Sixteen and Dying Page 6

  “Anne, this type of attraction is a first for you. It’s been a long time coming, but the time has arrived. I’ve never seen you interested in a boy before, and it’s … difficult for me.”

  She hated the way he made her special feelings for Morgan sound so common and ordinary, as if they made up some kind of phase everybody went through. “You must think I’m a real social reject.”

  “I think you’re beautiful, talented, smart, and heads and hands above any of the overly hormone-infused teenage boys from high school. I knew none of them could ever hold your interest.”

  “You’re my father—of course, you think I’m one of a kind.”

  “As your father,” he said, “I’ve been both anticipating and dreading this day for years. The day when you’d meet a guy who saw you for the wonderful person you are. And wanted you in every way.”

  She was missing her mother again. “You make it sound like I’m some raw, throbbing hormone, waiting to be pounced upon by some guy.” In spite of her irritation, Anne smiled. “You can’t be worried that I might trip and fall into his bed. We both know why.”

  When her father answered, she knew he’d given his reply much thought. “Sometimes, when I look at you, I still see that gangly eleven-year-old with the bruised knees and scraped elbows. It’s difficult accepting that you’re a grown woman. That you’re feeling all the emotions of a normal sixteen-year-old. I never wanted to think of you growing up and getting involved with any man … not even the one you marry and now …”

  “Except we both know that I’ll never marry, don’t we?”

  She saw that his eyes were damp. “Sometimes, when I think about what’s happening to you, it’s more than I can bare. Sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night, and I’m sweating and shaking, and I can’t catch my breath. I can’t believe all that’s being taken away from you. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair. I’d give anything to have the disease and see you free of it. But I can’t.”

  First, he lost her mother; now, he was losing her. Not in a normal way of giving her away in marriage. But to premature death. Just for the moment, she caught the impact of his anguish. “Daddy, I’ve been trying to sort out answers for myself about what’s happened to me. I’ve thought about little else. Not just ‘why me?’ but why people have to suffer in the first place. Maybe we’re not supposed to understand. Maybe all we can do is accept what we can’t change, and keep on going. I realized that after mom died or I couldn’t have gone on.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve examined life’s imponderables with far more maturity than I have given you credit for,” her father commented.

  “That’s what I’ve been doing when I haven’t been riding, or looking longingly at Morgan.”

  He gave a quiet, sad laugh. “I don’t feel I’m doing enough to help you. Enough to protect you.”

  “I’ll need you most when we go home. When I get really sick.”

  “I’ll be there for you. I’ll never desert you, Anne.” He pulled her to his side and kissed the top of her head. “In the meantime, you be careful around Morgan. Don’t do anything foolish. I don’t want you to have a broken heart too. I can’t fix that either.”

  Anne wondered how she could be anything but careful. She knew what was at stake. Perhaps her father was right. Perhaps it would be best to stay away from Morgan altogether. To completely shield him from harm’s way. After all, if he ever knew she was exposing him to HIV, what would he do?

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to come to the Broken Arrow. She thought about JWC and for the hundredth time wondered what had possessed a person she didn’t know to give her so much money. Surely, JWC and the One Last Wish Foundation had made a mistake. In receiving the money before the onset of actual AIDS, Anne had squandered some of it foolishly and chosen a path that was leading to heartache.

  And yet, she was glad she’d met Morgan, who had the power to make her heart skip a beat with a mere glance. If it hadn’t been for the Wish money, she would have never met him. And if she’d been perfectly healthy, their relationship still would have come to nothing more than a summer fling, she reminded herself. After all, what could he possibly find exciting about a inexperienced girl who knew nothing about love, who picked wildflowers and loved poetry?

  It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Anne was avoiding him. “Chalk one up for Daddy,” Morgan told himself sourly as he pitched hay in the barn one afternoon. Why was he surprised? Snobby little rich girls were all alike.

  He should have just gone ahead and had a good time with her physically when he’d had the opportunity. But, no … he’d backed off, kept his hands to himself, all because—

  His thoughts were interrupted when he heard someone come into the barn. He looked over the edge of the loft and saw Anne wandering aimlessly around the quiet barn. She was hugging a book and looking for a place to sit. Why does she have to come in here? He didn’t need the aggravation.

  He watched her settle on a mound of hay and open her book. He wished he’d taken to books—maybe then the two of them would have more in common. He decided that he wasn’t going to hide from her, ignore her the way she’d been ignoring him. Morgan began to whistle, tossed a forkful of hay down from the loft, and saw it land near Anne’s feet.

  A startled cry escaped from her, which gave Morgan some satisfaction. He shimmied down from the loft. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought I was alone in here.”

  “Me too.” Anne started to rise, but when she planted her hand in the hay to give herself a boost, she yelped in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” Morgan started toward her. She lifted her hand, and he saw a line of bright red blood across her palm. He felt a sickening sensation in his stomach. “There must be something sharp under the hay. Don’t move.” He knelt beside her.

  Fearfully, she stared at her bleeding hand.

  Morgan reached beneath her, lifted her, and placed her safely away from the hay and its invisible weapon. “Let me see how bad you’re cut.”

  “It’s nothing,” Anne said, keeping her hand close to her body. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding. You may need stitches. Let me wipe it off and examine it.”

  Her eyes widened, reminding him of a deer trapped in headlights. “No! Don’t touch it!”

  “Why? I want to help. I’ve seen blood before.”

  “Stay away! Please, don’t touch me.” She was shaking all over.

  “At least let me wrap my handkerchief around it to try to stop the bleeding.” He fumbled in his jeans pocket.

  “No!” She darted backward. “My father and I’ll take care of it.”

  “But-”

  “Please—you don’t understand. I-I can’t explain. Just don’t touch it.” Wild-eyed, panicked, she spun, and clutching her hand to her side, she bolted from the barn.

  Dumbfounded, Morgan watched her run back toward her cabin.

  Eleven

  “LET ME SEE your hand. Does it hurt?” Marti looked worried at the dinner table that night.

  “It’s nothing,” Anne insisted. “The doctor in Platte City put a bandage on it and gave me a tetanus shot. Talk about something that hurt—” She rubbed her arm, hoping to distract Marti.

  “Morgan acted impossible all afternoon. He felt it was his fault.”

  “He had nothing to do with it. I cut my hand, that’s all.” Her eyes met her father’s over Marti’s head. When it had happened, all she could think about was Morgan’s touching her blood and somehow absorbing the HIV into himself. And when she had to face the doctor in Platte City, when she had to tell him to take extra precautions before treating her, the reality of her situation almost devastated her. “We should leave,” she’d told her father in the car coming back to the ranch. “We should go home before I infect somebody.”

  “Nonsense,” her father had said. “If we leave, it’ll be because you truly want to go. You’re not a threat to anybody. Do you want to leave?”

  Anne felt she was a threat. S
he also felt dishonest because she wasn’t telling people the truth about herself. Did her friends have a right to know? A right to choose whether or not to be around her? She felt like a coward because she couldn’t bring herself to tell them. Or to see the horror on their faces once they knew.

  “Oya! Listen to me, Anne,” Marti was saying. “I want to know if we can go into Platte City for Pioneer Days on Friday. I have the whole day off, and I want to go have some fun.”

  “I thought you were going with Skip.”

  Marti glanced around, then leaned closer. “He’ll meet me in the afternoon, after the rodeo. You and I can see the sights until Skip’s free.”

  “I don’t know …” She remembered when Morgan had suggested she come to the celebration with him. After the way she’d been acting, he would probably be keeping his distance from her.

  “You can’t tell me no,” Marti said, with a quick smile.

  Anne shook her finger at Marti, who giggled and called over her shoulder, “The van for Platte City leaves from the main lodge Friday morning, and you’d better be in it with me.”

  On Friday, a whole crowd of guests rode into the small city. A large banner hung over the main street, proclaiming Pioneer Days, and booths and stands selling food, arts and crafts items, and western memorabilia lined the thoroughfare. People jostled along the sidewalk, and set up chairs down the side of the street for the parade scheduled at high noon.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Marti asked. She and Anne strolled down the sidewalk, licking ice-cream cones.

  “Si,” Anne replied in Spanish. “Estoy muy—” she struggled to remember the Spanish word for ‘fun’ and ended up saying, “—fun!”

  Marti laughed gaily. “What an accent! Come on, let’s grab a spot to watch the parade.”

  They sat on a curb, and when the parade started, Anne discovered they were in a perfect position to see everything. Marching bands, convertibles filled with pretty girls, clowns, and riders astride different breeds of horses passed directly in front of them. Anne identified groups of palominos, pintos, paso finos, quarter horses, and purebred Arabians, ridden by men, women, even children dressed in western and Mexican clothing.

  “Look, there’s Skip,” Marti said. She waved to a clown dressed in baggy pants, an oversized shirt, and a flaming red wig. His face was painted white, except for exaggerated drawn-on red lips.

  “How can you tell?” Anne teased. Skip stepped from the parade line and handed them both balloons. “You look adorable,” Anne told him.

  “Thanks. Are you both coming to the rodeo? I’ll be working the ring, and Morgan’s going to ride,” he said.

  “Clowns work in rodeos?” Anne asked.

  “Important work. We distract the wild bulls when a rider gets thrown.”

  “How? Do the bulls fall down laughing?” Anne kidded, but the image of Morgan’s being thrown from the back of a bucking horse flashed through her mind.

  “Very funny,” Skip said as Marti giggled.

  “Don’t you ride the broncos or bulls?” Anne asked.

  “Do I look crazy? Not this boy. I participate in the roping events and the barrel races.” He glanced at the passing parade. “I’d better catch up.” He grabbed Marti’s hand. “March with me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. You and Anne can hook up in the stands at the rodeo.”

  Anne could see that Marti wanted to go with Skip. She gave her a nudge. “Go on. I’ll shop and meet you in an hour.”

  Once Marti and Skip had joined the parade, Anne settled back onto the curb. A group of riders was coming down the street with a banner heralding the Broken Arrow. As they passed, she recognized many of the ranch’s workers. Her breath caught when she saw Morgan riding the prancing bay range horse. He’d tamed him! Her heart swelled proudly, and she waved, but she wasn’t sure Morgan saw her.

  When the parade ended and the crowd broke up, Anne wandered through a few stores, buying souvenirs for friends back home. In so many ways, she felt like a normal tourist with nothing to do but have a good time. If only it were true. “No negative thoughts,” she told herself sternly.

  She entered a western-wear shop and browsed, admiring fringed, buttery-soft buckskin jackets, a pair of snakeskin boots, and elaborate western shirts, encrusted with appliqués, sequins, and glittering jewels. On one wall, she saw ornate Stetson hats, chaps, and leather belts. But it was a saddle sitting atop a sawhorse that took away her breath.

  The saddle was black leather, decorated with sterling silver. Anne fingered the saddle’s rich, hand-carved depressions and ran her palm over the intricate silver design patterns. She’d never seen anything like it, never knew such a utilitarian piece of equipment could be made to look so beautiful.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw it across the back of Morgan’s bay stallion. She remembered what Morgan had told her about wanting to show his horse and how expensive proper show gear was to buy. She lifted the price tag and raised her eyebrows. The saddle cost almost two thousand dollars. She chewed her bottom lip. How she’d like to buy it for him!

  Her mind returned to the time in the hospital when she’d discovered the OLW envelope on her pillow, and to the sense of absolute awe she’d experienced when she’d seen the check, the enormous amount of money given to her by someone she didn’t even know. Hadn’t the letter said, “… the true miracle is in giving, not receiving”?

  While Anne knew she couldn’t keep the origin of such a gift as the saddle from Morgan, she certainly had money enough to buy it for him. Moreover, she wanted to buy it for him, wanted him to feel what she’d felt when JWC had unexpectedly blessed her life. Heart pounding, Anne made up her mind and found a clerk.

  After she’d acquired the saddle, a matching bridle, and a handwoven saddle blanket, she made arrangements for her purchases to be delivered to the Broken Arrow the following day. Pleased with herself, she followed the crowds to the outdoor rodeo arena, where she found Marti already perched in the stands for the show.

  “I thought you’d gotten lost,” Marti said.

  “Just sidetracked. Did you have a good time?”

  “The best time. I like Skip so much. He’s sweet and kind and treats me like I’m special.”

  “You are special,” Anne said.

  Marti dropped her gaze. “It makes me realize how badly Peter has treated me, and I’ve taken it like a fool.”

  Once the rodeo began, Anne lost herself completely in the atmosphere. The barrel race had several age categories, three won by cowgirls. Skip placed second in the men’s group, and Marti cheered more loudly than anyone in the stands for him.

  The sun was setting and the arena was lit by overhead stadium lights when it came time for the bronco-riding events. Anne felt jittery. The object was for the rider to stay on the horse for as long as possible. A buzzer would sound at the end of a specific time period, and any rider who was still mounted became a finalist. “What’s the prize?” Anne asked.

  “A hundred dollars,” Marti told her.

  Anne didn’t think it sounded like enough money for such a brain-rattling, teeth-jarring event, but she kept quiet. The first rider out of the chute was tossed off like a rag doll. Anne winced as he thudded onto the ground. Yet, he got up, dusted himself off, and hurried out of the ring while other riders captured the bucking horse and led it back to the holding pen.

  By the time she heard Morgan’s name called, her jaw hurt from clenching her teeth. She watched as he swung from the side of the special chute onto the back of a horse called Loco. “A horse named Crazy,” Marti remarked. “He must be some mean one.”

  Anne saw Morgan wrap a gloved hand around a rope tied to the horse and raise the other hand into the air above his head in the classic one-handed posture of bronco riders. A bell rang, the gate opened, and Loco exploded into the arena.

  The horse gyrated and twisted itself into impossible contortions. He hit the ground stiff-legged, his head pulled low, his eyes white with wild fury. Morgan twisted
with him, gripping the horse’s heaving sides with his knees. To Anne, it seemed an eternity until the buzzer sounded. The audience erupted into cheers.

  Morgan released his hold on the rope and kicked himself off the animal’s back. As he dropped, his boot caught in the rope. Suddenly, he was hanging sideways from the horse, unable to get off. Morgan dangled helplessly from the furious animal as it continued its mad twisting and bucking, its deadly hooves lifting off the ground, inches from Morgan’s head.

  A cry raced through the crowd as the spectators grasped his deadly predicament. Anne froze, watching in horror. All at once, the arena filled with clowns and men on quarter horses chasing after the bronco. One clown waved a blanket, causing the horse to stop abruptly. Quickly, two mounted cowboys came alongside Loco, sandwiched the wild horse between them and snatched his headgear, forcing him to stand still.

  Clowns helped loosen Morgan’s trapped foot and lower him to the ground. Others baring a stretcher ran into the arena and lifted him on it. Through her daze, Anne heard Marti yell, “They’re taking him to the hospital tent!”

  Twelve

  ANNE RACED OUT and turned down a path, made narrow by parked horse trailers. At the far end, she saw a large tent with a red cross painted on its side, and rushed toward it. Outside, a woman wearing an armband bearing the same red cross stopped her. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Flustered, Anne groped for words. “They brought in a rider from the arena … he’d been thrown, dragged. I need to see how he is. He’s a friend.”

  The nurse offered a reassuring smile. “Calm down. The doctor’s taping him up now. He’s got a couple of cracked ribs, some bruises and contusions, but he’s going to be fine.”

  Anne felt her knees buckle with relief. “He won’t have to go to the hospital?”

  “I think he refused to go.”

  “Do you suppose I could go in and see him?”