Between Hope & the Highway (2 page)

“And you’re not wearing a speck of makeup. How many times have I stressed how important first impressions are? Don’t you ever listen?”

After years of hearing her detail my deficiencies, I should have been immune to her negativity. Sadly, I wasn’t. I hated her nagging even more than my Pepto-splattered room.

Dad cleared his throat and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Ilene, she looks fine.”

Mom dabbed at her eyes. “But she’s behaving so irrationally.”

I bit my tongue, knowing nothing I said would change her mind. Mom had never believed in my dreams, except where Justin was involved. And he was gone.

Moistness made me blink and swallow hard.
No tears! Not now.
Why couldn’t I get him out of my head? Justin was Stage IV cancer to my soul, embedding himself in my heart and popping out everywhere…like in the faces of complete strangers; I’d even heard his laughter rustling in the branches of an olive tree and smelled his cologne after a rainstorm. I needed geographic chemotherapy to ensure memories of him didn’t destroy me.

“Are you ready, Liz?” Viktorya’s thick Russian accent from the entry broke the awkward stand-off. What would I have done without her all these years? Probably been steamrolled by my mother and pinned to a cheer board.

“Yep. Let’s hit the road.” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I followed Dad out to Vikky’s truck, recalling how I’d met the expat Russian years earlier. Growing up, Mom pushed me onto the path of popularity by enrolling me in gymnastics and cheer camps. Dad, bless his heart, sensed my misery and covertly helped me. He picked me up from school and let me hang out at his construction sites a couple afternoons a week where he taught me how to wield a hammer, run a belt sander, and be confident with a power drill. We never told Mom. But she found out about my secret tomboy identity when Dad took a job building a fancy stable during my seventh grade year for Viktorya Lohman. When Vikky saw how the horses took to me, she offered to let me clean stables in exchange for riding lessons.

Mom totally freaked when I traded my pink tutus in for boots and riding apparel. Since then, she’d nitpicked and used my most hated word—t
oo—
excessively
.
I was too skinny, my chin too pointy, my forehead too wide, my conduct too unladylike, my speech too casual, my laughter too obnoxious, my hands too calloused, my lips too thin, my nails too ragged, my expression too stern, my clothes too boring, my complexion too freckly, and my hair too curly. Whenever she saw me, she found something she disliked too much or too little. She’d mastered in Lizzieology, the science of picking me apart.

Mom thought I should be attending dances on the weekends, not scraping manure off the bottom of my boots. That’s why I clung to Viktorya in a symbiotic relationship, relying on her to be with the horses I adored as she used my equine instincts to keep her business profitable. She became my surrogate mom who instilled confidence and encouraged my dreams while my real mother tried to undermine all her hard work through passive-aggressive nagging and abuse of the word
too
.

As Dad threw my luggage into the bed of the truck, I turned to hug Mom. Deep down, I believed she loved me. I also knew we could stand some distance between us.

“Bye.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go.” She swiped at a tear. “That Robinson boy watched you pretty intently at church last week. I bet he’d ask you out this Sunday if you were here.”

I had no doubt about that. Mom would likely corner him after the sermon and throw me on the poor, unsuspecting man. She’d done it before in her quest to see me married.

Ignoring her comment, I let Dad sweep me into his arms.

“I’m going to miss you, baby doll.”

“I’ll miss you too, Daddy.”

He squeezed me tight. Despite living with a mom who doused me in disappointment, God had blessed me with an extra high dose of optimism and a dad who always rescued me when I started to sink. Maybe that’s why he struggled with parting. I’d always been his baby girl…except for those four months when Justin ousted him from favorite man position.

“Be excited for me.”

“I’m trying.” He swiped at his own eyes as he released me.

Climbing into the passenger seat, I mouthed
go
to Viktorya. She didn’t need to be told twice. As we pulled away from the curb, I waved and blew kisses out the window. Facing forward, I wondered what the future had in store. It certainly couldn’t be worse than what I was leaving.

When I first approached Dad about heading to Montana to work, he’d pursed his lips and asked if I had prayed about my decision. I’d wanted to punch a hole through the wall. Of course I had. So what if I hadn’t received a heavenly sign letting me know it was the right thing to do. I was getting out of Vegas anyway.

Mom immediately campaigned to stop me. She claimed I wouldn’t have any friends there, but I didn’t have any here. Not really. I couldn’t stomach the mindless chatter of girls my age, and boys irritated me even more. Mom said I needed to stroke their egos, but most guys I knew didn’t have a problem stroking their own, so I failed to see the point in doing it for them. Mom said that’s why I was the queen of dating but never had a steady boyfriend to call honey.

Until Justin.

I don’t know what it was about him, but he pushed horses from my mind when we met in the library elevator my second week at college. I was caught hook, line, and sinker. Love at first sight. I didn’t believe in clichés before him, but I did now. I experienced three months of
happily ever after
once we met, but had endured a war zone since he left. No, happiness could be felt in a war. Maybe a soldier opened his MRE and felt thrilled he could eat with no one shooting at him. There were no moments like that for me. A war zone would be a relief. Hell described it better. Imagine its fiery depths, and that summed up my life since I buried my heart in that shaded Colorado grave next to Justin.

Viktorya reached over to squeeze my hand, landing me back in reality. “You are excited, no?”

“Yeah. I can’t wait to see the place in person. The pictures on their website looked amazing.”

“The Bar-M-Law Ranch is more than amazing. It’s spectacular.”

I grinned, wondering if I was more excited by the prospect of heading to a new place or leaving home. Probably both.

As we left my salmon-colored neighborhood behind, I dug into my satchel for my employment contract. The packet of papers had resurrected hope after I skimmed the stipulations sent by the ranch owner, Mr. Law.

“Are you worried about the work load?”

“Not really.” I wasn’t. Thanks to her and Dad, I knew how to get my hands dirty.

“Don’t worry,” she chewed the words in her thick accent. “The work may be grueling at first, but once Bart sees you in action, he’ll give you a raise and a promotion. Life will get easier, no?”

I hoped not. The blunt paragraph specifying the required twelve to sixteen hour workdays and stating how I’d receive no special privileges due to my gender actually lured me into accepting the offer. That chauvinistic, no molly-coddling attitude sounded like the ideal medicine for my broken heart. If I was beat-up and exhausted each day, I wouldn’t have time or energy to think of Justin. I’d forget this pain…forget my loss…forget him.

Chapter 2

Bentley

The late-spring sun warmed me as I hobbled to the aspen grove. Right step…left leg-lift, swing-out, step-down and wince…right step…left leg-lift, swing-out, step-down and wince…right step. I focused on moving my left leg smoothly, but it wouldn’t cooperate. My boot hit the ground with an awkward thud and nerve pain shot up my hip. I winced at the searing sensation, but concentrated on fluidity as Dr. Bowler emphasized at my last appointment. No pain, no gain. That was his motto.

When I reached my sanctuary of sand and water nestled between the white-barked trees behind Dad’s office, I ducked under a low hanging branch. Office might be a deceiving term to an outsider. The white building with green metal roof matched the main stable and indoor arena. Dad’s office, as well as those of the foreman and trainers, took up the upper story where five dormer windows looked out onto fenced pasture land. The lower level stabled our champion breeding stallions.

Glancing through the leaves, I recalled how his office and stables had seemed like a castle to me as a kid; the cupola served as the ramparts. I’d climbed, jumped, and ran as well as any other kid back then as I pretended to fight dragons. Now, five years later at the ripe old age of twelve, I had to content myself with forming sand castles out of mud slurry. No exploring the kingdom for me. One had to be able to get up and down from his horse to do that, and unfortunately, that simple feat was beyond me.

As I grabbed a stick to mix gray goop inside my bucket, I sulked. Dad and Mom had flown out yesterday to attend my older brother’s graduation from Stanford, but Rawson wouldn’t return with them. He was heading to Europe instead. I glared at the gray-tinged clouds, wondering why he’d taken a dumb modeling job. My brother wasn’t a girly man. He was a cowboy, like me.

Jerking the stick, I added handfuls of dirt to thicken my slop. Rawson had ruined my whole summer. Instead of feeling whole, I now felt holed in at home with my little sister. My only escape consisted in hiding in these trees and fretting over the correct amount of dirt and water to make concrete blocks for an imaginary kingdom.

“Addie! Where are you? Adeline Francesca Law! Get back to the house this instant!”

Susa’s hollering interrupted my pity party. I sympathized with our poor housekeeper who had to babysit my hellion sister with my parents gone. Raising my stiff neck, I clawed my way up to my feet to help her catch the runaway. As I hobbled out of the trees, I caught sight of the little spitfire’s red jacket disappearing inside the stable. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I texted Susa.

Me
: She’s under Dad’s office.

Susa:
Keep her there for me
.

Yeah, right. I cursed, knowing I should’ve been able to accomplish such a simple feat. I was twelve years old for crud’s sake; my sister only ten…and she had Down syndrome. But Susa might as well have asked me to climb Mount Everest in my half-crippled state as to pin down my troublemaker sibling.

Right step…left leg-lift, swing-out, step-down…right step…left leg-lift, swing-out, step-down. I didn’t try to keep my torso straight or my movements fluid as I shuffled to the stable. Searching the aisle, I caught sight of Addie reaching to pet Restless Shadow. The steel-gray stallion nickered and pawed the sawdust.

“Hey, sis.” I came at her nice-like so as not to spook her.

“Horsie!” Her deep booming voice made Shadow rear back and neigh.

Addie’s thick tongue slipped out as she reached to touch the horse again. Mom had worked with her as a baby to teach Addie to keep her tongue in her mouth. She hadn’t wanted her to be treated any differently. Lots of my friends back then didn’t know anything was wrong with my sister as she followed us around and played games of the kingdom. She parroted what they said and grunted a lot, but what four-year-old didn’t? Occasionally, her tongue trailed out, but all I had to do was flick it and she’d pull it back in her mouth. It was amazing the difference that made.

The accident changed everything though.

After we buried my brother, Detrick, Mom spent her days driving me to and from town for physical therapy and Addie was relegated to the back burner. None of us had time to watch her tongue or insist she behave as we struggled to survive. That’s how she transformed into a holy terror and now looked like all other Down’s kids I’d seen. If Mom hadn’t been worn out caring for me, she would’ve had time to raise my sister right.

As I hobbled closer, she gave me an open-mouthed smile. “Horsie!”

“Keep that gross thing in your mouth.” I flicked her lazy tongue.

Judging by how she wailed, a passer-by would’ve thought I’d hit her over the head with a two-by-four.

“Benny mean!”

“Hush!” I didn’t want Susa to hear and lecture me.

“Benny mean!” she screamed again and shook her fist.

“Bentley Howard Law.” Susa chided as she entered the stable. “Stop torturing your sister.”

Addie ran to our housekeeper’s outstretched arms and tapped her tongue. “Benny mean!”

I snarled and turned to leave.

“Young man, apologize to your sister.” She pronounced it
seester
.

“I was just trying to keep her here for you.” She should be grateful.

“Benny mean,” Addie bellowed again.

“All I did was tap her tongue.”

Susa raised dark brows. Though she was old enough to be my grandma and I had her by a foot, her stern expression cowed me.

“Fine,” I huffed. “I’m sorry, okay?” I might as well have said “You suck” by my tone, but it was enough to convince our housekeeper.

She tousled my hair and gave me a wrinkly smile before gripping Addie’s hand to keep her from escaping again. As they left, I kicked up dust and growled. I hated how everyone let Addie get away with murder. Being handicapped myself now, I realized how important it was that my sister look normal so she wouldn’t get singled out by bullies. Just last week, that idiot Rich Sweeney pointed at Addie on the bus and called her a retard when she let her tongue hang out and signed
eat
to me. I wanted to punch him, but all I could do was change places so she’d be by the window and I could take the brunt of his bullying.