by Ingrid Law
The sound of a TV drifted from the rear of the house. Cautiously, I circled the building. Peering carefully through an open window, I saw Hedda with her feet up in a small room off the kitchen. She was eating popcorn while watching a daytime talk show.
“Tell me again, Mr. Rojenski,” the talk show host was saying. “You claim you visit a different solar system every time you eat your wife’s mashed potatoes?”
Engrossed in her program, Hedda sat motionless, holding a piece of popcorn in front of her open mouth, as though she’d been frozen by a freeze-ray until the next commercial break.
I let out a breath. It would be a whole lot easier to break Sarah Jane out of her tower room with Cabot gone and Hedda the Horrible hypnotized by hogwash. Still, I was scared of getting caught. Scared of causing more damage for SJ to take credit for.
Fedora’s last safety warning drifted back to me with the breeze: Think through it before you do it!
“Okay, Ledge, listen to your sister for once,” I said to myself as I moved back around the house, trying to breathe normally and keep my savvy under control. Determined not to simply react, I started thinking through my options.
I could sneak inside . . . climb the stairs . . . and take apart the lock with a single finger snap. Easy! Only, I’d promised Autry I wouldn’t put a shoe inside the house. One wrong creak going up the stairs—one crashing, falling door—and Hedda would be on the phone to Cabot or the sheriff lickety split.
“Not a good plan,” I told myself. I needed something better. If only those braids of Sarah Jane’s were long enough, she could toss them down like rope.
I thought about scaling the tall birch tree that slanted toward the house. I’d climbed the birch trees at the ranch a bunch of times; this one didn’t look too different. And its branches stretched close to Sarah Jane’s window.
Careful not to trip over a dozen different stumps, I hustled to the base of the tree. Moving around it, I stared up, trying to gauge the strength of its branches.
“Well, Ledge, you might be able to fix things now as well as break them,” I murmured, thinking. “But you can’t fix your own bones if you fall out of this tree.” Still looking skyward as I considered the birch, I banged hard into the marble bench that rested in its shade.
“Ow! Shhhhazam!” I covered my mouth with both hands to stop myself from cussing, to keep from alerting Hedda to my presence. Bending down to rub my shins, I looked closer at the bench. There was writing carved into the stone.
IN MEMORY
SUMMER BEACHAM CABOT
WIFE AND MOTHER
BESIDE US FOREVER
Summer Cabot was SJ’s mom’s name. I remembered Autry telling me. I read the inscription again, staring at the name.
Summer Beacham Cabot
Beacham . . . Beacham . . . I’d heard that name before too. I tried to remember, but I had other things on my mind. Crucial, clamorous things. As my eye fell back on the enormous pile of iron bars that had once been Mr. Cabot’s fence, Mrs. Cabot left my mind, warp speed. I suddenly knew exactly how to get Sarah Jane out of her room. And I wouldn’t have to put a shoe inside the house to do it.
“Your uncle took a wasp nest down from outside my bedroom window . . .” Sarah Jane’s voice came ringing back to me. Uncle Autry had climbed a ladder. I would too.
But when I looked again at the jumble of iron bars, I balked. Doubt hit me like confidence kryptonite. Sure, I could do stuff like this all I wanted in the safety of the salvage yard, where no one else could see me. But what if someone here was watching? A neighbor . . . someone driving by . . . Hedda coming out to sweep the porch between shows?
“Come on, Ledge. You didn’t think about stuff like that the last time you were here,” I said out loud.
Then I thought: Maybe I should have.
Checking to make sure no neighbors were outside watering lawns or walking dogs, I took a deep breath and stepped toward the pile of iron bars. Looking up at Sarah Jane’s window thirty feet above, I swallowed my anxiety. To keep myself steady, I crouched down low. I splayed my fingertips on the ground between me and the pile of fence posts, like I was at the starting line of a hundred-meter dash.
Shoving memories of falling barns and bumpers from my mind, I closed my eyes and pictured the iron bars lifting and coming together. Bending where they needed to bend. Fusing where they needed to fuse. My hands tingled and my nerves pulsed, and all the while the iron hummed, and my mouth filled with the metallic tang I’d gotten so used to.
Clinks and clangs filled the air, but softly. As if the metal bars knew they needed to be quiet.
I added rung after rung.
I telescoped rails up and up and up.
From the town below, the crashing and scraping and crunching and beeping of the demolitions equipment easily covered my own construction noise.
When I opened my eyes at last, I saw that no one had come running. Hedda’s TV continued to blare babble. SJ’s window was still closed.
I stood and stretched, a warm, satisfied feeling replacing my earlier doubts. Reaching from the ground at my feet to the sill of Sarah Jane’s high window, a crazy ladder spiraled upward, like a strand of DNA.
I’d done my thinking. I’d done my building. Now I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t stop to test my weight against the first few twisting rungs. I didn’t shake the ladder to see if it would fall apart. Instead I clambered to the top, confident that my savvy was sound and my creation would hold me up.
I tapped gently on Sarah Jane’s window. When she opened it, her eyes were wide—though not disbelieving—and she smiled as she looked down at my impromptu climbing structure.
Her hair was loose again today. It flowed out the window and down the ladder in a clean and shiny swish of white-gold, making her look like that fairy tale girl Rapunzel. Making me aware that, after bathing only in the river for over three weeks, I was probably far from charming.
I scrubbed my fingers through my hair. Yep. Sure enough, it was full of grit. But SJ didn’t seem to care.
“Got my damsel-in-distress call, did you?” she said with a grin. I pulled her letter from my pocket and waved it in answer.
“Does this mean you forgive me?” she asked.
I shrugged, glad to see no trace of the fence post scratch left on her arm. “I’m still considering my options.”
Sarah Jane peered over the window ledge again. “Well, consider fast, Cowboy. There’s someplace you and I need to go.”
Chapter 29
“YOUR TIMING IS PERFECT, LEDGE!” SAID Sarah Jane, tying her hair back and zipping down the ladder after me before Hedda the Horrible’s TV show could end. “Daddy is supervising the demolition and there’ll be nobody at his building. We’ll be able to get into his office easy.”
Pulling me away from the house, SJ dragged me down streets that bypassed downtown Sundance, steering us clear of the demolition. She jogged at a swift pace I easily matched. And she only tripped me twice.
Just as she’d said, the Cabot Acquisitions & Demolitions building was empty when we reached it. It was also locked up tight. I acted lookout as SJ checked the doors. Though, mostly I stood and stared at the filling station across the street and at the CAD Co. equipment yard still half-full of excavators, trucks, and forklifts, trying not to picture myself blasting backhoes into gas pumps. I could practically smell the spark from metal hitting metal, almost feel the wave of heat from a giant, exploding fireball.
“Don’t you have a key or something?” I asked after Sarah Jane had circled the building three times. The collar of my T-shirt felt too tight. My throat felt even tighter.
“I’ve got something, all right,” SJ answered. “I’ve got you!” She raised her eyebrows, then smiled. I looked from her to the forklifts to the gas station, sucking in my breath.
“Don’t freak out now, Ledge.” SJ saw my worry. “You’ve got mad skills! I bet you can unlock the back door easy.”
“I could blow up this entire block easy,” I answered. Maybe I
’d seen too many movies, but I knew I could never do the cool-guy walk away from any destruction I caused. Instead, I’d be on my knees, watching in horror, just like I had been when I took down the barn. Or I’d be running, same as always.
“Ledge! Hello?” Sarah Jane waved her hand in my face, breaking the stare I’d fixed on the gas station. “Good golly, Cowboy, get a grip! I lost you there for a second.”
I scrubbed my face with one hand. First at SJ’s house, now here. No matter how many scumbling successes I had, doubt still followed me everywhere like a three-legged dog. Autry had warned me that fear had a way of coming back around. I understood now that he was right: This fear-thing had no finish line. The realization made me cuss out loud.
“Save it for the deadbolt in the back, Ledge,” said SJ. Then she pushed me into action.
The deadbolt securing the back door came apart quick and easy, falling into pieces at ten paces. “Did I tell you my mom stopped a bank heist once?” I popped my knuckles nervously. “Now look at me . . . breaking and entering. Wouldn’t Mom be proud.” Sarah Jane laughed nervously, but I couldn’t even crack a smile. For a moment I wondered if I was going to turn out like Aunt Jules and Grandma Dollop’s sticky-fingered younger sister, Jubilee, who could open any lock and felt free to take whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it.
“I’m going to go to jail,” I muttered, shaking my head as I stared at the broken bolt. I remembered the feeling of the Sundance Kid’s shackles around my wrist and it wasn’t something I wanted to feel again. Sarah Jane seemed to have no problem with the fact that I had unexplained abilities. Nor did she have any problem taking advantage of them. This wasn’t the me I wanted to show the world, I thought. This wasn’t what I’d been made for. If it was, then I really was defective.
“Don’t be such a drama llama, Ledge. It’s my dad’s building, and you’re here with me. How much trouble can we get into, really?” But even as Sarah Jane said it, her voice caught, hinting that her brash confidence might be mostly bluster. “Let’s just hurry.”
I steeled myself, knowing I had to do whatever I could to help Autry and the twins keep their home. Still, if the CAD Co. building hadn’t belonged to SJ’s dad, I never would’ve busted that lock.
“Are you sure we can find something here to prove that what your dad’s doing is wrong?” I asked in a whisper as we stepped inside. “I mean, my uncle does owe your dad money . . .”
“I’m not sure, no,” SJ answered, rattling locked door-knobs as she moved down a dim hallway.
“Then, why are we doing this?” I croaked. “Why do you even care what happens to the ranch?”
“I care because your uncle’s place is special,” she replied. Then, not looking at me, she added quickly, “And because you’re . . . er, my friend.” For a moment I thought SJ had been about to say that I was special too. I wasn’t sure how to answer, so I just swallowed and said nothing.
“Come on.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me farther down the hall. “We have to find Daddy’s office.” Reaching a place where the hall branched in two directions, she nodded to me. “You take the doors on the left, I’ll get the ones on the right. But first, can’t you do something about these locks?”
I sighed heavily, feeling my brow furrow as I debated how far to take this break-in. But trying to think things through with SJ’s hand in mine was difficult. Trying to breathe with her hand in mine was difficult.
“Don’t you know which office is his?”
“Daddy’s never been the Take-Your-Kid-to-Work-Day type. Just break all the locks!” Sarah Jane thrust the fingers of her free hand out at me in an impatient gesture. “What are you waiting for? Get your magic on!”
“It’s not magic!” I said, mimicking her gesture. Only, when I thrust my fingers out, every doorknob, left and right, fell clattering to the floor, and every door, left and right, swung inward on loosened, groaning hinges.
“Looks like magic to me, Ledge.”
“It’s just a talent. Like I told you before. . . a savvy.”
“Well, get your savvy tail in gear, Cowboy!” she said, letting go of my hand. “I don’t know how long we have!”
We split up. SJ turned her newshound nose toward anything that might smell fishy, looking for a file room. I looked for a door that might lead to a washroom, thinking I might throw up. I didn’t have the stomach to be a criminal. How did Grandma Dollop’s sister do it? How had the Sundance Kid and the Wild Bunch gang not puked their guts out before robbing trains and stealing horses?
I stepped through a door marked PRIVATE. But it wasn’t a washroom, it was Mr. Cabot’s office. I knew it by the albino squirrel stuffed and mounted and holding a pencil jar on the desk, and the cuckoo clock collection on the wall behind it.
A tall, steel safe stood against the wall to my left. It had a gold-plated five-spoke spinner handle and an electronic lock. The wall on my right showed off an antique, eighteen-pound, circus-tent sledgehammer and a black-and-white photograph of Baz the Able Elephant wielding it.
“Ha!” The combination of safe and sledgehammer made me laugh out loud—it was like Mr. Cabot was daring someone to try to bust open his safe.
I turned to call to SJ but leaped back, startled by a life-sized cardboard cutout of Mr. Cabot. The cutout was dusty and bent and had a sign offering low rates on private loans, but it looked enough like SJ’s dad to scare the living daylights, night-lights, light fixtures, and light sockets out of me . . . not to mention a spastic surge of savvy blasting power.
I may have been scumbling better than ever, but my startle response still needed work. I ducked as the heavy hammer head flew off its handle—and off the wall—soaring across the room and putting a dent in the front of the safe.
The electronic lock exploded.
The locking bolts broke loose.
The stuffed squirrel on Mr. Cabot’s desk dropped its pencils; its glassy eyes watching with mine as the door to Noble Cabot’s safe swung open—then fell off.
Chapter 30
“OH . . . CRUD,” I SAID OUT LOUD, feeling the weight of my understatement hit like its very own circus sledgehammer. Maybe the twins’ nickname for me was spot on after all.
I moved quickly to hoist the safe’s heavy door up off the floor. To try to meld it back in place. But seeing a gleam of light reflect off glass, I stopped before finishing the job.
I stared in at the contents of the safe: stacks of cash, papers, file folders . . . and Grandma Dollop’s Peter Pan Peanut Butter wedding jar.
Either Mr. Cabot had lied—or Sarah Jane had. Her father hadn’t recycled the old jar. He’d locked it in this safe.
I reached past jewelry and money and pulled out Grandma’s jar, knocking papers and books onto the floor. Ignoring the mess at my feet, I spun the white metal lid to see if the symphony of sound was still safely trapped inside.
As the familiar music filled the room, a heavy weight in my chest hoisted anchor and skirred away. Grandpa Bomba wouldn’t need the twins’ help after I got back to the ranch—he’d be floating on air all by himself. Aunt Jules, Mibs, and Will . . . the whole family would be happy to have Grandma’s jar back ready for future weddings. Grinning, I tightened the lid, but not before the canned trumpets brought SJ running.
“You found it!” she cried, wrapping her hand around my arm. “I didn’t think Daddy would bring it here!”
I squinted at SJ, trying to decide if she was lying, doing my best to ignore the little zings that ran beneath my skin where her skin touched mine.
“You have to believe me, Ledge!” she said, getting right up in my face, her green eyes imploring me to trust her. “Daddy really did tell me he was going to recycle it. I swear!” Her face was so close I could smell her fruity watermelon lip balm. My palms began to sweat. It would’ve been easy to lean forward a few inches, tilt my head, and . . .
Ack! No! What was I thinking? I moved quickly away from Sarah Jane, slipping on the books and papers scattered on the floor.
; “Yeah, yeah,” I told her, cringing as my voice squeaked. “Put it in writing, SJ. Then I’ll believe you.”
My pal Josh would’ve whapped me upside the head if he’d been next to me. I could hear his howl: “You should’ve gone for it, you chicken!”
I crouched down and began shoving the mess of fallen papers back into the safe. SJ knelt beside me, pulling a sheet of paper from her pocket.
“Maybe this will help, Ledge. Look what I found in the file room!” She waved the paper in my face, adding, “It was alphabetized under O. I think it’s a deed or a loan document from your uncle to my dad. It’s definitely paperwork for your uncle’s place. It’s got original signatures and everything!”
I glanced at the paper. “So what? It looks pretty official to me.”
“Ledge, if it’s here, then maybe it hasn’t been filed! And if it’s never been filed, we could tear it up! Then it would be like it never existed, right? Ledge? Are you listening?”
I wasn’t. Instead, I was staring at a thick, leather-bound scrapbook fallen open next to me on the floor. Mr. Cabot didn’t strike me as a scrapbook kind of guy. I flipped through the book, expecting to see pictures of shriveled Wyoming mummies or find a two-tailed lizard pressed flat between its pages. But the scrapbook held another type of collection—a normal one.
There were photographs from every 4-H contest, Thanksgiving pageant, and school spelling bee in which Sarah Jane had taken part. There were stories she’d written in kindergarten and drawings she’d done in fourth grade. Aced history tests, report cards, even “Great Smile!” stickers from the dentist.
“Check it out!” I nudged SJ with my elbow. She sucked in her breath as she looked at the slices of her life spread before her. Immediately taking over the job of turning pages, she ran her fingers lightly down each one, as if she needed to use at least two of her senses to absorb what she was seeing.
