Sunset Ranch (7 page)

I twisted more hair into the braid, admiring the way the lighter strands looked against the darker ones. Blond hair always looked best in a French braid, so much better than brown. “Yeah, yesterday, when we were out by the stable.” I braided the last section and wrapped a hair tie around it. “There, that looks really good.”

Dana sat up and trailed her fingers along the intricate weaving on the back of her head. “You got it so tight—thank you! That's my favorite way.” She went over to the mirror and looked at the back with a mirror compact. “Well, I'd say if he asked just you and he wants to show you his favorite secret trail, then that's a date. He totally likes you! Aren't you excited?” She turned around and grasped both my hands, pulling me up from the bed. “He likes you, he likes you, he likes you!” she sang, dancing me around the room.

I collapsed on my bed, giddy now from the dancing and from the heady thought that Stephen might actually like me. Then I jumped up. “I have to decide what to wear!” I flung open my closet and pulled out several options. Dana sat back down on the bed, as serious as an editor at a fashion show.

“Okay, option one.” I pulled on a gray T-shirt that read
WINTER JAM
. “This is like the cool girlfriend who wears her boyfriend's clothes.”

Dana nodded. “Check. Guys like that.”

“But maybe a little boring?”

She considered. “Maybe.”

I held up my hand. “No fear.” I tugged the T-shirt over my head and shimmied into a black tank top. “Also sporty, but a little cuter. Also a little more girly.”

“Hmm, I like that one. And it shows off your tan.” She tapped her fingers on her front teeth. “Any others?”

I riffled through my clothes hangers as if shuffling cards. “Just a last one—I don't know about the long sleeves, though.” I pulled out a thin western-style shirt with pearl snaps in a soft pink-and-blue plaid. “My mom bought it for me when I decided to come out here.”

“Cute! Put it on,” Dana said, then considered me as I snapped it up. “That fits great. And you have the whole cowgirl look going, which is adorable.”

I stared at myself in the mirror. “But what about the long sleeves?”

“Here.” She jumped off the bed. “Do them like this.” She rolled them to my elbow, then undid one more snap down the front. “There. It looks cute. And you look like a real Colorado chick, which Stephen will love. His last girlfriend was a native, you know.”

“
Last
girlfriend.” I sank down on the bed and stared at her. It hadn't even occurred to me that of course he must have had others. “What was she like? How ‘last' was she?” I parted my hair in the middle and started twisting one side into a braid.

Dana tilted her head. “Um, let's see—well, it was last summer and she was one of the maids. I think she was a year older than him. They were super gushy—like every second you saw them together, they'd be holding hands. He called her Button, seriously.”

“No!” I snorted laughter.
“Button?”

Dana nodded. “Oh yeah, it was nauseating. I think they were in touch all year until pretty recently. Maren. That was her name. She was really short, like five feet, and sort of cute—really blond, blue eyes.”

I finished doing my second braid and put down my brush. My giddiness trickled away like air from an old balloon. “And they were gushy?”

Dana sat down beside me on the bed. “She was totally annoying. Everyone thought so.”

“Except Stephen.”

“Yeah.” Her voice was reluctant. “And Rick, actually. I think they knew each other from school. He used to go down to the laundry room and flirt with her.” She frowned. “Then Stephen and Rick had a big fight—over her, I guess. It was bad. They got into it during dinner one night, and Stephen actually shoved Rick over a bench. I thought Rick was going to tear Stephen's head off with his bare hands. Both Jack and Miguel had to hold him back.”

“Seriously?” I stared at her. “I can't believe Stephen would hit Rick. He always seems kind of scared of him.”

Dana shrugged. “Maybe he was mad his brother was flirting with Maren. It
was
pretty egregious of Rick. We were all kind of shocked he would be that obvious about it. Anyway, Stephen practically crawled on his knees in front of Rick the rest of the summer.”

I could believe that. “What happened to Maren?”

“She left early. Some story about a place in an acting program opening up. But I think she wanted to leave after all that drama.” Dana got up from the bed and picked up her toothbrush.

I stood up too, but more slowly. My mind was swimming with all she'd told me. I had the sense of a muddy, slow-moving river coursing beneath the peaceful pastures of the ranch. The water was murky and dark with memories.

Chapter
Seven

I walked down the dusty
little path that twisted among thick clumps of silver-white sagebrush. The ground under my feet was hard, baked, the dirt a rich rosy orange. Reddish dust powdered my hiking boots and the hem of my jeans. Towering red rock rose on either side of the path. Their faces were faintly rough, porous, like adobe—not like Ohio's shale. The corners of these giant rocks were rounded, holes and bridges carved out by thousands of years of wind. Some were twisted into weird shapes—little towers swirled like ice cream; round balls balanced on spires; platforms of rock extended out from the sheer sides. Every huge rock was studded with dozens of small holes, and now and then we passed a couple of rock ­climbers, clinging to the walls like giant, brightly colored spiders.

The air down on the trail was absolutely still, held in by the sun-warmed rocks, and scented with the sharp fragrance of sage. I stopped to inspect a little orange-and-purple flower that grew close to the ground. It reminded me of a little flame held between stiff green leaves. “Indian paintbrush,” Stephen said, stopping beside me. “And those are roses.” He pointed to a brambly bush with simple, white flowers.

“Really?” I looked more closely at the flowers. “They don't look like roses.”

“They're wild, so they look different. Smell them, you'll see.”

I sensed his eyes on me as I bent down. The scent was strong and sweet in the warm, still air. “Mmm. You're right.” I straightened up and caught him staring at me. I swallowed and smiled back, and suddenly the air between us was electric, as if energy had passed back and forth.

“How do you know about flowers?” I asked as we started walking again. I was behind him now, and looking at his back made it easier to talk.

“I like stuff like that,” he said over his shoulder. “I'm the nerd reading wildflower guides for fun.”

I remembered I hadn't told him about my discovery about Magic earlier. “Hey, I had a revelation about the buckskin earlier.” I recounted the trough incident. “So, my theory is that he's afraid of running water.” I looked at Stephen sideways to gauge his reaction. “What do you think? Like maybe someone tried to force him to get near water, maybe the same person who beat him?”

Stephen nodded, thinking. “Yeah, that definitely seems ­possible. We'll have to test it out some more.” He was quiet, walking beside me on the path, his tanned hands wedged into the shoulder straps of his backpack.

I cast him a glance. “What are you thinking about?” I winced a little as the words came out of my mouth. Ryan Davis had once told me that guys hated that question.

Stephen raised a finger to his mouth and gnawed at a nail. “Not much. Did you think Rick mean what he said this morning?” His forehead was furrowed. “About assistant trainer, I mean.” A slight note of desperation had crept into his voice. I looked at him more closely. He continued to gnaw his fingernail. His other nails were bitten to the quick.

“I don't really know him that well,” I said carefully. I felt like I had stepped unknowingly off the boardwalk in a bog. There might be quicksand nearby, but I didn't know where it was.

“This is it. Rick's finally giving me a chance.” Stephen continued to bite his fingers.

I stopped on the path and gently pulled his hand from his mouth. Blood rimmed the top of his index fingernail. We both looked down at it; then our eyes met. He shifted his grasp so that he was holding my hand. I inhaled. He gazed at my face an instant longer, then released my hand.

We started walking again. The path inclined slightly now. The giant red rocks were behind us, giving way to arid scrub. Stephen's footsteps scrunched on the dusty gravelly path. After a minute, he spoke. “It's just my brother. It's like my whole life, I've never been good enough for him. I'm always the one trying; he's always the one deciding. Even when we were younger, my dad would put him in charge of the chores, and if I didn't do them right, he'd whip Rick with a yardstick.”

I winced. “Seriously?” Stephen's dad sounded like the dad in
The Red Pony
, the John Steinbeck novel we'd read last year in English. In other words, totally scary.

Stephen nodded. “That's just how it is out where we are.” He shrugged. “Rick won't admit that I'm not ten anymore, though.” His voice rose in frustration. “I'm never good enough for him—just like when we were little.”

We were halfway up the incline, and I was definitely puffing now. I sank down on a large flat rock to one side of the path and dug my water bottle from my backpack. “Rick kind of scares me,” I admitted, taking a big gulp of water to clear my dust-parched throat.

Stephen remained standing on the path, hands looped under his backpack straps again, gazing off toward the top of the hill. “He's not a bad guy. He just likes to see us do right, that's all. He doesn't mean to come off so harsh.”

I stood up and shoved my water bottle back into my pack. We started up the incline again.

“Vulture.” Stephen pointed above us.

I squinted up. “How can you tell? I thought it was a hawk.”

He gazed at it, his head tipped back and his curling auburn hair brushing the collar of his T-shirt. “The wings. Vultures are darker, and their wings have these separate feathers that curl up at the end a little. Vultures also tip back and forth in the air. Hawks hold perfectly still.”

I stared at the big black bird soaring in the azure sky. “I can see the ends of the wings, just like you said.”

He didn't respond, and I looked over and caught him ­watching me.

“What is it?” I put my hand to my hair, suddenly self-conscious.

He paused. “Your eyes are so blue.” Then he flushed and started walking again so quickly he stumbled over a rock.

I was glad he was in front of me so he wouldn't see the smile I couldn't keep off my face.

Stephen stopped. “There it is!”

I looked around. We were standing in the middle of the path surrounded by rocks and trees, and a small blue lizard perched on a rock by my foot. “What?”

“The secret trail I was telling you about. We have to crawl through here.” Stephen pushed aside the boughs of a small pine tree, and bending down, I saw a tunnel in the rock face behind it. It looked deep and very dark.

“Seriously?” My voice sounded a little squeaky. “Go through there?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Stephen held the branches to one side for me. “You'll have to crawl. The trail's on the other side. There's an amazing overlook at the top.”

I did
not
want to look like a prissy girl in front of Stephen, so I crouched down and started wiggling through. I wondered how big my bottom looked from his angle. “Did I mention that I panic in small spaces?” I called out the opening.

“You're doing fine,” he called back in. “Keep going.”

The tunnel was cool and the rock slightly damp. It was only about fifteen feet long but a tight enough fit that I felt a wave of claustrophobia envelop me. I made myself take two deep breaths and thought of the time I'd gotten stuck in a similar tunnel at the playground when I was babysitting. A queue of annoyed preschoolers and their mothers had watched for an embarrassingly long time as I tried to pry myself out. I banished the thought of Stephen having to push me through the tunnel and heaved myself out the other end, flopping onto the dirt and gasping like a beached fish.

I climbed to my feet quickly and dusted off my front while Stephen nimbly wiggled through, already scanning the rise of a slope just ahead of us. “Here we go!” He pointed to a small path weaving through the brushy ground, then grabbed my hand, and together we climbed, panting, up the last rise of the mountain.

Halfway up I stopped, resting my hands on my knees, my lungs straining in the unaccustomed altitude. The sun beat down and I felt the beginnings of a headache.

“How far up is it?” The incline seemed endless. We'd left the rock climbers far behind. There were only us, the huge slope, and the vast, azure sky with the sun beating down like it was trying to bore a hole directly into my skull.

Stephen took a clean, folded bandanna from his pocket and tipped some water onto it. Then he laid the cool, wet cloth on the back of my neck. It felt heavenly. “Just a couple more minutes,” he said, his forehead creased with concern. “I'm sorry—I forgot how high we are.”

I tied the bandanna's ends around my neck and took a big swig of my water. My headache backed off a couple notches. “I'm okay.” I smiled at him.

“It's totally worth it. Here, check this out.” He ducked behind me so that we were standing single file on the path with me in front.

Before I could ask what we were doing, I felt his hands pushing at my back.

“What . . . ?” I tried to turn around.

“Start walking,” he instructed.

“You're crazy!” But when I did start walking, I almost fell over. It was like being carried up the hill. His strong arms pushed me as I walked, giving me an assist with every step. “This is awesome!” I laughed. “I'm going to have to take you everywhere with me.”

“Or at least up every hill.” He was deliciously close. Then he stopped. “Okay, check it out.”

At first I could only see the last section of path. Then I turned around, and behind me was spread a panorama of snowy blue peaks rearing into the sky. I caught my breath. “So pretty,” I breathed. “Wow.” I inhaled the thin, cool air. It was as sweet as perfume.

We sat side by side on a sun-warmed boulder edged with ­ruffled lichen, hands clasped around our knees, the wind blowing through our damp hair. “What's that one?” I pointed to a particularly craggy peak rearing up to the northwest.

Stephen squinted at it. “Pikes Peak—the tallest one in the Rockies.” He fished a compass in a black case from his pocket. He clicked open the lid, which had a vertical slit in it. Then he leaned over and held it up. “Here, take a look.”

I peered through the slit. “I only see the ground.”

“Here.” He edged behind me and put both arms over my shoulders so my back was to his front. I swallowed and tried to keep from falling off the mountain. He positioned the compass in front of me. “Can you see it now?”

The top of the peak was perfectly framed in the compass now. “Yes,” I said faintly. He moved an inch closer. Bolts of electricity zinged through me. I swallowed. He still held up the compass, but we both knew neither of us was looking at it.

Then the sun slipped behind a cloud, darkening the landscape. He snapped the compass closed and stepped back. I knelt and fumbled with my shoelace until my face cooled off.

“Ready to head back down? It looks like rain—storms can come up pretty fast up here.” Stephen reached a hand down, and I grasped it and pulled myself up.

He held my fingers a moment longer than usual. I could have spoken then, but I didn't. And he didn't either—just turned and started walking down the path.