little of the hardtack and dried beef.
She let Patches graze and drink. Then, she mounted again and rode until
nightfall. She dug a shallow pit and lined it with rocks. She found dry
branches under the cottonwoods that lined the river. She built a fire and
leaned back against her saddle. Patches cropped grass contentedly. The river
gurgled to itself like a newborn baby as it wound its way between its banks.
For a few moments, Maggie longed for the voices of Sam and Ben and Frank and Flynn.
Especially Flynn.
The stars came out, one by one.
Maggie leaned back and watched them. A shooting star burned across the sky.
Maggie held her breath and made a wish, but she didn’t dare speak it out loud,
not even to the wind.
Then, she rolled up in her blanket
and went to sleep. She dreamed that Flynn danced with her. She wore a white
wedding gown, and he wore a black suit and a string tie. His hand at her waist
was warm and strong, and he smiled at her. Happiness filled her, warm and
gentle, like spring sunshine.
Maggie woke before dawn. She
savored the remnants of the dream for a long time. Then, she got up and began
to boil her water. Mackerel-scale clouds edged in slowly from the
northwest. Maggie took her slicker out of her saddlebags and tied it to the
cantle. Then, she mounted and rode off. She passed two graves. The wooden
crosses tilted drunkenly, and there were no names etched into the wood, but
Maggie knew that her parents lay beneath the thick, Nebraska sod. She
dismounted and took off her hat. She waited to feel something, anything, but
she felt numb. She sighed and put on her hat again. She mounted and rode on.
When it was almost noon, she found a small creek that fed the Blue River. She followed it upstream for about
a mile until she came to a farmhouse.
Six crosses stood sentinel over
fresh graves. There was no sign of life except the windmill that creaked in a
fitful breeze. Maggie bowed her head and said a silent prayer for the dead.
She mounted Patches and turned back to the Blue River.
That night, the sky was starless.
She camped under a pine tree, hoping that its needles would keep off the worst
of the rain. She made sure that her supplies were wrapped tightly in oilskin.
She lay down with her head resting on her saddle and drew her slicker over
her. She shut her eyes, but sleep did not come easily, and when it did, she
dreamed of the night her parents died. She heard their voices, arguing.
“Damn it, Lucy! Give it back!”
“Mama, no!” Maggie woke with a
start. She hadn’t even realized that she had dozed off. A solitary drop of
rain struck her face, cold and hard. She threw a blanket over Patches’ back
and made a makeshift tent out of her slicker. The rain drummed on it, with a
sound like rocks being thrown against canvas. She gave up trying to sleep.
She brewed herself a pot of tea and sipped it from an enameled mug while the
rain poured from the sky in sheets. Finally, near midnight, it stopped. The
ground was muddy. With a sigh, she fashioned a hammock between two trees. She
climbed into the hammock, but she could not sleep.
Every time she shut her eyes, she
saw her mother’s lifeless body, her blue eyes open and staring.
* * *
Dawn came, but the sky was still
gray and threatening. Maggie brewed a pot of tea and ate a little hardtack.
She missed the smell of frying bacon and the banter of her friends around the
cook fire. With a sigh, she packed up and continued along the banks of the
river.
Before noon, the rain returned. Maggie wore her slicker and watched the sheets of rain march across the
prairie, slanting toward the earth like silver spears. She looked up at the
clouds that boiled across the sky. The rain lashed her, and the wind whipped
her slicker around her legs. She guided Patches through the cottonwoods until
they came to another pine. She dismounted and tethered him to
She let Patches graze and drink. Then, she mounted again and rode until
nightfall. She dug a shallow pit and lined it with rocks. She found dry
branches under the cottonwoods that lined the river. She built a fire and
leaned back against her saddle. Patches cropped grass contentedly. The river
gurgled to itself like a newborn baby as it wound its way between its banks.
For a few moments, Maggie longed for the voices of Sam and Ben and Frank and Flynn.
Especially Flynn.
The stars came out, one by one.
Maggie leaned back and watched them. A shooting star burned across the sky.
Maggie held her breath and made a wish, but she didn’t dare speak it out loud,
not even to the wind.
Then, she rolled up in her blanket
and went to sleep. She dreamed that Flynn danced with her. She wore a white
wedding gown, and he wore a black suit and a string tie. His hand at her waist
was warm and strong, and he smiled at her. Happiness filled her, warm and
gentle, like spring sunshine.
Maggie woke before dawn. She
savored the remnants of the dream for a long time. Then, she got up and began
to boil her water. Mackerel-scale clouds edged in slowly from the
northwest. Maggie took her slicker out of her saddlebags and tied it to the
cantle. Then, she mounted and rode off. She passed two graves. The wooden
crosses tilted drunkenly, and there were no names etched into the wood, but
Maggie knew that her parents lay beneath the thick, Nebraska sod. She
dismounted and took off her hat. She waited to feel something, anything, but
she felt numb. She sighed and put on her hat again. She mounted and rode on.
When it was almost noon, she found a small creek that fed the Blue River. She followed it upstream for about
a mile until she came to a farmhouse.
Six crosses stood sentinel over
fresh graves. There was no sign of life except the windmill that creaked in a
fitful breeze. Maggie bowed her head and said a silent prayer for the dead.
She mounted Patches and turned back to the Blue River.
That night, the sky was starless.
She camped under a pine tree, hoping that its needles would keep off the worst
of the rain. She made sure that her supplies were wrapped tightly in oilskin.
She lay down with her head resting on her saddle and drew her slicker over
her. She shut her eyes, but sleep did not come easily, and when it did, she
dreamed of the night her parents died. She heard their voices, arguing.
“Damn it, Lucy! Give it back!”
“Mama, no!” Maggie woke with a
start. She hadn’t even realized that she had dozed off. A solitary drop of
rain struck her face, cold and hard. She threw a blanket over Patches’ back
and made a makeshift tent out of her slicker. The rain drummed on it, with a
sound like rocks being thrown against canvas. She gave up trying to sleep.
She brewed herself a pot of tea and sipped it from an enameled mug while the
rain poured from the sky in sheets. Finally, near midnight, it stopped. The
ground was muddy. With a sigh, she fashioned a hammock between two trees. She
climbed into the hammock, but she could not sleep.
Every time she shut her eyes, she
saw her mother’s lifeless body, her blue eyes open and staring.
* * *
Dawn came, but the sky was still
gray and threatening. Maggie brewed a pot of tea and ate a little hardtack.
She missed the smell of frying bacon and the banter of her friends around the
cook fire. With a sigh, she packed up and continued along the banks of the
river.
Before noon, the rain returned. Maggie wore her slicker and watched the sheets of rain march across the
prairie, slanting toward the earth like silver spears. She looked up at the
clouds that boiled across the sky. The rain lashed her, and the wind whipped
her slicker around her legs. She guided Patches through the cottonwoods until
they came to another pine. She dismounted and tethered him to
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