Missing (11 page)

“Someone must have seen Grandpa go to Marmot Lake,” insists Van.

“No one came forward.” May's voice falters. “The police asked him so many questions. They wouldn't leave him alone. There was a lot of pressure on them to make an arrest, but they had no actual evidence. And then they came back. Twenty-five years later. They hounded him again.”

May sounds exhausted. This must be agony for her, I think, resurrecting these memories. I know how hard it can be to think about the past.

“So it all came down to what Esta said,” says Van roughly. “She
never
saw Livia in Grandpa's truck. She lied. She must have. Why?”

We sit quietly for a minute.

Then May says, “When it was all over, we decided to stay in the area. It was our home, and no one should be allowed to take that away. We raised your father here. Martin was a joy to us. Oh, we had lots of good times, but Heb never got over the shame. It made him what he is: a bit of a recluse. He didn't want his grandchildren to know, and we won't tell your sisters; there's no need. Bless him, he forgets the past most days now. Old age isn't all bad. It's given him some peace.” May closes her eyes and says, “This is a lot of talk, enough for today. I think I'll have a little rest.”

Van reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Thank you, Grandma,” he says.

We leave May to her memories. I feel restless and uneasy.

One burning question remains.

What happened to Livia?

That night I decide to go back to the old cabin at the end of the road. The sun has slipped below the ridge and the shadows are long. The mosquitoes are out in droves. But there's something I want to check.

It's dim inside the cabin but still light enough to see what I have come for. I study the letters gouged into the wooden doorway. I trace the
S
and the
T
and then I make out the shape of the first letter, sunken into the wood.
E
.

I say the name out loud. “Esta.”

T
welve

It turns out that I haven't scarred Renegade for life after all. The last two mornings I've put his grain bucket in the round pen and left the gate open, and both evenings when I went back, the bucket was empty.

I'm sitting on a stool in the sunshine, rubbing saddle soap into a bridle, enjoying the way the leather turns a rich dark brown. I have one eye on Renegade, but I'm trying not to let him notice. He's sticking his head sideways through the wooden rails of the corral, awkwardly tearing up pieces of grass within his reach. He gives up after a while and wanders into the metal round pen, checking out his empty bucket, which has been lying there since this morning. He grabs the rim with his teeth and flips the bucket back and forth.

I put the bridle down and approach him quietly, climbing over the corral fence so I'm close to the round pen. I slip inside and shut the metal gate. Renegade looks up. He's on the far side, opposite me, the bucket hanging from his mouth in a comical way.

I've left the rope hanging over a rail, ready for this moment. I pick it up and move to the middle of the pen, watching Renegade. He drops the bucket. Tension ripples through his back. He looks poised for flight.

I've been reading how
less
pressure is better. I threw the rope too hard last time. Slowly I raise my arm with the rope. That's all I do. Renegade breaks into a canter. He catches the bucket under his back feet. He kicks out and it skitters into the middle of the pen.

I think about the words I wrote
. Control movement
.

I raise my arm again and Renegade increases his speed. But not crazy-like. Steady. A grin spreads across my face.

He makes three or four circles. His ears are slanted back and his tail swishes from side to side, signs that he is not at all sure about this. He's looking to the outside of the pen as if he wants to be anywhere but here with me. His feet start to slow and I send him on faster again, this time tossing the end of the rope gently onto the ground behind him.

I am the lead mare.

Now.
Change direction
.

I step toward Renegade. That's when things start to go wrong. He swerves toward me, his ears flattened. I leap out of the way. He bucks twice, churning up clods of dirt, and then canters back out to the rails.

I take a few deep breaths. Renegade circles the pen two more times. Sweat breaks out on his flanks.

“Change direction,” I mutter. I step toward him again. He speeds up from a canter to a gallop, kicking out sideways as he streaks past. I swear I can feel the wind from his hooves on my face. My legs shake.

“If you want to make him turn,” says a voice quietly, “you need to focus on his head and shoulder.”

For the first time, I notice Marion Wilson standing outside the round pen.

“Move toward his shoulder,” she says. “Hold up your arm. Make a barrier.”

I think I get it. Renegade has dropped back to a canter. As he approaches, I take a step toward his shoulder, my arm nearest his nose raised. Renegade tucks his back legs under and skids to a halt. He spins toward the rail and turns, gives a tremendous buck and canters off in the opposite direction.

I glance at Marion triumphantly. She smiles, then says, “Ask for some more turns. Keep his mind on you.”

It's easier the next time, and the next. Renegade's turns become smoother. Back and forth. He's breathing hard now.

Then he turns without my asking him to. Marion says, “If he does that again, slap your rope. Tell him no. Tell him he's made a mistake. He can only turn when you say so.”

Renegade canters once around the pen and then braces his back legs and starts to turn. I bang the coiled rope against my leg and shout, “No!” Renegade spins around, back in the direction he was going.

“That's good,” says Marion. “Now, ask him to turn.”

I ask. He turns.

Change direction
. It's working! I don't want to stop, but Marion says, “He's had enough.”

I know what she means—take away the pressure. I move my eyes away from him and let my shoulders go soft. I turn my back on him.

There is silence behind me except for the sound of Renegade breathing. I peek at him. He's standing still, his head turned away from me, his flanks going in and out.

“Well done,” says Marion. I'm not sure if she's talking to Renegade or to me. I feel suddenly ashamed of the way he looks, his coat scruffy, his mane unbrushed, and I say defensively, “He won't let me touch him.”

“He will soon,” says Marion.

We walk back to the barn together, leaving the round pen gate open. I'm bubbling over with what has just happened. “Thank you for your help,” I say finally.

“It just takes a bit to get the hang of it,” says Marion. “You'll want to practice that. Pick places along the rails and make him turn exactly where you want him to. And there's no need to tire him out. Less is more.”

Marion waits while I put away the tack and the tin of saddle soap. “I actually came to tell you that Tully has iced tea and homemade cookies on the porch for everyone,” she says. “He said I would find you out here. He's probably wondering what's happened to us.”

I'm more than ready for iced tea. I wipe my dusty hands on my jeans. “Marion,” I say as we walk to the lodge, “please don't tell Dad. I don't want him to know yet.”

“I'm good at keeping secrets,” says Marion.

I practically live at the barn for the next few days. I try to ignore the fact that Van hasn't come around. Maybe he's still upset about his grandfather. Maybe he blames me. Or maybe he's just hanging out with his youth-group friends. I tell myself I don't care.

I practice with Renegade in the mornings before it gets too hot. He follows a bucket of grain quite willingly into the round pen; maybe he doesn't hate me after all. On the third day, something different happens. Instead of turning his butt to me when he changes direction, he turns into the circle, toward me. His ears flick back and forth and he lowers his head.

I'm sure that this means something, but I'm not sure what.

I'm lying on our dock later in the day, thinking about Renegade, when I see Marion coming across the lake in the blue boat. She goes out in the boat every day, sometimes for hours. I don't have the faintest idea where she goes. She must have explored the whole lake by now. I can't imagine coming on a holiday like this by yourself, and I wonder if she's lonely. At dinner we talk about ordinary things like school or how the cabin renovations are going. Sometimes Tully tells more stories about his travels. Marion's never said anything about having any family.

I walk over to her cabin to meet her. She bumps the boat up against the dock, gathers up her lunch bag and hat and climbs out. Her movements are slow, and I'm shocked by how tired she looks. There are dark smudges under her eyes, and her face looks caved in; that's the only way I can think of to describe it. She ties the boat to a tire on the side of the dock, lowers herself into a deck chair and motions me to sit beside her.

She brightens when I tell her how Renegade makes his turns inward now, looking at me instead of pushing his butt in my face. “That's a great sign, Thea,” she says. “He's showing you more respect. He's focusing on you. I'll come out and watch you tomorrow, shall I?”

“That'd be great,” I say.

There's something else I want to show her, something I tried at the very end with Renegade. Something I haven't told her about. I want it to be a surprise.