Beyond the Farthest Star Page 4

  “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 …”

  Chapter Four

  STEPHEN 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.”

  PART TWO

  If the stars should appear

  but one night every thousand years,

  how man would marvel and stare.

  adapted from Ralph Waldo Emerson,

  Nature and Selected Essays

  Chapter Five

  TWO MONTHS HAD PASSED since the Wellses arrived in Leonard, and the season had slipped past Thanksgiving into the beginning of December. Tonight the streets were deserted. Given that it was past eleven at night, with a chill wind stretching icy fingers all the way from Canada across Oklahoma, the citizens of Leonard preferred their warm living rooms or even warmer beds.

  Earlier in the evening the town had bustled with holiday cheer. Coffee cups in Jeffrey’s Diner were served embellished with peppermint candy canes—ninety-nine cents for two dozen at the Piggly Wiggly.

  Down on the corner of Main and Second, Willy Potrero had waited until tonight to unveil the Christmas art decorating the front window of his barber shop—an annual Christmas season event. This year’s edition brought applause and laughter from the onlookers. It featured a cartoon version of Willy, dressed as Santa, riding a surfboard atop a curling wave toward a barber pole-striped palm tree on a sandy shore. A pack full of toys was flung across Santa Willy’s back while an immense shark fin rose menacingly close behind.

  The First Church choir practice broke up in time for hot chocolate and cookies. Since all the numbers being practiced were old, familiar carols, prepping for the three Sundays between now and Christmas was no effort at all.

  Now carolers and bystanders and the denizens of the diners and coffee shops of Leonard had all gone home.

  All, that is, except one lean figure made bulky by an expensive overcoat who waited across the street from the town square.

  Having been a United States senator, John Cutter was not content to be merely an “important” man in The Biggest Little Town in Northeast Texas … not by a long shot. Ever since voters had sent him packing from DC four years earlier, Cutter had been plotting a return to the national stage. Thanks to the arrival of the Miracle Preacher Boy, Adam Wells, Cutter saw his opportunity.

  In his enthusiasm to revitalize the town’s spiritual connection, Pastor Wells had gotten the town council to erect the church’s wooden nativity scene on public property. Painted figures of Mary and Joseph, shepherds and wise men, angels and sheep, clustered around a baby Jesus.

  There had not even been any discussion before the mayor and the council agreed. Put up the nativity, they said. It’s Christmas, they said, just like last year.

  It never crossed anyone’s mind to object.

  Truthfully, Cutter didn’t think anyone in Leonard did object. The former senator could not picture one member of Leonard’s 2,057 population who would be remotely offended.

  Since Cutter’s wife, Candy, attended Adam’s church, the mayor and the council probably thought Cutter himself approved.

  They were in for a surprise.

  American civil liberties had been violated in Leonard, Texas. The rights and sensibilities of non-Christian citizens (had there been any) had been trampled on. It was time that northeast Texas got dragged into the twenty-first century.

  Tonight’s action wouldn’t garner many votes in Amarillo or Tyler, but in LA and NYC Cutter would be celebrated as a hero of the progressive movement … beginning tonight.

  Uncapping the two-and-a-half-gallon gasoline container, Cutter began methodically splashing the wise men, the shepherds, the sheep, and the manger. When the first jug was empty, he opened a second, to be sure of doing a thorough job.

  The square was empty. There was very little wind. No cars or structures would be threatened. Cutter poured a final trail of gas a dozen feet away from the crèche.

  This was not arson, or even vandalism, Cutter told himself. This was civil disobedience, for a good cause.

  From a safe distance away, Cutter drew a box of matches from his overcoat pocket. In the frosty air, striking the match made a distinctly audible scratch. Dropping the flame straight down between his shoes, Cutter watched with satisfaction as fire raced across the frozen grass and climbed the back of a shepherd. It reached out toward a kneeling wise man, then leaped across to Mary’s blue robe.

  With a whoosh and a roar, suddenly the entire scene was engulfed in flames. The conflagration swirled into the night sky. Arcs of flame erupted from Joseph’s head and the points of angel wings jumped upward to flicker like grinning mouths before vanishing into the stars.

  Cutter watched with interest to see that the figures and the structure representing the stable were completely enmeshed in the inferno before he left the scene. He went directly to the fire station to report the blaze, then walked down the street to the Leonard police station to turn himself in.

  Kyle followed his father into the trashed-out living room of their mobile home. A gun rack full of hunting rifles and shotguns hung over the TV.

  Myra, Kyle’s stepmom, had gone to Dallas to visit her sister, leaving Kyle and his father, Jackson, to fend for themselves. This was always bad news for Kyle. Myra was a good influence on Jackson most of the time. He drank more than usual when she left. Kyle was never sure if she was coming back. There had been other women before Myra.

  The drinking and the violence were worse when Jackson was alone. He took out his troubles on Kyle. It had always been that way.

  “I tole you not to leave this morning afore you cleaned up the yard.” The yard was a small square of dirt occupied by two pit bulls. “I git home and them two dogs ain’t got a lick of food and the place is covered in …”

  Jackson unbuckled his belt and slid it out of the loops. He began swinging before Kyle could answer. “I TOLE YOU!” Whack! “How do you like that? I TOLE YOU!” Whack!

  Kyle covered his face with his hands and tried to protect himself.

  “Now what were you thinkin’, boy?”

  “Pa! Don’t!”

  “Don’t you look at me like that!” Jackson’s boot landed hard against Kyle’s belly, sending him sprawling.

  “Please! Please, Pa!” Kyle had read somewhere that when a bear attacks, the best thing is to lie still and play dead. Maybe it was true with drunken fathers. Kyle curled into a fetal position and tried not to flinch or cry out.

  “Worthless! Like your ma was! Stupid! Idiot!” Every word was punctuated by the belt buckle landing hard against Kyle’s back. Finally Jackson staggered out the door and roared away.

  It was a long time before Kyle got up.

  Chapter Six

  THE MORNING DAWNED CRISP AND COLD. Frost blanketed the lawns and made Maurene yearn for a white Christmas like the ones in their Michigan childhood. Too bad Adam couldn’t have found a church closer to home. The lyrics to Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” kept echoing through her mind.

  She sighed and looked bleakly around the room.

  Still-packed moving boxes had become an issue between Maurene and Adam. He nagged and she ignored. She promised that today she would
at least make an effort.

  Instead, warm in her bathrobe, Maurene sat at the desk and studied the message from the one she thought of as Lord Nathan on the computer screen: “Missed you and Adam at high school reunion.”

  Maurene focused on the word missed, then you, and then finally read on: “Business in Dallas. Will be in Leonard tonight.”

  Could he mean that he was coming here? To the house? To see her? To see her with Adam? What was he thinking?

  Maurene’s heart raced at the thought of seeing him again. She closed her eyes to shut out the memory of the last time …

  Then suddenly the back door slammed and Adam called, bringing her back to reality. “Mo! Maurene!”

  With trembling hands Maurene jotted down the e-mail address and then deleted the e-mail. Ripping the scribbled note from the pad, she folded it and tucked it into the pocket of her robe as Adam entered the room.

  “Where were you, Mo? I was calling.”

  “Nowhere. Here. Getting earplugs.” Digging through the moving boxes, Maurene felt the flush climb to her cheeks. Would he see that she was nervous? She could not look at him.

  He instructed, “Remember, you have to share at the women’s luncheon this afternoon.”

  “I remember.”

  She heard him pull a sheaf of notes out of his briefcase. “I’ve written a few things. Without the revivalist flare you hate. More … your words.”

  Her chin lifted defiantly. “I can write my own speech, Adam.”

  He mocked her gently. “Just in case you get the urge to run off to Chadwick Castle and spend your morning with Lord Nathan.” He extended his notes for her speech.

  Anger flashed. “Who gave the valedictorian speech at our high school graduation?”

  He avoided answering and ran their conversation backward. “Earplugs?”

  Maurene handed Adam the earplugs as heavy-metal music erupted below them. “She found friends.”

  Adam glared at the earplugs.

  Maurene glanced out the window at their elderly neighbors and their yappy dog in front of a giant Santa across the street. The couple scooped up their dog, covered their ears, and hurried away. Heavy-metal music was not the way to win the hearts of the citizens of this small Texas town.