Beyond the Farthest Star (4 page)

“You have the Internet here, don’t you?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t think I moved here without checking you all out.”

“Oh. That.”

“Leonard Bullriders?”

“Can I sit down?” Stephen slid into a chair and grinned again.

“Your buddies are looking at you.”

“Kyle and Clifford.”

“Disapproving.”

“So what?”

“What? They don’t like the way I dress?”

“You in mournin’?”

“Yes.”

“Somebody die?”

“Me.”

“No life after California, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Lighten up. It’s not all that dark.”

“Your horse is black.”

“Her name is Midnight.”

“Wow. Really. How’d you come up with that?” Her tone dripped with sarcasm.

He paused. “We’ve all been waitin’ for you to try to eat that spaghetti.”

“I bet you have.”

“… or maybe throw it at somebody.”

“I thought about it. Your girlfriend, for instance. That one?” She inclined her head toward Susan, who fumed at them.

“She’s not my—”

“Whatever. Her name is Britney, right?”

“Susan.”

“Her face looks like Midnight to me.”

“We were goin’ out for a while.”

“Did you take her for midnight rides?”

“Sometimes.”

“Barbie and Ken on the prairie.”

Stephen stretched. “You’ve got a chip on your shoulder …”

“… and you’ve got a chip on your boot. Should I ask Britney—”

“Susan.”

“Should I ask her if she minds you talking to me?”

“You’re too smart for that, right?” “Right, Sticks-boy.”

“Call me Stephen. And you … You’re Annie Wells.”

“If you have to call me anything, call me Anne.”

“Annie. Question is, Annie-girl … can I call you?”

Anne walked across campus in the midst of the Bullriders. Raised eyebrows from the campus princesses indicated disapproval. Which of the boys was spoken for? Anne wondered. Was she trespassing?

“I’ve got to go back to my locker,” she said. “You guys go on.”

“Lemme go with you.” Stephen was two steps behind. “Wait at the pickup,” he instructed Kyle and Clifford.

It was then that Anne saw the resentment in Kyle’s blazing green eyes. “You’ll make me late. Sheriff don’t like it if I’m late.”

Stephen waved him away. “Chill.”

Kyle and Clifford waited impatiently beside the pickup as Stephen walked Anne to her locker.

She fiddled with the combination lock in the deserted corridor. “Kyle doesn’t like me much,” she remarked, extracting her English textbook from the locker.

“Kyle doesn’t like anybody much.”

“Except you.”

“Friends since we were kids.”

“He worried I’ll mess that up?”

“He’s worried he’ll be late. Workin’ off community service at the sheriff’s office.”

“Probation?”

“Stole a TV from the motel.”

“Stupid.”

She closed her locker, reset the combination, and they headed out the door of the school.

“His old man beats him up pretty good. Jackson Tucker’s a drunk. Beats up Kyle’s stepmom too. Kyle’s better off working at the sheriff’s office than goin’ straight home. Sheriff Burns can keep an eye on the situation that way, if you know what I mean.”

“So why’s he stay with his dad?” Anne raised her face to see Kyle’s fierce eyes boring into her. Dangerous. Maybe Kyle was like his dad.

“Where’s he gonna go?” Stephen waved as they approached the pickup.

“Took you long enough,” Kyle growled and started to get into the cab.

Stephen shook his head. “Hey! You think she’s gonna ride back there? She’s ridin’ up here with me.”

Another reason for Kyle to hate her. She had taken his seat beside Stephen in the cab of the pickup.

Kyle did not look at them when Stephen pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office. He leaped out, and Anne thought she heard him mutter, “Freak …”

S
TEPHEN LOVED THE SMELL OF THE BARN.
Midnight whinnied softly as he carried a flake of alfalfa to her feed trough. He rubbed her velvet nose and gazed deeply into her brown eyes. The big quarter horse was dead broke and as gentle as they came, but it had not always been so.

Stephen’s mama had bought her as a young filly destined for slaughter. She had been neglected, mistreated, and badly injured by barbwire. The scars around her neck and forelegs still remained.

“No hope for this one,” Potsy had said to his daughter. “She may be a registered quarter horse, but she ain’t worth a dime.”

But Stephen’s mama had seen something in her eyes. “There’s a great horse locked inside her,” she had told her dad at the sale yard. “Maybe she’ll be no good for anything but a kid’s horse, but Dad, it’s like I can see her heart. She wants to do good.”

So they had bought her for the price of horse meat on the hoof. Stephen had named her Midnight. His mama prayed and sang gospel hymns as she worked on her, bringing her back to life by love. And the filly had thrived and flourished. It was a wonder to Potsy what Stephen’s mama had done with this wild, crazy, beat-up horse.

And after the car wreck, when Stephen’s mama didn’t come home, Stephen had found comfort in the sweet call of Midnight when he fed her the first time.

Potsy had finished breaking Midnight and then had given her to Stephen on his seventh birthday. “Your mama meant for you to have Midnight as your own, Stephen. I know … scars are always gonna be there. Ain’t pretty, but I pray they’ll always be a reminder of what love can do.”

Tonight Stephen brushed Midnight’s strong, muscled shoulders. He traced the barbwire scars with his finger and remembered the potential for greatness that his mama first saw in the damaged filly. He remembered what love could do.

The scent of fresh alfalfa and horses filled Anne’s senses as she followed Stephen into the barn. Late-afternoon sunlight shone through gaps between the weathered boards. Dust motes spun in the silver beams. For the first time in months, Anne smiled.

Stephen spoke, low and gentle, to his mare. “Midnight. Hey, girl. Brought you a friend.”

A beautiful black head with kind, intelligent eyes extended over the gate of the stall. Anne raised her hand to stroke Midnight’s nose.

“So.” Stephen seemed pleased. “You like horses.”

“Rode some when we were in Montana. Didn’t know how much I missed it.”

“All right, then.” Stephen opened the tack room and passed a blue halter and lead rope to Anne. “Go get her. Tie her up over there.” He pointed to a hitching post just outside the barn. “We’ve still got a little light.”

“I … I’m glad …”

Stephen hefted the western saddle easily. “This was my mama’s. Ought to fit you fine.”

Lead rope slung over her arm, Anne strode to the stall door. Midnight lowered her big head for Anne to slip on the halter.
Anne patted Midnight’s neck and gasped. A long, jagged scar cut into the muscle and snaked down to her front shoulder.

“What happened to her?” Anne asked as she tied the mare off at the rail.

“Barbwire fence. She panicked. Fought it. Pretty bad injury.”

Anne unconsciously stroked her own forearms. “But … it’s wound around her like … a stripe on a candy cane.”

“Kyle used to call her Road Atlas.”

“Mean.”

Anne brushed her while Stephen cleaned her hooves. “Yeah. Mean. Then she won the jackpot … team ropin’ … still best in the county.”

Anne traced the lines on Midnight’s hide. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. All the love my mama put into savin’ this horse made her better. Sometimes bein’ hurt and bein’ healed makes critters appreciate kindness. You know?”

“She would have been beautiful too, except for …”

“She is beautiful. Take a look at those big brown eyes.” Stephen raised up and placed his hand on Midnight’s back while he grinned into Anne’s eyes. “Like yours. Sweet.”

“Wow. Really.” Anne backed up a step. “Too close. I can kick too, Stephen.”

He shrugged and slung the blanket and saddle onto Midnight. “Just scars. Not anything we can’t live with. She’s got heart, this girl. What happened in the past doesn’t make one bit of difference to her bein’ sound. Not one bit.”

Anne’s face clouded. “Sounds like a sermon to me. Who are you talking about?”

“Midnight. Who else?” Stephen smiled and offered her the reins.

Anne stood at the stirrup for a long moment, her heart pounding. A sudden terror gripped her as she remembered who she had
been three years ago in Montana. Someone different. Someone happy. Before she got caught in the wire.

Suddenly she stepped away from the horse. “Stephen, I … I’m in the wire, see? Don’t remember what it was like … before … Don’t know if I can …” She was panting.

Stephen touched her shoulder, and she flinched as though his touch was a flame to burn her. “Okay. Okay. It’s okay. We’ll do it another time. You want me to take you home?”

“Home,” she said hollowly. “Where?”

“Home, Annie-girl.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve been home, Stephen.” She traced Midnight’s roadmap hide. “Montana’s somewhere … up here I think. Home.”

“One strand at a time, Annie. We’ll find the way.”

The neighbors around Clifford’s house were complaining about the noise of the Leonard Bullriders. Clifford’s mom said the rent was too good a deal to lose their place over a couple of electric guitars and drums. “So she says we’ll get evicted if we don’t move,” Clifford explained. The three boys sat dejectedly on the front step. “Bullriders was your idea. Your band,” Clifford said to Kyle. “Why don’t we practice at your house?”

Kyle slapped him on the back of the head. “That’s why. My old man.”

Clifford rubbed his head. “That hurt.”

Kyle shrugged. “You haven’t felt hurt till my old man comes home and hears us practicin’. Why not your place, Stephen?”

Stephen pressed his lips together. “Potsy says it puts the chickens off layin’ and the cows off milkin’. No way.” He paused, then remarked, “Annie.”

“Huh?” Kyle and Clifford exclaimed at the same moment.

“She sings,” Stephen explained.

“So?” Clifford was not over Kyle’s blow.

Stephen pondered the situation. “She said she sings. We could use a female backup singer. She’s a preacher’s kid. Who’s gonna complain if the preacher’s daughter has a band practicin’ in the parsonage garage?”

Kyle emptied the trash in Sheriff Burns’s office. A box of homemade fudge was open on the sheriff’s desk.

“From Maggie, the church secretary.” The rotund sheriff shoved the candy toward his deputy, Harliss Williams. “Help yourself. Doc says too much of this stuff’ll kill me.” He plucked out a morsel and popped it into his mouth, savoring the flavor. “Killer fudge.”

The deputy narrowed his eyes appreciatively and selected the largest piece. “A bribe, huh? No more parking tickets?”

“Deacon Brown’s wife sent over sugar cookies.” Sheriff Burns patted his stomach.

Kyle’s stomach growled. He did not look up when the sheriff cleared his throat.

“Okay, Kyle. I hear you, boy. Want some fudge?”

Kyle shrugged and leaned on his broom. “Y’all can laugh at me, but this is no time to be jokin’ about cookies and candy. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. The preacher’s daughter … that freak … is gonna make this town the next Columbine.”

The sheriff’s smile faded, and he leaned forward. “What’re you talking about, boy?”

The deputy’s fingers hovered about the fudge. He scowled. “There’s a law against joking about such things.”

Sheriff Burns pressed him. “What’re you saying, Kyle?”

“She’s psycho.”

“No crime in being different.” The deputy resumed selecting his next piece of candy.

Kyle raised his chin and locked his gaze fiercely on the sheriff’s eyes. “I mean, she really is. Psycho freak. Takes pills for it. You should’ve heard her talkin’ … crazy.” Kyle looked over the deputy’s head. “Annie Wells is like … she’s crazy, like I said.”

“If you’ve got something to say, Kyle, you’d best say it.” The sheriff leaned back from his desk, crossed his arms, and scooted a chair toward Kyle. “Sit down, boy. Have a piece of fudge.”