Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  The afternoons at Mami’s were enough. More than enough. More than I ever expected to have.

  He talked about growing up on the ranch. He was crazy in love with horses—training them, riding them, grooming them—even mucking out their stalls. He told me about all his favorites. Their names—Driver and Lady, a gentle mare, and a bay stallion called Tombstone.

  He told me how his grandfather Charles Cameron had come down from Colorado with a few head of cattle and bought twenty acres in the Florales River valley, married Estrella Cortez, the daughter of a wealthy old New Mexico family, and kept buying more land, more cattle. Then he realized that it was the horses he used for working the cattle that were his real passion.

  Charles and Estrella produced six children, of which Will’s father was the only one who survived beyond childhood. Unable to please his father no matter what he did, Asa found solace in the ranch, and he turned out to be a better judge of horses, a better rider, a better trainer, and more astute in business matters than the old man himself.

  “I think that kind of pissed off my grandpa. But what really pissed him off was when my dad married my mom.”

  I didn’t think she was much of a catch, either, but I just smiled. “Why was that?”

  “For one thing, she wasn’t from around here. She was a flight attendant. He met her at a party in Santa Fe one weekend, and he just married her and brought her home. I guess my grandparents went nuts. All the cowboys were laughing at my dad and taking bets on how soon she’d be packing up and heading back to the friendly skies.” He smiled. “But she showed them. Learned to ride and muck out stalls. A couple years ago she delivered a foal.”

  Although she’d made it plain that she didn’t consider me fit company for Willis, I had to admit to a halfhearted respect for her then, for her daring. I couldn’t conceive of gambling like that—giving up a life you’d built for yourself to run off and marry some cowboy who was probably good in bed but might or might not be lying about the family ranch.

  Asa and Nora had three boys. Chuck, the oldest, was their father’s favorite and Braden, the youngest, was his mother’s baby boy. Will didn’t have to say where that left him. I understood how he must feel standing in that middle-child shadow, but I still had a hard time feeling sorry for anyone with a whole family, plenty of money, and a job they loved waiting for them after graduation.

  I’d never seen Braden, who was just ten years old. Will said he was artistic, always drawing something, and that their mother kept him safe from most of the hard physical work on the ranch so he didn’t mess up his hands.

  Chuck, I knew. Well, I’d seen him at school—handsome, smart, serious. He’d gone off to Texas A & M last fall on a football scholarship. Amanda Albert was working at the bank, just waiting for him to come home so they could get married and make beautiful blond babies.

  “Is it Chuck that broke your nose?” I asked once, then pretended to look at some kids splashing in a muddy puddle of melted snow on the street. Where the hell did that come from? And what a stupid thing to say. Suppose he’d never broken his nose?

  He looked at me for a silent minute. Finally he said, “How did you know that?”

  I shrugged and tried to laugh. “Well, I mean it’s logical, isn’t it? Brothers are always fighting, aren’t they? And he’s bigger than you…just a lucky guess.”

  “He jumped on me one time when we were kids. Pulled me off my horse, and I landed with my nose on his elbow.” He laughed. “My mom wanted me to go to a doctor and have it set, but my dad wouldn’t hear of it. He said it made me look like a man, so I thought that was cool.”

  For my part, I recited the official story about me being the child of Cassie’s cousin. He asked me if my parents were both dead, and I said yes. They might as well have been. I guess he figured it made me too sad to talk about the time in Colorado, so I let him think that. He didn’t press for details.

  I told him mostly about life with Cassie. He knew her by reputation—most everybody in Florales did—but he’d never met her until that first night he took me home.

  “Some of the guys that work for my dad have gotten remedies from her before. Especially the Spanish guys. They really believe in that curandera stuff—”

  “Is that what they call her?”

  “Sure. It’s like a healer.”

  “I know what it means,” I said with a trace of impatience. “I just never heard her say that about herself.” I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I added, “She’s always joking with Amalia about being a bruja.”

  He laughed. “My grandma used to say that brujas use their power for evil, and curanderas use it for healing. So I think we can rule out Cassie being a bruja.”

  “Well…” I turned my coffee mug around, first one way and then the other. “Cassie does other things besides medicines…”

  “Like what?”

  “She does charms—you know, like spells or prayers—to draw good luck or to bring someone back that’s gone away. Or to bless a house. Things like that.”

  He studied me for a minute. “Do you believe in that?”

  It crossed my mind that most people, especially most guys, would have rolled their eyes and said something like, “You don’t believe in that shit, do you?”

  “I don’t know. When I first came to live with her, I thought she was a little bit…nutso.”

  He took a sip from his mug. “But now you don’t?”

  “Now I know she’s not crazy. I’m just not sure about all that…magic stuff.” I folded my hands in my lap.

  It would have been easy to end the conversation there, but he said,

  “Does she teach you?”

  “I’m trying to learn about the remedies. I like that part. The herbs. I like making the teas. It sort of goes with cooking.”

  “Are you a good cook?”

  I laughed. “I’m a lot better than Cassie.”

  Cassie’s remedies seemed to intrigue him, and I found that I liked explaining them. Other times I told him about books I’d read, because even though he wasn’t much of a reader, he said he liked hearing me tell the stories. It reminded me a little of those afternoons in Ridley’s office at Carson, Lee-Ann and me, sitting on the sofa, eating cookies and reading stories. Once when Will and I were talking about books, I blurted out that I might go to the university after graduation. After I’d said it, I thought lightning would surely strike me down for telling such a whopper.

  I’d never gotten a valentine from a boy. Except in grammar school at Carson, which didn’t count, because we all had to make valentines for everyone in the class. And they were supposed to have a religious message like, “I love you, my brother in Jesus.” Not terribly romantic. And in spite of the many rules and guidelines administered under the watchful eyes of the teacher, I still managed to collect some from anonymous admirers that said things like, “Roses are red, violets are blue, Your left eye is shit, your right one is glue.”

  So when I opened my locker on February 14 and a square pink envelope fell out, I was first surprised, then embarrassed, then suspicious. I stuffed it quickly in my notebook to check out later. After second period, I barricaded myself in a bathroom stall and opened the envelope with shaking hands.

  The card I pulled out was simple and elegant. A square of palest pink, with darker pink hearts overlaid by a thin, shimmery parchment that crinkled softly when it moved. All it said was “Be mine.” He signed his name “Will” in deference to the fact that I never called him Cam, like everyone else.

  I held it carefully, like the paper would burn my fingers. I imagined him picking it out at a store. I could see him chewing on the end of his pen like he did in class when he was trying to decide what to write.

  Then a chill crept up my neck like a spider. This wasn’t from Will. It couldn’t have been. He wasn’t even here yesterday, and I hadn’t seen him today. I’d gotten used to him missing the odd day for reasons like mares foaling or a colicky colt or someone coming to the ranch to buy or sel
l or breed their horse. He couldn’t have possibly put it in my locker.

  A white glare of rage blinded me. This was somebody’s idea of a joke. Let the witch girl look like an idiot, get all moony thinking she got a valentine from Will Cameron. It was a trick, and I fell for it. Like a fucking ton of bricks. The paper made a rasping sound as I ripped it in half and tore it again and again until it was just dark shreds circling the toilet bowl.

  When I walked into social studies I surveyed the faces that looked up and then, seeing me, looked away. Back to their conversations, down at their homework. One of those ignorant assholes had done it, but I would never give them the satisfaction of thinking that for one breathless minute, I’d believed in Valentine’s Day.

  The sky was already going purple gray when I walked out the double doors and looked around for JJ. He was nowhere in sight. Well, he walked slower than a desert tortoise; I was bound to catch up to him. Then I saw the white Bronco at the curb, Will lounging against the fender. He smiled when he saw me. He looked tired, and his face was burnished from the cold wind.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  He reached for my hand. “We had to take a filly up to 3D yesterday. Got back last night and then this morning Bubba was off his feed and my dad had to go to Kerrville, so I stayed home to meet the vet. I’m getting so far behind I’ll be lucky to graduate on time. I was just on my way over to Darby, but I can give you a ride home.”

  “That’s okay. I was falling asleep last period. I’ll just walk.”

  He studied me for a minute.

  “Well, okay then.” He turned about halfway to the Bronco, then back to me. As if he expected me to say something else. One eyebrow inched up in a question.

  I smiled. “See you tomorrow.”

  But he stood there. “Did you get the valentine?” he said finally.

  I felt the blood leave my face. “You?”

  He laughed. “Shit. How many guys do you know named Will that are crazy about you?”

  Confusion turned to anger. “Why did you—? How—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You weren’t even here!”

  He smiled. “I know. I drove over last night when I got back and put it in your locker. So you’d have it today.”

  “Goddamn you!” I felt the tears behind my eyes but there was no way I could cry.

  “What? Avery, what’s wrong?” Standing there in his denim jacket and black jeans, hat clutched in one hand, he looked like a guy in a cowboy movie—the one who could run the bad guys out of town with the sheer force of goodness.

  He should have known I’d never believe that anyone would do that. I’d let him get close enough to hurt me and himself, and it made me wild with anger. I turned and ran down the street, my breath spewing in jagged puffs of steam while he stood staring after me. He called my name once, but I kept running.

  By the time I got to Cassie’s the knot in my chest had dissolved. My hair was all over the place and I had stitch in my side and shinsplints from running down the blacktop. She didn’t say a word when I burst through the door. I’m sure she could see by my face that I had a tale, but I wasn’t going to be telling it to her. I made myself breathe slow and deep while I took off my jacket and hung it on the hook by the door. I got a glass of water and sat down at the table to lose myself in homework.

  “I made spaghetti for dinner.” She was obviously proud of herself for trying something new, but I was in no mood to admire her cooking.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “How was school?”

  “Fine.”

  “If you’re in some kind of trouble—”

  “I’m not.”

  “You feelin’ poorly?”

  “No!” She looked at me long enough to make me ashamed of yelling at her, and I mumbled a half-assed apology. “I just need to get this paper written.”

  After dinner we sat by the woodstove, and I picked up a book I’d gotten from the school library. Cassie was knitting, and the only sounds in the room were the cracking of dry piñon in the fire and the faint clicking of her needles, so I heard the Bronco coming a long way down the road. I was sure Cassie heard it, too, but she didn’t give any sign.

  It was quiet for so long I wondered if he’d just turned around and driven away, but then I heard him outside. When he knocked, Cassie looked at me.

  “Tell him I’m busy. Tell him I’m not—”

  “I’ll do no such thing!” she hissed at me. “If you don’t want to talk to him, have the courtesy to tell him yourself.” She got up and went to the door. “Hello, Will.”

  “Hi, Miz Robert. Is Avery here?”

  “She is. Come on in, now, and close that door. You’re lettin’ the heat out.” She paused. “Give me your coat. And your scarf, too. Otherwise you’ll catch your death when you go back out.” I heard him slip out of the jacket.

  Then she turned and disappeared into her bedroom.

  He came over and sat down next to me. The tip of his nose and the edges of his ears were red with cold, and I could see the faint rim where the hatband had pressed into his sandy hair. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his gray wool shirt and rolled the sleeves up two turns each, like he was getting ready to chop wood or something. I could hardly look at him.

  “My mom went over to Kerrville to be with my dad,” he said. “So I can sit here all night if I have to. Till you tell me what I did that upset you so bad.” His expression was serious, but perfectly relaxed, like he just might sit there all night waiting for me to tell him something.

  I stared at the woodstove, the way the heat rippled off the top in little waves. Like the heat rippling off the blacktop in the summer, making you believe the lie of a thin blue lake on the horizon. He took the book out of my hands, laid it on the floor. He leaned back against the old sofa pillows and crossed his arms.

  “Don’t you know I’d never do anything to make you feel bad? Not on purpose, anyway.” I could feel his eyes on me. “But there must have been something. I need you to tell me what it was so I can make it right.”

  When he put his hand up to my hair, all those tears I thought I’d left out on the road came rushing back, and they brought all their relatives with them. I couldn’t stop. He didn’t tell me not to cry or that everything was okay. He just waited till I was through and then he asked me again what was wrong.

  “It’s stupid,” I said, miserable.

  “Maybe. But it still bothered you.”

  “The valentine. I ripped it up and flushed it down the toilet.”

  “Why?” As if that could be a perfectly reasonable thing to do if only he knew the reason.

  “I thought it couldn’t be…from you.”

  “Why? Because I wasn’t in school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who did you think it was from?”

  “Someone who wanted to laugh at me. Someone who wanted me to think that it was from you—and then…”

  “Okay. Now I get it.”

  How could he get it when I couldn’t?

  “I want you to promise me something,” he said gravely. “I want you to promise that when you get upset, you’ll tell me. Even if you think it’s stupid. Even if you don’t really know why. Tell me. Don’t run away from me. Promise?”

  I took a breath. I pulled a thread at the hem of my sweater. Then I looked in his eyes and I made a promise I knew I couldn’t keep.

  At the end of February the weather turned bitter. We plugged the chinks around the windows with old rags, but you could still hear the wind whistle as it rounded the corners of the house, and any water left in the sink or the washbasin overnight grew a brittle skin of ice. Cassie kept the woodstove burning continuously and a couple of mornings, she even lit the oven on the cookstove, propped it open and sat in front of it, rubbing her knotted fingers.

  Will hadn’t been in school for several days—whether he was sick or it was something about the horses I didn’t know. I thought about using the pay phone at Mami’s to call him, bu
t the chances were his mother would answer the phone and I didn’t want to go there. I hadn’t seen JJ in about a week, either, but I figured his grandmother was keeping him in because of the cold.

  Wednesday morning, I started feeling “poorly,” as Cassie always said. Not bad, just not good. It persisted as the day wore on, sort of a weird feeling, like I’d swallowed food without chewing it. I sat in study hall trying to read the New Mexico history assignment, but the words didn’t make sense.

  By the time the bell rang at 3:15, I couldn’t wait to get outside. I knew it would be freezing, but I felt like I couldn’t breathe in here. I was standing in front of my locker, winding my scarf around my neck when Mr. Hanover came lumbering up with an armload of books. He was one of two teachers that I actually liked. Probably because he was always giving me books.

  “Avery.” He was short and chubby with thick blond hair and a penchant for polyester western-style shirts. “Avery, have you seen Jimmie John?”

  I shook my head. “His grandmother won’t let him out when the weather’s bad.”

  “I know.” He frowned. “But he’s getting way behind in my class, and I assume all his others. I’d hate to see him get held back again. He’s getting too old for high school.” He held out three heavyweight books. “I’ve written out my assignments and so has Mrs. Ortega. I know he lives out your way…Do you think you could take him these books?”

  I walked quickly till the sidewalk ended at the edge of town. The last thaw had left a lot of mud on the road, and now all the ridges and holes and tiremarks were hard as cement. Frozen weeds and sprigs of grass along the shoulder crunched under my numb feet as I stumbled and slid on the icy patches. When I pulled my scarf up over my mouth and nose, I suddenly pictured Jimmie John, wandering through the falling snow, his cap stuffed in his pocket to keep it from getting wet. It made me smile.

  To me, he still looked pretty much the way he did the first time I saw him three years ago, standing in a circle of taunting football players. His face was still childish and smooth, his body overstuffed and round. He was still the same person, too.