stopped bucking and began to gallop around the ring. Morgan scrambled for safety. Hands reached through the bars of the fence as the horse thundered past, and Morgan was pulled to safety. “You all right?”
Gingerly, Morgan dusted himself off. “Sure.… That was some ride.”
“What’s going on?” A man’s voice bellowed. Anne spun to see Morgan’s uncle charging toward the corral like an angry bull. “You get to your chores!” he commanded. The men slunk away.
Anne tried to vanish but was trapped by the wall of the barn. She hid in its shadows while Morgan’s uncle continued, “Not you, Morgan. You stay put.”
Anne saw Morgan bend, pick up his hat, and stand to face his uncle, squaring his shoulders in defiance. “What is it, Uncle Don?”
“What do you think you’re doing? Are you crazy?”
“Breaking in the horse. You said I could have my pick of the range ponies, and that’s the one I want.”
“You know how to break a horse proper. You break him to saddle first. Then you climb on. You could have gotten killed out there.”
“So what?”
“Don’t take that tone with me. Maggie would never get over it if anything happened to you.”
“Something could happen to me no matter how careful I am. Her too. You know what I mean.”
“No one can see the future, and you don’t know anything for sure,” Uncle Don said angrily. “I won’t have you taking needless chances while you’re on my spread and under my care.”
“I’m eighteen. I can come and go whenever I want.”
“You go and you’ll break your aunt’s heart.” Uncle Don ran his hand through his close-cropped hair and released a heavy sigh, his anger spent. “I don’t want to argue with you, son, but I have a ranch to run. It might be your ranch someday. I can’t let my hands defy me—not even you, no matter if you are family. I have rules, and I expect them to be followed. If that’s the horse you want, you’ve got him, but you break him right. Fair enough?”
Morgan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Fair enough,” he agreed.
“I need you to ride out and check fencing today. Can you handle that?”
“I can handle it.”
Anne sensed a thick tension coming from Morgan. She held her breath and hugged the wall tighter. If either of them caught her eavesdropping, she’d be embarrassed to death. She hadn’t meant to listen but now that she had, she found Morgan more intriguing than ever.
She couldn’t help wondering if one summer would be enough time for her to figure him out. One summer. It was all she had.
Seven
BY THE END of the day, Anne realized Maggie hadn’t exaggerated about how tired she’d be. She stifled a yawn at the dinner table. “Maybe you’re overdoing the outdoors routine,” her father suggested anxiously. “Maybe you should take it easy, rest more.”
Anne didn’t bother to argue with him. “What do you know about the outdoors? While the rest of us went on a trail ride, you sat in the cabin with your eyes glued to your computer screen.”
“I’m doing a paper for a journal on medieval lifestyles. I have a deadline to meet,” he said. “I’m sure there’ll be another ride tomorrow.”
“Will you make that one?”
“Would you miss me if I skipped it?”
Anne hugged him to answer.
That night, when everyone settled around a large campfire to hear a cowboy tell tall tales, Marti slipped in beside Anne. “Having fun?” she asked.
“Yes, but I ache all over.”
“That’s normal. After my first day on a horse, my buns were so sore, I could hardly stand.”
Anne smiled. She didn’t say that she’d ridden often in Central Park on horses she rented. Of course, at the time, she’d ridden hunt seat on English-style saddles, which was different from the wider western saddle style, but the same part of her anatomy was involved. “I enjoyed the trail ride,” Anne said. “I wish you could have come along.”
Marti picked up a stick and drew circles in the dirt. “Skip wants me to ride out somewhere with him and have a picnic.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic. I’ve seen Skip—he’s cute.”
“I don’t think I should.”
“Why not?”
“Actually, I think Skip’s cute, too, and he’s really nice to me. But if I really love Peter, then I shouldn’t be attracted to Skip, should I?”
Anne watched Marti nibble nervously on her lower lip. “Why not? You’re not engaged to Peter, and you think he might date other girls this summer. Why shouldn’t you date Skip? Isn’t this one of the reasons you’re out here—to see if your relationship with Peter is the real thing? I mean, if he loves you, and you love him, then dating others shouldn’t make a difference in your feelings toward each other, should it?”
Marti was looking at her, wide-eyed. “What you’re saying makes sense. I like Skip as a companion. I’d like to get to have some fun. It’s nothing serious. Plain fun.” She perked up. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come along on the picnic?”
“I’m certain Skip wants me as a chaperon!”
“No, no, silly. His friend, Morgan, can come too.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“You could do worse than Morgan.” Marti batted her dark lashes as she pleaded with Anne. “As a favor for your amiga. That’s me. Your friend. Por favor?”
Anne giggled. It was hard to say no to Marti. Anne couldn’t deny that she was drawn to the idea of spending time with Morgan. She wanted so much to have a good time, but she felt as if she were trying to live two lives. One, as a regular sixteen-year-old. The other, as a sixteen-year-old stricken with HIV, who had nothing in front of her but a lingering death once full-blown AIDS hit. How could she make it with so much bottled up inside her? With no one to talk to? Is that what JWC had meant by saying, “I hoped for a miracle, but most of all I hoped for someone to truly understand what I was going through.”
“Are you okay?” Marti asked. “You checked out on me for a minute.”
“Sorry. All this talk about romance made me hyperventilate,” she quipped, to hide what she couldn’t reveal. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control now.”
Marti burst out laughing. “Anne, you’re so funny! I’ll bet you’re the life of the party at your school.”
“That’s me—party girl.”
“Then it’s settled,” Marti said. “I’ll tell Skip you’re coming on our picnic, and he’ll tell Morgan. We’re going to have so much fun, Anne. Wait and see. A real fiesta.”
Anne figured that Morgan would probably nix the whole idea. Marti
tossed the stick into the campfire, and Anne, deep in thought, watched the flames devour it.
At the end of the first week, Anne’s father informed her, “I’ve made an appointment this coming Monday with Dr. Rinaldi, the specialist you’re supposed to see here. I’ve asked Maggie Donaldson if I can use the station wagon to drive you into Denver.”
“Dad, how could you? I don’t want to see a doctor. Besides, Monday is another trail ride, and I don’t want to miss it.”
“Anne, this isn’t up for debate. You have to be evaluated. You must stay on top of your medical condition as long as you’re in Colorado.”
“Well, I hate it, and I don’t want to think about it.”
“It’s not going to go away.”
“I, of all people, know it’s not going away.” The pain in his eyes made her sorry she’d lashed out at him. “All right,” she said, feeling remorseful. “I’ll go. But I don’t have to like it.”
They left the ranch right after breakfast and drove the hundred miles to Denver. The city, with traffic and noise and exhaust fumes everywhere, was a shock to her senses. The weather was dry and hot, made hotter by the sun’s reflecting off concrete and glass buildings. The large hospital complex was surrounded by looping roads and expansive asphalt parking lots, packed with parked cars. Anne missed the quiet ranch.
She endured the blood test and physical, then sat with her dad in Dr. Rinaldi’s office while the physician reviewed her records.
“How’s Anne doing?” Her father craned his neck to see the chart the doctor held.
“Her lungs are clear. However, she’s anemic, so I want her taking iron and B-12 to build up her red blood count.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m feeling tired,” Anne offered.
“You’ve been bothered by fatigue?” her father asked. “You didn’t tell me.”
“It’s no big deal, Dad.”
“Yes, it is a big deal,” Dr. Rinaldi countered. “Fortunately, your T4 cell count is still up around five hundred. If it falls below two hundred, you’re going to be at serious risk for infections. That patch of dry, flaky skin on your back and upper legs is also a symptom of lowered T cells. I’ll give you a cream for the rash.”
Anne only nodded. The information about her T4 cells bothered her. While the number was still within acceptable limits, it was lower than when she left New York. She felt time and good health slipping away from her. “I’ll do what you tell me,” she promised.
“I’ve spoken with Dr. Becksworth in New York, Anne,” Dr. Rinaldi said. “We both think it prudent that you start on AZT right away.”
She still didn’t want to. She didn’t want to face the side effects. She’d made so many plans with Marti and Morgan. “Please let me have three more weeks at the ranch. As soon as I get back home, I’ll begin taking the drug.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Dr. Rinaldi replied.
“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “I need to live normally before I die.” She felt waves of desperation.
“Anne, be reasonable,” her father said. “It’s your life.”
“Don’t force me to do this yet,” she begged.
“I understand how you feel, but I disagree,” Dr. Rinaldi said. “Nevertheless, I can’t force you to start on AZT against your will. However, if you have any new symptoms—fever, shortness of breath, or persistent cough—I want you right back here to start the medication. Understand? The length of time from infection with HIV to the development of AIDS hasn’t been adequately researched in women. All we kow for certain is that women face serious illnesses with AIDS that men don’t, for instance, cervical cancer and pulmonary tuberculosis.”
“If you’re trying to scare me, Dr. Rinaldi, it’s working,” Anne said. Her hands felt cold and clammy, and she was getting queasy.
The doctor’s gaze softened.
“I know you want me to begin treatment, and I’m being stubborn,” Anne told him. “I’m not in denial. I know I have HIV. I’ve had to accept other things I couldn’t control—like my mother dying. It’s made me tough.”
Dr. Rinaldi steepled his fingers. “Women with AIDS are dying six times faster than men with AIDS. Once a woman is diagnosed with AIDS, her life expectancy is less than thirty weeks. I simply want to delay that time for you as long as possible, Anne.”
“Listen to the doctor,” her dad pleaded. “Let’s go back to New York or start on the AZT, Anne.”
“People can beat odds,” Anne said, lifting her trembling chin. “Dad, let me have a few more weeks to remember.”
“All I can help you with is postponement of fullblown AIDS,” the doctor replied. “AZT has the power to delay the onset.”
“But not the inevitable,” Anne remarked.
“No, not the inevitable.”
She looked from Dr. Rinaldi to her father. She felt their anguish on her behalf, yet she couldn’t forget why she’d come to Colorado. JWC had given her the Wish money without strings, to spend on anything she wanted. Anne knew what she wanted. “Then, if the outcome is exactly the same either way, I’d rather have a few weeks of freedom. I can’t forget what’s hanging over my head, and I know you’re both only trying to help me.… Thank you for that. I have very few choices for my life. Please, let me make this one.”
Morgan paused while walking the bay stallion around the training ring when he saw the station wagon coming up the long drive toward the main lodge. Anne and her father had been in Denver the whole day. Probably shopping, he thought. His mother used to shop continually. Even when there was no money.
He watched the car pull into its parking space and Anne and her father get out. Even from his distance, Morgan could see how exhausted and defeated they appeared. Anne’s father tucked her under his arm as they headed toward their cabin. To Morgan, the gesture appeared protective.
Morgan thought of Anne as beautiful and wealthy. What in the world could she have to be unhappy about? He pulled the tether and clicked to the horse. The horse obeyed, following Morgan docilely as he resumed walking in the ring.
“I need to stop thinking about that girl,” he told the bay. Yet, even as he said it, Morgan knew it was becoming impossible to do so. Somehow, Anne and her sad eyes had gotten under his skin. Which was stupid—especially in his case, when he knew what his own future might hold. Exceedingly stupid.
Eight
MORGAN BEGAN TO watch Anne. He observed that although she joined in many of the group activities, every afternoon she saddled up Golden Star and rode off alone. One afternoon, curiosity got the better of him, and he followed her.
He allowed Anne plenty of distance. Since he was an expert tracker, he easily picked up her trail if she got too far ahead. He figured out that she was heading toward Platte City, a small town about ten miles north of the Broken Arrow. Many of the married ranch hands lived there with their families, and sometimes Morgan went to the town to relieve the monotony of ranch life. The main street offered residents only a few stores, a movie theater, an icecream parlor, and a pizzeria. He couldn’t figure out what Anne found to do there every day.
He rode up on the outskirts and reined in his horse. He saw Golden Star tied to a tree in the yard of the local church. The whitewashed wooden building was very old, but in good repair. Its tall steeple stabbed into the sky, and from the looks of the parking lot, the church appeared deserted. Morgan dismounted, tied his horse to the tree, and slowly climbed the front steps. As he reached for the door handle, he lost his nerve. What would she think if she saw him come inside?
“Just don’t let her see you,” he told himself, pulling open the door. Inside, sunlight slanted through a single stained-glass window, spilling a rainbow of colors over the altar. The wooden floor and pews gleamed, and a faint odor of lemon wax hung in the quiet air. He saw Anne sitting alone in the very last pew, her head hung low. Suddenly, he felt like a trespasser. He tried to ease out, but his boot scraped on the floor, and she turned.
Her eyes grew wide with recognition. “W
hat are you doing here?” she asked, looking as if he’d caught her doing something sinful.
“I saw Golden Star tied outside, and I came in to investigate.” He hoped the half-truth would be enough of an explanation for her. “You okay?”
“Sure. Fine. I was … um … just contemplating.”
“Contemplating what?”
“Things.” She gestured vaguely. “I asked permission from the minister. He said I could stay.”
“I’m not prying,” Morgan said hastily. Now that the mystery was solved, he felt foolish. “I was surprised to see one of the ranch’s horses outside … that’s all.”
Anne stood. “I come here some afternoons to be alone. Some days, I stop by the library and check out books. I’m real careful with the horse.”
“I’m not worried. I’ve seen how well you take care of him.” He fiddled with the hat he’d removed when he came inside. “You go to the library? Man, when I graduated, I swore I’d never read another book.” Anne looked horrified, as if he’d blasphemed. He chuckled. “Let me guess. You’re a bookworm.”
“The worst kind. I can’t imagine never reading another book. It would be like your never riding another horse.” She started for the door, and he felt bad, sensing he had spoiled something special for her.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“It’s all right.” She glanced at her watch. “I should be heading back, before Dad misses me.”
He followed her outside, where they paused and blinked against the brightness of the sun. To one side of the church, there was an old cemetery. “Have you ever checked out the tombstones?” he asked, trying to make up for intruding on her. “Some of them date back a hundred years.”
For a moment, her expression clouded, then her large brown eyes warmed. “Show me,” she said.
He walked her through the old graveyard, pointing to various headstones. He stopped at one and said, “Here lies my Great-great-great Grandmother. She was a full-blooded Cheyenne who converted to Christianity.” The stone looked ancient and sun-bleached and bore the name Woman Who Wears a Cross.
Sixteen and Dying Page 4
