Maryann's Appaloosa Read online

  Maryann’s Appaloosa

  By Karen L. Phelps

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 9781773629919

  Kindle 9781773629926

  WEB 9781773629933

  Amazon Print 9781773629957

  Copyright 2017 by Karen L. Phelps

  Cover Art Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  Dedication

  A tremendous thank you to:

  The Lord, who made it possible to write full time when I got laid off in 2013.

  The friends, family, and librarians who encouraged my writing from childhood on.

  Golden Boy, the first horse I ever rode all by myself.

  Lorraine Ash, my first writing friend, who was there when I began the book and when I finished it.

  Linda Spear and the Friday critique group who believed in me and this book.

  Janet Walters who heard the first version and part of the final one. She put me in touch with her publisher.

  Panera, where much of the book was revised and where I regularly write.

  Acknowledgements

  William Shakespeare for quotes used in Chapter 3 from Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 5 and Chapter 17 from Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2.

  Prologue

  April 1961

  Like the sky before a storm, my life changed dramatically a month after I turned 15. I went from attending the private school in Boston to riding a crowded yellow bus enroute to public school in Edgemont, Wyoming.

  I wanted my old life back, even though I knew that couldn’t happen. My parents’ will decreed that I live with Bess Perkins, my aunt and my father’s older sister. Never in a million years did I think my new home would be on horse ranch. Even at summer camp I’d never ridden horses. Why? Simple. Horses were big and they scared me. But I didn’t tell Aunt Bess that.

  Then one morning, I saw the most beautiful golden horse running around in the corral. For the first time since I got to Wyoming, I had the urge to draw. I ran for my sketchbook, the one with the blue butterfly cover that Dad gave me for my birthday. Standing by the fence I hurried to capture the curve of his neck and elegant way he moved. Drawing, I felt happier than I had in weeks because, for a moment, I forgot my parents were dead.

  Chapter 1

  Sunday, April 16, 1961

  The plane ride to Wyoming gave me plenty of time to think. But that’s the last thing I wanted — to think.

  Ever since I heard about the plane crash, I was numb and cold inside. I didn’t cry when they told me Mom and Dad were dead. Nor did I weep at the memorial service. Everyone had to repeat things twice to me. Sometimes more often. I couldn’t seem to hear. I couldn’t concentrate either. My mind kept skipping off to other things.

  Mrs. Lawrence, my mother’s best friend, picked me up at school. I always stayed with her when my parents traveled during the school year and couldn’t take me. Her daughter, Susan, was in my class. We disliked each other intensely, but pretended to be friends.

  “Oh Maryann, poor darling.” Mrs. Lawrence swallowed me up in elegant arms, her bracelets clanking. She always wore too much jewelry and perfume.

  “Frank and Gloria both dead? I can’t believe it,” she shrieked. “It is just too horrible.”

  Coughing, I struggled out of her embrace.

  Juliet’s line from the play we studied last semester ran through my head, “… thou hast comforted me marvelous much.”

  She wept loudly while I stood beside her, unable to cry. Maybe I would, after the block of ice inside me melted. I searched through my purse and handed her a tissue.

  “Thank you, dear.” She sniffled, dabbing her eyes carefully, not to smear her makeup.

  The chauffeur held the door and we got in the back seat. Susan sat in the middle and kept sneaking looks to see if I was crying. I wanted to smack her. Instead, I looked out the window and ignored her.

  The doctor prescribed pills. They made me sleep all day. Mrs. Lawrence gave them to me once, and then refused to give them to me again.

  After the memorial service, Mr. Trowbridge, my father’s best friend and my parents’ attorney, explained the will.

  “Your parents appointed Aunt Bess as your guardian. You’re to live with her.”

  “In Wyoming?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Oh.”

  What could I say? My parents decided all this without asking me. I wondered why Mom agreed to make Aunt Bess my guardian. What were my options? To live with Mrs. Lawrence? I shuddered.

  A week later I boarded a flight to Wyoming with two suitcases. The rest of my things would be sent later in a trunk.

  Sitting by the window on the plane, I watched the clouds and remembered the last time I saw Aunt Bess.

  July 1953

  Eight years ago, my parents and I visited the ranch in July. I turned seven that spring. Mom hadn’t wanted to come. She argued with Dad in their bedroom with the door shut. I couldn’t hear the words, only the yelling.

  We drove up through the mountains to a square white house surrounded by tall pine trees. In the distance, the peaks were still covered with snow. The view from every window was breathtaking.

  Every day, Dad helped the cowboys. He and Aunt Bess grew up on a ranch. At the end of the day he returned sweaty and happy. Mom wrinkled her nose until he showered and changed his clothes.

  During the day, Mom took over the chaise lounge on the patio and looked through a stack of glossy magazines she’d brought with her.

  One morning while Dad worked on the ranch and Mom slept late, Aunt Bess asked me to help her make oatmeal cookies. She stirred the batter with a large wooden spoon. I didn’t think I could do it, but she helped me. We make little mounds of sticky dough on large cookie sheets that slid into the oven. She told everyone I made them all by myself.

  “Store bought cookies never tasted this good,” said Dad taking a handful.

  Mom refused to eat any. “Too many calories,” she said. “I’m dieting.”

  During the visit I wore my hair in braids and Aunt Bess bought me a white cowboy hat. She included me in everything she did. I helped her wash dishes, collect eggs and brush horses. I loved it because there was always something to do. Aunt Bess rarely sat down. Except to eat her meals, she was constantly in motion.

  The third day, my aunt put me up on a brown pony. I liked riding — until I fell off. Mom was afraid I’d break something so she put an end to the lessons.

  Then one morning, after everyone left, my aunt and my mother went at it. They forgot I was still at the table. They argued about Boston and Wyoming, about Dad and me. I didn’t understand everything they talked about. Face to face, they roared at each other. Finally, my mother left the kitchen, stamped upstairs and slammed the door. She didn’t come down for the rest of the day. When Dad returned for supper, he went up to their room. When he came down, he began to make a salad.

  “That’s all she’s eating?” asked Aunt Bess, slicing the roast we were having.

  “I’m surprised she wanted this,” he said. “Usually she skips dinner.”

  My aunt shook her head. “No wonder she’s skin and bone,” she muttered as Dad carried the tray upstairs.

  I tried to explain. “Mom has to be careful. If she eats too much, she throws up.”

  Aunt Bess patted my head. “Well, I’m glad you’re a good eater.”

  Two days later, after my parents ha
d another fight, we left the ranch.

  When Aunt Bess said goodbye, I cried and wouldn’t let her go. While Dad gently pried my arms from around her waist, Mom waited in the car. When we started down the drive, I turned around and waved to Aunt Bess through the back window until I couldn’t see her anymore.

  On the way to the airport Mom ranted about how she hated horses, Wyoming and my aunt. Finally, Dad shouted at her to be quiet and Mom didn’t speak until we got to the terminal.

  We missed our connecting flight through Chicago because of thunderstorms. After hanging around the crowded airport for hours, we got on another plane.

  The flight was bumpy. A stewardess brought me a soda saying the cola would settle my stomach. She was right. Mom didn’t like me to drink soda. She was in no shape to argue. As soon as the seat belt sign was turned off, she hurried to the bathroom. Then pale and tight lipped, she sipped seltzer the rest of the way home.

  Dad read one of his architectural magazines, unaware of the nauseous people around him. He had a pilot’s license and flew his own small plane. I guess he was used to bumpy flights. Mom swore he had a cast iron stomach. When he ordered a cocktail and asked the attendant for a snack to go along with it, Mom glared at him. Turning the page of his magazine, he munched on nuts and didn’t notice.

  A month after we returned, Aunt Bess sent a thick letter that contained photographs of our visit. I’d forgotten she’d snapped pictures. There was one of Mom lolling on the chaise lounge. A picture of Dad sitting on a horse looking like a real cowboy. There was even one of me wearing a cowboy hat sitting on the pony beaming at the camera. Dad took a photo of Aunt Bess standing beside me. I looked up at her smiling, her arms around my shoulder. I bought a little frame for the photo and put it on my dresser. One day Mom picked it up and studied the picture. Then, frowning, she put it down. Without saying a word, her displeasure was clear.

  Aunt Bess continued to write. Dad read her letters aloud to me and answered them. My mother didn’t bother to listen. Occasionally my aunt called. I wrote her, too. Then school got busy and my letters dwindled. Except for thank you notes for the gifts she sent at Christmas and my birthday, I seldom wrote.

  July 1954

  The next summer I wanted to go back to the ranch to see Aunt Bess.

  “Over my dead body,” muttered Mom.

  Instead she booked us on a schooner out of Maine that sailed along the New England coast for three weeks. After the boat trip, I attended summer camp until school started.

  Looking out over the waves I longed for my aunt and the mountains of Wyoming.

  Chapter 2

  Sunday, April 16, 1961

  It was still only April. My parents died nine days ago, though it seemed longer. Spring was supposed to be a time of hope and rebirth. This year it didn’t feel that way to me. When I left Boston, daffodils were blooming, the grass was tall enough to cut and the trees were budding out. I remembered the opening of T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Waste Land. We studied it in English class and I learned the poem through and through.

  When I got to Wyoming, the weather was more than a month behind Boston. There was even snow on the ground in places. Everything looked brown and dead. Or maybe that’s just how I felt. It was colder, too. I’d left my coat in one of the suitcases. My sweater felt warm enough on the plane. Leaving the airport though, I shivered. I didn’t want to ask the driver to wait while I searched through the luggage for my coat. So I just got into the car, grateful the heater made it comfortable.

  My aunt’s Table Top Ranch was a half hour from the small town of Edgemont. As the limo climbed higher and higher into the mountains, my head began to ache.

  I’d forgotten how big the mountains were. They dwarfed everything around them and made me feel small. How had settlers made it through this country in wagon trains?

  I couldn’t imagine. Even sitting safe in the car, the steep road we traveled made me dizzy as I looked out the window.

  When I got out of the car the smell of horses and the tang of manure drifted toward me. A horse whinnied. I heard hoof beats and voices in the distance. There was no traffic noise, no car exhaust or buses like in Boston. Everything in Wyoming looked different, sounded different, and smelled different.

  And the wind? It blew constantly. My blonde hair fell across my eyes, blinding me until I rummaged through my purse and found a rubber band to pull my hair back. There was barely enough to make a pony tail. I wanted to grow it long. Mom liked it short. It didn’t matter. Now I could do what I liked with my hair. Instead of cheering me, I felt depressed.

  Aunt Bess hurried down the steps from the white clapboard house toward me.

  Little had changed since I’d seen her eight years ago. Her face was tan from being outside in all weather. There were a few more lines in the corners of her eyes from squinting at the sun. I looked into the same blue-grey eyes as my own. She could evaluate a person or a horse in one shrewd glance.

  “I never thought you’d get here,” she said pulling me into a back-breaking hug. She smelled of horses, fresh air and coffee. “Thank God you arrived safe and sound,” she said and released me.

  Taking a step back, she looked me over.

  “How you’ve grown,” she said. “And you turned out real pretty.”

  I stared at her like she’d lost her mind. I knew my mother had been beautiful. Me? The mirror I looked in showed a plain girl — not a pretty one.

  My aunt dressed as I remembered in blue jeans, a western shirt and scuffed boots. Only her cowboy hat was missing. She pulled her blonde hair into a thick braid that reached to her waist. The streaks of grey in it weren’t noticeable unless you got up close.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, searching my face.

  Before I could say anything, I started to cry.

  “It’s gonna be all right, honey,” she reassured me, patting my arm. “You’re home now.”

  That’s just it. Wyoming didn’t feel like home. I wondered if it ever would.

  “I’m sorry,” I said wiping my eyes. “I guess I’m just tired.”

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” she said. “You just lost your momma and your daddy. You’ve flown halfway across the country. You must be exhausted. Let’s get you inside.”

  She put her arm around me and we headed to the house.

  While we talked, the driver opened the trunk, grabbed my two suitcases and set them on the porch. He returned and set the big black portfolio beside the other luggage. With a quick ‘goodbye’, he turned the car around and drove off. A cloud of dust followed him.

  “Where’s your coat?” asked my aunt.

  “I left it in my suitcase,” I explained. “It was much warmer in Boston.”

  “Well it’s not spring here yet.” Aunt Bess. “We’ll probably get another snow. Let’s get you inside before you freeze.”

  She brought my bags inside. I followed, carrying the portfolio that contained my drawings and art supplies.

  The entryway had hooks for coats along one wall and a bench. Underneath the bench, boots peeked out. On the other wall was a large closet. Although I hadn’t been here for eight years, the house had that comfortable, lived-in feeling I remembered as a kid. That reassured me and I realized, with a pang, that Boston had never felt that way to me.

  The kitchen had a big stove and a deep sink large enough to bathe a small child. An overhead rack put pots and pans within easy reach. To the right, a large pine table dominated the sun-filled room. Cheerful yellow cafe curtains framed the window. The kitchen was the heartbeat of the ranch, where everyone gathered. There was always a pot of coffee on the stove.

  The big living room had a cathedral ceiling with unfinished wooden beams. The room was filled with photographs and statues of horses instead of antique furniture and the modern artwork my mother favored. Red and blue Navajo blankets added vibrant color and a distinct western flair. Wide plank floors seemed natural for cowboy boots. How different from my Boston house with its cream wall-to-wall carpe
ts that hushed sound. A large stone fireplace dominated the room with an eight-point buck mounted above it. From every window you could see Table Top Mountain. The view looked like something off a calendar.

  “Let’s get you to your room,” said my aunt carrying one of my suitcases. I could barely lift the bag. Aunt Bess carried it up the stairs with ease. “I’ll bring your other bag up later,” she said over her shoulder.

  We climbed a wooden staircase to the second floor. She opened the first door on the right into a room with a double bed, a small desk, book case, dresser and oval blue braided rug. A large window showed the mountains, a view that took my breath away no matter how often I saw it.

  “The bathroom’s through that door.” She gestured. “This was the guest room. Now it’s yours. You’ll have the bathroom to yourself. I have my own.”

  “Thank you. It’s very nice.”

  My room in Boston was three times the size and had double the amount of furniture. I looked around. Then it hit me. My parents stayed in this room when we visited. For some stupid reason that made me want to cry.

  Blinking back tears, I noticed a pair of blue jeans on the bed and a red plaid shirt. On the floor stood a pair of brown cowboy boots.

  “I didn’t think you’d have the right clothes for the ranch,” she explained. “So I got you a few things. Mrs. Lawrence gave me your sizes.”

  I looked down at my Boston clothes: black knit slacks, a plain white blouse and a grey cashmere cardigan sweater. They were fine for traveling, but not for the ranch.

  “Mr. Trowbridge called,” my aunt said. “He’ll have your trunk sent next week.”

  “There isn’t much to send,” I said. “Just more clothes and a few books. I brought almost everything with me — and all of my art supplies.”