A quarter of an hour later she hauled herself up onto a small bluff. It was no more than a dozen feet across, wedged between two jagged spikes of rock near the rim of the canyon. From one side of the little plateau you could gaze upon the glittering lights of Hawk’s Hollow to the east, and to the west, an endless stretch of plains. The wide-open space called to her like the wolves.
Out there, somewhere in the night, her father’s tribe slept beneath the same sky. Or perhaps, like her, they couldn’t rest. The people that shared half her blood. The people that her mother had tried to erase from her history. Both hers and Penelope’s.
Once, many years ago, her mother had spoken of her father. Penelope had been eight at the time. She’d been needling her mother for years to tell her something about him, anything really. Anything would be better than the nothing she’d received her whole life. It had been painfully obvious from an early age that she was different than the rest of the family. Brown skin and black hair to her mother and sister’s freckles and red curls. The way her stepfather treated her like a servant. The stares they drew when they went into town.
Questions even remotely skirting the issue of Penelope’s father were met with a sharp tone and extra chores. One day, however, when they’d ridden toward town, just the two of them, Penelope’s pony had spooked, knocking her to the ground. She’d gashed her elbow on a rock and cried at the sight of the blood. She remembered the conversation distinctly.
“Stop crying,” her mother had said. “It’s only a scrape.”
“But everyone will see!” she’d wailed.
“It’s just blood. No one will care.”
“But… but they say my blood is different. Won’t they see?”
It was the silly sort of thing that a child confuses in their head. Her mother had gone very still before she’d finally spoken. “Everyone’s blood is red, Penelope. What they mean is… your father… your father is from the Navajo Tribe.”
“Navajo?”
“Indians,” she said briskly. “That’s what they mean when they say your blood is different. You’re half Indian.”
“Where is my father?”
“He died. When you were only a few months old.”
Her mother’s eyes had a far-off look as she spoke, her tone hushed. Then, she’d stood abruptly and lifted Penelope back onto her pony. And when she’d remounted her own horse, she said, sitting up very straight and shooting Penelope a look that could frost the mountaintops, “We will never speak of this again. Do you understand?”
And they hadn’t.
Penelope shivered beneath the night sky. Another howl carried across the plains, and this time it was a coyote. The moon shone brightly, illuminating everything in a soft glow. Willow thought Penelope could just enter the rodeo along with her sister, like a normal person. She didn’t know how it was. With the townsfolk. With her own family. Dynah had competed the last five years, but somehow there was always some thinly-veiled excuse from her stepfather for Penelope to watch from the sidelines.
Penelope let out her breath in one long exhale, watching it swirl like tiny spirits. She shifted to face the plains full-on, her back to Hawk’s Hollow, pretending for a moment that the town and her family didn’t exist. That her limitations didn’t exist. Her eyes scanned the open space before her, and movement caught her eye about a quarter mile from the base of the ridge. She sat up straighter, squinting. A wolf, a real one, white like the moon. And behind it, a rider on a horse.
Penelope went still. Even from this distance, she could tell the rider wasn’t from Hawk’s Hollow. This was no cowboy on a late-night ride. It was one of her tribespeople.
As she watched, the rider stopped and turned to face her. Her skin prickled. Could they see her, sitting atop the butte? Somehow, she knew they could. They stared at each other, the rider and Penelope, for countless minutes. Then the wolf howled, making Penelope flinch, and the rider turned and galloped off into the night.
Chapter Three
Felicity
If music came from the soul, then perhaps Felicity’s was missing. Each tug of her fingers on the harp strings resonated within her, vibrated to her core, and echoed back empty. Like calling into an enormous room with no response.
“Put some spirit into it, girl!” her instructor growled.
Across the gleaming wood-paneled parlor, her mother looked up from her knitting with a frown. Felicity closed her eyes and bent her head to the task, but the music came out thin, hollow. Wanting.
Professor Klimten stood, waving a hand at her in disgust. “That’s enough for today, Felicity. I’m not sure where your head is this morning, but I do hope you find it again before the performance at church.”
“My apologies, Professor,” Felicity said, folding her hands in her lap. She could feel their disappointment, both the professor’s and her mother’s, but all she could summon in return was a swell of relief. The lesson had ended at last.
They left the professor’s austere, European-styled house. Felicity’s mother walked behind her, her presence like a red-hot brand, and Felicity knew that as soon as they were alone, she was going to get a tongue-lashing. They stepped out onto the professor’s porch, which fronted Main Street running through Hawk’s Hollow. Horses and buggies and cowboys and merchants flowed back and forth like fish in a river. The noise of the busy town swirled around her and the sun peered down as if it were judging her, too.
Her mother stayed silent, maintaining a lady-like appearance, as she tightened the sunbonnet that Felicity had already fastened quite adequately around her chin. The silence grew exponentially, building by the second. Silence as they mounted their horses, side-saddle of course. Silence as they wove through the traffic on the streets, and silence as they passed the church, even though here Felicity could feel the weight of that silence the most. Silence until they reached the big white house at the end of the nicest street in town and took the horses into the stable out back.
When the trip finally ended, her mother’s scorpion tongue spewed venom. “What is wrong with you?” Her anger hurled into Felicity, a near-physical force.
“I was doing my best, Mama…”
Felicity’s mother made the sign of the cross over her chest. “God help us if that’s true. I will not have a daughter that displays her failure in front of the whole town.”
“The whole town doesn’t attend church,” Felicity said.
“Everyone who matters does.”
Felicity opened her mouth to start apologizing; she knew she should have done that initially. But her mother had become a torrential downpour and there was no stopping her.
“We’ve worked so hard for where we are, for our business, for this house, for the things you have. So hard. You know how much harder we have to work than everyone else, because of who we are. And all we ask is a few simple things. Music is how we praise, Felicity. The harp is your connection to the divine. It shows everyone that you are favored. And you are favored, but you just squander it.” Her mother’s riding crop hit the side of the barn with a loud thwap, making Felicity jump.
“Yes, Mama, I understand,” she murmured, over and over, but it was another quarter-hour before her mother abruptly stopped her assault, turned on her heel, and stalked into the house.
Felicity took several deep inhales and exhales to calm herself, then with shaking hands she began to attend to the horses. Hers and her mother’s both, since of course her mother had stormed off. It was fine, though, she told herself. She didn’t want her mother here, anyhow. The barn was her place, the only place she could breathe.
It was a quintessential barn, precisely as a barn should be. Strong, wooden beams. Cobwebs here and there. The smell of pine shavings and sweet, fresh hay. Shafts of sunlight shooting down between the rafters. And of course, the occupants. She took the saddles and bridles off the horses and put them up in their tack room, then led each horse to their stall. She brushed them down and made sure they had water, checked their hooves for rocks. She patted her
horse Music on her black shoulder and snuck her a sugar cube.
After Felicity had taken care of the horses, she climbed the wooden ladder at the north end of the barn aisle, up into the loft where they kept the hay. In the far corner of the hayloft, she wiggled between the stacks of baled hay, then reached her fingers into a narrow crack between two boards. She pulled out a leather-bound book, along with a small well of ink.
She couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder to make sure she was alone. Every time she touched her book, her pulse raced just a little. Slowly, she retreated out from between the rows of hay and sat down on the floor, her back against the bales. With fingers that trembled, but for an entirely different reason now, Felicity opened the book and picked up the feather pen tucked inside.
Ebony scrawlings crisscrossed the pages. She flipped through to the spot where she’d left off. Just the smell of paper and ink made her feel like a normal person again. With these tools in her hands, she was just Felicity. Not Felicity the future harp virtuoso. Not Felicity the churchgoer. Not Felicity the doting daughter of the wealthiest merchants in town. Not Felicity the only girl with brown skin to go to her private school. Not Felicity who had to be perfect all the time because her mother had given her everything, and why couldn’t she just be more grateful?
She took a deep breath and dipped her pen in the ink. Just Felicity. She laid pen to paper.
Chapter Four
Dynah
A strange thing, beauty. It made lots of people love you, and it made lots of people hate you. And it didn’t seem there was a whole lot of in-between, at least not that Dynah had ever seen.
“What about this one?” asked her mother, holding up a bolt of plaid lavender cotton.
They stood in the haberdashery looking at the fabric that had recently arrived from Denver. Her mother held the lavender cloth up against Dynah’s chest, and they looked in the mirror across from them. The pale purple made her flame-colored curls pop out like a winter sunset.
“Ooh, that’s nice,” Dynah said. “Though the blue one is, too.” She ran her fingers over a different bolt of fabric, crisp and new. She could almost smell the indigo dye.
“We should get both, I think,” her mother said, flashing a hundred-watt smile. Everyone said Dynah got her smile from her mama. That, along with her freckles and bright red hair.
They went to the register and paid for a large piece of cloth in each color, her mother carefully counting several coins and laying them one, two, three on the slick wood counter. Dynah knew the store was owned by the black family, but she never saw them here. The store clerk smiled shyly at Dynah until her mother cleared her throat. He slid the coins into the register with an embarrassed blush. Dynah threw him a huge smile which made the blush reach new depths of color, and they left the store, exiting into the late-morning sun.
With the Hawk’s Hollow Annual Fair coming up, Dynah was, naturally, the favorite to win Rodeo Queen. She’d just turned eighteen and was finally eligible. She’d been told for years she was the prettiest thing to walk the earth in these parts, though she had to admit a couple of the other girls gave her a run for the money. As things heated up to the big event, she had lots of boys vying for her attention, hoping to stand by her side as she was crowned a local celebrity. That, and plenty of girls shooting her the stink eye and wishing she’d drop dead.
Her sister, of course, was always at the top of that list, though perhaps for different reasons.
They climbed into their small one-horse wagon and rolled down the dusty street. The haberdashery had been their last stop after picking up horse feed, groceries, and a couple things from the general store. Boys waved at Dynah as she rode by. Once or twice, a grown man stopped and stared as well, which drew an evil look from her mother, and whatever woman happened to be at the man’s elbow. Dynah just smiled and waved. Love or hate. She was used to it.
When they got home, her mother drove the wagon around to the back of the house. “Now, you’d better go get changed and head to the fairgrounds for registration,” she said to Dynah as she started to unhitch their palomino gelding.
Dynah nodded and headed into the house while her mother finished handling the cart horse. Within a few minutes, she’d changed into a yellow blouse and let her hair out of its braid. It now cascaded down one shoulder. She grabbed her suede cowgirl hat, wiped a few spots of dust off her boots, and headed back out to the barn.
Her horse Moon stood in a small corral next to the barn. True to his name, he was a pale gray from head to toe. He’d been a gift from her parents a few months back, when she’d started training for the rodeo. They performed a variety of roping tricks. Nothing with real steer—that was for the men—but lassoing barrels and such. Moon loved to show off almost as much as she did.
Dynah saddled him up and bid farewell to her mother before riding back toward town. The registrations and tryouts took place on the far side, at the Hawk’s Hollow fairground. They held most public events there. There was a large riding arena dead center with several corrals adjacent to it, and a large stage at one end.
She alternated between trotting and loping Moon the three miles to the grounds, nothing too strenuous. It wouldn’t do at all to show up sweaty and dusty. She could hear the crowd gathered by the arena almost before she could see it. Pretty much every able-bodied man in town, plus a number of spectators, along with all the local merchants, their wares set out on tables or in the backs of wagons.
There were also bound to be lots of out-of-towners: Hawk’s Hollow was the largest town in fifty miles and the annual fair drew a big crowd. Dynah’s heart beat faster at the thought. She’d had her eye on a couple handsome cowboys from around here, but wouldn’t it be even better if she snagged herself a fine man from Grand Junction or Denver? Someone from money who could buy her a big ranch? Several of her friends were already married, and she could feel the clock ticking on her window of opportunity. She had no doubt she’d find a husband; it was simply a matter of ensuring she found the best one.
As she rode up, she sat straighter in her saddle. Heads began to turn, eyes began to widen, and she just smiled. She knew the effect she had, riding up with her flame-colored hair on her pale horse, belt buckle and saddle gleaming. She was already their Rodeo Queen and they all knew it.
“Dynah!” someone yelled, followed by a chorus of whistles and hoots.
Billy Boynton. Top contender for future husband if Dynah did pick a man from Hawk’s Hollow. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Almost too pretty to be a cowboy, but those rough, calloused hands told the truth of his upbringing. He was in line to inherit his father’s ranch and 3,000 head of cattle. Dynah turned Moon and headed in his direction.
As she sidled Moon in between Billy and his friends, who were lined up on their horses to watch the bronco team tryouts, she threw him a smile. “Hey, Billy.”
“How’s my girl?” He reached out and tugged at one of her curls. He had a smile that could almost match hers in luminosity. Almost.
“Well I’m fine, now that I’m here.” She shot him a look from beneath her lashes.
“They’re just starting the bronco team tryouts. You get signed up for the roping competition yet?”
“Not yet.”
Billy shrugged. “Everyone knows you’ll win anyway.”
Dynah smiled coyly and didn’t reply. She caught sight of her sister Penelope on the far side of the bronco pen, and they cast each other indifferent nods of acknowledgment. Inside the fence, a tough-as-nails mustang with murder in his eyes stared out across the crowd, sensing the souls of the men who would try to ride him. For just a moment, Dynah considered what it would be like to sit astride him. But no. She knew her place, and that wasn’t it. That was for the men.
A loud voice boomed across the crowd. “Who’s first?”
Several cowboys jumped up to the fence, dangling atop it like dusty grasshoppers. From behind her came the sound of galloping hooves. Dynah turned to see a chestnut mare barreling through the crowd. The mar
e looked a bit familiar, but she shook it off a moment later. The tall, lanky cowboy riding her was definitely a stranger. Short, white-blonde hair. A face that needed a proper washing. Eyelashes that would make any girl jealous.
Dynah’s attention was pulled away from the newcomer as a weathered man hopped down into the ring and began to warily approach the mustang. The bronco tryouts had officially begun.
Chapter Five
Willow
A thick crowd had gathered at the arena by the time Willow approached, which was exactly the situation she’d been trying to avoid. Usually, she would have loved to draw the attention her way and show the boys a thing or two, but it was not the time for that. She couldn’t afford to stand out, to draw more than a passing glance. She needed to register for the race and the shooting competition and get out of here before anyone recognized her, chopped hair or no.
But there was nothing to be done for it since Sadie the rogue chicken had made her blasted late. She dismounted and tied Bullet to one of the fence posts, then made her way toward the registration line. To her left, people were clustered around the bronco pen for the team tryouts. She preferred to fly solo, which was why she was sticking to the race and the sharpshooting competition. Plus, those were the ones with the big-money prizes. Her ticket out of here.
Willow slowed her step as she approached the cowboys in line, mellowed her swagger. Forced her breathing to slow, shoved a strand of platinum hair behind her ear as she tipped her hat even lower over her forehead, shadowing her face. She’d rubbed some dust on her cheeks to help, too.
The line ran along a fence across from the bronco pen. She got into it and leaned against the rail, casual as a summer picnic. The men around her shot her only the slightest sideways glances before turning their gazes back to the spectacle within the ring. A huge thunderstorm of a horse stood dead center of the corral. It wasn’t just his dark-gray coloring, but his eyes, his energy. Everything about that horse was one crack of the heavens away from a downpour of the worst kind.
A War of Daisies Page 2
