A Gentle Rain (11 page)

The redhead froze. She stared up at someone behind me. I turned, rubbing my throat. Mac stood there. He patted the air at her. "It's all r-right, little g-girl," he stuttered. Then he blushed, because he hated to stutter in front of women and strangers. He ducked his big head and looked away.

She kept looking up at Mac like she'd never been rescued, before. "What's your name, valiant knight?"

Mac was so flabbergasted by being called valiant and a knight he said, "Mac. Mac Tolbert, little girl," without stuttering.

This look came in her eyes. She had blue eyes, and they turned bluer. "Sir Mac," she said slowly.

"Poor baby!" Lily came limping up the deer path, wringing her hands. "Poor baby! Poor baby." The mare, the redhead, me, Mac. We were all her poor babies. But she had eyes only for the redhead. "Are you all right? What's your name, poor baby? My name's Lily."

Sad blue eyes. So blue. "My name is Karen," the redhead finally said. "Karen Johnson." Like she had to think about it, and it was hard to get out.

Behind us, the gray mare snorted.

Like she lulew something we didn't lulow.

Kara

Arriving

A legitimate tow truck operator towed my hatchback to a garage in the nearby town of Fountain Springs. The mare was unhurt, and so was 1. Bury and Juicy Pollo were not so fortunate. They were on their way to the doctor's, then jail. Ben Thocco looked a little worse for wear, but said "Aw," and looked away when I tried to thank him.

Laconic. Iconic. Humble. And extremely handsome.

El Diablo. The Pollo brothers had cast the title at him like a slur. Mask. Tights. It couldn't be anything other than a coincidence, surely. I stored the information with a side note of incredulity and yes, a palpable thrill. But I would stick with the assured facts, for now.

A cowboy. At the very least, Ben Thocco was a bona fide cowboy, who had rescued me in gallant cowboy style.

With the help of my birth parents.

Now I was on my way to the Thocco Ranch, albeit in a mariner I'd never have predicted.

Dazed, I held a lead rope attached to the gray mare. I sat in the back of Ben Thocco's large, late-model pick-up truck with Lily beside me, both of us seated indecorously in the truck's bed, our backs against a tool chest. My harp took up most of the truck bed and crowded us for space.

Ben Thocco drove at a meandering pace geared to the mare's nervous walls. I estimated we had traveled two miles in just over an hour, the speed of a casual stroll on a gym treadmill. What struck me most was Ben Thocco's steady foot on the gas pedal, and his patience.

Mr. Darcy perched atop the small mountain ofmyworldly belongings. He stared hard at Rhubarb, a friendly dog by all evidence, who was wedged between Lily's feet. Rhubarb lapped the air in Mr. Darcy's direction. "Creature," Mr. Darcy said.

"Rhubarb thinks your bird is a big, blue chicken," Lily said. "He likes chickens."

"Does he eat them?"

"No. He takes care of them. At the ranch, he barks at hawks and raccoons that try to get in the chicken house. He even chased a wildcat off, once."

"Oh? There are still panthers in this part of Florida?"

"What's a panther?"

My heart sank. She was barely literate. "It's a type of wildcat."

"Oh! A painter. That's the way we say it."

"Painter," I repeated.

She smiled at me. "You're not from around here, are you? That's okay. Don't be embarrassed if you don't know how to talk."

She was simple but kind. I faced forward and blinked back the emotion of being both ashamed of her and ashamed of myself at the same time. "Don't cry," she said. "I know you must be worried about your car. But it'll get fixed." Lily took my hand. She patted it.

"I'm sure my car will recover. It's an old model. Quite battered. Hardly worth worrying about."

Lily leaned close and whispered. "Don't be sad `cause you don't have a nice car. Nobody'll make fun of you. Me and Mac, we'll tell Ben. Ben won't let anybody make fun of you. Or your car."

I couldn't win this small battle of wits. She out-did me at every turn, merely by having a generous soul. My own soul felt quite mean and small, by comparison. We heard tapping on the window behind us. Lily turned and waved brightly. "Look at us, Mac! We're leading the gray mare, and she isn't trying to bite anybody! She likes Karen!"

I swiveled to smile gamely at Mac. He immediately ducked his head and turned away. My heart twisted. He stuttered. Just like me. We shared the same small monster, hiding inside us. I kept mine at bay, but he couldn't.

He hadn't hesitated to protect me from a brutal attacker. Did this sweet, paternal man mourn the daughter he and Lily had given away more than thirty years ago? I felt sorry for him. I ached with sympathy, knowing how much his stutter contributed to his shyness.

I darted glances at Lily. Her denim jumper had daisies embroidered on it. So did the white ankle socks she wore with bright yellow tennis shoes. I had never known an adult woman who wore white ankle socks other than when playing tennis or golf She was childlike and charming, a plump fairytale housfrau. She accepted me as if I had sprung from the ground like a wildflower whose seed she'd forgotten she planted.

I looked like her.

Maybe no one else noticed the resemblance, but I saw it from the first moment. Both of us were short and sturdy. I was taller, but not by much. We had the same curly red hair, though hers was faded and obscured by dull, gray strands.

She wore it so tightly cut that it was little more than a fuzzy skull cap. She looked, in ways, suppressed. Afraid to stand up. Her eyes were stone-washed old blue compared to my younger eyes' hue, but it was the same blue, just different by decades and degrees. Her skin held freckles like gravy holds brown pepper. She wore no make-up. Her eyelashes and brows were nearly pink. I could have told her that stylists would dye them chocolate brown for her, like mine, but she would not have understood the point.

She wore no jewelry except a tiny silver charm on a necklace. The charm was a daisy. Her brows arched like mine, her nose was short and slightly flared, like mine. Her mouth smiled like mine, assuming I ever smiled again sincerely.

But there was one major difference.

Lily was crooked. Or perhaps I was too straight.

Her face drooped slightly to the left, not in the severe manner of a stroke patient, but noticeably. Her left eyelid was lazy. Her left shoulder slanted down, with the right shoulder overcompensating by hunching upwards. Worst of all, her left foot dragged a single beat off rhythm, giving her a lopsided, rolling wall,,.

What had made her this way? How many times had cruel people taunted her? What kind of names had she been called? Did those names ring in her ears when I came out of her body? Was she glad to see me go?

"We're home," Lily said, smiling. "Look around. I know you must be scared of this wild old forest. You haven't even looked at it. But it's safe. See?" She waved an arm.

I pulled my gaze away from her and blinked.

Paradise.

Ben Thocco's ranch emerged from a tunnel of forest at the end of a long, sandy lane bordered by pink hibiscus in every spot where the sun broke through the shade. The scent of fertile loam spread through my senses. The aroma ofwater pervaded everything. A covey of quail skittered across the lane in front of his truck. Deer raised their heads from nibbling the spring leaves. "We have lots of critters," Lily said. "I give them all names. That's Snow White and Mickey and Donald and ... I think that's Cinderella, but it might be Minnie."

"You like the fantasy of Disney World?" I asked gently.

"Oh, yes! Ben took us once. Have you ever been?" I shook my head but she didn't notice; she was busy telling me the names of other wildlife in her own Magic Kingdom.

It was Shangri-la with cattle and palm trees. I'd traveled through a looking glass, leaving behind the modern Florida world of tourists, interstates, seashell shops and retirement communities featuring bingo, golf and shuttle buses to the local dog track. The Thocco ranch spread before my eyes with fascinating allure.

At the center of a shady, sandy yard stood a two-story wooden house with a tin roof and gray, rock chimneys flecked with oyster shell. The porches were wide and deep, scattered with everything from footstools to rockers to aged metal kitchenette chairs with cracked vinyl cushions.

Fat chickens roamed the yards, giving a small, sleepy alligator a Aide berth but otherwise pecking and scratching, unconcerned. Vast pastures spread beyond a curve in a wide marsh. The pastures were dotted with red and white Hereford cattle and a sprinkling of horses. The marsh was decorated with seagulls. A cormorant plunged from the sky and disappeared into the dark water like a dive bomber.

I turned back to the main yard. Large, modern barns and sturdy work sheds raised their lightning rods from among giant oaks. The air smelled of fresh water, green forest, with the faintest whiff of manure and spring flowers. I inhaled deeply. Organic and real. A dozen white egrets made huge nests in one of the oaks, ornamenting it like huge doves in a Christmas tree. Multitudes of songbirds called their mates. Squirrels chattered.

I loved the place immediately.

Lily clambered from the truck, clasping the mare's lead line. "Look at you, poor baby! You're worn out from walking."

I stood. "Do you need help with her?"

"No, she's a good baby! She's just nervous."

"C-careful, h-honey," Mac said, as he eased from the truck's back seat, holding up both hands.

"Oh, Mac, don't worry. She's not interested in biting me. See? Karen's tamed her!"

I watched the two of them, my birth parents, working as a team to reassure each other and the skittish mare. The mare kept her distance at the end of the lead line but swiveled her gray ears at Mac and Lily while turning white-rimmed eye on me, Mr. Darcy and the rest of the world.

I was so caught up in the scene I didn't realize Ben stood beside the truck, looking up at me. "It's safe to come down," he said. "Don't mind the `gator."

I jumped. Alligator? Had it crept up when I wasn't looking? No, the aforementioned five-foot-long alligator still lurked near a tractor shed, ready to slither off its sandy bluff into a wide, blackwater creek that meandered through the yard to the marsh. It must be the Little Hatchawatchee. Several house cats lolled in a shady spot near the base of a stubby sabal palm, watching the alligator and alternately, watching me. The alligator didn't move. Didn't blink.

Just a baby. Not big enough to do more than drag a rabbit into the water for dinner.

"Gator won't hurt you," Ben assured me as I started to climb from the truck. He insisted on lifting me down bodily, his callused hands under my elbows. "He's Possum's pet. Found him on the creek bank. Orphan. Gators ain't that bad."

I backed away the moment my earth sandals touched the ground. "I don't think members of the crocodilian species can, technically, be `orphaned.' That's a mammalian sentiment."

Why that academic gibberish came out of my mouth, I do not know. Blushing, I looked up to find Ben studying me with solemn humor tainted by a somewhat grin frown. "Well, okay, but don't tell Gator he ain't warmblooded. It'll hurt his feelings."

"I'll keep it to myself."

"Those are my workin' dogs," Ben said, directing my gaze to five shaggy cattle-herders with smart, pale eyes. "They're warm-blooded." They watched me as if I might need direction.

"And Rhubarb is?"

"He's my brother's pal. Got him at the animal shelter."

"Orphaned?"

"Naw. Just smelled too bad for anybody else to take him."

Our attention was distracted when the gray mare bared her teeth at a cluster of excited men and women who hurried from the house and barns. She began to jerk the lead, skinning the nylon rope through Lily's hands. "It's all right, it's all right," Lily soothed, but as Ben approached the mare with his hands out the mare snapped at him, barely missing his fingers. "Easy, lady, easy," he crooned. "You already bit everything else on me. Don't grab another finger."

I took the lead rope from Lily. "Allow me, please." I led the mare away from the group, speaking to her in soft Portuguese. Mr. Darcy sailed from the truck to land atop the mare's silver-white mane, just above her withers. She halted, rolled her eyes, and twisted her head to gaze at him.

Mr. Darcy loved horses. He bowed low and rubbed his blue head on her neck. She sniffed him. He nibbled her muzzle with his curving black beak. Her eyes calmed and we walked some more, with me whispering to her. She bent her scarred head near me and flicked her ears curiously. I halted and turned to look at my hosts. "She's calm, now. Where do you stable her?"

Mac, Lily and assorted others-a group of ranch hands with one common trait being wide eyes-gazed at me with their mouths open. Ben, less easily impressed, tilted his head, sunk his hands into the pockets of his handsome, faded jeans-and studied me with suspicion, as if I were a new species ofwoman, armed with foreign languages and a horse-loving macaw.

"There's a holding pen by the main barn," he drawled. "Follow me."

After the gray mare was happily ensconced in a small paddock with a tub of cool water and some fresh hay to nibble, I hung her nylon lead on a post, dusted my hands on my khaki hiking shorts, and pivoted to find my audience waiting.

"Perhaps formal introductions are in order. I'm Karen Johnson. Traveling artist and harp player. I'm visiting this part of Florida to paint pictures of the landscapes, people and animals."

Silence. I heard nothing but crickets and tree frogs for a few seconds. "You talk like Katherine Hepburn," the giant of the group said. I would learn his name later. Bigfoot.

"Who?" a fellow ranch hand asked. I later identified him as Roy Rogers. He spoke through his spread fingers.

"She has a harp," Lily announced. "Like angels play. And a pretty knife. Look." Lily pointed at the Brazilian gaucho knife sheathed on my chest. "She stabbed the Pollo brothers. Sheriff Arnold had to take them to the clinic to get sewn up on the way to jail."