Paint the Wind (5 page)

M
AYA OPENED THE SHOE BOX AND PULLED OUT THE
brown-and-white horse, turning it over and over in her hand. She sat up straight and expectant in the hard plastic chair next to the airline counter in Salt Lake City, but her stomach wobbled. There was so much she did not know. Dinnertime, for instance, and how often her grandfather would inspect her closet and what the consequences might be for smudged shoes. She gripped the plastic horse tighter in her fist. The terminal had thinned of people. She stared at each man who walked by and wondered which one might be him. It occurred to her that he might not come at all. Then what would she do?

Through the panorama of windows, Maya saw a tall, burly man with sandy-brown hair salted with gray
walking toward the terminal. He wore a cowboy hat, sunglasses, and a blue work shirt. Mud crusted his boots. A shiny buckle adorned a leather belt. A small lilting recognition ran through Maya's body. But why? she wondered. Had she met him before? The automatic doors parted. With a long stride, he hurried to the counter. He glanced at Maya but spoke with the clerk, showing his identification and signing a paper. Then he moved toward her.

She tilted her chin upward to view all of his height.

A voice that sounded as if it came from a deep barrel said, “Hello, Maya.”

Maya swallowed hard. If this giant had the inclination, he could hurt her with a flick of his bowl-sized hand.

He reached out and put tentative fingers on her head.

Maya leaned away.

He took off his sunglasses, pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket, and blotted at his teary eyes. His sniffling got louder. Maya had never seen a man weep before. Wasn't he embarrassed to be crying in front of a complete stranger? She stared at the floor.

“I'm ‘Moose' Limner. Walter, your grandfather.” His eyes filled again and he choked out the words. “I'm sorry for this display. But … seeing you after all these years, well, it's quite a shock. You look so much like your mother, sitting there like a little bird. I used to call her that, you know. Ellie-bird.”

“Ellie,” Maya repeated. She couldn't remember the last time she'd heard her mother's name. A long-forgotten memory made Maya feel tense with trepidation. In an instant, she was six years old again, in Grandmother's backyard, skipping and weaving between the white
lawn furniture with a pin wheel in her hand. The star spun in the breeze, and she had mindlessly repeated her mother's first name to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Grandmother had overheard the singing, washed Maya's mouth out with soap, and threw the toy in the trash.

Moose gave his nose a healthy blow into the handkerchief and then stuffed it back into his pocket. “Well now, enough of my blubbering. Let's get you home.” He held out his hand.

Maya stood, feeling like a small sapling next to a giant oak, but didn't reach out to him.

He finally dropped his arm to his side. “The truck is parked in the lot.” He picked up her suitcase and turned away.

Maya followed. She climbed into the cab on the
passenger side. A pillow and a folded quilt occupied the middle of the seat. Maya stayed as close to the passenger door as possible and held the box of horses on her lap, except for the brown-and-white Paint that she still clutched.

“These early June evenings can be chilly. The blanket and pillow are for you. And in that bag on the floor is a sandwich your uncle Fig made. We're headed about four hours northeast into Wyoming, so we wanted you to be comfortable.”

Maya nodded. They were soon away from the traffic of the city and on a highway, weaving upward through grass foothills. Her eyes darted from the windshield to the side window, trying to absorb the new world. The terrain became dry and gave way to red rock mountains.
Ominous cliffs, like the chiseled faces of train engines, jutted toward them. The sun dipped and the colors of the jagged landscape intensified as if a paintbrush had streaked the hills with a rust wash.

“Pretty, isn't it?” said Moose.

“I guess,” said Maya, thinking of the lush and colorful Altadena Lane.

Moose nodded toward her hand. “I notice you still have your mother's horses.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. Maya quickly slipped the small horse into the box.

“I wasn't going to take it from you,” said Moose. “And Maya, I've been waiting a long time to see you again, and I wasn't planning on you calling me ‘sir.' But you can call me ‘Moose' if it makes you feel more
comfortable. Everyone else does. ‘Course I would love it if you called me ‘Grandpa' again, when you're ready. You don't remember, but you had just turned four the last time your mother brought you home for a visit. That's when she found those horses in her closet and gave them to you. She was planning on bringing you back but …” Moose's voice cracked. He began sniffling again, then cleared his throat and changed the subject. “See those mountains in the distance? Those are the Wind River Mountains, the continuation of the great Rockies. Locals call them ‘The Winds.' ” He pointed northeast. “That's the direction we're heading, straight for the prow of The Winds. It might not seem like it, but we're pretty high up in elevation. We'll be at a little over seven thousand feet when we get to the ranch.”

Maya looked toward the horizon at the jury of mountain peaks far in the distance. In between, nothing interrupted the expanse of desert except the highway and the long scars of snow fences. The air chilled. The sky darkened. Maya pulled the quilt to her lap and spread it over her legs and the box of horses, as much for protection from the unfamiliar as for warmth.

“Do you remember the ranch?” asked Moose.

The ranch
. The word triggered vague feather-light images. “I don't think so,” said Maya.

“Well, maybe you will when you see it.”

An oncoming car's high beams illuminated the cab, barraging them with bright light. Moose blinked the truck lights, and the other driver dimmed the blinding rays. Traffic waned, and soon they were a solitary truck
heading to somewhere. A weariness spread over Maya and she slumped toward the pillow. The cab was dark and the motor thrummed. Her eyes closed, but before falling asleep, a minuscule excitement, like a seedling poking through spring ground, wiggled in her mind.

M
AYA HEARD THE UNMISTAKABLE SOUND OF A WHIMPERING
animal and startled awake. Was it a dream? What time was it? If she were late for breakfast, Grandmother would be furious. Even more distressing was the discovery that she'd slept in yesterday's clothes. With a quick jerk, she sat up, whipping her head to scan the strange room. Like sporadic raindrops, the events of the last two days settled in her consciousness. She took a deep breath and studied her surroundings.

A paneled ceiling sloped downward and met two dormer windows that allowed streams of sunlight to puddle on the floor. She sat in a bed with an old-fashioned iron headboard and footboard. Her box of horses had been placed on a knotty pine dresser and her suitcase
propped open the door leading to a long hallway of hardwood.

The whining started again, louder now. Something
was
in the room!

A short-haired brown dog leaped from the floor onto the end of the bed and crawled close to her, its tail thumping the covers. Maya screamed and pulled the blanket over her head.

Footsteps pounded down the hall.

“Golly, get down!” a man's voice called. Maya heard a thud and nails clicking on the floor.

“You can come out now,” said the voice.

Maya lowered the blanket to see a man who was as tall as Moose, but so thin she wondered how he kept his pants up. His nose would have been too big for his face had a well-trimmed beard not balanced it out. The
purple-blue eyes and reddish hair guaranteed his relation to Maya. A dish towel hung from his waist, a cooking fork sprouted from one hand, and he smelled like bacon.

“I'm your great-uncle Fig,” he announced. “I'm Moose's older brother, which makes me the boss, at least in my mind. My real name is Frederick, but you can imagine why I prefer Fig. And you're Maya.”

The dog appeared again, braced its paws against the side of the bed, and strained upward, panting.

“This is my dog, Golly. She's dying for you to pet her.”

Maya pulled back. “Dogs are mean and dirty and they bite children.”

“What? Where did you hear that?” asked Fig. “And anyway, not Golly. She's a sweetheart, and I just gave
her a bath myself yesterday. Come on. Give her a pat on the head. I'm warning you, though. Once you start, she'll drive you crazy wanting more.”

“Grandmother said … said they carry dander and they're unsanitary … for my lungs. I … might actually be allergic.”

Uncle Fig looked skeptical. “I hope not, because Golly's not leaving anytime soon. Best give her a wide berth.”

Uncle Fig started for the door.

The dog stared at Maya, then tilted her head and lifted her ears.

“But what if she jumps on me or something? I could catch rabies or fleas or ticks.”

By now, Fig was in the hall. “She might lick you to
death but that's about it. She's had all of her shots, so all you'll catch from Golly is her good nature.”

“Wait! Where's my … where's Moose?” she called. Fig clambered down the stairs and hollered, “He's in the kitchen. If you get up, I'll fix you some pancakes. The b-a-c-o-n is ready, but we'd better get to it before Golly figures out what I'm spelling.”

As if the dog understood, she dashed from the room.

Maya slid out of bed and peeked down the hallway to make sure they were gone. She retrieved the box of horses from the dresser and climbed onto the seat beneath one of the dormer windows.

Staring out, she sucked in her breath. It looked like a picture from a library book: A tidy grass apron wrapped around the house. Scarlet honeysuckle crawled on the
split-rail fence that bordered a long graveled drive. A procession of mountains framed the horizon. She saw rows of corrals and an even larger pasture defined by wooden fences. But the corrals and pasture were empty. Where were the horses?

Maya glanced back into the room. The position of the bed, the light on the floor, the sloped ceiling, and the window seat where she now sat felt familiar. Maya froze and shivers ran up her arms.

This was the very spot in which she had once played with her mother.

As she ran her fingers over the faded calico fabric on the bench seat, blue with tiny comets, she whispered, “Running free and belonging only to the stars.” Maya opened the shoe box, and with deliberate care, placed
the brown-and-white Paint on the narrow sill with her mother's photo, facing out.

“Maya, the pancakes are ready,” called Uncle Fig from the bottom of the stairs. “And Golly is staring at your b-a-c-o-n!”

Maya looked at the unmade bed. What would be the punishment for not making it before breakfast? The wafting smell of bacon and pancakes called to her stomach but she couldn't take a chance. She pulled the blankets from the bed, which was much bigger than her twin in Pasadena.

Uncle Fig found her struggling with the heavy top quilt. He stood in the doorway with a hand on one hip. In the other hand, he held a pair of small boots.

Maya jumped when she saw him.

“Didn't mean to scare you,” said Fig, setting the boots on the floor. “Here. Let me help you with that.” He took the big quilt and fluffed it over the bed and lined up the pillows. “You know, I've spent a fair part of my life studying the art of being messy. If you keep up all this fussiness, it's going to make me look bad. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Don't look so serious. I'm teasing and you're not in trouble. Now, hurry and change your clothes. Wear some long pants if you have any, and those are some old boots of your mother's that we never could part with. They look the right size but wear two pairs of socks if they're too big. We need to get some food in your stomach. I can hear it growling. You're not allergic to pan cakes, are you?”

Maya shook her head.

Before he walked out the door, he turned to Maya, who was still standing stock-still, and winked at her. “You're a skinny thing,” he said. “You must take after me.”

Maya's face relaxed and a small smile escaped.

She dressed and pulled on the boots, which fit perfectly, and stroked the worn leather calves. She was glad they weren't new. Glad the boots carried all of her mother's experiences. She wished that she could soak all of their history from the scuffed toes all the way up into her head. She stood. They made her taller, but she felt awkward and unsure of her new stance. As she walked down the hall, she held on to the oak banister. White paint had worn off and bare wood showed through in streaks. Had her mother worn off the paint from years of walking down these stairs? Slowly, she descended the steps, massaging the smooth wood.

The stairs turned and deposited her into the living room. A large painting of a black stallion with a white blaze and white stockings hung on the main wall, centered above the sofa. Maya stepped closer, captivated by the sweeping ebony brushstrokes of the mane, the arched neck, and the defiance in the horse's posture. She leaned forward, her eyes following the thick, sculpted swirls of the oil paints. She took a deep breath, already loving this place, and turned to look at the rest of the room.

Knickknacks crowded the end tables and threatened to topple at the slightest nudge. The furniture looked worn but comfortable. The wood floors had yellowed with aged varnish. A corner fireplace made from river stones angled across two walls and was crowned with a dark soot halo. On either side of the hearth, the walls held a hodgepodge of photos of her mother on horseback,
holding up prizes for one competition or another: ribbons, fancy belt buckles, and trophies. In one of the photos, a younger Golly sat at her mother's feet. Maya picked up a framed photo from a table. Her mother held a four-year-old Maya in her arms and a boy about the same age. Who was he?

As Maya's eyes flitted from picture to picture, she heard Moose's voice in the next room and tiptoed out of the living room and closer to the kitchen door to eavesdrop.

“I just can't forget what the lawyer told us. She
should
have been coming here regular, every summer. That old hen lied to us. ‘No arrangements for visitation.' Those were her exact words every time I called. I should have never believed her!”

“No need to speak ill of the dead,” said Fig. “You had
no reason not to believe her. She hoodwinked us, plain and simple. At least we finally know that Ellie and Greg wanted Maya to spend time with us. It's just too bad it was so long in coming.”

“It breaks my heart to have to get rid of her so soon after we just got her back,” said Moose.

Maya's brow puckered. Get rid of her? She pushed through the swinging door into the sunny kitchen with its faded blue linoleum and yellow cupboards, which needed repainting. Suds and dishes filled one side of the sink, and fresh grease spots peppered the white enameled stove. Moose sat at one end of a long trestle table on a bench seat, sipping coffee.

She stood in the center of the room and folded her arms across her chest. “You're getting rid of me …?”

Fig and Moose exchanged glances.

“Now, that isn't exactly true or by choice,” began Moose.

“Sit down and let us explain,” said Fig, herding Maya to a seat at the table. “You see, Moose and I are taking you to the Sweetwater River to stay with your great-aunt Violet. She's our baby sister. But I'm warning you, no one has dared call her Violet in years, except behind her back. We call her Vi, rhymes with pie.”

“Maya, the camp is nature at its finest,” said Moose. “You'll sleep in a tepee, live around a campfire, and ride a horse every day. In fact, you'll see more horses in a summer than most people see in a lifetime. And we'll be out there soon enough.”

“See, we're all here together in the house for most of the year,” said Fig. “Even your aunt Vi. During school months, she teaches classes at the college. Art history,
painters of the American Southwest, that sort of thing. Moose and I hire out in town. He's a farrier, shoeing horses, and I'm a handyman. Being as smart as I am, I can do almost anything.”

“Which means he's a master of nothing,” said Moose.

Uncle Fig pointed his spatula at Moose. “I'm warning you. Don't rile the cook.”

Moose ignored him. “In the summer, Aunt Vi sets up a field camp. She writes articles for horse magazines and some years she takes groups out to photograph or paint scenes of the wilderness and the wild horses.…”

“Like my father did?”

“That's right,” said Fig. “That's how he met Ellie way back when. Your father signed up for a week-long trip, and Aunt Vi outfitted the group. She provided the folks with tepees, food, and horses, and was their guide on
top of it all. That's one of your father's paintings in the living room.”

Her father had painted that beautiful stallion? A small satisfied smile appeared on Maya's face. A piece of her father was in this house, too. At least one painting had escaped Grandmother's wrath.

Moose cleared his throat. “In a few weeks, our business will slow down for the summer and we'll come out to camp. But first, Fig and I need to finish our work obligations near the ranch. We weren't expecting you, Maya. But we're sure glad you're here.”

“Your cousin, Payton, is already out there with Vi,” said Fig.

Maya's eyes brightened. “A girl?”

“No,” said Fig. “And for your sake, I'm sorry that he's not. Payton is my ten-year-old grandson. See, some years
back, my son married a nice widow-lady who already had three boys. Then Payton came along. Don't get me wrong. We love them all, but his older brothers have taught him every bit of mischief known to man and on top of that he's wound tight. He comes here every summer from their ranch in Colorado to spend time with our side of the family. And to give his parents a little breather.”

Maya groaned. Would he be like the two brothers across the street on Altadena Lane who had seemed interested only in wrestling on their front lawn, frying leaves with a magnifying glass, and spitting in the gutter? Besides, Maya wasn't ready to leave this house. She wanted to soak up all the little details of her mother's life. She wanted to sit and gaze at her father's painting for a very long time. What could she say to convince them to let her stay?

“Oh, that's okay. You don't have to take me there just yet.” She tried to keep her voice light and matter-of-fact. “I'll wait for you. You can work during the day and I'll stay right here. I won't put a toe outside. I'm absolutely used to that and I can be extremely helpful. I actually did all the housework at Grandmother's: cleaning, laundry, floors, even cooking. I could scrub those cupboards and I could even clean the hearth in the other room. It's positively filthy and I can reach it easily with a stepstool. Then we can all go out to … the frontier … together.”

“Whoa! Sit down and eat your breakfast,” said Uncle Fig, putting a plate in front of Maya and tapping her on the head with a pot holder. “I'm the chief cook and bottle washer around here.”