The Butterfly’s Daughter (14 page)

How do the great-great-grandchildren of the butterflies find the overwintering sites each year? Is it instinct? Genetic memory? The mother-daughter cell? How their homing system works is one of the many unanswered questions in the butterfly world.

A
woman in a pale suede jacket sat astride the palomino horse, overlooking a vast expanse of rolling hills and valley. She sat very still, closing her eyes in concentration as the wind whistled, rattling the leaves of the trees and rippling her black hair like waves down her back. She shivered and, tilting her head, leaned forward in her saddle.

“Mariposa? Is something wrong?”

She startled at the sound of Sam's voice and jerked back on the reins. Her concentration snapped and her horse snorted and tugged at the bit. She loosened the reins and steadied herself in the saddle. She'd thought she'd heard someone calling out to her. Of course it was her imagination, or perhaps a bird call carried in the wind. But sometimes, out here in the hill country of Texas where the horizon was so vast that the line between earth and heaven seemed to blend, the line between what was real and surreal grew fuzzy, too.

“No,” she replied, her eyes on her horse's long, golden mane. “I'm fine.”

She heard the crunching of hooves in the rocky soil as he rode closer. Her hands tensed on the reins, causing her horse to paw the ground. Mariposa settled her, then looked up to see the distinctive black and white rounded markings of Sam's Texas Paint, Tank, as it halted beside her more delicate palomino. Sam Morningstar loomed over his large quarter horse, sitting like he was molded to the saddle. He reached up to tip back his cowboy hat, revealing a proud face the golden color of the Texas prairie grass. Moisture beaded his broad, tanned forehead and soaked the edges of the thick, black hair that framed his face.

“Well,” he began in his slow drawl. The leather from his saddle creaked as he leaned toward her and searched her face with his piercing dark eyes. “Your horse doesn't seem to agree. She says you're nervous about something.” A slow smile added another crease to his leathery skin. “And I've never known a horse to lie.”

Mariposa released a shaky, reluctant smile. There was no use arguing with him. She could lie to Sam, but she couldn't lie to her horse. Opal was finely attuned to her emotions and sensed her disquiet. There were no secrets when Mariposa was on her back. On cue, her horse shook her head and her hooves struck the soil, raising dust. “Traitor,” she murmured with affection as she reached down to gently pat the palomino's neck. “I'm okay. I can handle her,” she said to Sam.

“I know you can. But I don't want you to feel spooked. We can wait a while, if you need time. We're in no hurry.”

She slanted a look at Sam Morningstar. He owned this 140-acre ranch on which he raised his prize Texas Paint quarter horses. She'd come here for a year to do equine therapy, and after she finished, she continued taking riding lessons from Sam. He wasn't her therapist, a point he was clear to make from their first session.
Sam had told her that he was simply someone who wanted to help her connect with the “four-leggeds” and the energy that surrounds them, so that in time she could connect again with the “twoleggeds.” He'd laughed and referred to himself as a “six-legged,” as ancient warriors of his Native American tribe were called because they were so connected to their horses. In the past year, Sam and Mariposa had become more than teacher and student. She didn't know quite what to call their connection, but it was at least friendship.

Mariposa thought it fitting that Sam raised horses, since he was a lot like them. He didn't talk much, and he was alert to body movements—especially the language of the eyes. He was watching her now, assessing her mood.

“I'm fine. Really.”

“Okay, then. Let's follow the trail a while longer.” Sam made a soft clucking noise with his tongue and his enormous Texas Paint began walking.

Mariposa settled in the saddle, then guided Opal to turn and follow Tank on the trail. In the past four months, Mariposa had developed a bond with Opal. During her first sessions she'd spent time grooming her, feeding her, and cleaning her stall. Sam said she had to learn the body language of a horse before she could put one boot into a stirrup. Now she rode with Sam through the rolling Texas Hill Country, and coming here was the highlight of her week. Everywhere she looked it was beautiful. Today the wind blew soft waves over hills exploding in golds, scarlets, and bronzes.

They rode in a companionable silence along a wide stone trail that wound around clumps of mesquite trees, pines, and rail fencing that held in pastures. The loudest sound was the crunch of gravel as hooves hit the ground in a steady gait. It was a perfect day
for a ride—sixty degrees, breezy, and with a sky so bright it hurt to look at it without sunglasses. Not a single cloud dared to mar the vast blue, though she knew farmers and ranchers alike were praying for rain. Mariposa prayed, too, because the monarchs would be migrating through here soon and a good rain would guarantee a plethora of flowering plants for nectar.

She looked over at Sam. They'd been riding for almost an hour and he'd said nothing. He just kept on riding, Tank's hooves kicking up the dry earth in clouds of dust as Sam pointed out a deer or a turkey. Nothing seemed to be on his mind but the beautiful day. After a while the path split. One path led back to the ranch house and the barn where they'd say the usual perfunctory good-bye before he went to his next client and she returned Opal to her stall. The other path went north.

He surprised her by heading north. They climbed a steep hill, then rounded a bend, and suddenly, there was the lake. She sucked in her breath, captivated by the small body of crystalline water that reflected the sky, shining in the light like an aquamarine.

“We can sit and rest here a spell,” said Sam.

He'd said “sit and rest,” but what he really meant was
talk
. Sam wasn't nosy and didn't pry or ply her with questions like her therapist did, but he was good at finding out what he wanted to know.

Sam dismounted, then came to her side. She swung her leg around the saddle, then felt his large hands grip her hips and guide her to the ground. She tensed beneath his palms. No sooner did her boots hit the ground than Sam cleared his throat and dropped his hands. He took a few steps back, creating a respectful space between them. Mariposa's chest eased when he let go and she leaned a moment against Opal, pressing her palms against the damp hair, comforted by the heat emanating from Opal's body. She closed
her eyes and breathed deep the heavy scent of sweat mingled with leather.

Mariposa was more skittish than a wild mustang and still tensed whenever touched. Three years in jail had taught her to keep rigid boundaries. She'd been out for two years but she still maintained a distance from most people. Truth was she preferred to be alone or in the company of critters. That was why when she finished her time at the rehab house and was offered a spot in a horse therapy group, she'd leaped at it. Horses were big, powerful animals, as definite about their boundaries as she was. There were no pretenses with them. When she entered their space they weren't concerned about what happened in her past. They lived only in the moment. They didn't ask for anything from her but to be calm and relaxed.

And her trust.

That was the hardest part. It had been a long time since she'd felt she could trust anyone or anything. Even herself. Especially herself. But she was trying hard to change all that. If she could learn to trust herself with horses, she hoped, in time, she could trust herself with people again. Mariposa had lived mute and guarded for too long. Sam—and Opal—were trying to help her open up. She had to, if she ever hoped to have a relationship with her daughter.

She straightened and stepped back from her horse, patting Opal's hide gently. She reached out to hand Opal's reins to Sam. With a nod, he took the reins and walked on ahead, guiding both horses across the scrubby grass to a cooler area of shade under a cropping of mesquite trees. Mariposa followed to join him at the intricately carved wood bench.

Sam eased down onto the bench with a low sigh and stretched his long legs out before him. He took off his hat and wiped his
brow with his sleeve. Mariposa stole a glance at him. Sam was born on the Alabama-Coushatta reservation, and though he lived on his own place, his ancestral ties to the tribe ran deep. His profile was that of an eagle's, with his serious black eyes and proud, curved nose. His hair was the color of an eagle's wing, black interspersed with slender streaks of gray. It was thick and coarse and formed a ragged line over the edge of his pale blue denim.

Sam was more striking than handsome, not that she was interested in attractive men. She wasn't interested in men at all. She'd been celibate since she'd been released from jail, another line of defense, and she aimed to remain so. Sam was a good man of character, and in her experience, those were few and far between. She didn't want to screw up their relationship by crossing boundaries.

Sam patted his cowboy hat back on his head, then leaned back, stretching his long arms over the edge of the bench while he surveyed the lake with a proprietary air. “You ready to tell me what's troubling you?” he asked, his gaze on the lake. “You seemed a million miles away back there.”

She held back her smile, not at all surprised that he'd hit his mark. “Not quite that far. More like a couple thousand.”

“Ah,” he said, turning his head to look at her, pinning her with his gaze. “You were thinking of your daughter.”

“My mother.”

“What's got you upset?”

She tilted her head. “You know I called her. Or, my sister did.”

“I know.”

“That was three weeks ago.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mariposa stiffened. “She hasn't called back! Not even to tell Maria that she doesn't want to see me. Or that she doesn't care
about me and how I should leave her alone and never call again.” She clenched her hands till the knuckles whitened. “Not that I'm worthy of anything more. But I'd hoped . . .” She stopped, taking a breath when her voice shook. “It hurts, Sam. Not a word!”

“Hold on now,” he said, calming her rising voice. “Are you sure Maria even called your mother?”

Mariposa's brow furrowed in thought. She'd wondered the same thing herself. “She told me she did. She wouldn't lie. That's not Maria's style. She's very straightforward. If she says she will, she will. If she won't, she'll tell you that, too. To your face.”

“But if I recollect correctly, you said you and your sister don't get along. That she was jealous of your relationship with your mother. Are you sure she wouldn't try to keep you and your mother apart by not calling?”

“First, she's my half sister. We were never close, that's true. But I don't think she hates me. Maria is a lot older than I am so we didn't grow up together. You couldn't say she knew me well enough to hate me. If she didn't like me, it was more a by-product of her ongoing war with my mother.”

“Sounds to me like Maria has trouble getting along with a lot of people.”

“Well,” Mariposa said, choosing her words carefully, “let's just say Maria is very opinionated. But this goes way back. Maria didn't approve of my mother getting married again after her father died. I think she expected Mami to wear the long, black dress and shawl and remain celibate for the rest of her life. But Mami wasn't even forty when Luis died. She was still so young. Hardly ready to throw herself on the funeral pyre.”

Sam looked down at his boots and smiled. “Hardly.”

Mariposa half smiled at his retort. She was forty and guessed
Sam to be a few years older. Neither of them would consider themselves old—hardly! In fact, Mariposa was hoping she was still young enough for a new beginning.

“And what's more, my mother is a striking woman. She's small, but she looms large in personality. She has beautiful eyes, warm and inviting like melted chocolate. And her hair. You've never seen such long, thick hair. When I was little she'd let me brush it. I still remember the feel of it in my hands, like raw silk.”

He watched her expressions as she talked as his own, hard-hewn features remained placid and impossible to read. But she saw his eagle eyes glimmer with interest.

“Do you enjoy talking about your mother?” he asked.

“Yes. I miss her terribly. She's very old-world and traditional. She cooks and gardens, skills she believes a woman should have. But that doesn't mean she's a dim bulb. Just the opposite. She was wise beyond her years—an old soul, I think it's called. And generous to a fault. Everyone who met her loved her.”

“Including you.”

She turned her head to smile at Sam. “Especially me. Anyway, it was only natural that someone with her zest for life would find love again. Hector Avila and my mother fell in love quite quickly and, from what I heard, quite passionately. But Maria didn't like Hector. He was a good, kind man. A professor at the university. So it was a step up for my mother. But I don't think Maria would've liked
el presidente
if he'd come calling. To her mind, no man measured up to her father. She had a fit when Mami married Hector. Then when I came along . . .”

Mariposa rolled her eyes. “I think even my parents were surprised when she got pregnant. Hector took us back to Mexico. They tried to convince Maria to join them but she was stubborn
and refused to go. She stayed in San Antonio, married the boy she'd been dating, and that was that. I grew up in Morelia and never saw much of her. Only the obligatory family visit to San Antonio or when she'd come to Mexico. She was always critical of my mother and complained bitterly that she loved me best.”

“Did she?”