The Wilder Sisters (57 page)

BOOK: The Wilder Sisters

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“They’re right on the table where I left them,” Lily said without looking up from filing her nails. “You know, the only thing about Shep’s job that truly stinks is my hands always looking like crap.”

“Wear gloves,” Rose called out, fetching the chips and tearing open the cellophane. She held the bag out to Lily, who took a handful, ate one, then looked at her sister with a frown on her face.

“What?” Rose said.

“It’s just that without your
pico de gallo
, they taste like, well, ordin- ary chips.”

Rose gave her a look. “Lily. I’ve been up all night. There is no way on God’s green earth I am going into Mami’s kitchen to make you fresh salsa because the chips don’t taste
special
.”

Lily tipped her handful back into the bag. “Fine. There’s a whole bunch of jars of salsa in the pantry. Grab one. All I want is something to dip them into. You know, like pesto.”

“You and your pesto! You could learn to make it, you know. It’s not so difficult. Pine nuts, oil, basil, mortar and pestle.”

Lily smiled. “How could I ever remember all that?” “This from a woman who taught surgeons!”

“
Used
to teach surgeons,” Lily said. “I’m a cowgirl now.”

Rose went into the pantry and found the jars Lily was talking about. They were pretty six-sided glass containers, each with a gold label that read “Scorned-Woman Salsa.” She took one with her, twisting the lid, which was on very tight but not enough so she was going to ask for male assistance getting it open.

At the screen door, she carefully stepped over a sleeping grey- hound and shouldered open the door. Just as she put her right foot across the threshold, Lily called out, “Rose!”

“You don’t have to yell—I’m standing right here.”

Lily pointed down the circle of gravel-covered driveway. “What do you suppose is the significance of Doctor Cute crawling around on all fours? Did Winky kick him? I mean, he’s getting a little old to be playing Twister, don’t you think?”

Rose stepped through the doorway just as the lid popped under her fingers. The spicy smell of salsa cleared her sinuses. She re- membered how in his most frustrated moments, when diagnosis eluded him, Austin dropped to all fours and tried to think like the animal, to better understand the source of its pain, to come at the answer from his patient’s point of view. She held on to the jar, looking down the driveway at Austin making his way across the gravel toward the main house. He was sober; he had been for months. Every once in a while he lifted his head and looked up at her. What was this all about? Rose felt her mother’s strong hands on her shoulders and the wet nose of a greyhound tickle her fingers. “
Escuchame
,” Poppy whispered in her daughter’s ear. “As badly as you want to go to him, you must stand here and wait for him to come to you. You have the rest of your life to come when he calls.” Slightly delirious from lack of sleep, Rose handed the salsa to Lily.

Maybe Mami’s second sight had finally infected her, because just now, beyond this moment, she thought she could see quite clearly into a lifetime of ordinary days she would do her best to cherish, one by one, for as long as they lasted. The images were so real, and they just kept coming. Austin was moving slowly, but he did not stop. He would always have to go to AA, but that wasn’t the worst thing, was it? From time to time, they would butt heads, but they’d go to sleep in the same bed, their stubborn
cabezas
on adjoining pil- lows. If either of her children ever settled down long enough to have babies, there would be no more wonderful grandfather in the world than this man. Wherever they lived—his place, hers, or somewhere entirely new—neglected animals would enjoy a second chance at life; they’d fill up the barn, provide a chorus of barking and neighing through every season. She swore she could smell barley soup sim- mering on the back burner, the simple aroma of whatever she’d baked fresh that morning adding to the rich mix of flavors in that life, that now seemingly possible other life.

Less than three feet from the steps, Austin got to his feet. The knees

of his pants were filthy, but he didn’t reach down to brush them clean. Rose knew how to get stains like that out. She supposed it was backward of her to admit, but she liked doing laundry. Under the denim, where his bones resided so close to the flesh, she wondered if the rocky gravel had cut or only bruised him. Austin held out his hand, and she stared at it.

It seemed as if this moment had taken forever to get here, this whole hard year of the two of them coming together, finding their way, like one long mud season—but wasn’t that how life was for everybody? All good things took their sweet time arriving—new horses, forgiveness, laying to rest old griefs, and just now, the first touch of his fingers on hers—each in their own particular way, she believed, left a permanent impression.

Down the road from the ranch, a little less than a half hour’s drive away, in the cool, dark stillness beneath Rose’s mattress, something else was happening. The photograph of Rose Mami had secretly placed there, tied in string face to face with Austin’s, curled lovingly toward his likeness. Embracing the two of them was the statue of Saint Anthony, the patron of harvests, who had his own bread, and among whose special attributes was the ability to find whatever it was one thought was lost.

Acknowledgments

ewport Harbor Animal Hospital in Costa Mesa, California, generously took me behind the scenes and demonstrated how

to manage a veterinary clinic with care and grace; Sharon Cummings educated me about Greyhound Rescue operations and gave me time with her elegant, fortunate dogs; Jimi Kurzmack and Roni Piastuch were my second home and support in Albuquerque; as always, the state of New Mexico provides inspiration and history; C. J. Mapson advised me as to the medical world and western myths; Dennis Hallford taught me about CAT equipment; Marie Loggia gave me the lowdown on dirt bikes; Lois Kennedy, MFCC, tendered vital life support; Mark Secor, DVM, once again generously offered specific veterinary and chiropractic information that helped make this story accurate; Ruthanna Bridges ministered to my horse, Tonto, when I was unable to be there; Don K. Pierstorff continues to provide un- conditional fatherly love and sage advice. Continued thanks and appreciation to my agent, Deborah Schneider, to my copy editor, Sue Llewellyn, to my editor, Terry Karten, and to her assistant, Megan Barrett, who challenge me to reach beyond my known grasp. And to Stewart Allison:
Contigo pan y cebolla
; I could say thank you forever, and it would not cover all you have done for me this

past quarter century. Now it’s your turn.

About the Author

JO-ANN MAPSON
is a writer, teacher, and poet. She is the author of the novels
Hank & Chloe, Blue Rodeo, Shadow Ranch, Loving Chloe
, and
The Wilder Sisters
, and of the short story collection
Fault Line
. She lives in California.

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www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Books by Jo-Ann Mapson

The Wilder Sisters Loving Chloe Shadow Ranch Blue Rodeo

Hank & Chloe Fault Line
(stories)

THE WILDER SISTERS
. Copyright © 2007 by Jo-Ann Mapson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader January 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-134800-6

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