“Good afternoon, campers! Good afternoon!”
I turn to see the man from the website stride up the path to the head of our gathering. He has an impressive beer gut, legs about six feet long, and a snowy owl beard. He’s decked out in jeans, a leather coat with fringe hanging off the arms, and a cowboy hat that has a sweat stain around the hatband. “Good afternoon.”
His voice is rich, deep, and seriously loud. He puts his arms out like a circus ringmaster. “Welcome to Point of No Return Youth Ranch. You may all call me Mr. Coulter. I may call you whatever I want. How does that sound?”
Three guys with hipster haircuts standing over on the other side snicker to one another.
Mr. Coulter reaches into his fringed coat and pulls out a coiled whip. He loosens the whip and cracks it right up in the egg-blue air, and the GQ brothers stop laughing. I glance over at my other fellow campers to see if they are as freaked out as I am. What I see is even more startling than Mr. Coulter. Alice’s head is missing. More accurately, the top of her head is poking out of her collar like a human turtle. I don’t know what to do. Is she cold? Is she scared? Did her neck collapse?
I step toward her. “Alice?” I whisper. “Are you okay?”
Kaya’s hand comes from behind and perches on my arm. She shakes her chin at me, and I step away. I look back over at Alice. My headless roommate puts her hands in her pockets. So at least she’s breathing. I look around. Banner seems preoccupied with the main event.
Mr. Coulter’s words boom across the campsite. “You are about to embark on a great journey. I want this time we have together to leave you so utterly altered that you can’t help but take hold of your destiny with new hands. And believe me, children, those hands will have calluses.”
Alice’s hands come out her pockets, squeeze together, and then disappear again.
“Because you are going to work. Harder than you have ever worked in your soft, entitled lives. You want to be leaders? Well, here’s the dirty little secret. Leaders work.” He turns in a slow circle while he speaks, clicking the heels of his cowboy boots on the rocky ground.
I’m not sure, but I think Alice might be trembling inside her coat.
“Your parents have deposited you here, thinking that after a lifetime of their screwing you up, I will feed you pork and beans, put you on a horse, and the fresh air will magically develop confidence and character. It will not. But I am going to teach you what it takes to run a horse ranch and get a herd of mustangs to auction. And when you’re done, that work will make you men and women. What kind of men and women will be up to you.”
He looks across our heads, then lowers his voice. “There are rules while you’re a camper.”
A boy who looks about twelve rubs his shirtsleeve up under his nose. A thin girl with too many blonde highlights and mascara-plated eyelashes makes a scowl that could crack paint. I just stand there. I’m nervous about the oxygen in Alice’s coat.
“No drinking, smoking, drugs, or shenanigans. I don’t give a shit who your parents are. I’ll send your butt home. You will go home knowing you backed away from one more thing.”
We all look down. Except Alice. I don’t know what she’s looking at.
“But rules are not why we’re here, ladies and gentlemen! Our goal this summer is to ride and sell horses and have a fine time doing it. I have twenty mustangs that need homes. We lost one camper this morning, so her horse goes on to the Rock Spring holding facility. Horses sent there have a much poorer chance of ever being adopted because they are not trained. In a little over two months there will be an auction at the county fairgrounds. This truly Western event is known as the Wild Card Mustang Festival. Anything your horse brings in above my cost is yours to keep.”
“And how much would that be, Mr. Coulter?” says this tall, sturdy kid in the back.
Everybody stares at the kid for a second. Not only is he the only African American on the premises, he has an amazingly chill grin. I can’t tell if he looks more out of place because he’s black or because he seems so likable.
“I’m sorry, Ethan, were you addressing me?”
“Yes, Mr. Coulter. I’m just wondering, how much money are you talking about?”
He has a slow Texan drawl. So basically, epic charisma. What is a kid like that doing here?
Coulter nods. “Thank you, Ethan. That depends. Some of these horses may not sell at all. But if you clean ’em up and gentle ’em enough to walk around a show ring, there’s a good chance you’ll make a few hundred dollars.”
“You say on the website that one rider can earn back their tuition,” says Ethan.
“You have read the fine print, young man. I like that in a person.” Coulter strokes his white beard. “Indeed. There is a second part to the mustang event. The riding competition. We pick our best rider and put him or her on our one adult mustang. We only take on one adult because they’re harder to deal with and harder to sell. But last year a camper made enough money to pay his tuition and had a thousand to spare.” Coulter cracks his whip again. “How does that sound?”
There’s barely a murmur in the crowd. Most of these kids probably spent that much money on their cell phone bill last month. But it sounds fan-freaking-tastic to me. I mean, for people that can do that sort of thing. Ride, I mean. For a minute my mind goes back to the pictures of me in the scrapbook.
“I asked you a question.” For some reason Mr. Coulter seems to be looking at me when he says this.
I say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Coulter. Do you mean me?”
“Am I looking at anyone else?”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “What’s the question?”
“Come out here,” he says. “This, campers, is Cassidy Carrigan. Granddaughter to the greatest horse thief I ever knew.” With his daddy longlegs he steps close to me and sticks out his fringed arm, drawing me into the center of the fire pit area where everyone can see me. “Guthrie James Parker, my former associate and a ruthless scoundrel.” I look up expecting to see Coulter wink or do something to let everyone in on the joke. He says, “Guthrie was as crooked as the day is long, but he never met a horse he couldn’t ride. And I’ve heard this one doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”
I would be insulted if I wasn’t so confused. First, why is Grandpa’s friend calling him a horse thief? And second, what the crap has he heard about me?
“So, Cassidy, let’s get back to the question. What do you know about mustangs?”
I look out into the gawking crowd. I see that Kaya is taking Alice back to the tent. I worry that Alice will trip if her head is too far into her coat. I worry that the guy running this camp has me confused with someone else.
I try to pull myself together. What do I know about mustangs? “They’re wild horses?”
“What else?” Coulter’s eyes narrow.
“I’m not really a horse person. I mean, I like them, I’m just not that comfortable around them.”
“Oh, I see. Cassidy is not much of a horse person. Which is why she’s here. What do you think, campers? Should we help her out? Who thinks we should help her out?”
Banner says, “I’d love to help her out.” She smiles at me. She actually has beautiful teeth. Shiny and sharp.
Coulter leaves the fire pit and walks quickly away from the camping area, down toward open ground, talking and waving for us to follow him. “Fifty or so years ago, the US government made themselves a law to stop folks from butchering mustangs for dog food. The problem is there aren’t any predators left to kill ’em, and mustangs reproduce like jackrabbits. So the Bureau of Land Management, or BLM, started rounding up mustangs, putting ’em in holding pens. Now they’ve got thousands of horses to feed. They’re sponsoring programs like the one we will be participating in to get people to adopt ’em. Which is about like trying to put out a forest fire by pissing on it, if you ask me.”
We walk to the e
dge of a large meadow with knee-high grass and wildflowers in the center of the valley. The new grass tips in the late afternoon breeze. Behind us, more in the direction of the ranch house, is a pasture area surrounded by a log fence. On the other side of the meadow is a steep rise thick with aspen all the way up to another bluff overlooking the camp. Off to the left of the trees is a trail that disappears into a large draw but seems to circle up, back to the top of the hill.
The kid in the bolo tie stands next to me, shifting his weight, which is ample. Except for dressing like my grandfather, he looks about as much like a cowboy as an accent pillow. He shoos a mosquito off his sleeve without killing it, then looks at me and grins. “Good afternoon,” he says, and puts out his hand.
“Hi,” I say, putting out mine.
Coulter latches on to my shoulder and drags me up next to him. “Right here, Cassidy. I want you to have a front-row view. We keep our mustangs up on higher ground at night for better grass up on the hill, then bring ’em down in the morning to work with ’em. Which means every day we have a little show.” He bellows, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you the orphans of the American West.”
First, Coulter waves everybody to stand behind us, like we’re about to see a parade. Then he sticks his pinky fingers in his mouth and whistles hard. Above us on the bluff trail we hear a murmur and then a low-grade rumble, accompanied by angry whinnying. In seconds the rumble turns to pounding. I can feel it coming from the ground, up to the part in my hair. The trail fills with dust. Then, at the base of the trail, out of a cloud of flying dirt flow heads, tails, and hooves.
The sight of those horses lifting the ground up with their hooves sends my heart into my throat. They’re rip-your-guts-out beautiful. But I don’t like the direction they’re headed. Not at all.
Behind the horses there is a single rider. He is whip thin and wears a hat the color of the dirt. He comes whistling and galloping behind the herd. Calling. Once he’s in the meadow, his dirty-yellow horse darts around the edge of the herd, smooth and agile. His body seems built into his horse. He bends and leans with the herd, like he’s part of that, too, but driving it at the same time. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I turn to Coulter. It’s too loud in my brain to say anything, so I shake my head, trying to tell him I’m not okay with this. I can’t stand here. My chest’s so tight I think I’m going to pass out. Coulter glares down at me over the crest of his white beard. “Don’t move now. You’ll have to wait to ride until later. These are the wild ones.”
I face the charging herd. I can do this. There must be twenty or more. They just keep running, grabbing the ground with each stride as they enter the open meadow. I mean, it’s a big meadow, but there are people in it. Me. What’s happening? Why are we standing here? A huge gray horse leads them in a crushing gallop. I cross my arms over my chest and try to steady my feet. The horses are still running. I feel sweat on my forehead. I need to yell. No one is moving but the horses and the rider.
I can’t help it.
I bolt. My feet won’t hold still. I have to get away. But almost in the instant that I lean to run I feel a hand pull me from behind. Coulter grabs me by the belt. “Whoa there,” he yells. “Whoa.”
I don’t like being grabbed. I fling around. It’s like I black out or see red or turn green or something, because without any other thought at all I swing at Coulter so hard I nearly break my hand. Coulter lets out a yell and reels backward. I go sprawling forward into dirt. When I look up with my belly on the ground, all I see are hooves and that godforsaken rider.
The rider darts to the side and swings out in front. The horses in the herd bend to his lead, as if he’s guiding them with his hand. Instead of trampling me, or anyone else, the mustangs flow away from us like channeled water. They bend and run and bend again. Before I know what’s happened, the horses are flooding into the pasture and circling inside the fence, safe as rain puddles and far from me.
“Holy hell, you little runt!” yells Coulter, still holding my busted belt in one hand and his chin in the other. “You’re dumb as rocks, but you sure swing like your grandfather.” He laughs from his swollen gut.
Because this is hysterical.
The rider gallops to our side where all the other campers are gawking at me. Under the hat I see a kid with square, bony shoulders. But that’s not what I’m looking at. I’m staring at the most messed-up nose I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s like somebody relocated the middle of his face with a combat boot. It hurts to look at. Or maybe that’s my hand. “What the hell was that?” he shouts at me.
I’m shaking. His shouting, especially from the top of one of those beasts, makes me furious. “You were coming right at us.”
He yells, “You could have injured all those horses.”
“Who cares about your stupid horses? Are you crazy?”
“Hush, Cassidy,” says Coulter.
“I’m crazy?” His voice is low and dagger sharp.
Coulter’s big voice booms. “Not another word, Justin. Get off your horse.”
The rider swings down. “I never even came near you. Until you ran out like a stupid . . .”
“Justin, I’d like you to meet your newest pupil.”
“Like hell,” he says.
I rub the red dirt off my face. Every part of me hurts. I hate this place. I hate this kid. He could’ve crushed me to death. I swear if I cry, I’m going to kill someone. “I’m out of here.”
“Oh, both of you, shut up,” says Coulter.
I stomp to the back of the group. Everyone moves away from me, which I couldn’t care less about.
“All right, campers. Enough entertainment. I want everyone to meet Justin Sweet. He’s our junior wrangler. Justin’s a mere seventeen, but he knows plenty about horses. What he says goes around here, just like with Darius, Kaya, or myself. We don’t want anybody getting hurt or any horses getting hurt.”
I fix my best skunk eye on the rider. Justin Sweet? Someone has a sense of humor. Under that terrible nose, he’s built like a yield sign. Wide shoulders with poles for legs. He shoves up the sleeves of his ridiculous ripped-up cowboy shirt, showing off his dirt-brown arms.
Coulter says, “We’ll be starting with the domesticated horses first thing in the morning. I’ll assign you a counselor, according to your skill level.” He glances at me, letting me and everyone else know that I will be in the level without skills. That knot of embarrassment I had in my throat earlier has now transformed into a body-length net of humiliation.
I dig my hands into my pockets. It’s only for an entire summer of my life. Keep on breathing, I tell myself. I wanted to get out of my bedroom. I wanted an adventure. I guess I got one. But now all I want is to sleep and wake up at home.
* * *
When I finally get to bed that night, I lie in my sleeping bag listening to a mouse scuttle across the floor. I think I would rather hear approaching zombies than those creepy little feet sprinting across the dirt floor. What if it climbs onto my face in my sleep or jumps into my sleeping bag? My roommates drop off to sleep like they’ve been drugged, which I’m pretty sure they both have. Or maybe they were just exhausted by all the entertainment I provided today. I lie frozen, wrapped in homesickness, worry, and a sleeping bag that smells like a gym sock.
I wish more than anything I could sleep. Instead, all I do is remember.
* * *
MY SIBS RAN across the wood floor with our mutt, Kidd, sliding after us like a black-and-white missile. Dad was sautéing something with butter and onions. Mom pulled bread from the oven. The whole house smelled like you could eat it. We all sang along to “Brown Eyed Girl” because even Wyatt knew the chorus. Well, some of the chorus. Well, “gwirl.”
Halfway through the second verse, Dad took the pan off the burner, put it down, and grabbed Mom’s hand. She brushed him away at first because she was turning off the oven. He lifted her o
ther hand and swirled her around the kitchen island. She was light across the floor. He took her out into the open space by the table and spun her again until he dipped her backward and a laugh popped out of her mouth. We pretended not to watch, but we did. At least I did.
I danced with Wyatt, and the twins danced with each other. Kidd barked for a partner, so Wyatt and I circled around him until he jumped straight up.
That’s how they were. Until they weren’t.
Dad says everyone loves a love story. I loved ours.
Chapter Four
KAYA’S FLASHLIGHT finds me before the sun comes up. “Look at you, you’re already awake. I love that.”
Actually, I’ve barely slept. Some horse kept whinnying, reminding me that today I’m supposed to ride one of those things. And, pathetically, I miss my family.
“Good morning,” says Alice. Her voice is so small I think it’s just her sleeping bag rustling until I see her head pop up.
Banner growls from her bag. “This is NOT morning.” She sounds a lot more southern first thing in the morning. “GAWWD. Am I still here? No one talk or I’ll cut your tongue out.”
Kaya motions for me to hurry and then takes her flashlight outside. I try to get ready quietly in the dark, but I can’t make my nervous stomach shut up.
“Did you eat a garbage disposal or something?” says Banner.
Alice laughs like teacups clinking together.
My stomach growls again.
Kaya’s cowboy hat peeks in. “You comin’, Cassidy?”
I hustle out of the tent. I’m not sure what I’m wearing, but my boots are on.
Outside the tent the sky is lightening, and I can see Kaya. Unlike me, she looks amazing. Her beige hat has a woven turquoise braid that matches her turquoise earrings. Her black braid falls all the way to her tiny waist.
She holds out a granola bar. At least I think that’s what it is since my eyes haven’t focused all the way. “This will hold you over until breakfast.”
Thief of Happy Endings Page 3
