“Yes, I am,” Ross began, then wondered why he’d said that. He couldn’t remember. “I mean, I’m not sure.”
He fixed his gaze on the floor, but he knew everyone was staring at him. If there was anything worse than having his early memories in bits and pieces, it was the way everyone looked at him when he stumbled over questions they all thought obvious.
But he’d said yes first when Mrs. Riley had asked. The night of the dance, when Sheriff Crow had given him a piece of fry bread, memories had flooded back with its smell and taste. Maybe if he went to church again, he’d remember more.
Still looking down, he muttered, “I’d like to come.”
At the midnight mass, he stood between Jennie and Mr. Riley with a candle clutched in his good right hand. Voices rose and fell in the cadences of prayers and psalms. He didn’t recognize any of them, and he wished he hadn’t come. Though he knew everyone, he felt isolated, an intruder.
Then a phrase jumped out at him. As it echoed in his mind, he heard a man saying, “Loving mother of the Redeemer, gate of heaven, star of the sea, assist your people who have fallen yet strive to rise again.”
He saw a woman kneeling on the floor. Her head was bowed, hiding her face, but he could see her hugely rounded belly. The statue of a peaceful-faced woman in blue robes loomed above her, with one hand stretched out above the woman’s head.
The Virgin Mary, Ross remembered. Mom’s getting her pregnancy blessed.
Ross’s excitement at the prospect of a baby brother or sister rose up vividly within him, along with a child’s over-serious debate over which he wanted more. He could feel the rough wood beneath his knees and smell the sweet scent of smoke rising up from a swinging metal container. For the briefest of moments, he was not merely remembering the past, but re-living it.
Then a present thought intruded: This is my chance to find out what Mom looked like.
The images instantly began to fade. As he tried to raise his head to see his mother’s face, the memory vanished.
Ross was back in the church in Las Anclas, alone in a crowd. He stood lost and silent as a chorus rose up around him, speaking words at once alien and familiar.
“Forever and ever, amen.”
Chapter Two: Jennie
The ruddy disc of the sun sank behind Jennie Riley as she and the rest of Pa’s perimeter patrol headed for the back gate. Beside her, Kerry rode Nugget, the prehensile-tailed royal stallion. Slanting rays of sunlight struck his coat to beaten gold.
Jennie suppressed a grin when she saw the sentries on the wall watching Nugget rather than the horizon. It had been a month since Kerry Voske—Kerry Cho, Jennie reminded herself—had fled to Las Anclas with four shimmering royal horses. But nobody had tired of admiring them.
Sally’s silver coat glistened with ethereal beauty as she playfully flicked her tail at her rider’s head scarf. Of Kerry’s original four horses, Penny was too advanced in pregnancy to be ridden, Nugget only allowed Kerry to ride him, and Kerry had given the bronze mare Tigereye to Yuki Nakamura when he’d gone off to prospect alone.
That left Sally to be awarded as a hotly contested mark of Kerry’s favor. When Kerry’s friends, Brisa, Meredith, or Sujata, went on patrol, Kerry loaned them Sally in strict rotation. But those girls were in Ranger training now, and Jennie wasn’t there to train them.
Once again, she heard Mr. Preston’s angry, contemptuous voice: I want you to know one thing, Jennie Riley. No matter what else happens, you are banned from the Rangers for the rest of your life.
Jennie slapped her saddle, stopping herself from replaying those words over and over. She didn’t deny her loss, but she could choose to focus on the present, not the past. Jennie was a teacher now, and the Rangers were no longer her business. But the plots and ploys that affected her students were.
What was Kerry’s real reason for bringing Sally on patrol? The ex-princess had changed her name, but not her nature. Jennie was certain that Kerry used-to-be-Voske calculated even her most casual actions. Especially those. Mia wasn’t on patrol and didn’t care about horses anyway, and Kerry’s other friend, Becky, was working at her apprenticeship at the surgery. That freed up Sally for some manipulative purpose. Jennie was sure that the reason a delighted Nasreen Hassan was riding Sally was because Nasreen was Felicité’s friend, and Kerry meant to steal her away.
As the patrol rode through the gates, Alfonso Medina used the gecko-like pads on his bare fingers, toes, and heels to scurry straight down the wall. He stopped a few feet above Jennie’s head, upside down with his black hair hanging in his face.
“Hi, Alfonso,” she said.
Alfonso was a year younger than she, and he’d been shy and quiet his entire life. It was only when she’d started teaching that Jennie had discovered that he was one of the smartest in the class, with a particular gift for science. She’d thought he might apprentice as a veterinarian or in some other science-based job, but when she’d last asked him, he’d said he’d work at his family’s dairy. Jennie couldn’t argue with that—the Medina dairy was quite prosperous—but she wondered how happy he’d be following in his family’s footsteps. She’d never gotten the impression that wealth was important to him.
Maybe he wants to take over the cow breeding, Jennie thought. It’s genetics, and I know he’s interested in that.
Alfonso lifted one hand, his pads coming loose from the adobe with a soft popping sound, to pluck a grasping eater rose tendril from his wrist. “I have a message from the mayor. She’d like to speak to you at your earliest convenience. She’s at Wolfe House.”
“Thanks, Alfonso,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” With that, he scuttled backwards up the wall. Jennie watched, enjoying his agility and lack of self-consciousness.
Pa leaned over, his saddle creaking. “I’ll take Sidewinder to the stables. At your earliest convenience means earlier rather than convenient.”
Jennie handed off the reins, trying not to be annoyed. If anyone had the right to give her orders, it was the mayor. But she couldn’t help thinking that when Grandma Wolfe had been the teacher, Mayor Wolfe wouldn’t have dared to summon her mother. It was more likely to have been the other way around.
As Jennie neared the forge, she saw that its windows had been soaped with big green letters saying VOTE HORST! BETTER DEFENSE! Brightly dyed strips of green cloth festooned the eaves. Campaign week was already in full swing.
In one week, the town would vote for defense chief, mayor, and a new council member. Voting age was eighteen, so it was Jennie’s first election. She’d watched previous ones with excitement, longing for the day when she could vote. She’d imagined herself passionately campaigning, making stirring speeches for her favorite candidates, and turning the tide of the election all by herself.
Just my luck, Jennie thought glumly. My first election . . . and I don’t have a favorite candidate.
Mayor Wolfe was running unopposed; no one had the nerve to take her on. Jennie didn’t care for the mayor personally, but Las Anclas was a well-run town. Jennie would vote for her. She felt indifferent about the two candidates running for Judge Vardam’s place, but she’d eventually pick one.
Much tougher to think about was the race for defense chief: Mr. Preston vs. Mr. Horst. Talk about a choice between two evils!
Jennie’s shoulders tensed as she approached the crowd. Mr. Horst stood on a box by his forge, bellowing like the clang of a hammer on an anvil. “Are you enjoying Tom Preston’s drills that drag you from your own valuable work and your precious free time? Voske was defeated! DEFEATED! And yet Tom Preston works us harder than ever, in drills specifically designed to fight off an enemy who is GONE! So I ask you now: DO YOU FEEL SAFER?”
“NO!” shouted the watching crowd.
Jennie started to roll her eyes, then considered Horst’s question: Did she feel safer?
No.
But not because the drills were unnecessary. She’d seen Gold Point’s vast army. Last summer Voske had underesti
mated how many soldiers he needed to conquer Las Anclas, but he wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Jennie was certain that Voske would come back, a horrible thought.
“Vote for me,” Horst roared out. “I’ll give you a strong defense. A smart defense! Not more training—better training! Not more weapons—better weapons! And I will respect the intelligence and the time of the people of Las Anclas!”
As the crowd cheered, Mr. Horst’s wife and their son, Tommy, passed out green rosette pins for his supporters. Everywhere in sight, political allegiances were proclaimed in colors. The jail was the only building without decorations. The sheriff and her deputies were forbidden from campaigning, since it was their job to keep the peace. But beyond the jail, the brewery bristled with little red flags for Mr. Preston. And the crowd there was even bigger.
Tommy Horst stepped into her path. Not many people could loom over her, but he’d grown almost as tall as his father.
Tommy shoved a rosette into her hand, forcing her to either take it or give him and his father the direct insult of dropping it on the ground. Annoyed, Jennie clenched her fingers, squashing it.
Tommy didn’t seem to notice. With a smug grin, he said, “Glad to have your vote, Jennie. I bet Mr. Preston’s regretting kicking you out of the Rangers now!”
He turned to give out another rosette, and Jennie knew that he hadn’t meant to manipulate her into taking one. That was the sort of trick Kerry or Felicité might play, but it was way too subtle for Tommy. He’d just assumed that her personal feelings about Mr. Preston were all that mattered to her.
Jennie stuffed the rosette into her pocket. She’d get rid of it later. As far as she was concerned, neither man had earned her vote. Her insides still roiled with fury and betrayal whenever she thought of Mr. Preston. But would Mr. Horst have made better decisions in Mr. Preston’s position? And what did Mr. Horst mean by “better weapons” and “better training” anyway? The lack of specifics made Jennie suspect that he didn’t know himself. He made weapons, but he didn’t design new ones. Only Mia did that.
Jennie reached the brewery, which was almost hidden by a crowd wearing red rosettes. If it wasn’t for those, she’d have taken the rally for a raucous, drunken party.
“Free beer!” A woman’s piercing call was followed by an uproarious cheer.
That explains a lot, Jennie thought.
Grandma Thakrar, the brewer, presided over a giant keg, assisted by a pair of her grandchildren. One handed out glasses of beer, and the other pinned a red rosette on the person who took it.
“Empty glasses go there!” Grandma Thakrar pointed to a grandchild holding a tray. Jennie watched the boy dunk the tray into a rain barrel. A fourth grandchild used her Change power to evaporate the water on each glass. Then the clean, dry glasses were returned to the beer barrel. It was an impressively organized system, running as efficiently as a Ranger drill.
Jennie spotted both the Willet brothers unpinning their rosettes and sneaking to the back of the line. Two of her most unruly students, thirteen-year-old Peter Chang and fourteen-year-old Hans Ruiz, stood at the head of the line in unimpressive disguises consisting of their fathers’ boots and caps pulled low over their faces.
A grandchild started to pour Peter a glass of beer. Grandma Thakrar yanked it out of his hand. With a sardonic chuckle, she knocked the boys’ caps off. “Drinking age is eighteen. Come back in five years. Next!”
The crowd laughed as the boys slunk off, scowling.
Grandma Thakrar peered down the line at where the Willets were hiding their faces much as Peter and Hans had. She yelled, “And no double dipping! Don’t think I don’t remember who already got served!”
The Willets slumped away, muttering. Ed bumped into Jennie, beer fumes so strong that Jennie hoped they wouldn’t permeate her clothes. She ducked around the two—just to collide with a man carrying a brimming glass of beer while stuffing a rosette into his pocket.
Her arms flew up in an instinctive block—useless against liquid. The entire pint leaped out of its mug and drenched her.
“Sorry,” muttered the guilty party. Then he chuckled and said to one of his cronies, “It’s not double-dipping if I didn’t drink it. Let’s get back in line!”
Not only was Jennie soaked in strong-smelling beer, but her white shirt was now virtually transparent. She folded her arms over her breasts, wondering if it was worse to make the mayor wait while she walked home to change, or to arrive at Wolfe House soaked in beer.
No, it was definitely worse to keep Mayor Wolfe waiting. Better to get it over with, whatever it was. Jennie dropped her arms and shouldered her way through the crowd. She couldn’t get any wetter, and no one was looking at her anyway when there was free beer to be had.
Laughing to herself, she wished Ross was there. He’d appreciate the view—and no amount of free beer would distract him. Then she wondered if Ross even drank beer. He’d had dinner once at her house when wine had been served to the eighteen-and-overs, and once at the saloon when Jack had given the table free tequila shots. Both times, Ross had accepted one drink and made it last for the entire meal, as if he was reluctant to drink enough to affect his ability to fight. Even during a peaceful dinner with friends, he hadn’t felt truly safe.
Like going to church or Luc’s or a family dinner, having a few drinks sometimes was a good and ordinary thing for Jennie, but something Ross either had to steel himself to do, or wouldn’t—maybe couldn’t—do at all. There might be a whole lot of things Ross would never relax enough to do.
The idea unsettled her. She strode faster, as if she could leave it behind. By the time she reached Jack’s saloon, she felt as if she were trying to outrun her own mind.
Jack’s saloon was also banner-free. Sheriff Crow stood on Jack’s porch, watching the crowd. The Changed skull side of her face was as expressionless as ever, but the other side was taut with stress. She rubbed her forehead as if she had a headache. Jack quietly set a tray table beside her. It held a glass of lemonade decorated with a sprig of mint, a dish of shortbread cookies, and another dish of sliced oranges.
Sheriff Crow’s tense face relaxed into a tender smile, completely different from her usual quirk of dry amusement. She and Jack had once been engaged, and while that was over now, Jennie had sure never seen her smile like that at anyone else. “Thanks, Jack. You really don’t have to.”
“Of course I do,” Jack replied easily. “You won’t take a chair. It makes me look like a bad host, having you stand there without even refreshments.”
“Your chairs are too comfortable. If I sit down, I’ll never get up.”
“I’m sure I’ve got something uncomfortable somewhere. Maybe in the basement. If you don’t drink my lemonade, I’ll go fetch it.”
“Guess I’ve got no choice, then.” Sheriff Crow took a long drink of the lemonade, then set down the glass and returned her gaze to the crowd. Without looking at him, she reached out to brush her hand against Jack’s. He curled his fingers around hers, but made no further movement toward her.
He’s like me with Ross, Jennie thought. Careful. Letting the sheriff set the pace. Offering things, but in a way that made it easy for her to say no if she didn’t want them.
Usually Jennie didn’t want to know what the older generation were up to. But those two weren’t that much older than she was. Jennie wondered if she should watch them. Maybe she’d learn something. Sheriff Crow wasn’t Ross and Jennie wasn’t Jack, but . . .
Several voices from the crowd rose in anger.
“It’s about time the poor folk got a say on the council!”
“You’re just too lazy to work!”
As the first speaker pulled back his fist for a roundhouse, a whoosh of air buffeted Jennie. With her Changed speed, Sheriff Crow caught the punch before it landed.
“Break it up.” She levered down the man’s arm, then spun to catch his opponent’s attempted slap. Holding the men apart, Sheriff Crow said, “Both of you. Go home, or go to jail.
”
Jennie could see why the sheriff had a headache. There were hours to go before nightfall, and six days to go before the election. As Sheriff Crow gave the scowling fighters a hard shove in opposite directions, Jack stayed on the porch, waiting for her to return to him.
Maybe that was the lesson. Be patient, and let Ross come to her. But that reminded Jennie that someone was waiting, and it wasn’t Ross.
Jennie hurried toward the Hill, dodging a group of children playing tag. The shadow of a hawk passed overhead. The kids stopped to shout up at it, their hands cupped around their mouths.
“Hey, Voske! You stink!”
“And your socks stink!”
“You’re never gonna get us!” A girl shook a tiny fist at the hawk. “Come again and we’ll kick your butt from here to Catalina!”
As the bird continued on its flight, the kids cheered.
“We scared him!” a boy yelled. “Look at him flying away!”
Jennie doubted that the hawk was one of Voske’s, though it amused her to imagine him getting a report that the seven-year-olds of Las Anclas thought his socks stank.
After Kerry had revealed that Voske spied on people with the help of an old prospector, Pru, whose Change power let her hear and see through hawks, Las Anclas had taken measures to ensure that he could never use that against them again. Not only did the Rangers make regular searches for Pru, but Mr. Preston had warned every trader who had visited the town, knowing that they would pass it on wherever they went.
Jennie gave her reeking, beer-stained shirt one last hopeless brush as she approached Wolfe House. It was as imposing as ever, lording it over Las Anclas from atop the Hill. Three of its wings were visible from where she stood, the whitewashed walls ochre in the fading light.
As she passed the stumpy spikes of the trimmed rose bushes, the windows began glowing golden. But not in Felicité’s room, Jennie was glad to see. Felicité would undoubtedly hear all about Jennie’s beer-soaked visit. But at least she wouldn’t see it. Or smell it.
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