Sunset Ranch (12 page)

Magic, freed of his burden and giving way to his fear, wheeled around with a squeal and galloped away down the canyon, his reins trailing.

In an instant Jack was off his horse and plunging into the river, where Mrs. Coleman was now floating like a bag of old clothes. Sandra clucked to her horse and galloped off down the canyon bed after Magic.

We all held our breath as Jack, waist-deep in the water, towed Mrs. Coleman toward the rocky shore. He and Rick, who had tossed his reins to Stephen, manhandled her onto dry land. No one moved a muscle as Jack, his face frantic, knelt beside her, his ear to her mouth. He laid his hands on her chest and pushed once, twice, the way I'd seen in my Red Cross CPR course. Nothing. She lay still, her head flopped to one side, her mouth open. On one side of her head I could see a deep gash trickling blood. I had a sense of unreality, as if everything before me might be a dream.

No one dared even breathe. The Taylor mother was sobbing quietly. I could hear her gasping behind me, and I wanted to turn and scream in her face. Another push.
Please, please, please,
my mind pleaded over and over. Another.

Mrs. Coleman turned her head. Once, then twice—then she opened her eyes. A gasp and a cheer went up from all of us watching. I felt like I was hearing the blast of trumpets.

“What?” she tried to say, struggling to sit up. “What ­happened?”

“It's okay.” Jack helped her to sit up. “The horse threw you and you landed in the river.” He was motioning to Rick. “You're going to be all right, but we have to get you back.”

The guests surrounded her, each offering advice. I sought Stephen's eyes, but he turned his face away from me. He was clearly furious. Still, I argued in my mind, Magic wasn't ready—he never should have come. Now a guest had been hurt, and I couldn't help feeling like it had been his fault.

Zach had been right. He'd said the horse wasn't ready and he wasn't. I knew it. We both knew it. I looked at him, but he was dabbing a wet cloth to Mrs. Coleman's head as Rick opened the first aid kit.

Stephen rode up beside me. “What a mess,” he said. “That horse screwed up.”

I looked at him as if I were seeing him for the first time. “The
horse
?” I said. “The
horse
screwed up? He's afraid of water, Stephen! He never should have come, but you forced him!” I cried.

Stephen gaped at me, but I didn't have the patience to apologize. I turned Al and trotted away.

***

Mrs. Coleman was transported out by a truck that Sandra had driven in. Magic had been caught a half mile away, heading for home, and put back in the stable. The other guests had decided they wanted to proceed, and we had safely crossed the river and were now bedded down before the campfire that Rick had made. We were camped in a sheltered pine grove on the other side of the canyon. All around us were firs, draping their weeping needles in long bunches to the ground. It was dark, and I lay with my head outside my tent, staring up at the endless sky.

No one knew what would happen now. The trip would go on, but what about the horse? I hadn't spoken to Stephen since my outburst. I felt all snarled up inside. I didn't know what would happen—to Magic, to Stephen, or to me or Zach. After all, we were all supposed to be training the horse, though Stephen was the only one with the high stakes.

Not for the first time, I felt a gulf between me and Stephen. Zach had been right all along. I'd sensed it, but I hadn't acknowledged it—until now. I felt as if a shadow had been lifted from my eyes.

“Psst.”

I lifted my head. Zach was leaning over on one elbow. I hadn't realized he was in the neighboring tent. “If you can't sleep, look for the Little Dipper.” His eyes were like two deep caverns in the dark shadows of his face.

I raised up on my own elbow. “How do you know I can't sleep?”

He laid back down. “I could just tell.”

We were quiet then, but for the rest of the night I could sense him nearby and found myself oddly comforted.

Chapter
Thirteen

The rest of the pack
trip continued in a dispirited way. It was a sad climax to the summer, ruined by anxiety over Mrs. Coleman—though we'd heard that she was recovering okay after getting a few stitches—with a general pall cast by the incident. It had rained during the night, and everything was damp and miserable. We visited the waterfall—the big goal of the trip—and viewed it in a cursory manner. Even a small herd of antelope feeding brought no cries of excitement, just a few listless photos snapped.

We trailed back to the ranch early in the afternoon, damp and rumpled, dirt-splotched. The Taylor girls squalled with temper, slapping at each other from their ponies until their father finally turned around and yelled “Stop!” in their faces in such an uncharacteristic display of pique that they immediately fell silent, ­sniveling. Rick rode in silence, his face set in harsh lines, betraying nothing, while Stephen kept to himself, at the back, away from all of us. He'd barely said a word since the incident.

My own head ached abominably, and I knew I looked ­terrible—my hair tied up in a bandanna that did little to disguise how greasy it was. My eyes had dark circles under them, I saw this morning in my pocket mirror, and my sinuses felt swollen and ached. Possibly I was allergic to the pine needles.

The guests dismounted in silence and untacked their horses as we'd taught them. Jack led them over to the main house to pep them up with some coffee and to visit Mrs. Coleman.

Rick took Stephen over to a corner by the stable. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was leaning in close, his seamed face only a few inches from Stephen's downcast one. Without a word, Zach and I funneled horses into their stalls and handed the saddles over the top to Dana like machines. We curried everyone, brushed and watered everyone, and threw flakes of hay into their hay racks.

“Good trip, guys.” Dana tried to speak encouragingly, and I gave her a dutiful smile. She patted me on the back and started lugging saddles to the tack room.

I picked up a water bucket to scrub it, but set it down and sighed. I had to talk to Magic. I walked down to his stall and we faced each other. “Hey, buddy,” I said softly, and leaned against his neck, putting my arms around him and inhaling his horsey, wet-sweater-leather-and-hay scent. I stayed that way for a long time, just standing there with him, feeling the heat radiating from his good, solid flesh. “What's going to happen to you?” I ­whispered.

He couldn't tell me, of course. That's when I felt a hand on my back. I looked up and there was Zach. “I'm sorry, Chloe.”

Something was odd about the sentence—then I realized it was the first time I'd ever heard him use my first name.

“Let's get out of here,” he said suddenly.

I looked up, startled. “What?”

“Come on.” A glint came into his face. “I'm breaking you out.” Without another word he took my hand and ran me out of the stable toward the pickups parked in front of the main house.

“Where are we going?” I panted behind him.

“Anywhere but here!” he called over his shoulder. He ran from truck to truck, looking inside each window. I realized he was looking for keys, and he must have found one with them because he called, “Come on, get in!”

Breathless, wondering if we were going to get arrested for something like this, I slid across the bench seat as he slammed the truck door and fired up the engine with a deafening roar. It sounded like the muffler was missing. “Where are we going? What are you doing?” I yelled over the noise of the engine as he roared down the driveway in a cloud of dust. “Are you stealing this car? Zach? Do you mind telling me what the hell's going on?”

“Don't worry!” he shouted. The windows of the truck seemed to be permanently stuck in the down position, and the wind blew through the cab, taking our words and throwing them back ­outside. I spit my hair out of my face where it whipped wildly, like a scarf in the breeze. “We're just going on a little adventure!”

“An adventure that's going to land us in jail!” I shouted back, suddenly exhilarated by the speed and the rocking of the truck. All I'd done was worry these last few days, and I wanted to stop. I wanted to forget everything—and find the adventure I'd come out here for.

“We need to get away,” Zach said, as if reading my thoughts. “That place is depressing—it was bringing me down. Let's go have some fun.”

“Wait, wait, stop!” I shouted suddenly. He screeched the brakes. “Tacos!”

There beside the road was a building that looked like it had once been a garage but was now painted hot pink. Cactuses and tubs of desert flowers were scattered around. The door was rolled up, revealing a counter and a few tables scattered around.
LA CASITA
was painted in purple on the handmade sign out front.

“I'm starving!” I declared, and leaped from the car. I felt like a different person—it was as if Zach's crazy spirit had infected me.

We raced up to the counter and scanned the brief menu. “Two beef tacos,” Zach said, “and two orange pops.”

“Absolutely, sir,” said a small, dark-haired girl in a rock band T-shirt. She punched in our order and three minutes later handed us the warm tacos, bundled in paper like two little animals, and two bottles of ice-cold, bright orange pop.

We carried our food outside and sat on the top of a picnic table, our feet dangling, our shoulders almost touching as we crunched the crispy corn tacos and the soft, hot beef inside.

“Oh my God, this is incredible,” I sighed, swigging from my bottle of pop. “You have no idea how down I was getting after the Magic incident.”

For an instant Zach looked angry again. “I can't believe he—” He stopped himself. For a moment he was quiet, looking across the parking lot. Then his eyes lit up and he jumped off the bench, grabbing my hand again. “Come on! I know the perfect adventure place!”

We got back into the truck and roared off, trailing blue exhaust. “Isn't Jack going to wonder where his truck is?” I asked.

Zach looked almost guilty for a minute, then confessed. “Actually, he told me I could have the afternoon off and you too, and that I could take a truck. He knew we needed a break. I just wanted you to think I was taking it without permission.”

I laughed. “Oh, so you're not such a bad boy after all!” I teased. “Here I thought you were stealing a truck and you were actually just following orders, is that it?”

He turned onto a small road and then another, the asphalt disappearing to dirt. The mountains were close now, and the truck climbed a steep, twisty road. A drop on the right side disappeared into a dense pine forest. The sun shot shafts of light through the trees, making the scene look like something from the children's Bible I had growing up. I leaned out the window, just catching sight of a large buck slipping between the trees.

At the top of a foothill, Zach pulled over and killed the engine. In the loud silence I opened the door and got out. We were in the middle of the pine forest, hills all around us, not a soul in sight.

“Is this the adventure?” I asked, puzzled.

“The adventure's around here somewhere,” he said. “I just have to remember where the path starts—ah! There it is!” He pointed to a small dirt road leading down into the forest a short distance from where he'd parked the truck. I looked down the hill, then back at Zach.

“That's an adventure?” I teased. “Looks thrilling.”

A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Just you wait. It's at the bottom.” He paused. “Which I will get to first.” He took off down the hill.

“No, you won't!” I screeched, stumbling after him, my heels sliding in the dirt, clutching trees and small bushes. Laughing, I reached out and just managed to snag the back of his T-shirt, pulling him backward and throwing him off balance enough that he tumbled into the spiny scrub at the side of the path.

“Hey now!” He rolled over and looked up at me from his absurd position, lying among the sagebrush, a smear of dirt across his forehead. “You're in trouble now, you know.”

“Oh yeah? Actually, it looks like
you're
in trouble.”

He reached up and, before I could even react, pulled me down beside him. With that one movement I sensed we'd crossed an invisible line we'd only been circling before. I knew Zach sensed it too. I didn't know what would happen, though. I didn't want to try to figure it out. Instead I squirmed around in my bed of crushed sagebrush until I could see the sky. The aroma of the sage was strong in the afternoon sun.

We lay there in silence for a while, staring up. The sky seemed to go on forever and ever. I thought of the vastness of it, the blue fading to black and then the cold brilliance of space, with all the stars going on and on and back forever. I shook my head and raised up on my elbows. I was making myself dizzy.

I looked over at Zach, who was lying on his back, his eyes closed. His black hair was damp at his temples. “Zach. You know, Stephen and I—”

He sat up suddenly and plucked a few leaves from beside him. “Smell this.”

“Zach—”

“Come on.”

Clearly, he didn't want to hear what I had to say about Stephen. I reached out to take the leaves, but he grasped my hand instead, his fingers wrapping powerfully around my wrist. He looked right into my face, and I felt my whole body grow hot. He turned my hand palm up and then slowly rubbed the crushed sage leaves across the skin of my wrist. “There.” He released my hand.

My mouth was dry, I noticed, and I could feel the imprint of his fingers as if they were branded onto my hand. I sniffed the sharp, spicy aroma.

He smiled down at me, and then we struggled up from the sage and started back along the path again. At the bottom of the hill, he stopped. “This is it—at least, I think. It looks a little ­different.”

I looked around. We were standing on the overgrown edge of a tiny dirt road. Right next to the road and down a steep bank, a mountain river flowed, the dark water sparkling as it foamed over the rocks in its midst. On the opposite side, an aspen wood spread its cool greenness as far as I could see. There was no one around.

“Come on!” Zach grabbed my hand excitedly, and we scrambled down the bank. I saw a small trail weaving its way among the rocks at the river's edge. Zach led me along it as the river meandered away from the road.

In twenty minutes we were in another rocky, piney woods, with the rushing, icy-cold river providing the background to the liquid trills of the blackbirds. The air was damp from the cold water, and everywhere crashed-over pine trees were layered with soft moss in every shade of green, from deepest green-black to shocking lime green. I paused and, laying my cheek down on the edge of a big log, looked sideways at the moss. I was at eye level with the tiny plant, and from this view, what looked like fuzzy velvet from above I could see was a lot of tiny, springy plants, each distinct, like a forest for the tiniest fairies.

Suddenly I heard a screech from above, and Zach grabbed my arm, pointing up. I gasped as I saw a flash of dark wings and then the unmistakable white head and curled yellow claws of a bald eagle. We watched, frozen with awe, as the huge bird, bigger than I'd ever imagined, climbed higher and higher into the azure sky until it remained there, soaring on an invisible plume of air, the black wings still distinct even hundreds of feet up.

Panting, we scrambled over the tree trunks with huge, knotty roots that grew almost to the river's edge, climbing over gray boulders scattered like a giant's playthings. Then Zach pointed. “There! I can't believe it's still there.” He stood perfectly still. I came up beside him, my breathing suddenly loud in the silence.

He stood still for what seemed like a long time, then spoke. “We came here, when I was a kid, you know. My brother and me.” His voice caught on the last sentence.

I stayed quiet, but my mind flashed to the creased photo I'd picked up in the tack room. Zach didn't look at me, just slowly walked over to a cluster of gray stones arranged in the river, at the very edge by the bank. “We'd come every time we came to Colorado—we never knew if the springs would still be here, or if the rocks had been washed away by floods, or if someone else had found it and built a path and handrails, or if there'd be a big sign telling us not to swim.”

He walked up to the rocks, squatted down on his heels, and dabbled his fingers in the water. I moved beside him and waited. “There was always this big anticipation whenever we'd come around this corner. One year there were a bunch of college kids here. They were cool, though—they offered Dan and me beer even though I was like nine. My parents thought that was ­hilarious.” He smiled an inward smile. “Another time, Dan was goofing around in the river, pretending like he was drowning, going ‘help, help.' And this guy was here with his huge German shepherd, and the dog jumps in the river and swims over and takes Dan's arm, but really gently, and starts
towing
him to the edge, then trying to drag him out onto the bank.” He shook his head. “We talked about that for years. What a cool dog.”