The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (3)

Of course, the shotguns and pitchforks didn’t work. The mob barely got halfway down the hill before the land reacted. Mosquitoes swarmed, ravens circled overhead, the grass grew tiny thorns that drew blood. Discouraged, they turned around and went instead to the sheriff. He would run the witch out of their small town.

Sheriff David Palladino was the first Four Rivers local to introduce himself intentionally to Orquídea. And though they would go on to have an amiable relationship, which consisted of his keeping her grounds clear of nosy neighbors and her providing a daily hair-restoring tonic, there was a brief moment during their first encounter when Orquídea feared that, though she’d done everything right, she would have to go away.

Back then, Sheriff Palladino was twenty-three and on his first year of the job. He still had peach fuzz on his upper lip that wouldn’t grow and a full head of hair that made up for his too-wide nostrils, which let you see the tunnels of his nasal passages. His bright blue eyes gave him the effect of an owl, not wise but scared, which wasn’t good for the job. He’d never made a collar, because in Four Rivers there was no crime. The only murder on record would happen in 1965, when a truck driver would be found gutted on the side of the road. The killer was never caught. Even the fifty-year feud between the Roscoes and Davidsons was resolved just before he took up the seat of Sheriff. If the last Sheriff hadn’t died of an aneurysm on his desk at the age of eighty-seven, Palladino might still be a deputy.

After days of pressure from the townsfolk to find out about the newcomers (Who were these people? Where were their land deeds, their papers, their passports?), Palladino drove down the single dusty road that led to the strange house in the valley. When he arrived, he could hardly believe what he was looking at.

As a kid, he’d ridden bikes with his friends, shredding their shins on the bare rocks. Now, he inhaled the dark, freshly turned earth and grass. If he closed his eyes, he’d think he was far away from Four Rivers, and in some verdant, distant grove. But when he opened them, he was inarguably in front of the house owned by Orquídea Divina Montoya. He lifted his wide-brimmed hat to scratch his wheat-blond hair, matted at the temples in worm-like curls. As he rapped his knuckles against the door, he noticed the way the laurel leaves on the wood shimmered.

Orquídea answered, lingering at the threshold. She was younger than he’d expected, perhaps twenty years old. But there was something about her nearly black eyes that spoke of knowing too much too soon.

“Hi, ma’am,” he said, then stumbled on his clumsy tongue. “Miss. I’m Sheriff Palladino. There’s been some coyote sightings around the area, killing off livestock, and even poor Mrs. Livingston’s purebred hypoallergenic poodle. Just wanted to swing by and introduce myself and make sure y’all are all right.”

“No coyotes that we’ve seen,” Orquídea said in a crisp, regionless English. “I thought you might be here about the mob that tried to visit me a week ago.”

He blushed and lowered his head in shame at being caught lying. Although the story about coyotes was mostly true. Among the complaints he’d received was that the new Mexican family were witches who used coyotes as familiars. Another call had said that the dried-up valley no one ever went to except for vagrants and vagabond youths looking to skip school was being changed and they couldn’t have that. Four Rivers didn’t change. Palladino couldn’t understand why anyone would be opposed to change that looked like this—fresh and strong and vibrant. Life where there was nothing before. It was a goddamn miracle, but he had to do his duty by the townspeople he was sworn to protect. Which brought him to the next complaint. Illegals, a woman had whispered on the phone before hanging up. The family in the valley had shown up in the middle of the night, after all. Land was not supposed to be free. It had to be owned by someone—a person or the government. How had it gone for so long without being claimed?

“Would you like some coffee?” Orquídea asked with a smile that left him a little dizzy.

He’d been raised to never refuse a kind, neighborly gesture, and so he accepted. Palladino tipped his hat, then cradled it against his chest as he entered the house. “Thank you, miss.”

“Orquídea Divina Montoya,” she said. “But you can call me Orquídea just fine.”

“I studied Spanish at the community college. That means ‘orchid’ right?”

“Very good, Sheriff.”

She stepped aside. A young woman about half his height, yet somehow, she felt as tall as the wooden beams above. She looked at his feet, watching carefully as he stepped over the threshold. He couldn’t have been sure, but it looked like she was waiting to see, not if he would enter, but if he physically could. Her shoulders relaxed, but her dark eyes remained wary.

As tall as he was, he felt himself shrink to put her at ease. Even left his gun in his glove compartment.

For the most part, David Palladino was like every other citizen of Four Rivers who’d never left. He didn’t need to be anywhere else, didn’t want to go. Before he found his purpose as a police officer, most days he was happy to get out of bed and get through the day. He believed in the goodness of people and that his grandmother’s soup could cure just about any injury. But magic? The kind that people were accusing Orquídea of? He chalked it up to old folks with dregs of lost myths stuck under their tongues. Magic was for the nickel machines at the summer carnival.