A man approached the mustang warily. He had charcoal hair like the horse, a weathered and wiry man seasoned by the desert. This clearly wasn’t the first wild horse he’d handled. He had a thick coil of rope in his hands, and he rubbed one thumb back and forth across the texture of it. That was the only tell of his nervousness. At least the only one Willow could see. But if she’d noticed that, the horse had noticed infinitely more. They could sense even a drop of fear comin’ out of your pores.
Quick as a snake, the wiry cowboy tossed his rope out and looped it around the mustang’s neck. The mustang reared and yanked the cowboy off the ground like a ragdoll. Another man ran out and threw a rope around his neck, and then a third, at which point it seemed to Willow they were just ganging up on the poor horse. As they did their best to hold the lunging, leaping stallion in place, someone else ran out and threw a saddle on his back. The bridle was next, which took three more men and a substantial amount of bruising (for the cowboys). By the time they were done, the mustang had hellfire in his eyes.
“Who’s on first?” one of the men called.
Willow’s body involuntarily twitched toward the ring. She could show these boys a thing or two about taming mustangs. Emphasis on taming, and not the manhandling that had just occurred. But she was here for the race. Blend in. Don’t make a spectacle, she thought.
“You wanna give him a go?” came a voice next to her.
Willow turned to her left. She hadn’t even noticed the man who’d gotten in line behind her. When their eyes met, the breath in her lungs escaped in one big rush.
He was maybe a year older than her. Tall and lean like one of the trees that grew along the canyon slopes. Hair of midnight, eyes blue-gray like the river. His jeans hugged his hips in a way that made her want to bite her lip. And so tan he looked like he’d bathed in river mud. He most certainly wasn’t from around here.
“Uh, I’m here to register for the race and the sharpshooting,” she managed. She realized she sounded breathy and tried to deepen it toward the end. Damn it all.
“A bit young, eh?” His voice was playful and had a slight drawl that felt like chords of music up her spine.
“You’re one to talk.” Willow planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest, which felt weird with it bound so tightly.
A flash of something moved over the man’s face, but then he smiled. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“I was thinking the same thing about you,” Willow countered.
She noticed, much to her chagrin, that several men ahead of them in line had turned around.
The cowboy grinned and raised his hands in a placating gesture. He waved her forward, as if she wasn’t already in line ahead of him. “By all means, the more the merrier in a race like this. Though I dare say, you may be the daintiest cowboy I ever did see.”
Willow froze, and the cowboys surrounding them went silent. Watching. She could hear hoofbeats and cheers from the ring, but those closest were all waiting with bated breath for her reaction. There was only one thing that could be done.
Willow spun around and punched the beautiful stranger in the face.
His head whipped back, but he didn’t fall. When he straightened, she could see blood dripping from his lip. Her knuckles burned, but she held her fist tightly at her side and bit down on the pain. The cowboy’s river-blue eyes sparkled, and a smile played over his lips.
“I take it back,” he said softly. “You’re tougher than you look, cowboy.”
Around them, the watchers let out a collective release of breath and went back to their business. Willow turned her back on the ridiculously good-looking cowboy and faced resolutely ahead. There were only eight men in line ahead of her. Then she was home free.
It felt like those blue eyes were burning into her, and it took utmost self-control not to fidget. Why couldn’t he just watch the bronco riding like everyone else? When she finally got up the courage to pivot part way and start watching again herself, she saw that he was. Maybe she’d imagined his gaze the whole time. The line dwindled. Soon there were only five men ahead of her, then two. Finally, she stood at the head of the line. “I’d like to register for the race and the sharpshooting.”
“Name?” asked the stocky cowboy at the registration table. He eyed her, lingering on her face for what seemed a very long time.
For a heartbeat, her mind went blank. Luckily, there was one fairly obvious choice. “Will,” she blurted.
“Will…?”
Shit. She hadn’t thought of a last name, either. “Bullet,” she spat.
He raised his brows. “Will Bullet?”
She nodded.
“Birthdate? Minimum age is fifteen,” he added, eyeing her again.
That part was easy enough, she’d actually just turned eighteen. “May 5th, 1876.”
“Horse’s name?”
Double shit. “Um, Bullet.”
“Bullet? The same as your last name?”
Behind her, she heard the handsome cowboy snicker.
“Yes, that’s correct.” She stared at him unwaveringly until he sighed and looked away.
“That’s a dollar and a half.” He held out a weathered palm for her money.
It was a lot of money, but she’d saved up for it working at different farms here and there. She pulled a handful of nickels and dimes from her pocket and counted them out, trying not to look too mournful over their loss. She consoled herself with the fact that she’d soon have fifty dollars when she won the race.
“Alright, Will Bullet riding Bullet. You’re registered.” The cowboy scribbled her name on a receipt, splashing ink across the page, and handed it over.
Grasping the receipt tightly in her hand (around the edges so as not to smear the ink), Willow stepped out of line. She’d done it. She’d fooled them all. And she’d soon be the first woman to run—and win—the endurance race.
Chapter Six
Penelope
Penelope tried her best not to watch her sister preening across the bronco pen, but it wasn’t an easy task. Dynah’s laughter bubbled up into the sky every few moments as all the boys (and men) fawned over her. A carefree laugh, the laugh of someone supremely confident in their position in life. The laugh of someone who had never seen a day of hardship. The laugh of someone who had always been loved and adored.
They couldn’t be more opposite if they’d tried.
As Dynah turned this way and that in the saddle, her teeth and spurs flashing brightly, Penelope wondered, not for the first time, what her life would have been like if she and Dynah had the same father. How it would feel not to be looked down upon, whispered about, shoved aside, both metaphorically and literally. Their mother and Dynah’s father gave Dynah everything she ever wanted, Moon being a perfect example. Why had Dynah been given Moon? Penelope had never even been allowed to compete as her sister had, let alone getting a new horse just so she could claim the title of Rodeo Queen the year she turned eighteen.
It came over her then, that familiar wave of emptiness and envy. It always felt a bit like a disease spreading through her blood. Her sister felt so very sure that the title of Rodeo Queen was already within her grasp. And all Penelope wanted in the world at this very moment was to ensure she didn’t get it. A truth she felt ashamed of, but a truth, nonetheless.
Dynah was never outright mean to her like her stepfather was. But the indifference bit like a bullet. That way of acting like Penelope wasn’t really part of the family. All three of them acted that way. As if she were some child they’d found on the street. Never once did Dynah acknowledge that she got everything while Penelope got nothing. Sometimes Penelope felt invisible in her own home.
The crack of a gunshot made Penelope flinch: one of the cowboys on the far side of the arena, practicing for the shooting competition. She wondered if Willow had managed to get registered. Penelope had seen her come galloping up on her mare, but they’d of course had to pretend not to recognize each other. The disguise and all.
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br /> Another gunshot went off, and Penelope realized the cowboys weren’t practicing. Not exactly. Three Navajo men approached, one on a paint horse, and two on black horses. They rode bareback, in suede breeches and boots. The cowboys weren’t aiming at the tribesmen, but they were making a show of things for sure. The crowd went quiet.
The three riders rode calmly into the crowd, ignoring their antics. They approached the registration table.
“We would like to enter the race,” said one of the riders. The other two stayed quiet, their faces emotionless.
The two men sitting at the registration table looked at each other and then back to the Navajo men. “We don’t allow in’juns in the race, fellows.”
“It is a race across open lands,” said the tribesman.
“They’re not open to you,” said the first cowboy.
“You’ve got your reservation,” the other added. “We suggest you be gettin’ back to it.”
The Navajo man who had spoken set a small leather bag of coins down on the table. “We can pay the fee. Three entries. A bigger purse for the winner.”
“You heard us,” said the first cowboy. “Your money ain’t good here.”
“Afraid of a little competition?” someone called from a few feet away. “I say let them race.”
It was Willow, of course. Drawing attention to herself as usual. But now was most certainly not the time, not unless she wanted her cover blown. Penelope felt a flush of admiration for her friend. She wanted to step forward and say something, too, but the words died in her throat. In their eyes, she was an in’jun, too. What good would it do?
“You pipe down,” one of the cowboys snarled at Willow. “You’re lucky I gave you a ticket to begin with.”
“You weren’t sad to take my money,” she shot back.
The tribesman turned to Willow. Their eyes met, chocolate and pale green, and he nodded to her. “Thank you, friend. But we will not stay where we are not welcome.”
“It’s a shame,” Willow said, casting a burning gaze on the cowboys. “It’s nearly the 20th century and these boys can’t play fair.”
“I’ve had just about enough of your sass,” one of the cowboys said threateningly.
The Navajo turned to leave, riding their horses back out through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea.
When they drew parallel to Penelope, the rider in the back, who was much younger than the other two, cast his gaze her way. Their eyes locked. She could see him take in her skin and hair. Skin and hair that looked like his, though her skin was just a bit paler. He stopped his horse, and the other two did as well. Words passed between them, but Penelope couldn’t hear what they said. The crowd watched them watch each other.
And then they turned and rode off.
She belonged to no one.
Chapter Seven
Felicity
From her seat behind a table of wares from their various shops, Felicity watched the Navajo men stare at the girl. All the merchants had come out for the fair registration day, so she was here with her mother, their wagon loaded with shiny new saddles and suede hats and scarves for the women. Rock candy and ribbons and carefully crafted fiddles. An array of goods to tempt any passersby.
But due to the spectacle unfolding across the arena, no one paid them the least bit of attention.
Felicity felt the girl’s shame in her own heart. She knew it all too well, the feeling of being judged for the color of your skin. The girl—she didn’t know her name—was fatherless, and her mother had a second husband and a second daughter. Everyone knew the story because everyone knew the second daughter. Dynah Johnston, future Rodeo Queen. Prettiest girl in town.
And then the tense moment passed, and the Navajo men rode off across the dusty plains beyond the town.
“I don’t know how that girl’s family deals with her,” Felicity’s mother whispered tersely. Her hands busily smoothed out non-existent wrinkles in a stack of colorful bandanas.
Felicity turned to face her mother. “Deals with her?”
“Being a half-blood!” Her mother’s face puckered as if she’d bitten into a chili pepper.
The irony of the words felt like a slap in Felicity’s face. How could her mother say that about someone else who faced the same discrimination they did? But she knew the answer. Her family wanted nothing more than to fit in. Bent over backwards to be just like the other residents of Hawk’s Hollow. They earned enough money, certainly. More than most. But what they desired was something money could never buy. A hunger that could never be quenched. Not when they were trying to be a part of a community that didn’t want them in return.
The feeling of suffocation rose, as it often did, building, building, building…
A horseless stagecoach rolled up to the edge of the crowd, emitting a blast of steam from one of the many chrome pipes that powered it. Polished mahogany, red and gold paint. The first steam-coach had been built in Denver the year before, and Felicity’s father was already working an angle to distribute them down south in their corner of the state. Heads turned as a group of wealthy residents stepped out of the cabin. A couple moved toward their table. Felicity’s mother immediately went into full molasses mode. That’s what Felicity called it. Thick, sticky, overly sweet.
Air rushed back into her lungs. Not just breath, but wind. It was really picking up all of a sudden. Felicity smacked her hands down on the pile of scarves as a gust swept down from the sky. A row of black clouds rolled toward the arena like a herd of galloping horses. Hadn’t it been cloudless just a few minutes ago? Felicity grabbed her straw hat to keep it from flying away, tightening the blue ribbon under her chin. But as she did, the top half of the stack of bandanas fluttered away in the breeze.
“Oh, my!” she heard her mother gasp demurely.
If only these wealthy customers knew what would happen to her if she lost their merchandise. Felicity dashed after the escaped bandanas. It was hard to move quickly in her ankle-length skirt and the tight corset crushing her lungs. Not to mention the impractical heel on her boots, which her mother insisted all the ladies wore. The colorful bandanas were like a rainbow flung across the earth. They’d be ruined within moments if she didn’t catch them.
So intent was her focus that she nearly ran into a chestnut mare.
“Hey, watch it!” yelled the young cowboy holding the mare’s reins. His voice seemed high for a man, his hair a dazzling shade of white blonde.
Felicity watched in panic as the bandanas rolled between the mare’s legs. She half-reared, whether from the flying cloth or the wild wind, Felicity didn’t know. She realized that the scene around her had devolved to chaos in a matter of moments. The wind tipping things over, cowboys trying to calm spooked horses, dust blasting into everyone.
Two other horses entered her line of sight, a pale gray and an Appaloosa. She realized with a start that it was Dynah and her half-sister. How they’d gotten here, she didn’t know. With the wind blowing sand into everyone’s eyes, she could barely see a thing.
Then, though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, the wind intensified. A cyclone formed around the four of them, forcing them even closer together. They stood in the bullseye of a small tunnel of wind. A wall of dust and debris surrounded them, rising high into the sky above.
She caught the panicked gazes of the other three. The pale green of the blonde cowboy, the sharp cornflower of Dynah, the dark depths of the Navajo girl. The horses had their heads tucked down; backs hunched up. Felicity couldn’t see a thing beyond the tornado that had trapped them.
A rumble, from both the sky and the earth it seemed, and a flash. A bolt of lightning hit the ground between them. The horses whinnied and reared, the glow of it flashing around them. Felicity felt a searing heat wash over her. A zap of energy entered her solar plexus, rocketing up through her ribcage. For a moment, she tasted the night sky. No, not the sky, but beyond. Something further than the sky.
And then, just like that, the cyclone vanished, and the c
louds began to roll away. Felicity looked at the others, and they stared back, wide-eyed and speechless. What had just happened? How were they alive?
She heard a scream, and her mother ran up to her, raking her hands down Felicity’s body as if she didn’t think she was really there.
“I’m okay, Mama,” she murmured. Her body felt sluggish, numb.
The crowd swirled in, approaching them with varying levels of disbelief and awe. Felicity and the other three were pushed apart as everyone jostled to get a look at them.
“That was some twister,” said one of the cowboys with a whistle.
“Lucky you folks are alive,” said another.
And so on and so forth, another two dozen similar comments. Felicity realized, even through her shock, that no one had mentioned the lightning bolt. After several minutes, as things began to die down and people began to return to their business, she started to wonder: had she imagined it in her panic? Surely, they never could have survived such a thing.
She didn’t say anything as her mother took her back to their wagon, sat her down, and packed up their wares without her. Before long, her mother had climbed aboard, and they were headed back toward their house. Felicity turned it over and over again in her mind. Everything had happened so quickly.
As they made the final turn for home a few minutes later, Felicity realized that her numbness was wearing off a bit. A fine tremor moved through her limbs. It felt as if she’d swallowed some of that lightning whole and it was bouncing around inside her abdomen, rushing through her veins. Looking down at her trembling hands, for just the barest of moments, she swore she saw a sparkle of light shimmy around her fingers. But when she blinked, it was gone.
A War of Daisies Page 3
