On a well-honed instinct, my hand clenches into a fist, and I swing. Whoever’s there catches my wrist with their free hand and pins it down beside my head. I try to yank free, but am held firm. I inhale—sharply—and that’s when I know my attacker isn’t an attacker. He smells too much like engines and dust.
It’s James. His face is hovering just above mine. He’s smiling, holding back a laugh, so he obviously isn’t here to give me bad news.
One of his hands still covers my mouth. I rake my teeth across his rough palm and bite down just hard enough to make him wince. He releases me, puts his finger to his lips, and then motions with his head: Come with me.
It’s cold, so we move quickly, skirting behind the bunkhouses toward the south side of camp, where the supply sheds and the mess buildings are. The moon gives off just enough light for me to see the clouds of James’ breath against the night sky. Our hands are clasped together so that James can lead without losing me.
Voices rise up from the direction where the fire was earlier. They belong to men who either can’t or refuse to go to sleep, but those men are far enough away and most likely drunk enough that we don’t have to worry about them noticing us.
We reach the mess building, and James comes to a stop.
“You scared me to death,” I whisper. “What is it?”
James spins around and points to his ear: Listen. I hear snorting, heavy breathing. Stifling a gasp, I reach out and grip James’ arm. Together, we creep around the rear of the building, and there she is: Farrah Gonzales’ tea-brown horse, munching on scrub grass.
She senses our presence and whips her head up. Her wide, glossy eyes reveal distrust, as do the muscles rippling down the length of her body. I slow my breathing to slow my heart rate to try to prove to her I’m not a threat.
“It’s just me,” I say. “I heard you’re a handful.”
The horse shakes her head, snorts, and goes back to eating.
“I couldn’t sleep,” James says. “I was roaming around when I found her and then came to get you.”
I hold out my hand, palm up, and click my tongue. The horse isn’t completely sure about me, but still, she stretches her neck forward. Her breath is warm. I wait for her, and after a few seconds, she tilts her graceful head and nuzzles it against my palm.
“She’s great,” James says. “When Leo said she had a rebellious streak, it reminded me of someone else I know.”
All this time, my other hand has been holding James’. I only now notice because it’s only now that he releases it. He steps away and leans against the side of the building.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Are you alright?” James sighs. I hear him crack his knuckles. “I mean, with Angus. You haven’t said much about it.”
I focus on the point of contact between my hand and this beautiful animal, my rough skin against the horse’s coarse coat. It’s warm there, full of life and comfort. “Sometimes when the wind kicks up, I feel this flutter of panic. And then I look around and wonder who’s going to be next. Like I’m expecting to make some dumb mistake, and someone will die because of it.”
“I’m sorry I suggested it was your fault,” James says. “It wasn’t.”
“It was. You were right.”
For a while James says nothing, and then: “The feeling, that panicky flutter. It may never go away. It might just have to be something you learn to live with.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek.
“I had a nightmare,” James goes on to say. “About Lane. It woke me up, and I couldn’t go back to sleep.”
My hand falls from the horse’s face, and I turn. James is all shadows in the black night.
“That hasn’t happened in a while.” I reach for James again, and he pulls me toward him. I make myself heavy, and we click into place. We both need comfort tonight. “Odette’s falling for you,” I say. “She told me in the fields.”
“She’s not the one I want,” James murmurs into my hair. He drags the tips of his strong fingers across the line of my jaw, laying claim. “You’re the one I want. You’re always the one I want.”
I grip James’ shirt, and he brings his mouth to mine. Just as his tongue grazes the seam of my lips, I hear it: the crunch of a boot, followed by another. Someone’s creeping around, trying to be quiet.
I start to pull away, but James holds me tight.
“It doesn’t matter,” he whispers, his voice gruff.
I hesitate, just for a moment, before stepping back. It’s dark enough that I’m spared the sight of James’ expression, but I see him lower his head and rake his hands through his hair.
“Britain!” a low male voice calls out. “Britain! Here girl.”
James’ eyes flash up to mine, and his jaw tightens.
From around the side of the mess building comes the bobbing stream of light from a handheld torch.
Leo, James mouths.
Sure enough, the torchlight bends, and around the building comes Leo’s lanky figure. The leather lengths of reins and a bridle are looped around his shoulder. The unexpected sight of us nearly causes him to drop his lamp.
“Shit, you scared me! What are you two doing out here?”
James tells Leo what he told me: about not being able to sleep, taking a walk, finding the horse, coming to get me.
“Her name is Britain?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Leo works to secure the horse. “Sorry I always catch you two at a bad time.”
“No worries,” James replies. “Sarah Jac and I were just out here hatching our magnificent plan to take over the ranch.”
Leo laughs. “Don’t forget to include me, alright? Since I work in the house, I know all the secrets. Isn’t that right, girl?” He strokes Britain’s nose. “See you two later.”
We say our good-byes, and James and I wait until we can no longer hear the soft clicks of Britain’s hooves hitting the earth. I realize now my hands are shaking. I shove them into my pockets, grateful that the cold weather gives good cover for my jangled nerves.
“That’s twice now he’s snuck up on us,” I say.
James says nothing; the steam of his breath rises up and disappears into the air.
“I don’t trust him,” I add.
“You don’t trust anybody.”
“Since when is that a bad thing? James, he’s taunting us. He knows. You know he knows.”
James squares his shoulders. “So what if he does?”
“You aren’t serious,” I hiss. “What do you mean so what? I don’t have to stand here and tell you what he could do. He could—he could blackmail us. He could turn us in to the foremen, and they could blackmail us. He could try and turn us against each other.” I step back and let out a breath. “It’s like you’ve forgotten about what happened in Tulsa.”
James lets out a long, low whistle. He can’t believe I brought up Tulsa, given that I know how much he wants to wipe that place from his memory. Tulsa was where we went after we left Chicago. This was back before we pretended to be cousins, back when I sat in James’ lap around the bonfire like Rosa did with Ben and he rubbed my sore shoulders. We openly adored each other, and it nearly got us both killed.
“Of course I haven’t forgotten about what happened in Tulsa, Sarah.” James takes a step back and throws up his hands. “You know what? You want me to go after Odette? Fine. I will. It’ll be the best acting job you’ve ever seen.”
“James . . .”
I hear a train blow its whistle, from the south I think. I have no idea how far away it is; sound can travel in tricky ways.
“Just know that the whole thing will be over the second you say it’s over.”
He waits for me to respond, to tell him that’s not what I want anymore, but I don’t.
“Okay?” he says. “Hard hearts, right?”
I worry that my heart is not very hard anymore. It’s getting tired and worn out, like maybe its fibers are coming undone. After Tulsa, we started scheming. James blames hi
mself for what happened there; I blame me. We’re both still trying to make it right by doing things that feel wrong, like pouring more lies into this lie-soaked land and duping poor superstitious girls.
But I don’t want to tell him that. I’ve already said too much—about Angus, and about the wind making me nervous. So, instead I say, “Right. Exactly. Hard hearts.”
James lets out a sigh. He’s disappointed, but still, he pulls me into an embrace. I tangle my limbs with his and crush our bodies together, like we’re both going into battle with weak armor and are pretty sure neither of us will return.
THE NEXT DAY, I think it’s the end of the line for James and me. That we’re done for. Thirty minutes into the morning’s harvest, a pickup pulls to a stop in the row behind me. The driver says, Hey, girl, and tells me to get in back. I freeze mid-strike. My tool hovers above my head. It’s the first time I’ve been called out individually, and I assume it’s because I match the description of a girl who killed a foreman one state over.
I twist my coa blade so it glints in the sunlight. I wonder if slicing the truck’s rubber tires will buy me enough time to run to the train tracks. The driver is a paunchy, gray-haired man with a days-old cigar clenched between his teeth—no match for me unless he has a pistol stashed in the glove box. Now that I think about it, there’s a good chance he has a pistol stashed in the glove box.
I scan the field for James before remembering that he went out to work in a different one this morning. That means running isn’t an option. I won’t leave without him.
I look back to the driver. He picks a speck of tobacco from his lower lip and then flicks it at my feet. He repeats his command in Spanish. When I still don’t reply, he asks, “Are you stupid or something?” He leans farther out the window, extends his arm, points at me then to the bed of the truck. “Let’s move, perra.”
After a short ride that feels much longer, the truck pulls up to the ranch house and parks next to the yard where the horses are kept. The owner’s white horse is nearby, munching alfalfa. Britain is standing at the opposite edge of the enclosure, surveying the desert expanse and swishing her tail. Both are fresh and saddled.
Leo emerges from the stables, greeting me with a chip-toothed grin that somehow makes his face even more grotesque. A black scab divides his bottom lip; purple bruises on his cheek and around his eye have faded to the color of mucus. His smile widens, but I’m not encouraged.
Behind him come Farrah and a younger version of Farrah. The younger one has the same shimmery copper hair but is half-sized and plumper. They are both dressed in tan riding pants and white button-up shirts. They grip their black helmets down by their right hips. Unlike Leo, neither of them is smiling. Instead, as they walk toward the horses, they both hold their heads at a tilt, slightly up and to the left, like they’re trying to peer up and over my head and to the mountains beyond me.
The little one looks to be about how old Lane was when she died, maybe a little younger. Her chubby face tells me she’s full of health and cake. I hate her instantly.
“Sarah Jac!” Leo approaches the truck and extends his hand to help me down. I don’t take it and step out on my own. He shrugs his bony shoulders before heading over to a wood gate that leads into the courtyard surrounding the main house. He motions for me to follow. I stay rooted.
“I’ll be right back to help you mount your horses, miss,” Leo calls over his shoulder. “Your father’s expecting Sarah Jac.”
Neither of the girls responds. Farrah, though, won’t take her eyes off me. She’s judging me. Like the man who stood at the gate of the ranch the day I arrived here, Farrah’s sizing me up, trying to determine my use, my worth. I’m like a mule to her, or a goat.
I want to tell her: I stole your horse last night. Last night, it was mine.
The littler girl keeps trying to smooth out her hair as it gets blown around by the wind. Her attempts to mimic the effortless poise of her sister are failing.
“Come on,” Leo says to me. His wide grin is still there but has twisted. “Gonzales wants to talk to you.”
“Where’s James?” I ask, still not moving. “Is he here?”
“No. Why would he be?” His eyes scan my face. “What’s wrong with you? Come on.”
I follow.
There are fountains in the courtyard. They are filled with water, clear water that seems to serve no purpose other than to provide decoration and create a soothing sound. There are also women and men, who, unlike the jimadors in the fields, have on clothes that aren’t stained with grease or nearly falling apart from wear. They’re busy: raking the rocks in the courtyard into swirling patterns, carrying wicker baskets of laundry and towels, carrying large trunks. They don’t look at or speak to one another. Even though they’re older than me—maybe in their twenties or thirties—they remind me of the kids who work in the mess crew, absorbed in and dedicated to their work for reasons I’ve never quite understood. I have no idea how they resist throwing themselves into the fountains and letting that water soak into their clothes and their skin.
Leo leads me into the main house. Most of the doors and windows have been thrown open, resulting in soothing cross breezes. A large entry room is filled with furniture that is sparse and functional. There are two tanned red cowhide chairs in front of a fireplace, and a mahogany sideboard topped with a cut-glass bottle of clear liquor and a matching set of tumblers. Tall plants in terra-cotta pots have been placed in corners. Their vivid green leaves shoot upward, seven or eight feet high. It’s rare to see a green so fresh and bright.
Hallways extend from this room in various dark directions. Hallways inevitably lead to bedrooms. Bedrooms can contain jewelry boxes or bureaus with drawers that have false bottoms. False bottoms are always full of the best little treasures.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the treasures found in drawers, but that little Gonzales girl I saw outside has me regressing, flying back in time, waxing nostalgic. Lane and I would steal a watch. We’d sell it. Instead of using the money to buy new pairs of boots, we’d go out to a matinee and splurge on hard candy.
Thinking about boots makes me glance down to mine. I worry that they’ll leave scuff marks across the owner’s beautiful orange tile floor. Then I wonder why I’m worrying about that, why I’d want to stomp all over that little Gonzales girl out there but keep the floors in here spotless.
“Hey, Sarah Jac.” Leo has stopped in front of a polished wood door. “Seriously. What’s wrong with you?”
“Have you sold us out?” I whisper.
Leo laughs and knocks on the door. There’s the sound of a squeaking chair, followed by footsteps approaching from the other side. Boot heels click-clack against tile, but there’s something off in the rhythm of the steps. I take a breath and hold it as the door opens.
Gonzales is handsome in the same way his daughters are beautiful. It’s a handsome that comes from eating green vegetables and living indoors. It comes from the acceptance of false compliments and forced smiles of women and workers. It’s a smooth kind of handsome with no grit, so smooth it’s practically a blur. Gonzales is wearing a light blue button-up shirt and pants that are made of cream-colored linen that matches the shade of the plaster that covers the walls of his house. His cologne smells like piñon pine. He’s shorter than I am. His smile is halfhearted, which I imagine is how all of his smiles are.
I think to myself: this is not a man capable of creating and placing a hex on his ranch, but I’ve been wrong before. If he offers me something to eat or drink, I will not accept it.
Leo introduces me by name. “The girl you came across in the field yesterday,” he adds. “The one who’s good with horses.”
I laugh. It comes out in a short hysterical burst. The sound of it ricochets through the room and out the window. I cover my mouth and glance at Leo, who’s obviously confused. Gonzales’ half smile, however, doesn’t waver. He ushers me into the room, thanks Leo, and then promptly shuts him out.
&nbs
p; Gonzales walks past me in the direction of his paper-littered desk. It’s then that I see the limp. His left leg is the bad one. It drags. That explains the uneven sound I heard from the other side of the door. I wonder if his leg has always been that way—since birth—or if he had an accident.
He pulls out a chair upholstered in burgundy leather and tells me to sit. I reach up, debating whether or not I should remove my sun hat. My hand hovers for a moment, and I turn to face the open window behind his desk. In the fields, under a brutal sun, workers cut maguey while the foremen patrol on horseback. This is Gonzales’ view every day. I lower my hand. The hat stays on.
I take my seat and wait to be spoken to.
Gonzales lowers himself into a chair behind his desk. He says I seem to know my way around a horse. “Is this true?”
“I grew up with them.” Realizing I’m cracking my knuckles, I shove my hands under my thighs. “My grandmother had horses. I can break them, care for them.” Cause them to tip over and crush their riders.
Gonzales sits back, folds his hands in his lap, and considers me for a long moment. “The reason I brought you up to the house this morning is because I need a trainer for Bell.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My daughter Bell,” Gonzales says. “She needs a riding companion and someone to teach her the basics of how to handle a horse. Ideally, that person would be her sister, but Farrah isn’t well and can’t be out for a lengthy amount of time. I want to pair her with a young woman, as opposed to Leo or another one of the male field hands.”
“No.” I stand so quickly I nearly lose my balance.
Gonzales flicks his gaze down to a piece of paper on his desk, and the side of his mouth twitches. My response is obviously not what he was expecting. The truth is I would give almost anything to be with those horses, but this man can’t even begin to understand how repulsive I find the idea of working with that little girl to be. Every time I’d see her, she’d remind me of Lane, and I don’t want to be reminded of Lane. I want to think of my sister on my terms, when I want, recalling the memories I’ve shaped and collected, like lying side by side in the grass on my grandmother’s farm making up stories about the clouds and the stars and sitting side by side on the roof of our building making up stories about two sisters who traveled the world. Lane, who was always encouraging me to look up and around. I can’t think of her all the time, or I’ll crack.
All the Wind in the World Page 5
