***Well, here ya go. End of the line. It's a little corny ( *SO* out of character for me, I know) so I apologize for that. I'm gonna drop another plug at the end, but if you enjoyed this story please add Something Blue to your list!
Just a quick story from my real life-- today I was skydiving and I was falling into a cloud and I saw another jumper outlined in the cloud right below me and I was like "this is it. I'm going to die and I'm going to kill this poor unsuspecting man on my way out" and I went into bullet time and in the course of a second played out a whole scenario where I would probably hurt him pretty bad when I hit him so I'd have to protect myself during the impact and then stay close and pull for him if I knocked him unconscious and all this other outlandish nonsense that had no regard for physics or reason or my lack of skills. Then BAM I hit the other jumper and it turns out the other jumper was my shadow on the cloud all along. There's a metaphor there, and as soon as I figure out what it is you're gonna see it in one of my stories. So gird your loins for that.***
Amelia
Amelia Tucker sat tall on the wagon bench and tried not to fidget as they rounded the last few bends in the muddy road. It was springtime after a wet winter, and the thaw had left the ground soft. The sodden earth sucked at the wheels as they squished through the mud, and the smell of wet earth permeated the cool air.
"You okay?" the man beside her asked, and she smiled and tucked herself against his side. Holding the reins with one hand, he wrapped the other around her.
"I don't think I've ever been better," she said softly, craning to place a kiss on his cheek.
"Mama stop, that's gross," came a voice from directly behind them, and Amelia turned, glaring at the young woman in the back of the wagon. She perched on top of crate, her golden hair hanging in twin braids. Despite her mother's efforts to restrain the wild locks, bits and pieces had come loose, framing her face. Her Sunday dress, made from the finest quality cotton Amelia could find, was wrinkled at the skirt, stained with mud, and ripped along the seam of the left sleeve. At thirteen, Rebecca was as beautiful and as wild as the land she'd grown up on.
"What, your mother and I can't kiss, now?" Josh asked, tossing a dubious glance over his shoulder.
"No, pop, it's gross. I don't want to see that. Neither do they."
Amelia pointed at her siblings. Valerie, at nine, was following doggedly in her sister's untamed footsteps. Ruth, nearly seven, was clever beyond reckoning and seemed to possess a wisdom and a grace reaching far past her years. Both were stretched out beneath blankets in the back of the wagon, sound asleep.
"You're right, honey. They look awful perturbed," Josh said before turning to Amelia. "You hear that sweetheart? No more kissing."
"Oh dear," said Amelia, pretending heartbreak even as she raised her face and accepted the noisy, theatrical kiss he planted on her lips.
Rebecca sighed the heavy, beleaguered sigh of an embarrassed teenager and moved to the back of the wagon to sulk. When they rounded the corner and the ranch drew into view she hopped out of the moving wagon and tore off ahead of it, her braids flying behind her. Amelia sighed in loving exasperation.
"Will she ever settle down?" she asked, watching Rebecca fly up the steps and into the house. The girl, she knew, would reappear in a few minutes in her riding clothes and a lengthy argument would ensue over just exactly why she was not allowed to ride the range by herself after dark.
"I hope not," Josh returned evenly as he climbed down and tied the horses to a post in the yard. "I'm kind of partial to her this way. Reminds me of her mother."
Amelia grabbed his shoulder for balance as she clambered out of the wagon and uttered a half-startled squeal as he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him. Winding her arms around his neck, she pressed her lips to his, still giggling.
"See what I mean? So excitable," he said in mock disapproval, setting her down and reaching for Ruth. The little girl hardly twitched as he lifted her out of the wagon. Her head settled on his shoulder and her arms dangled limply. Amelia glared in equally mocking indignation and gently shook Valerie awake, helping the groggy girl out of the wagon. Together, they walked up the path to the house.
Rebecca reappeared just as they were closing the door on the younger girls' room.
"Papa, can we go for a ride?" she asked, and Amelia was somewhat taken aback. Rebecca was getting to the age when she didn't like to do things with her parents. The question was supposed to be "Can I go for a ride?" Josh seemed equally puzzled.
"You want me to go with you?"
Rebecca studied the ground and Amelia's maternal sense flared. Josh glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and Amelia gave him a minute nod.
"Alright. Just let me go change, okay?"
"Okay. I'll take care of the wagon."
Amelia followed Josh to their bedroom as Rebecca disappeared out into the night.
"That was odd," she said as he began stripping off his church suit, trading it for the sturdy, dust-stained clothes he usually wore to work.
"It was," he agreed, his expression troubled as he sat on the trunk at the end of the bed and reached for his boots. "You think she's okay?"
"She seems okay."
"Yeah..." he didn't look convinced.
"I saw her talking to the Mulligans' daughter," Amelia said reluctantly. Josh's gaze snapped up to her, his eyes burning.
"You don't think--"
"No," she said, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. "Not on purpose anyway. But children repeat what they hear at home."
He sighed, bracing his elbows on his knees and scrubbing his hands over his face.
"I hate lying to her, Ames," he said, his voice muffled. She sank onto the trunk and wrapped her arms around him.
"Then don't," she whispered. "If she asks, tell her the truth."
"You're okay with that?" he asked, lifting his head to look at her.
"She'll be furious," Amelia said, running her fingers through his hair with a smile. "She probably won't speak to us for weeks. But she will come around eventually. I think it's better she finds out now, while she still needs us for food and shelter."
He offered her a weak smile and a soft kiss before pulling away and rising to his feet. His gun belt, abandoned in favor of the rifle for their trip to town, went around his waist. She followed him to the front door and they parted with a kiss.
"Don't wait up," he said against her lips.
"I will," she returned evenly, shoving playfully at him when his hands wandered down her back toward her rear.
She watched his back as he strode toward the barn. It was dusk, and the stars were just beginning to pulse and glitter in the sky. By the time they reached Rebecca's favorite star-gazing spot, it would be well after dark. Depending on how long their conversation lasted, Amelia knew she'd be waiting for hours at least before they returned home. With a sigh, she went to the kitchen and started a pot of water on the stove. Might as well get comfortable.
Rebecca
Rebecca stretched out on her back and relished the feel of the damp grass beneath her. Sunday was her least favorite day. It was the day her parents crammed her into that godawful, constricting dress and stuffed her into a closed up room that smelled like old people, just to listen to a boring lecture for the better part of a glorious morning. Instead of wandering the countryside with her friends, she had to make nice with horrible petty people like Penny Hartwell and Clara Mulligan. It wasn't a very godly experience, in her opinion.
This place, on the other hand, was as holy as any she'd ever witnessed. Crickets chirped. Grass rustled in the breeze. Overhead, the sky was immense and littered with stars. A thick, milky band stretched across the middle. Usually, the vastness of the sky calmed her. It reminded her of the puniness of her own existence and the pettiness of her own problems. Tonight, even the stars couldn't distract her. They might be bright and important, but they'd never had to deal with a problem like this, she was sure.
"Hey, papa?" she asked, rolling up on an elbow. Her father stretched out beside her, hands folded behind his head.
"Hm?" he asked, glancing over at her before turning back to the stars. Rebecca slumped back and stared at the sky, trying to find the words for her question. Part of her wanted to just drop it altogether. If it wasn't true, the question would hurt him. If it was true... no, she couldn't even wrap her head around that. It probably would be better to let the question die. Except it wouldn't die. She knew it would just bounce around in her head and she'd wonder and worry and when it finally came out she'd have no control over it.
"Reb?" her father asked, questioning.
"Yeah," she breathed, folding her hands behind her head, mimicking his relaxed posture. If she looked relaxed, she would feel relaxed. That's what he and grandpa taught her when she was learning to ride. Relax your body and your mind will follow.
"I talked to Clara Mulligan today," she said, trying to keep the distaste out of her voice.
"And how is Miss Mulligan?"
"She's fine I guess."
"Good."
"She said something."
"What'd she say?"
"Do you promise not to get mad?"
"Mmhm."
"She said I'm a bastard. That you're not my real father."
She waited for him to surge to his feet in outrage, or to chastise her for believing such nonsense. Instead, he just lay there beside her. Dread crept into her belly.
"Is it true?" she asked, her world crumbling beneath her.
"You're not a bastard, sweetheart. Your mother and I were married when you were born. You know that."
"You know what I mean. Did you... are you my real father?"
He sighed, and the breath of air was all the answer she needed. She blinked, struggling to see the sky past the blur of tears. Hot anguish broke loose from the corner of her eyes and trickled over her cheeks as she glared at the stars. As always, the immensity of the speckled velvet sky made her feel puny and petty. Tonight, it also made her feel alone.
"Reb, honey--"
She sat up and pulled her knees to her chest, pressing her eyes to them to hide her tears.
"Reb, I'm sorry."
She could not find words sufficient to describe the depth of her pain and anger, so instead she loosed a sob, her whole body shuddering as she wept into her knees.
"You have to talk to me, sweetheart."
"Don't call me that," she bit out around a sob. She didn't want any more of his lies. Was he playing a role? Did he pretend to care about her because he loved her mother? Well, she would spare him the hardship of pretending any longer, damn him.
"Rebecca, tell me what you're thinking."
She was filled with rage, but all that came out of her was another sad sob and a trickle of disjointed fears, broken up by gasps and hiccups as the sobs wracked her.
"Tell you what I'm thinking?" she lifted her face to glare at him. He was doing an awfully convincing impression of pain. "You lied to me! Mama lied to me! I thought you loved me! I thought i was your favorite! I thought... I thought you wanted to teach me how to manage the ranch! I thought I was your daughter. I thought... I thought..."
She dissolved once more into sobs and couldn't bring herself to move away when his arm wrapped around her shoulder. She turned toward him and sobbed into his shirt, knowing she had no claim to any comfort he had to offer. She was a bastard. Surely now that she knew he would turn her out of the house. Perhaps he'd let her stay on the ranch and work?
She clung to his shirt and wept, and thought that he was a terrific actor as he held her tight and rubbed her back while her crying ran its course. When she could finally breathe properly, he pushed her gently away and brushed her tears away with his thumb.
"You wanna hear the whole story?" he asked, and she nodded reluctantly, bracing herself for the end of her life as she knew it. He smiled and reclined in the grass, patting the ground next to him. She stretched out beside him, staring at the stars through burning eyes.
"I met your mom when she was a couple months along with you," he said evenly, "and fell in love with her pretty much immediately. She was in a tough spot. The man who got her pregnant left her. You already know your mother grew up an orphan. She'd had a hard life and she wanted something better for you. When I offered to marry her, and claim you as mine, she accepted. She didn't want you to grow up with that stigma attached to you, see?"
"Stigma?"
"Yeah. It's like... when everyone thinks something's bad. It ain't necessarily bad, but everyone thinks it is, so they look down on a person cuz of the stigma. Like how you and I would rather come out here and talk to God in the stars, right? But there's a stigma attached to not going to church. So we dress up in scratchy clothes every week and go sit in that stinky old room and listen to an old man tell us fairytales cuz we don't want the stigma."
Rebecca felt herself beginning to smile but forced it off her face.
"Got it. Stigma," she said.
"Right. So your mama didn't want you growing up with the stigma of being a bastard. So she said yes and we got married. And this is the tough part for me to tell, Reb. Cuz those few months weren't easy. I knew I loved your mother, and I knew I'd provide for her child--"
Her child, Rebecca thought. He said "her" child. Not "our" child. She shuddered, but didn't interrupt.
"--but I wasn't sure if I could love you the way you deserved to be loved." In contrast to his words, his hand came out and tugged at her until she assumed her usual position, tucked up next to him with her head on his arm. How many times had she fallen asleep like this, her parents' soft voices lulling her to rest? No, not her parents. Her mother. Her mother and the man who gave her food.
"It seems a little silly, now, that I was so scared," he went on, his arm tightening around her. "I was there the day you were born, Reb. You were ugly as sin. Your face was all scrunched up and you were covered in all kinds of nasty stuff. You've helped me during calving season, you know how it is."
"Ew."
"Yeah, ew. But it didn't matter, sweetheart. You were still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen and I loved you instantly, more than I'd ever loved anything."
"More than you love mama?" she teased, doubtfully.
"Different than your mother. Very different. And yes, in a way, more. Your mother and me... we'd die for each other, Reb, but we'd kill for you. Either one of us would. We'd burn the whole world to the ground if you needed us to."
Rebecca turned away from the stars and stemmed her tears in his shirt once more. They were different now, though. His arm wrapped around her.
"You wanna know a secret?"
"Another one?"
He laughed at that. "This one's not as bad as the last one, I promise."
"Okay."
"You're not my favorite," he said dryly, his arm tightening around her as he pressed a kiss to her temple.
"That's a mean secret," she said with a scowl, trying to pull from his grip, but he kept hold of her.
"Well you have to let me finish," he scolded. "You're not my favorite because I don't have a favorite, Reb. Parents don't have favorite kids."
"Yeah they do. You're grandpa's favorite. He told me," she argued, pulling away and cranking her chin up in indignation. "He said Aunt Mel is the smartest and Uncle Brent makes him worry the most, and that he likes you the best."
"But he didn't say I'm his favorite, did he?"
She gnawed on her lip, trying to remember the old man's exact words. Finally she shook her head. "No, I guess not. But that's what he meant."
"No it's not, sweetheart. He doesn't have a favorite. He loves all of us the same. Just like I love you and Val and Ruthie the same."
"That's impossible."
"No it's not. Are you telling me you have a favorite horse?"
She scoffed, glaring at him. "Of course I do. Midnight."
He groaned. Midnight was the pitch black mustang he'd brought home last spring. He still hadn't broken her completely, but Rebecca knew the horse was hers just as soon as it stopped trying to kill its riders.
"Okay fine," he sighed. "But you remember old Cleo?"
Tears sprang automatically to Rebecca's eyes as she thought of her old dog. "Uh huh."
"You love Florence more than you love Cleo?"
"What? Of course not!" Rebecca exclaimed. She loved Florence, her three-year-old sheepdog, but hse didn't love her more than she had loved Cleo!
"So you loved Cleo more than you love Flo?"
"Papa, stop. You're being ridiculous."
"You get it, now?"
Reluctantly, Rebecca had to admit that she did. Maybe it was possible to love two things equally but different.
"So I'm not your favorite," she said sullenly, flopping back onto her back.
"Nope."
"So what's the secret?"
"Sit up for me, real quick." Rebecca obeyed, leaning back on her hands as her father gestured at the moonlit valley in front of them. Silver limned the distant white-capped peaks and sparkled off the dew-coated grass. The river snaking through the valley glinted obsidian. A chill ran down her spine at the raw beauty.
"That's my favorite view on this whole ranch," her father said.
"Uh huh," she mumbled, dropping her chin onto her knees.
"I brought Val here on her birthday," he said thoughtfully. "I couldn't get her to sit still. She kept trying to chase butterflies."
"Okay," she drawled, unimpressed and irritated. She wanted to go home and cry in the privacy of her bedroom.
"I brought Ruthie here, too, once. She fell asleep."
"She's a little girl."
"So were you the first time I brought you out here. You just sat in my lap and stared."
Rebecca hunched her shoulders. He was just telling tales to make her feel good. It was nice, she supposed, but it didn't change things. She was a bastard.
"So?" she said through her teeth, turning her face down from the view and pressing her eyes against the bony knobs of her knees.
"So, you're not my favorite." His warm voice was accompanied by the feel of an arm closing around her shoulders, tugging her against his side. "I don't have a favorite because I love all my girls equally. But you're all so different, Reb. I love you all equally, but I love you so different. And you, sweetheart? You're the only one I want to share this spot with. You're the one I want to ride with. You're the one who made me a father. It doesn't matter who got your mother pregnant. Maybe it matters to you, but it doesn't matter to me, not one lick."
"So I am your favorite," she sassed through a thick throat, and he laughed, hugging her tighter.
"You're my favorite firstborn. I've got a Reb, a Val, and a Ruth, and you're by far my favorite Reb."
"Would you love me more if you were the one who got mama pregnant?"
"No," he said without hesitation. "I couldn't possibly love you more than I already do. I love you more than I can handle most days, sweetheart. I wish I could offer you more, but I can't. All I can give you is all the love I've got."
Rebecca chewed on her lip and lifted her face to stare at the distant mountains. "That was sappy, papa," she grumbled, wiping the last of her tears on her shirt sleeve. He didn't answer, and she sank into silence, more and more questions tumbling over in her head.
"Why didn't you tell me before now?"she asked.
"That's..." he trailed away thoughtfully before finding his footing. "It's complicated, sweetheart. The truth of it is that we were scared. I was scared, more like. We knew you'd be angry, but your mom wanted to tell you sooner. I pushed back. I thought you'd be able to forgive your mother, but I didn't think you'd be so lenient with me. I didn't want to lose you to some quest to find your real father."
"You won't," she said confidently. "Do you know who he is, though? The guy who got mama pregnant and left her?"
"We do," he said evenly, slowly, "and someday soon we'll sit down and have a talk about it, I promise. All three of us. I think your mother ought to be there for that, though."
She shrugged, and shifted as he climbed to his feet and helped her up. The horses were hobbled a distance away, and they both freed their mounts and swung up into the saddle
Rebecca felt empty as they rode back beneath the vast and starry sky. Empty in a clean way. Cleansed. Some part of her had always wondered why she didn't look more like her father, when the other two were crafted in his spitting image. Now it made sense. She kneed her horse, pulling even with him, and they moved across the grassy plain together. She looked up at the sky. She was puny and her troubles were petty, but she was far, far from alone.
Aaaand, plug #2-- If you liked this story, please add Something Blue to your reading list! I am going to pop over there and throw up the first two chapters later this evening. I know I promised five, and they are written, but I want to try to be a more consistent updater and giving myself a buffer of completed chapters will help with that.
Oh, and if this story is your first of mine, feel free to hop on over to Melody of Silence and give it a whirl. Not to be dramatic, but it is my magnum opus and 1,000 x 10^1,0000 times better and closer to my heart than anything else I will ever write. Which is to say, it's aight I guess.
Whether you're staying on board for the next story, or have grown tired of my melodramatic ramblings and want to get off at this stop (completely understandable), THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading! I am a lousy, awful, no-good writer and do a horrendous and inconsistent job of responding to readers. But please don't take my silence as a lack of appreciation. I'm a busy mofo IRL, and I'm terrible at responding, but I get an alert for each vote/comment, and every single one is as inspiring and gratifying as the first I ever got. I'm a turd, but you all are amazing and absolutely 100% seen and appreciated. So, if I haven't said it to you yet directly, THANK YOU for reading and existing and just generally being awesome.
Love!
Liz