some roundish ones with clusters of small leaves.
The road had turned straight and less bumpy and Wayne had stopped humming.
A gate appeared up ahead. He braked smoothly, slid to a stop. The gate was connected to metal fencing, like for a horse corral, but there were no horses Grace could see.
Maybe they were in a barn or something, asleep.
Above the gate was a spotlight that shone on a wooden plaque. Burned in the wood was cursive lettering.
Stagecoach Ranch
This caseworker was taking her to be a cowgirl?
He idled the car, got out, swung the gate open, returned to the driver’s seat. “Pretty cool, no? I figure everything you been through, you deserve something better, kiddo. Guess what this place was used for back in the day?”
Grace said, “Animals?”
“Good answer but even better, Ms. Grace Blades. This was a film ranch, they used it to shoot movies.” He laughed. “Who knows, you might even come across some memorabilia—that means old interesting stuff.”
He drove through the gateway. Up ahead was a house, bigger than Grace had ever seen except in books. Two stories high, wide as two normal houses, with white wooden boards running along the front and up three steps, a front porch that tilted to one side.
Wayne whistled through his teeth. “Home sweet home, kiddo.”
He gave a short honk. A woman came out of the house drying a dish with a towel. Old and small, she had white hair that hung below her waist, a sharp nose that reminded Grace of a bird, and skinny arms that moved fast as she kept up the drying.
Wayne got out and held out his hand for a shake. The woman barely touched his fingers and resumed her towel work. “You’re a bit late, amigo.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Heck,” said the woman, “it’s not as if I’m booked with appointments.” She approached the car, moving nimbly despite her age. Stooping, but not too much because she was short, didn’t have to lower herself a lot to gaze through the window.
Peering at Grace, she made a rotary motion that Grace figured meant, “Roll it down.”
She obeyed and the old woman studied her. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? Nice to have both—brains and looks. I’m telling you that from personal experience.” She laughed like a younger woman. “So what do you like to be called?”
“Grace.”
“Simple enough. I’m Ramona Stage and for the most part you can stick with Ramona. When I get grumpy—it does happen, I’m human—you might try Mrs. Stage. But mostly Ramona’ll be fine. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Get your stuff, I’ll show you your room.”
—
The house was even bigger inside, with heavy, dark furniture everywhere and wood-plank walls covered with paintings of flowers and photos of a man—the same man, over and over—in a fancy black shirt and white cowboy hat. Grace didn’t have a chance to notice more; she was hurrying up the stairs after Ramona Stage, who’d grabbed Grace’s bags and was moving like she was weightless.
At the top was a wide, brown-carpeted landing with six doors. The air smelled of tomato soup and maybe some kind of laundry detergent.
“That,” said Ramona, pointing to the nearest door, “is my bedroom. Door’s open, you can knock. If I say ‘okay’ or ‘enter’ or ‘come in’ or something along those lines, you can come in. You find the door closed, don’t even try. That room at the far end is a linen closet. The one next to it is the bathroom. I’ve got my own so it’s just for the kids. That leaves three bedrooms for the kids and right now I got two little ones in the left-hand room, one by himself over there, he’s got special circumstances. All boys, but that could change. Meanwhile, you, being the only female, get your own space, which is something I can’t always promise. Obviously it’s going to be the smallest room. That seem unfair to you?”
Grace shook her head.
Ramona said, “You don’t like to talk? Fine, a shake or a nod works just as well. Long as
The road had turned straight and less bumpy and Wayne had stopped humming.
A gate appeared up ahead. He braked smoothly, slid to a stop. The gate was connected to metal fencing, like for a horse corral, but there were no horses Grace could see.
Maybe they were in a barn or something, asleep.
Above the gate was a spotlight that shone on a wooden plaque. Burned in the wood was cursive lettering.
Stagecoach Ranch
This caseworker was taking her to be a cowgirl?
He idled the car, got out, swung the gate open, returned to the driver’s seat. “Pretty cool, no? I figure everything you been through, you deserve something better, kiddo. Guess what this place was used for back in the day?”
Grace said, “Animals?”
“Good answer but even better, Ms. Grace Blades. This was a film ranch, they used it to shoot movies.” He laughed. “Who knows, you might even come across some memorabilia—that means old interesting stuff.”
He drove through the gateway. Up ahead was a house, bigger than Grace had ever seen except in books. Two stories high, wide as two normal houses, with white wooden boards running along the front and up three steps, a front porch that tilted to one side.
Wayne whistled through his teeth. “Home sweet home, kiddo.”
He gave a short honk. A woman came out of the house drying a dish with a towel. Old and small, she had white hair that hung below her waist, a sharp nose that reminded Grace of a bird, and skinny arms that moved fast as she kept up the drying.
Wayne got out and held out his hand for a shake. The woman barely touched his fingers and resumed her towel work. “You’re a bit late, amigo.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Heck,” said the woman, “it’s not as if I’m booked with appointments.” She approached the car, moving nimbly despite her age. Stooping, but not too much because she was short, didn’t have to lower herself a lot to gaze through the window.
Peering at Grace, she made a rotary motion that Grace figured meant, “Roll it down.”
She obeyed and the old woman studied her. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? Nice to have both—brains and looks. I’m telling you that from personal experience.” She laughed like a younger woman. “So what do you like to be called?”
“Grace.”
“Simple enough. I’m Ramona Stage and for the most part you can stick with Ramona. When I get grumpy—it does happen, I’m human—you might try Mrs. Stage. But mostly Ramona’ll be fine. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Get your stuff, I’ll show you your room.”
—
The house was even bigger inside, with heavy, dark furniture everywhere and wood-plank walls covered with paintings of flowers and photos of a man—the same man, over and over—in a fancy black shirt and white cowboy hat. Grace didn’t have a chance to notice more; she was hurrying up the stairs after Ramona Stage, who’d grabbed Grace’s bags and was moving like she was weightless.
At the top was a wide, brown-carpeted landing with six doors. The air smelled of tomato soup and maybe some kind of laundry detergent.
“That,” said Ramona, pointing to the nearest door, “is my bedroom. Door’s open, you can knock. If I say ‘okay’ or ‘enter’ or ‘come in’ or something along those lines, you can come in. You find the door closed, don’t even try. That room at the far end is a linen closet. The one next to it is the bathroom. I’ve got my own so it’s just for the kids. That leaves three bedrooms for the kids and right now I got two little ones in the left-hand room, one by himself over there, he’s got special circumstances. All boys, but that could change. Meanwhile, you, being the only female, get your own space, which is something I can’t always promise. Obviously it’s going to be the smallest room. That seem unfair to you?”
Grace shook her head.
Ramona said, “You don’t like to talk? Fine, a shake or a nod works just as well. Long as
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