The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(56)
“Your father?” I asked blankly. As far as I knew, I’d never met the man.
“Morgan Begay—he brought the horses.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “But I haven’t seen him since.”
“He must get updates from Olin. They’re tight.”
“Reuben’s been teaching me, too,” said Bree. “I have more room for improvement than you, Jo.”
“You didn’t ride back home?” I asked. “Virginia, right?”
“Hampton Roads. Very old family. My parents are both at NASA Langley. I, on the other hand, always wanted to teach.”
“But not in Virginia . . .”
“Oh, I did, for a while. After I graduated William and Mary, I taught for a bit in Norfolk. Third grade. But one night . . .” She frowned as if trying to pull up a faded memory. “One night, that all changed.”
She sounded oddly wistful.
“What happened?” I asked.
Bree concentrated harder. “I was out with friends at a concert at the Coliseum. Little Phish. I was heading home right after, and there was a trucker talking on the cell with his boy, saying good night. The phone slipped. He went to catch it and jerked the wheel just enough to cross the center line. Hit me head-on.”
“Oh, God,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Were you hurt bad?”
“About as banged up as you can be. I’m fine now, of course. The poor trucker, though—I doubt he’s gotten over it.”
“I don’t know if I could be so forgiving,” I said.
“I bet you would,” she said. “Anyway, I needed a change. That’s how I ended up in Morro—just felt drawn to the place. And after I met Reuben, I knew why.”
Drawn to the place? I wondered if she had the same reaction to the Mountain as I did.
Bree took Reuben’s hand and squeezed it, and Reuben gazed back at her with every ounce of heart and soul right there in his eyes. I felt a pang of envy—no man had ever looked at me that way.
“How’d you two meet?” I asked.
“She stabbed me,” said Reuben.
Bree groaned. “I didn’t. It was a little dart and never touched a lick of skin. It hit your boot!”
Simon noticed my confusion. “The pub down the road has dartboards,” he explained. “And, well, some people have better aim than others.”
Reuben pointed to the toe of one worn cowboy boot. “I still have the hole.”
“I’ll buy you another pair,” said Bree.
“I like these just fine,” he said, pulling her hand to his lips to kiss her fingertips. “Even if they do leak when it rains.”
That was when my old habit kicked in, and I began to watch them over my wineglass for telltale cracks in those happy, shiny surfaces. For a note too sour, a look too sharp . . .
But I could detect nothing wrong. Nothing rang false or out of place between them—not a single, solitary fraudulent thing.
And I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself.
“Joanna,” said Simon, “you and Reuben have something in common. You both studied in Albuquerque, right?”
“Another Lobo, eh?” Reuben asked.
“It was years ago,” I said. “Only three semesters.”
“Double features at Don Pancho’s . . .” he said with a smile. “Ice cream at the Purple Hippo . . .”
I smiled back. I knew those places well. “Cinnamon buns at the Frontier—that’s where I packed on my freshman ten,” I said. “The Living Batch Bookstore . . .”
Memories that had been long dormant came rushing back in an instant—familiar, yet foreign, too. As if they were from somebody else’s life. It didn’t seem possible it had once been mine.
“I had no idea those places were still around,” I said. “But they must be—you couldn’t have graduated that long ago.”
“I didn’t graduate, either. A couple years, I was back home. I missed my family. I missed—” He shrugged. “I missed my father. And by then I was drinking. My uncle in Shiprock took me to help with the ranch. Herding ponies on motorcycles, whipping in and out of arroyos . . .” His eyes began to shine. “That was a good year. But even that wasn’t enough. We’d go to Wheeler to drink our paychecks—no alcohol sales on the rez. I started to hate the idea of going back to the ranch. And one day, I didn’t.”
Tamara Dietrich's Books
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