The Tree Shepherd's Daughter (4 page)

A nearby table glowed like warm honey. It was beautiful. Her hands trembled and her breathing was unsteady.
It was probably more to do with the wood than the proximity of her father. She was so not going to cry.

Put an end to it. Even if she threw up or burst into
blisters, she'd stop this awful shaking. She let her quivering
fingers trail along the tabletop. The surface was like silk,
yet her fingertips tingled from the contact, as if they'd been
scraped. A vision of a tree with a dainty canopy of sawtoothed leaves came into her mind. Alder, she thought. She
frowned and rubbed her fingertips to rid herself of the feeling. Her odd gift really had followed her here. She thought
it might have been her imagination, but it was true. There hadn't been much wood on the plane or in the cab, and
she'd always avoided living trees. Impossible here.

Freak. An echo of the taunt had bounced around in
her skull since kindergarten. She'd learned to keep her odd
curse to herself. It was nothing useful, like telling the future. She could only identify wood. Some people channeled spirits, she channeled trees.

It had only been handy once, when she'd astounded her
class by correctly identifying all the hardwoods on campus without once glancing at the field guide. Her biology
teacher had commented on her unique perception. Her
friends had been impressed and thought she'd been studying, but Mr. Brooks had watched her closely. He'd noticed
she'd come up with the name after touching each tree's
bark. Too bad she'd ruined the moment by barfing. She'd
barely made it to behind a bush before yakking up lunch.

She thrust her hand into her pocket to shelter it, to
stop the trembling. It touched the rose quartz, and the
buzzing and tingling receded. Had it been the rock? She
pulled her hand away.

A nearby box beckoned, the grain of its wood pronounced, like veins on pale skin. She longed to touch it. Her
fingers tightened into fists and she thrust her hands back
into her pockets, grabbing for the rose quartz. The wood
sense faded again, allowing her to appreciate the beauty of
the furniture. She gasped with pleasure as she saw a group of
benches and chairs. Twisting vines had been used to hold the
rustic pieces together, making them look like court furniture
for a forest fairy kingdom. Gleaming crystals sparkled from knots on branches and from crannies created by the binding
vines. She was never going to drop the rock again.

Something furry rubbed around Keelie's ankle. Startled, she cried out and tried to back up, then tripped.
Hands in her pockets, she couldn't regain her balance and
landed, hard, on her knees. Not again, she thought, dismayed. Her cell phone clattered onto the stone and split
into two muddy pieces. The rose quartz went flying.

After a while, the pain subsided enough that she could
breath again, although the buzzing was back. A huge orange
cat sat nearby, gazing at her with huge eyes the color of
leaves. Its look seemed knowing, as if it recognized Keelie
and knew why she was here. And resented her, she thought.

"Believe me, I don't want to be here," she muttered,
rubbing her sore knees. Two falls in one morning. She
wasn't usually a klutz. The cat blinked and looked away
with typical kitty disinterest.

Keelie sat back, stretching her legs out. Her knees
throbbed and her pants were scuffed. A little speck of
blood had soaked through on one knee. Ouch. She was
afraid to look. A wave of nausea overtook her. Not from
the sight of blood. She could handle that. It was the wood,
pressing in around her. She scrambled for the rose quartz
and sighed with relief as her fingers closed around it.

"Are you okay?"

She looked up. Ms. Talbot stood over her.

"I'll live," Keelie said, feeling a little more like her
California self. "I'll definitely have some bruises, though."
Chunks of dried mud coated the floor where she had fallen.
"At least it knocked some of this mud loose."

"You wouldn't be muddy if you'd stayed with me," Ms.
Talbot said.

A slim, long-fingered hand held part of her slimy, mudcovered cell phone out to her. She reached for it, but the
phone vanished, and the cool fingers clasped her stained
and filthy hand. She looked up, startled.

The slender man from the shadows stood where Ms.
Talbot had been a moment earlier. She forgot to breathe
as she looked into the familiar, yet strange, image of her
own face. He had the same weird green eyes, the same
bone structure, the same hair. Here was the source of her
looks. Not Mom, with her straight black hair and almondshaped brown eyes. Keelie's throat constricted.

She wanted the warmth she saw in those eyes to be for
her. Would she betray Mom if she let him claim her? She'd
wanted this moment since she was little. Mom knew it.
Keelie swallowed, and then said it.

"Dad."

"Keelie." She felt his fingers tremble slightly against
hers. His eyes were wide, looking at her as if he was memorizing her. His hand tightened around hers.

She suddenly remembered him holding her high up by
his shoulder, safe with his strong arms around her. How
little had she been, that she could sit in the crook of his
arm? They'd walked through woods filled with giant trees,
and he pointed out the names of the trees in the lush forest canopied in bright fall colors. He'd pointed to an alder
tree and said that a dryad lived in it. Why did she suddenly remember that?

Mom's face flashed through her mind. She saw again the little wrinkle that formed between her eyes when she
disapproved of something. Keelie felt weak and silly for
giving in to this need for a father. Just because she felt sorry
for herself was no reason to call Zeke Heartwood "Dad," a
word that to her was as full of love as "Mom." A word that
had to be earned.

How could it be possible to want love from someone
who had abandoned you when you were a toddler? Laurie
would've laughed at her if she'd been here. She would have
told her not to be so needy.

Her cheeks grew hot. She didn't want her father to
see her cry. She quickly snatched her hand out of his and
stood up. She hitched her messenger bag over her shoulder
and reached her hand out for her cell phone.

He searched her face with those woodland green eyesthe same color as hers, unusual enough that strangers
asked her if she wore colored contact lenses. She'd secretly
been proud that this was something she'd inherited from
her father. A piece of him that was a part of her forever.

Sometimes Mom would stroke her hair and say, "Keelie,
you have beautiful eyes." She'd have a faraway look on her
face. Mom's brown eyes could be cold and dark, like little
rock chips, and there was usually very little wistfulness
about her.

Her father handed Keelie her cell phone and the battery. She snapped it together and shoved it back into her
bag, not bothering to wipe it clean. "Where's Ms. Talbot?"

He seemed disappointed. Good. What did he expect,
a love-fest?

"She left," he said, still kneeling on the flagstones.

The blood drained from Keelie's face. Her lips felt cold
and stiff. She didn't care for Ms. Talbot, but she was her
last connection to the life she shared with her mother, and
now she'd abandoned her at this medieval freak show.

"She didn't say goodbye," she cried, and hated the piteous sound of her voice.

Her father stood up, towering above her. "She said she
had to catch her plane back to California. Don't worry,
Keelie, it's going to be okay. I won't leave you."

"Again, you mean?" Keelie fought back tears. His hurt
look made her feel good. She'd been hurting for two weeks.
Take that, Zeke Heartwood. That's what happens when
you uproot someone and force them to leave their home.

A woman cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but how much
is this dresser?" She looked at Zeke, waiting for an answer.

The woman had bleached blonde hair with half an
inch of roots showing, and she wore a laced leather vest
with no blouse underneath and a long leather skirt. Mugs,
a sword, and a leather pouch hung from a black belt with
silver spikes. She wore wide leather bracelets, Xena-Warrior-Princess style, bristling with silver spikes.

None of the costumed women Keelie had seen so far
had been dressed so outrageously.

Her father seemed to study Keelie's reaction, then
turned to the lady. "I'll be right back to answer your questions. I need to see to my daughter."

Despite her resolve to be less needy, a lump formed in
Keelie's throat when he called her his daughter.

"Let's go up to our apartment," he said. Our apartment.

One of the mud players who'd teased her earlier entered the shop. He carried a paper grocery sack with a mound of
yellow fabric sticking out of it. He looked a little sheepish
when he saw Keelie.

"Hey, Zeke," he said, casually eyeing the woman in
black leather. "I thought your daughter might like to borrow these. Seeing how folks might mistake her for one of
the Muck and Mire Show Players in her present garb, we
thought we'd seal her fate." He grinned and handed the
bag to her father.

Zeke opened the bag and pulled out a pile of fabric. He
shook it, and the material fell open to reveal a tunic that
seemed clean but was dirt-stained to a dingy brown, and a
huge, full yellow skirt. He turned it around, examining it.

Horrified, Keelie saw that the skirt had big, red hand
prints painted on the backside. The last item he removed
from the bag was no better-a purple bodice with frayed
pink ribbons. On the front and back were big square
patches with huge zigzag stitches.

"That can't be for me," she whispered.

"You'll need garb for every day," her father said. "You
want to fit in, don't you?"

"Fit in where, the circus?" Heat crept into her cheeks at
the thought of walking around in that hideous outfit.

The mud guy laughed, but her father frowned at her,
as if he'd suddenly realized that daughters weren't all sugar
and spice. Take that, Keelie thought.

"They're clean," Zeke said. "You'll only have to wear
them until we get you something else. Thanks, Tarl."

"You aren't going to make the poor kid wear that Tech nicolor clown outfit, are you?" The bleached blond Renaissance biker babe looked outraged.

The mud man shrugged. "Whatever. Just trying to
help."

Yeah, Keelie thought. Help her be ostracized. She'd
keep her normal clothes on forever, if she had to. She
began to feel itchy from the dried mud sticking to her
skin, though. She'd kill for a hot shower.

"Honey, you'll only make her a laughingstock if you
make her wear those rags. She needs decent garb." The
blonde caught Keelie's gaze and shook her head. Men, she
seemed to say.

Keelie smiled at her for the help, even though the
woman's concept of decent clothes was probably illegal
somewhere. Funny that the walking fashion nightmare
stood up for her. She looked from the mud man to her
father to the biker babe. She would never fit in with these
people. And she didn't want to live in a pretend world,
playing dress-up.

The medieval biker babe started to wander away,
browsing through the furniture. Zeke looked relieved. Tarl
the mud man followed her around with his eyes.

"Hey, I'm camped down at the Shire," he called to her.
"Mine's the big Viking tent with the wooden dragon out
front. Stop by for a beer later."

The woman looked him up and down. "Sure. I'll come
by. After dark, okay?"

Keelie was nauseated. The thought of these two ancient
and homely relics doing it was too gross.

Zeke didn't seem to notice anything weird. "Thanks for the clothes, Tarl," her father said. "I appreciate you
coming to the rescue." He exchanged a knowing look with
Tarl the muddied nutcase.

What was that about? Maybe it was about how Zeke was
now saddled with a daughter? Some "just us guys" thing?
Or maybe it had to do with the Rennie biker babe. Ugh.

She looked around the shop at the female shoppers
who'd occasionally gaze at her dad with hungry looks in
their eyes. Yeah, she'd definitely cramp his lifestyle.

Tarl the mud man smiled at Keelie, but she didn't return
it. She turned away and pretended to look at her nails, then
noticed the dirt caked under her French manicure. Ew!

"I'll see you later, Zeke. And you, too, Keelie."

Keelie acted as if she didn't hear him. She knew she was
being a brat, but she didn't care. Let old Zeke figure out
what he'd gotten himself into. Maybe he'd ship her back,
like a Christmas puppy that grew too big. She pictured
herself arriving at LAX with a note pinned to her shirt:
"SORRY. DIDN'T KNOW GIRLS COULD BE SO OBNOXIOUS."

She ran her hands along a wooden chair. It hummed
with energy underneath her hand. She snatched her hand
back and stared at the chair. Her wood reaction was much
worse here. Mom had said it was an allergy from her dad's
side of the family. Now wasn't the time to ask, though. She
could see she'd really ticked off the old man.

"Let me show you where you'll live," her father said.
He looked tired.

No, now was definitely not the time to ask.

"Come on, you can change upstairs." He handed her
the grocery sack, the ugly clothes stuffed back in.

Reluctantly, she accepted it. Not that she planned to
change. Not into those clothes. Not into his daughter. She
was her mother's daughter. She would always be Keelie
Hamilton. She was stuck being a Heartwood, but it was
just another name to her. She was Katherine Hamilton's
daughter.

"What's the Shire?"

"No place you need to go." He nodded at a woman as
he passed by. "It's the campground for Faire workers who
don't have sleeping space in their shops."

"Why can't I go there?"

"Because I said so."

She laughed. He stopped and looked at her.

"What? You think you can tell me what I can't do? Get
over yourself, old man."