Painted Boots

by Mechelle Morrison

  The hair on my arms tingles. I ache to defend Kyle, and myself. But I stay still as the silence between my father and my guy becomes unbearable.

  “I love Aspen,” Kyle says after a few moments. His voice is low and hard as iron. “I’ll defend her with everything I’ve got. I’d as soon die as see her hurt again.”

  Dad draws a deep breath. “I don’t want it coming to that.” He pauses, then says, “I won’t let it come to that. But you should know. Aspen’s here only because Em doesn’t give me reason to take her. It’s a lot on you, from where I’m sitting.”

  Kyle says, “I won’t let you down.”

  “I’m not the one I’m worried about.” Dad’s chair rolls over the plastic floor guard then the springs pop. He’s on his feet.

  I don’t want them to catch me on the stairs. I start up, thinking to get to my bedroom so I can start back down again. But for some reason I glance toward the front door.

  There’s a handprint, faint as a spider web, shimmering on the long pane of our entryway window. As I stare it fades away until all I see are shadowy snowflakes falling against an indigo sky. I bolt for the door, knocking over two jars filled with flowers in the process, and throw it open. Scattered footprints churn across our porch and walkway then stretch, like dark comets with tails, across our snow-covered lawn. I run outside and follow the footprints as far as the street. The world is quiet; a settling snow globe.

  No one is there.

  31

  Journal Entry fourteen | Aspen Brand | AP English

  Pearl Harbor Day. I should write about something patriotic, like soldiers and the sacrifice of war, but I’m not thinking about stuff like that right now.

  A few strange things have been happening, though I haven’t told Kyle yet. On Monday, the day of the big storm, I could have sworn someone was watching me, looking into my house from outside. When I opened our front door there were footprints everywhere—trailing across the yard and into the street. I chased out into the snow stocking-footed, but I didn’t see anyone. Dad stepped onto the porch, but for all he knew the footprints were mine. Kyle ran after me and carried me back inside, slung over his shoulder. We were both laughing, but Dad thought I was crazy, racing around the yard with snow crusting my shoulders and wetting my hair.

  We were all so happy in that moment. Everything felt right. Maybe that’s why I didn’t say anything about the footprints.

  Then there was the flat. Kyle and I came out of school to find the right rear tire of his farm truck flat to the rim. I felt guilty, sitting there all cozy with the engine idling as he jacked up the truck and struggled to loosen the lug nuts so he could change the tire out for the spare. I thought the truck was warm, but it didn’t heat up enough to take away Kyle’s chill. When we got to his house he was shaking and his lips were sort of purple. His mom asked what happened and he said, ‘We’re going for a soak.’ She shot him a look, but she didn’t say anything more.

  I didn’t know what he was talking about until I followed him into his parents’ bedroom and out onto a private deck. They have a huge Jacuzzi there. Kyle stripped down to his boxers and settled into the blue swirling water, steam rising all around him like a Yellowstone hot pot. He said ‘Come on in, girl’. So I stripped to my underwear too. He warmed up, after that.

  But the weirdest stuff is what’s been going on at my house. On Tuesday there were squares of red fabric, laid out like a crazy checkerboard, stuck in the snow in our front yard. On Wednesday a black ribbon had been tied around our willow tree. Yesterday I found feathers in our mailbox and a dead bird on the doormat. It’s like some giant squirrel is using our space as its cubby, except that I know the stuff comes from some ONE not some THING, and I’m pretty sure the one is Em. I mean, Kyle once told me Em vandalized his parents’ property every time he tried to break up with her. I should tell him what’s been happening. But I can’t bring myself to do it.

  Since the red fabric, which I took care of because I noticed it from my bedroom window when I woke up, I step outside early and, while I wait for Kyle, gather whatever’s there—today it was twelve rocks in a circle on our driveway. I don’t want Kyle or Dad seeing any of the stuff I’m finding. I mean if Kyle knew it might put him into a tailspin. He might think he has to go back with Em, just to protect me. If Dad knew I might have to go away.

  Gillette is my home now. Kyle is my guy! Em is just going to have to accept that. The sooner she figures out that I’m here for good, the better it will be for all of us.

  Mrs. Martin’s phone quacks and I about go into cardiac arrest. She clicks off the noise and says, “Pencils down, please.” My grip relaxes and I take a breath, rubbing at the tension in my hand. Kyle touches my shoulder. He whispers, “Hey, girl, you okay?”

  I slam my journal shut.

  Like a guilty child I turn round in my chair, dropping my arm to the top of Kyle’s desk. He lays his hand over mine and smiles.

  Secrets. They’re like waking in a shadow, unaware you’re someplace less than light. Maybe that’s why I didn’t realize, until this second, just how many I’ve been keeping.

  32

  I’VE NEVER BEEN on a horse and from where I’m sitting, maybe five feet up and astride the warm brown body of a mare, I’m not sure I want to be on one now. Kyle makes a clicking sound and Bucky—the silky black stallion he’s ridden since he was ten—moves away from the horse trailer and toward a snow-packed winding trail. My horse Rox follows after, her breath like train smoke in the morning cold.

  “She’s walking!” I say.

  “Just hold tight to the reins like I taught you,” Kyle calls to me. “Rox knows what to do. You’ll be fine.”

  Rox’s gait throws me forward and back, forward and back. Her feet are heavy on the frozen ground and she feels powerful, like I’m no more to her than a flea. “It’s so weird, having such a huge animal between my legs!”

  Kyle laughs, loud and long, his laughter painting the air with steam. “The places I could go with that,” he says, wiping his eyes. Then he rides on.

  We’re miles from Gillette, climbing into worn old hills. The boulders along the trail wear tall caps of snow. Snow frosts the trees; it swirls like glitter from the horses’ hooves. We round a bend and there, in the distance, dark purple atop eastern Wyoming’s rolling plain, is Devil’s Tower. I jerk the reins, bringing Rox to a sudden stop. “It’s the tower!” I shout. I don’t believe it.

  “Well, yeah,” Kyle answers.

  “I’ve never seen it, except for TV.”

  Kyle shifts in his saddle, looking back at me. “I’ll take you there. Come spring. We’ll break it in.”

  “In a hotel?”

  “Hell, no. We’ll hike up a bit, spread a blanket in a private place with a view and go for it, in broad daylight.” He clicks his tongue, urging Bucky on. “I can hardly wait!” he yells.

  My face warms but I grin, shaking my head, just as the sun pops above the horizon. Light floods the landscape like water from a broken dam, glittering across the snow as it engulfs the tower in blinding brightness. I cup my hands round my eyes, lost in how, for a moment, the tower seems to glow.

  Rox bursts into a trot.

  She makes a small jump over a rotted log and my butt bounces up from the saddle. When I land I’m slightly off-center, a little to the right. My left boot flies free of its stirrup. I don’t know what to do.

  “Oh my god, Kyle, oh my god!” Rox picks up speed. Her shoulders roll beneath me, the movement as foreign as a choppy sea. I clutch the pommel horn. Though the saddle doesn’t shift I fret Rox will buck me, or maybe I’ll slip off. All I can think about is my right foot, the one still in a stirrup. It’ll catch, for sure. Rox will drag me over stones and logs and snow-crusted sage brush. I’ll be bruised and cut. Maybe even killed.

  “Keep your boots in the stirrups!” Kyle brings his horse up along mine. He reaches forward, grabs for Rox’s dangling reins, and yanks her to a stop. “You want Rox knowing she’s boss?”

  “She
’s got that figured out.”

  “Here’s the rules, girl, again. Keep tight hold on the reins. Your boots come free of the stirrups, don’t panic. Just slip them back in. You want to stop, pull the reins hard and say ‘whoa.’ You won’t hurt Rox. You’re not strong enough for that. Pat her neck from time to time. Give her praise when she does things your way. Got it?”

  “Just ride by me for a while, ‘kay?”

  Kyle grins and his dimple flickers into being. He hands me Rox’s reins then tips his hat. His eyes are bluer than the sky. “Give it a year and you’ll be a pro.”

  My smile feels dribbly, like it’s painted-on with watercolor.

  We wander until we’re above the tree line, following a ridge-hugging trail. Below us lies a crop-duster’s view of farms and ranches, forests and sage spotted hills. In the distance, Devil’s Tower seems a single dark stitch, the only thing anchoring Wyoming’s forever sky to the snow-covered earth. A dust of sparkling ice covers everything. “It’s so beautiful here,” I say.

  “Pales to you.” Kyle leans toward me and I dare meet him half-way, giving him a quick kiss. “You’re on your own, girl,” he says, and he spurs Bucky forward.

  We ride for maybe two hours and slowly, I relax into Rox’s rhythm. When Kyle stops we’re near a rocky terrace jutting above a crescent of pine trees. He dismounts, his duster falling in a swirl around his legs, and ties Bucky’s reins to a trunk. Then he pulls Rox forward, securing her reins, too, before he helps me down. I walk in circles as I bend the tension from my knees and calves, arching my back. It makes Kyle laugh.

  Using wood we carried up on Kyle’s horse, we build a fire in a rock-ringed pit that’s seen a lot of use. Then we unpack: hot dogs and marshmallows and apples for roasting, coffee and a small tin pot, ears of corn wrapped in foil. Kyle melts a few pots packed with snow for the horses, pouring the hot, bubbling water into a snow-filled shallow drinking tin. He tests the temperature with his thumb before he allows the horses to drink. As I start our coffee brewing, Kyle removes the blankets strapped along the back of my saddle and spreads them near the fire. “Snuggle in with me, girl,” he says, shoving the corn into the embers to cook. He drives four hot dogs onto a long metal skewer.

  Watching him work, it’s easy to imagine that he’s set up camp like this a thousand times before. He’s wildly gorgeous: cold-reddened cheeks, his shoulders broad in his brown and gray duster, dark hair curling from beneath his felt hat, his hands strong and sure in worn leather gloves. I love the way he’s wrapped a wool scarf round his neck, I love the scruffy look of his spurred cowboy boots pointing from beneath the frayed hem of his jeans. He catches me watching him, glancing at me sideways in the way he often does, allowing me a bright, tempting flicker of his shades-of-blue eyes.

  I take the skewer from his hand and, setting it aside, tumble over him, burrowing my face into the warmth near his neck.

  “Mind the fire,” he says, but he wraps his arms tight around my waist.

  I kiss his cheek then look at him. “I love you, Kyle Thacker,” I whisper. “I’m your girl.”

  33

  I’VE GOT THE horse trailer in sight when Rox suddenly whinnies. She rears back, her eyes wide and panicked as she rises on her hind legs. I scream, but I clutch her mane, pressing my knees tight to her belly.

  Rox bolts into a crazy run.

  Kyle is far ahead of me, almost to the truck. In my vibrating, jarring view I see him pull Bucky’s reins and sharply turn. His horse sprints toward me, Kyle’s body so smooth in the saddle it’s like he sits on a cushion of air. He pulls up across my path and Rox rears back, again.

  “What should I do?” I yell, clinging to the horse. “Tell me what to do!”

  Kyle stands in his stirrups and reaches up. Rox towers over him, whinnying and kicking. I scream again, sure he’ll be killed. But he dodges her legs as he gathers her reins in his fist. He yanks Rox downward. Then he wraps the reins around his hand, drawing her in until Rox’s head is pressed against his thigh. The horse blows through her nostrils, stamping her feet. Her thrashing tail sounds like brittle straw. Her body shivers so violently it rattles my bones. Kyle holds the reins tight.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “I don’t know! She was fine. I don’t know why she freaked.”

  Kyle looks beyond me, scanning the way we’ve come. “Did you hear anything?”

  “A twig cracked somewhere. Or maybe it was wind in the trees. Just the ordinary stuff I’ve been hearing all day. Then she started running.” I’ve still got a death-grip on Rox’s mane and slowly, I let go. Drawing a deep breath, I sit up and pat her neck. “I’m sorry, girl,” I say.

  Kyle practically rolls his eyes. “God, Aspen! Don’t fret for the horse. Rox might have thrown you. She might have trampled you. You did right, to hang on.” Rox’s body quivers. She side-steps, her teeth grinding at the bit. “Come on now, Roxy,” he says. “Mellow down.”

  “She’s shaking like crazy,” I say. “I feel it everywhere.”

  Kyle nods.

  I grip the pommel horn as he leads Rox to the trailer. All the way she fights him, tossing her head, testing his hold on her reins. Her tail beats against her flanks.

  When we reach the trailer Kyle dismounts Bucky without letting go of Rox, slapping the stallion up the ramp. Then he lifts one of Rox’s front legs, examining the hoof. He lifts the other. Still grasping the pommel, I swing free of the saddle and step down. From the corner of my eye I see a slick of red. “I think she’s bleeding!” I say.

  Kyle is still examining Rox’s flank, near her tail, when he says, “Get in the truck.”

  “But shouldn’t we—”

  “I said get in the truck!” He urges Rox up the ramp, the horse wide-eyed and snorting. When she’s in the trailer he lifts the gate, slamming it with a bang against the cold metal frame. The noise scares the horses. They whinny and shift, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care.

  He’s mad, I can tell, as I help him close the doors and secure the bolts. We climb into the cab from opposite sides but I scoot across the seat, slipping my hand under his duster and onto his thigh as he starts the engine.

  “She’s been shot,” he says. “A pellet gun, I’d guess. We would have heard it, otherwise.” The truck’s tires spin for a moment, climbing free of where they’ve settled in the snow. Then we’re away, following the snow-packed road to the highway. As Kyle pulls onto the asphalt, I shiver.

  “Back there,” he says. “I needed you in the truck, girl. I was scared as hell.”

  “But I wanted to help.”

  Kyle bites at his glove, pulling it from his hand. He curls his fingers over mine. “I don’t know if someone was meaning to fire on us or if it was just an accident or what. I mean, it could have been you hit, as easy as Rox.”

  He clears his throat and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. He kisses the side of my head. Like a cat circling round and round before it settles into sleep, Kyle moves his arm from my shoulders and holds my hand. From there he touches my knee. Then he drapes his arm around my shoulders, again. Finally he pulls to the side of the road, gathers me in a huge hug and holds me against his chest. He kisses my cheek, my forehead, my hair. He hums softly. Humming is his comfort, like an old worn toy. It makes me feel guilty.

  I should tell him. I should tell him about the dead bird and the red cloth and the circle of rocks in my drive. I should tell him everything.

  But I’m scared of what he’ll do. Maybe he’ll think it’s all too much and end things between us. Or worse, maybe he’ll go back with Em, promising it would only be for a while and asking me to wait. I’d go insane seeing them together—holding hands or kissing. Just thinking on it makes me sizzle with anger.

  But what if he sided with Dad and sent me to Portland? What if Kyle tried to take me to Portland himself? I can’t picture him there, the sky three inches above his head most months and crowds of people all around him. He belongs here, and so do I. I don’t want to leave Gillette.
I won’t be exiled like I’ve done something wrong. I’m with Kyle and Em won’t ruin us. I won’t let her.

  I pull Kyle into a kiss and slip my hand beneath his coat. My fingers are clumsy as I unbutton his shirt, but I don’t stop until I can touch the smooth skin of his chest. While we kiss a semi-truck whizzes by, splattering the Ford with slush. The horses neigh and stamp.

  “What about Rox?” I ask.

  “It’s just a nick.” Kyle presses another kiss to my mouth, pushing against me until we’re lying across the front seat. He pauses a moment, kneeling over me as he tugs off his duster. Then, as he comes close to kiss me again, he throws the duster over us. Suddenly we’re in a world that seems ours alone—I have the same private feeling I’d get when I was young and I’d smuggle a flashlight under my bedcovers at night so I could read.

  I work his shirt free of his jeans and caress his back. He eases his body onto mine. His fingers find their way under my sweater, their coolness a surprise against the bare warmth of my waist.

  “I’ve got you, girl,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

  34

  DAD FLAPS HIS arms like he’s being swarmed by killer bees. He yells, “What the hell, Ray? What the hell?” over and over. He stops in front of Rox and shouts, “What the hell?” As if she’ll answer him or something.

  I’ll admit, in a space as big as the Thackers’ barn, Dad’s yelling doesn’t carry weight. He paces the length, back and forth, shouting out his frustration. Most of his racket is absorbed by hay, horse-training stuff and saddles. Not to mention the nineteen horses occupying nineteen of the twenty stalls—ten stalls along each side of the barn.