The Wilder Sisters (10 page)

On the west wall, Mami’s O’Keeffe hung alone in a
nicho
carved deep into the plaster. It was a small painting, one of the flower series, made all the more captivating because so little attention had been called to it. More than anything in this house, that painting reminded Lily of Mami’s power, which at times seemed to exist as its own separate force of nature. As she’d often done when she was a child, and pissed off at something her mother’d made her do, she reached out an index finger and touched the canvas.
Take that
, she used to whisper when she committed the unforgivable sin of Touching the O’Keeffe. Just thinking the words made her smile.

Buddy sighed at her feet, and Lily turned away from the pictures. She fed and watered the dog and then, in the downstairs bath, stripped off her clothes and ran the shower. Under the fine spray, she shampooed her long hair and hummed, wondering how Rose might react if her sister were to show up at her house tomorrow. She would still be pissed; however, two years of widowhood might have tempered her anger, made her see that life had a larger picture than one stupid prank. That silly high school graduation present to Second Chance was history. So what if the Martínezes got a little huffy? They’d needed to let their hair down for generations. Besides, nothing was ever going to get them over Mami marrying Chance Wilder, a Colorado cattleman possessing no New Mexican blood whatsoever. That was a mortal sin if ever there was one. Somewhere in all these years surely Rose had developed a sense of humor.

Lily wrapped herself in her dad’s terrycloth robe and rolled up the sleeves. In the kitchen she heated up a pan of tomato soup and

searched the cupboards for Krisprolls, but among the gallon cans of hominy and mammoth bags of tortilla chips, she found none. She took some cheese from the fridge and grated it onto toast. “Shopping tomorrow,” she told Buddy, who seemed thrilled with the available dog food, which was some special blend Mami used to feed her rescued greyhounds. “Provisions are required.”

Taking her mug, she settled in the swing on the porch that wrapped around the house, sipping her soup. Across the yard, Buddy was working out herd hierarchy with a half-dozen other barking caste members. Various good-looking horses neighed and lingered around the fenceline, hoping that Lily’s presence meant another meal or carrots. Shep’s light burned from inside the bunk- house, and Lily smiled. She’d bet money the wrangler was reading
Leaving Cheyenne
for the jillionth time.

For so long Lily’d imagined doing this, sitting here and starting at the Sangre de Cristos as they purpled in the growing dark. She thought about painting her toenails exactly that color. Surely Mami had that shade of polish upstairs in her bathroom. Lily had always appreciated color peeking through her nylons. When she was sur- rounded by men, toenail polish reminded her that at her utmost core, the place no man could ever reach, she was absolutely undeni- ably female. Little touches of femininity—imported lingerie, diamond earrings, a silver ankle bracelet worn under her hose—these things kept her moving through the most full-blown, messed-up bitch of a workday. Stockings made her think of the firemen and the whooshing blaze she’d started. If she didn’t pay the ticket, they’d come after her, if they could find her. In some ways her life felt like always being on call for jury duty. What an idiot idea that bonfire had been. Nevertheless, beneath her brief shame she felt excitement at having taken a metaphoric stand. Pantyhose might become a thing of the past, she thought as she admired her mountains—and they
were
her mountains. Just like Georgia O’Keeffe thought of El Pedernal as hers, Lily loved these mountains enough to claim possession. She dared anyone, even Georgia’s ghost, to try to take them from her.

The fall air cooled quickly. Crickets chirped, which meant that in six weeks, maximum, the first frost would hit. Already the oak leaves were turning among the golden aspen and thin slivers of willow. The gambel oaks would eventually glow orange against the moun- tainside. Lily lit some stubby piñon chunks in the
chimenea
and in- haled the

smoky perfume. A few of the hardier no-see-ums hovered around her, working the last of the season, but Lily had never been the one whose skin they sought. Rose was the sister with sweet blood. Out of doors in the summer, within ten minutes Rose was a mess of bites and slathering calamine on her raw skin. Lily ran around half naked and hardly ever got bitten. She missed her sister fiercely. There was no one else in the world she could sit next to in the dark without saying a word and know that she understood exactly what Lily was thinking. Shep came close sometimes, but Lily’s logic annoyed him. Not even Buddy was telepathic like she and Rose could be. A person could hate her sister forever and underneath the anger she’d still take a bullet in her name. Lily pictured them as young girls, their coltish bodies dressed in matching white nighties with pink ribbon drawstrings at the neck. They sat up in the dark in Rose’s double bed long after they were supposed to be asleep, tracing designs on each other’s back. It was one of their secret games, drawing on each other, then allowing five guesses as to what it was they’d drawn. Rose, no artist, usually sketched predictably, easy-to-guess things like horses or sunflowers. Lily got all sidetracked with the narrative end of things, creating steep mountain passes, the swift current of the Rio Grande cutting into the earth, details that stretched all the way down to individual rocks before she got to the horses. Often Rose fell asleep with Lily’s fingers still at work.

It was time to go indoors, make up one of the beds, and let this day be finished. The drive had exhausted her, but she sat stubbornly on the swing, hugging her arms around her chilly shoulders, unwill- ing to give up the wide-open space and lengthening shadows for an indoor bed. This ranch nourished her. It wasn’t about money, though it made enough to keep her mother in a private plane and designer clothing. It was that everything here felt timeless and solid. The horses snorted in the corral, the embers glowed in the
chimenea
, Buddy’s occasional snores reminded Lily that time was passing, this was real life, and when she woke up tomorrow it would still be here, but she couldn’t shut her eyes on it, not just yet. Finally she dragged a sleeping bag down from the camping closet and snuggled in, zip- ping the soft flannel high up around her neck. She lay back in the porch swing and gave it a push that set it to gentle rocking.
I’m home
, she thought pleasantly, one hand grazing the top of Buddy’s head as he stayed close, curled up beneath the swing, protecting his mis- tress.

Lily’s day began at sunup, when Shep nudged her shoulder and said, “Time to ride, Sleeping Beauty.” Lily opened her eyes to a cup of coffee brewed so strongly that one sniff seared her sinuses and caused her to gasp. “I have to take a shower,” she complained, but her father’s wrangler would hear none of that. “No point when you’re going to get dirty all over again. Throw on your trousers and boots. Let’s get to work.”

Shep allowed her enough time to brush her teeth and put on a T- shirt, then he directed her through the barn, pointing out horse after horse, chattering instructions all the while. Lily nodded and began bridling each animal with its own particular bit and gimmicks. Riding rent-string horses in Southern California, she’d forgotten how many varieties of bits there were, and how many buckles and straps and martingales were needed to fine-tune an animal in training. By midmorning, she’d lost count of how many horses she’d exercised, and her thigh muscles were humming. Shep indicated a particular horse; Lily saddled it and rode. While he explained the work he’d done previously, Lily moved the horse through his gaits: walk, trot, canter in hand, transitions, again the trot, then cool the horse down with a long walk. Other trainers employed a hot-walker, which cut time, but for Shep Hallford it was the old-fashioned ride all the way, a trademark of what you got when you bought from El Rancho Costa Plente. Whenever Lily suspected lameness, she called out to Shep, and only then would he mount the horse and ride a few laps, his head bent at a peculiar angle, frowning as if the beat of the horse’s hooves against the arena sand would tell him what he needed to know. During those brief time-outs, Lily caught her breath, drank from the water hose, and occasionally shook her head in awe of Shepherd Hallford on horseback. Her father’s wrangler was on the downhill slope toward seventy, but on a horse his age couldn’t have mattered less. The old man didn’t
ride
, he more or less tried to stay out of the way while encouraging the horse’s innate talents to surface. He dressed like a redneck and eschewed proper grammar, but place him on the back of any decent equine and he couldn’t hide the fact that his riding history ranged from hunt seat to dressage to third- level grand prix.

Shep’s schedule was to start out working the easier horses, older ones who weren’t used for anything more strenuous than trail riding, and then those already broken to saddle. After a couple hours of that,

he moved Lily to the newest horses, animals in training her father was looking to sell and wanted in top shape to show at a moment’s notice. These horses were green-broke, only ridden a couple of times, a little unpredictable, and a far cry from exactly tame. Of course these were Lily’s favorite mounts. Faced by a fractious personality, the haughty spirit of a young animal, she’d be happy to fall off horses all day long. The first time she got thrown that day, she lay on her back squinting up at the sky, trying to figure how this particular horse had managed to get the best of her. “What was it? My leg?” she asked Shep. “Have I completely lost my chops?”

“Nah. That one’s sneaky,” he answered. “Throws me every time.

Which is why I let you ride him.”

“Thanks buckets, Shep. What would happen if we took him out of the Pelham bit and tried a mechanical hackamore?”

“You know how I feel about hackamores.” “So? I know how to use one properly.” “Suddenly you’re a bitting expert?”

“Well, golly gee, Shepherd, what the hell difference does it make if it’s the wrong choice? I’m lying here in the dirt, and the horse thinks he won. Let’s try it before he starts telling all the others.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Shep changed the bridles and Lily legged the sur- prised horse into a trot. A hackamore looked deceptive, as if it were no more punishing than a halter, but there was metal underneath. Lily’d learned that the lightest hands were required for this type of tack to be effective. She fed rein out and watched her horse’s ears flick upright in surprise. His wonder was eventually replaced by a begrudging trust, and Lily took her feet out of the stirrups and rode in lazy circles.

“You ride like a sack of potatoes,” Shep teased her from the fenceline.

Lily threw her head back and laughed. She didn’t give a damn what she looked like riding. She’d gained the horse’s trust in just under a half hour. From now on, she’d do whatever was necessary to avoid breaking her neck. No horse was going to get the better of her. She could tell Shep admired her way with animals, even if it’d kill him to say so out loud.

By noon her calves were throbbing from teaching green horses the concept of yielding to her leg, and she could feel the bruised skin inside her breeches already swelling. Most of the horses knew what she

wanted, but it was in the animal’s deeper nature to resist. As far as the equine population was concerned, nothing beat standing around slapping tails, hogging the whatever, and ignoring humans—that is, until mealtime rolled around. Lily had a little bit of a headache since all she’d had for breakfast was Shep’s coffee. She hoped the mild throbbing in her left eye socket wasn’t thinking of becoming a full-blown migraine. She dismounted and stood in the shade of the barn, her legs wobbling slightly from work. “Shep, if I’m going to ride another horse, I need pesto and Krisprolls. Nothing else is going to cut it. I think I’ll ride Georgia into town, pick up some groceries. Feed us both.”

Shep knotted the horse’s reins in his fist. He scratched his nose and thought a while. “I ain’t hungry. But if you have to go, seems like driving your fancy car would be faster.”

“Absolutely not,” Lily said. “I want to wave hi to everyone I pass. Let them know who’s back in Floralee. I’ve been anticipating doing that every single minute since I got here. First, however, I plan to change into my French bikini.”

Shep began taking the tack off the horse she’d ridden. He didn’t speak.

“Ha ha, Shep. I was kidding.”

He didn’t smile. “You ask me, your father was too easy on the both of you. Rose wanders around acting all dreamy, you talk bold just so you can raise a little hell. I reckon it’d take a whole roll of duct tape to shut you up. But so long as you’re hell-bent on taking a break, pick me up a spool of fencing wire at the hardware. Tell them I want the same kind as last time, and to put it on your pop’s account.” He handed her a cloth backpack. “This ought to hold it.” “Will you hang on to Buddy for me?” All morning the blue heeler had lurked under one of the ranch trucks, peering out anxiously. Whenever he ventured forth a couple of inches, one of the ranch dogs came over and snarled, and back under the truck Buddy went.

He had an oil spot on his head so large it looked as if he’d been marked by Jody Jr. as cootie dog deluxe.

Shep looked at the heeler and said, “Lily, that dog of yours puts me in mind of a nancy boy. Have you had his hormones checked?” “Cut him some slack, Shep. Buddy’s a city pooch. He understands concrete, not dirt. Give him a week, he’ll get the hang of things. You

be good, Buddy,” she called out to her dog. “You mind Shep.”

“He’d best stay parked under that truck,” Shep said.

Lily unsaddled the horse she’d been riding and led Georgia, a stunning flea-bitten gray Morgan mare, out of the barn. She brushed Georgia’s back and threw a bridle over her, then checked her feet for stones. Satisfied, she pulled herself up and felt every one of her sore muscles complain, but the cure for that was more riding. She started down the road bareback, passing the landing strip where her mother’s plane would eventually once again be parked. She legged the horse into a brisk trot as soon as they came to the road. Lily began to post, rising gently, sitting a beat until she found a rhythm comfortable to them both. Georgia’s ears flicked back and forth, listening to Lily’s leg. She was such a trustworthy horse that Lily fed her a long, loose rein, and every now and then, shut her eyes and sleepily let the horse lead the way.