by Lisa Wingate
The high squeal of vehicle brakes said someone, not something. Shifting to the window, I saw headlights moving through the trees, traveling the road to the fossil site.
Slipping into my shoes, I turned the lock with shaking hands and carefully opened the door. Mr. Grits squeezed past me, bolting out before I could catch him.
“Mr. Grits!” I hollered, but he only bayed and kept running, his bark echoing into the night again and again, and then silence. Flipping the flashlight on, I dashed after him, calling his name. Halfway down the driveway, I slid to a stop, scanning the trees with the beam, listening.
Somewhere near the river, brakes squealed again, the dog bayed, and I heard a vehicle grind gears and come back in my direction. Headlights passed through the trees, then disappeared for a moment behind a grove of cedar before a dark-colored truck bounced onto the road and vanished around the corner. Within moments the night was as silent as if nothing had happened.
Shivering, I made a circle with the flashlight beam, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable. If they were thieves, obviously Mr. Grits had scared them off. “Mr. Grits …” I called. His answer came from near the house. When I walked back, he was sitting in the shaft of light from the front door, looking at me as if he couldn’t imagine why I was running around in my pajamas in the dark of midnight.
Puffing out a long sigh, I reentered the yard and closed the gate, exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally. I tried not to think about what sorts of creatures might be moving around in the trees as I stood on the porch with Mr. Grits, listening to make sure the night was again free of human sounds. Finally I went back inside, locked the door, and checked the laptop, which was sitting on the fireplace ledge, the screen saver displaying a cityscape of Denver. The machine seemed to be undamaged, but my letter was gone, which was fine. Since I wasn’t hooked up to the Internet, there was no chance of my ramblings having accidentally been sent into cyberspace. It was just drivel, anyway. Foolishness. Wishful thinking and impractical notions. I was better off never seeing it again.
But climbing into bed, in the room where Jeremiah and Caroline had lived, and loved, and created a family, I thought about the words and felt the painful loneliness again.
I think I am in love… .
Is this the person I really am?
With questions, no answers, I drifted off in the arms of a prayer. Please, God, if this is real, send me a sign. If not, take away this terrible longing… .
Deep in the night, I dreamed of Sleepy, dressed in a fine cowboy saddle, black leather with glimmering silver studs. His long white mane floated in the breeze, cascading in slow motion as he tossed his head and reared high onto his hind legs, pawing the air. On his back, I did a parade wave in fringed leather gloves, then tipped my hat to the crowd of admirers lined along the open prairie. My father was there, and Laura, Collie, Melvin and Vanita Blue, and Pop Truitt holding the hand of Sydney. My mom was there, waving to get my attention. She smiled when our gazes met. I wanted to run to her and ask where she’d been, but she was busy talking to John Wayne—the older John Wayne, weathered and leathery, the way he looked in Rooster Cogburn, my father’s favorite movie.
Beside me a horse nickered, and I realized I wasn’t alone. I turned to find my sidekick atop a pinto, his grin unmistakable, his frosted green eyes out of keeping with the Hollywood Indian garb. “Here’s to tilting at windmills,” he said, and his horse reared high in the air, then leaped forward. Sleepy followed, and together we streaked across open prairie toward the dawn.
The sound of a music box tugged me from my sleep, and I jerked fitfully, opened my eyes to the blurry image of the room, then closed them and drifted somewhere between dreams and reality.
I saw Caroline Truitt standing at the window, swaying to the tinny rhythms of the waltz. She heard me moving in the bed, turned, and smiled. “Welcome home,” she said, and held out her hands, beckoning me to dance. I reached toward her, but she wheeled away, and I knew she was talking to someone else. Jeremiah filled the doorway. He took her in his arms and swung her around the room, and she threw her head back, her laughter floating with the music… .
My body jerked, and I sat up in bed, realizing I was laughing, my mind still spinning from the imaginary dance. Mr. Grits was sitting in the doorway, watching me with his face tipped to one side, and his brow raised in curiosity.
“I’ve lost my mind,” I admitted, surveying the room. “Don’t tell anybody.” The cabin was awash with light, testifying to the fact that I’d slept later than I’d intended to.
Jumping out of bed, I checked my watch on the nightstand: seven fifty-one a.m. Horse therapy class started at nine thirty. If I didn’t hurry with my hike up the mountain and e-mailing Sydney, I’d be late. Surprisingly, I didn’t want to be. I couldn’t wait to show Jocelyn, and the professor, and all the college kids that I was not a horse psychology failure, after all. Today the professor would have to write about somebody else on his little notepad.
I rushed through bathing in the little bathroom on the back porch. The old galvanized-metal bathtub was awkward, but quaint, and the tiny bathroom functional, if not luxurious. The Spartan nature gave me an awareness of all the unnecessary things that cluttered my life. Here, I didn’t bother with a hair dryer, just left my hair in long, dark waves that reached to the middle of my back, but would dry shorter. Here, it didn’t matter if straight hair was more stylish, or if “up” hair looked more fashionable for giving tours at the museum. Here, I could be myself.
Is this the person I really am? The question whispered through my mind as I slipped on jeans and a T-shirt and stood staring in the bedroom mirror.
Is this the person I really am?
Who am I really?
Mr. Grits saved me from my impromptu analysis by whining and scratching at the door in the other room.
“OK, OK, I’m coming. I’m coming,” I muttered, slipping the laptop into the backpack, hefting it onto my shoulder, then grabbing the dog rope. “I bet you really need a restroom break by now.”
Whining again, Mr. Grits lifted a paw and scratched the door.
“Hang on,” I said, reading the carved words on the door frame as I untangled the rope. Ende gut, Alles gut.
What did that mean?
“We’re going to have to ask somebody what that says.” Slipping the rope into place, I reached for the door. As soon as it was open far enough, Mr. Grits bolted through, dragging me out so fast that I barely had time to catch the handle and pull it shut.
We were up the mountain in record time, Mr. Grits running, and me half jogging, half skiing behind him.
When we reached the bench at the top of the hill, I dropped the rope and let the dog roll in the wildflowers while I set up the cell phone and computer, anxious to read my latest e-mail from Sydney and know that everything was all right after Geoff’s party for his crew.
I held my breath as the e-mail came up.
There was only one note from Sydney, written early in the morning after the party. The picture of the horses was cool, she said. She wanted to keep the dog, and she was sure he’d do fine in an apartment. She was bored this morning because Whitney was still asleep after the party. She couldn’t swim because the housekeeper was busy cleaning up the mess and couldn’t watch her. She missed her friends back home in Denver, and she missed me. She guessed maybe she’d go back to bed awhile. She signed it, XOXOXO, Sydney Anne Attwood. Her full name, as if this were an official document. A communiqué to a stranger, or a foreign dignitary.
I sat staring at it, feeling my little girl slipping through my fingers. Sydney Anne Attwood signed her letters with Xs and Os, like a teenager. Probably something she’d learned from Whitney. But there was another thing that bothered me, aside from the new signature and the full name. There was a lack of details that was not Sydney’s usual style, as if she were hiding something, or there were facts about the party she thought she shouldn’t tell me.
Was it real, or was I imagining it? Was she tr
ying to protect her father, or could it be that someone had edited her e-mail, making things sound better than they were?
“Don’t get paranoid, Lindsey,” I muttered as I answered Sydney’s note. I talked about horse psychology class, and Mr. Grits, and the magic tree—gave her a condensed version of the e-mail that had disappeared the night before. This one said nothing about Zach Truitt, or the kiss, or the soul-searching questions of love and destiny.
Pushing the send button, I sighed, once again feeling the ache of separation, wishing I could squeeze myself into the tiny electronic words and fly to where my little girl was.
I tried not to think about it as I composed an e-mail to Collie, describing day one of horse psychology class. I glossed over the fact that I’d failed to actually catch my horse during class, and that Zach had to help me later. Instead I talked about how Jocelyn worked with the different students, and how each of us learned lessons about our own hang-ups and relationship-building skills (or lack thereof). I finished by describing the complete sense of elation I felt when I’d finally captured Sleepy and led him to freedom. If Collie talked to Jocelyn, she would get a different story, but I thought my version would look much better in Family Circle magazine.
When I’d finished my e-mail to Collie, I wrote a quick note to Gracie at the sheriff’s department to report the suspicious vehicle by the fossil site last night. It wasn’t much to go on, I told her, perhaps not related to the thefts at all, but it seemed as if they left in a hurry when they saw that someone was in the cabin. She might at least want to come by and see if the vehicle left any tracks. Even though things had dried out surprisingly well since yesterday’s rain, the soil was still damp enough that some tire imprints might have remained.
I moved quickly through the rest of my e-mail list, deleting spam and junk messages, answering one from my boss at the museum, who was worried about me and wanted me to take all the vacation time I needed; and my neighbor in the apartment building, who knew the entire custody saga, heard me sobbing at night through the ventilation system, and wanted to make sure I hadn’t driven off a cliff somewhere between Denver and Texas. Sydney’s third-grade teacher had even checked in, just to see how the summer was going. She hoped everything was all right with Sydney’s visit to her father’s house.
I answered them all quickly.
EVERYTHING’S FINE. THANKS FOR CHECKING IN. I’M ON A RANCH IN THE TEXAS HILL COUNTRY, HAVING A LITTLE VACATION AND HELPING TO RESEARCH AN ARTICLE FOR MY SISTER’S MAGAZINE. SYDNEY E-MAILS ME EVERY DAY TO TELL ME WHAT SHE’S BEEN DOING. I MISS HER, BUT IT SOUNDS LIKE THINGS ARE GOING ALL RIGHT THERE. SEE YOU SOON, LINDSEY.
I left it at that. No point dredging up all my fears and worries about what might or might not be happening in Mexico. It was hard to know how much of that was real, and how much of it was the product of my separation anxiety.
There was one more entry at the end of the page. The subject line stopped me from deleting it as spam. Dinosaur Tracks? Opening it, I scrolled through the paragraph quickly, my eyes skimming the text, my mouth hanging open. They were questions from Geoff about the stolen fossils—how large were they, what composition of rock, what size and type of tracks, exactly? Apparently my e-mail had piqued his interest. He had already started putting the word out on the market, as if he were a buyer—to see if he would get any bites. Something that big would be bound to turn up, he said.
I stared at the e-mail, at his electronic signature, torn between answering it and deleting it. Three paragraphs of questions about dinosaur tracks, and not a thing about our daughter. Just one little line at the bottom.
P.S.: SYDNEY’S DOING FINE. DON’T WORRY IF YOU DON’T HEAR FROM HER THIS MORNING. SHE’S SLEEPING IN.
His attempt at peacemaking, perhaps, but not a very good one. Our daughter’s first visit deserved at least a paragraph or two. He owed me that much for having raised the little girl he now claimed he wanted so badly, the one who sat home day after day, waiting for a little of his time.
Closing my eyes, I breathed slowly in and out, stifling the urge to spill that bitterness onto the screen and send it to him. I imagined myself back at horse psychology class as Jocelyn corrected one of the college kids when he threw the halter at his horse, causing it to run away. Angry outbursts are unproductive in a relationship. Do you see how lashing out only separates the parties involved? If you’re not getting what you want, you have to try a different approach …
Maybe the dialogue about fossils could be a bridge between Geoff and me, a way to build the trust we needed to raise our daughter in this uncertain world of custody and visitation.
Taking a deep breath, I answered the note with more facts about the fossils, then added at the bottom:
THANKS FOR LETTING ME KNOW ABOUT SYDNEY. I JUST WANT HER TO HAVE A GOOD SUMMER.
I paused with my fingers above the keyboard.
And a good life, I wanted to add. I don’t want her to grow up wounded and torn. I want her to be whole. Happy. That’s all I want.
I pushed send without adding the last part.
One step at a time. It’s all about trust.
The e-mail went through, sent and gone, and I logged off the Net, then sat there for a moment letting the cool morning breeze smooth my emotions like water over sand. In the valley below, the horses raised their heads and began moving toward the gate. Standing up, I shaded my eyes, spotting Zach near the corral, sitting bareback atop a brown-and-white-spotted horse, just like in my dream. My hero.
He looked my way, and I waved madly, mindless of the fact that I was standing on the edge of a cliff. Every ounce of anxiety left me, and a warm flush traveled my body from head to toe. I felt as if I could sail off the mountain and flutter through the air like a butterfly.
“Good morning!” I called. It was silly, I knew, since he couldn’t hear me.
My cell phone rang on the bench, and I jumped, then picked it up as Zach waved, and tapped his ear, then held his hands up helplessly. I considered hollering something about tilting at windmills, but I thought better of it and answered the phone. Collie was on the other end.
“Hi, there!” I said, sounding far too cheerful.
“Hi … yourself,” Collie replied hesitantly. “How are things going?”
“Great!” I chirped, fanning the heat in my face, trying to return to earth. Zach was coming across the pasture on the spotted horse. At a full gallop. Bareback. Straight toward me. It was hard to stay calm.
“Wow … uhhh … really?” Collie sounded incredulous. “So … what’s going on?”
“Well …” I went on a wild dog chase, I kissed Zach under the Lover’s Oak, I mastered horse psychology lesson number one, I learned how to fix windmills, and I developed an affinity for Dublin Dr Pepper. I got my Jeep stuck in the mud, visited the library, toured San Saline, and learned how to pull a vehicle out of the mud with a tractor. I think I may have fallen in love… . “Not a lot, really.”
“Oh.” Collie sounded disappointed, or worried, I couldn’t tell which. “By the way, I put a notice in the paper for the lost dog. Maybe someone will call about him. Anything new on the stolen tracks?”
“Not much to report,” I admitted, feeling guilty for having spent all day yesterday making goo-goo eyes with Zach, even after the weather dried up and I could have been down at the track site. “I’m going to dig into it more today—no pun intended. I still need to get the copies of Caroline Truitt’s journals from Pop.” I should have done that yesterday, but I was too busy fixing windmills. “Something strange happened last night, though. I was up late”—thinking about Zach—“and a truck went by, headed for the riverbank. I’m not sure who it was, but it seemed like they left in a hurry when they heard the dog.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Collie paused, like she was writing down something. “Did you get a look at the truck?”
“Not really. Dark colored. Black or blue, maybe, with squeaky brakes and no tailgate.” Like Jimmy Hawthorne’s new truck, I realized. I didn’
t want to say that to Collie. The grumpy ranch foreman, Dan, also drove a dark-colored pickup truck with no tailgate. Probably so did half of the county. “It isn’t much to go on, but I e-mailed the details to Gracie.”
“Good. Listen, be careful.”
“I will.” Below, Zach disappeared into a brush-covered creek bed, then came out the other side, waving his hat, because he knew I’d be watching. I waved back, giggling.
Collie heard it, of course. “Lindsey?”
“Sorry.” Get a grip. Calm down. “Anyway, I’ll see what I can find out about the fossils today, and report back. I e-mailed Geoff, and he said he’d put the word out on the market. Something might turn up there, as well.”
“You e-mailed Geoff for help with the fossils?” Collie choked on the idea. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” Zach moved into the shadow of the cliff, and I inched forward so that I could watch as the spotted horse slowly picked a path through the loose rocks below. “If anyone would know where to find black-market fossils, it’s Geoff. Besides, I’m trying to approach things from a psychological perspective—make peace, build trust, work with each other, not against each other, all that stuff.”
Collie chuckled. “Sounds like you learned something in horse therapy class.”
“I was a washout, actually. I sent you an e-mail about it a few minutes ago. I was the only one who couldn’t catch my horse, and then … ” My concentration wavered. Zach was almost directly below me now. What was he doing? “Zach.” I realized I’d said his name out loud, with a little jitter of vocal excitement. I finished lamely, “ … helped me out.”
“Really?” Now Collie was interested. Much more interested than she’d been in the fossil hunt. “Zach helped you with horse therapy class?”
“It was no big deal. We were headed out to fix a windmill.” I dropped my face into my hand. Shoot. That was stupid.
“You and Zach were out fixing windmills… .” Collie trailed off suggestively, the way only a girlfriend can do. The way that lets you know you’ve given out too much information, and she’s figured out your secrets. “Something I should know about?”
