Angel Falls (2 page)

There he stopped. Jeez, Bullet looked bigger this morning …

Granddad would
never
chicken out
.

Bret took a deep breath and opened the stall door.

It took him lots of tries
—lots
of tries—but he finally got the saddle up on the horse’s high back. He even managed to tighten the girth. Not enough, maybe, but at least he’d buckled the strap.

He led Bullet to the center of the arena. He couldn’t see his boots—they were buried in the soft dirt. The lights overhead cast weird shadows on him and Bullet, but he liked those slithering black lines. They reminded him that it was Halloween.

Bullet dropped her head and snorted, pawing at the ground.

Bret tightened his hold on the lead rope. “Whoa, girl,” he said softly, trying not to be afraid. That was the way his mom always talked to animals. She said you could talk down the craziest animal if you were patient and quiet.

The barn door shuddered, then let out a long, slow creaking sound. Wood scraped on cement, and the door opened.

Mom stood in the doorway. Behind her, the rising sun was a beautiful purplish color and it seemed to set her hair on pink fire. He couldn’t quite see her face, but he could see her silhouette, black against the brightness, and he could hear the steady
click-click-click
of her boot heels on the concrete. Then she paused, tented one hand across her eyes. “Bret? Honey, is that you?”

Bret led Bullet toward Mom, who stood at the edge of the arena with her hands planted on her hips. She was wearing a long brown sweater and black riding pants; her boots were already dusty. She was staring at him—one of those Mommy looks—and he sure wished she’d smile.

He yanked hard on the rope and brought the mare to a sudden stop, just the way they’d taught him in 4-H. “I saddled her myself, Mom.” He stroked Bullet’s velvet-soft muzzle. “I couldn’t get her to take the bit, but I cinched up the saddle just like I’m s’posed to.”

“You got up early—on Halloween, your third favorite holiday—and saddled my horse for me. Well, well.” She bent down and tousled his hair. “Hate to let me be alone for too long, eh, Bretster?”

“I know how lonely you get.”

She laughed, then knelt down in the dirt. She was like that, his mom, she never worried about getting dirty—and she liked to look her kids in the eyes. At least that’s what she said. She pulled the worn, black leather glove off her right hand and let it fall. It landed on her thigh, but she didn’t seem to notice as she reached out and smoothed the hair from Bret’s face. “So, young Mr. Horseman, what’s on your mind?”

That was another thing about his mom. You could
never
fool her. It was sorta like she had X-ray vision. “I want to go on the overnight ride to Angel Falls with you this year. Last year you said maybe later, when I was older. Well, now I’m a whole year older, and I did really good at the fair this year—I mean, hardly
any
nine-year-olds got blue ribbons—and I kept my stall clean and kept Scotty brushed all down. And now I can saddle a big old Thoroughbred by myself. If I was at Disneyland, I would
definitely
reach Mickey’s hand.”

Mom sat back on her heels. Some dirt must have gotten in her face, because her eyes were watering. “You’re not my baby boy anymore, are you?”

He plopped onto her bent legs, pretending that he was little enough to still be held in her arms. She gently took the lead rope from him, and he wrapped his arms around her neck.

She kissed his forehead and held him tightly. It was his favorite kind of kiss, the kind she gave him every morning at the breakfast table.

He loved it when she held him like this. Lately
(since he’d started fourth grade) he’d had to become a big boy. Like he couldn’t let Mom hold his hand as they walked down the school corridors … and she definitely couldn’t kiss him good-bye. So now they only had times like this when he could be a little boy.

“Well, I guess any kid big enough to saddle this horse is ready to go on an overnight ride. I’m proud of you, kiddo.”

He let out a loud
Whoopee!
and hugged her. “Thanks, Mom.”

“No problema.” She gently eased away from him and got to her feet. As they stood there together, she let her gloved hand sort of hang there in the space between them, and Bret slipped his hand in hers.

She squeezed his hand. “Now I’ve got to work Bullet for an hour or so before Jeanine gets here to worm the horses. I’ve got a zillion things to do today before trick-or-treating.”

“Is she giving any shots?”

“Not this time.” She ruffled his hair again, then reached down for her glove.

“Can I stay and watch you ride?”

“You remember the rules?”

“Gee, no, Mom.”

“Okay, but no talking and no getting off the fence.”

He grinned. “You just
have
to tell me the rules again, don’t you?”

She laughed. “Sit down, Jim Carrey.” Turning her back to him, she tightened the girth and bridled the mare. “Go and get me my helmet, will you, Bretster?”

He ran to the tack room. At the chest marked
Mike’s stuff
, he bent down and lifted the lid, rummaging through the fly sprays, brushes, lead ropes, buckets, and hoof picks until he found the dusty black velvet-covered helmet. Tucking it under his arm, he let the lid drop shut and ran back into the arena.

Mom was on Bullet now, her gloved hands resting lightly on the horse’s withers. “Thanks, sweetie.” She leaned down and took the helmet.

By the time Bret reached his favorite spot on the arena fence, Mom was easing Bullet toward the path that ran along the wall. He climbed up the slats and sat on the top rail.

He watched as she went ’round and ’round. She pushed Bullet through her paces as a warm-up: walk, trot, extended trot, and then to a rocking-horse canter. Bret watched as horse and rider became a blur of motion.

He knew instantly when Mom had decided it was time to jump. He’d watched so many times, he knew the signs, although he couldn’t have said what they were. He just
knew
that she was going to head for the first two-foot jump.

Just like he knew something was wrong.

He leaned forward. “Wait, Mommy. The jump is in the wrong place. Someone musta moved it …”

But she didn’t hear him. Bullet was fighting her, lunging and bucking as Mommy tried to rein the mare down to a controlled canter.

“Whoa, girl, slow down. Calm down …”

Bret heard the words as Mom flew past him. He wanted to scramble down from his perch, but he
wasn’t allowed to—not when she was working a horse over jumps.

It was too late to yell anyway. Mom was already at the fence. Bret’s heart was hammering in his chest.

Somethingiswrong
. The words jammed together in his mind, growing bigger and uglier with every breath. He wanted to say them out loud, to yell, but he couldn’t make his mouth work.

Silver Bullet bunched up and jumped over the fake brick siding with ease.

Bret heard his mom’s whoop of triumph and her laugh.

He had a split second of relief.

Then Silver Bullet stopped dead.

One second Mom was laughing, and the next, she was flying off the horse. Her head cracked into the barn post so hard the whole fence shook. And then she was just lying there in the dirt, her body crumpled like an old piece of paper.

There was no sound in the big, covered arena except his own heavy breathing. Even the horse was silent, standing beside her rider as if nothing had happened.

Bret slid down the fence and ran to his mom. He dropped to his knees beside her. Blood trickled down from underneath her helmet, smearing in her short black hair.

He touched her shoulder, gave her a little shove. “Mommy?”

The bloodied hair slid away from her face. That’s when he saw that her left eye was open.

Bret’s sister, Jacey, was the first to hear his scream. She came running into the arena, holding Dad’s big down coat around her. “Bretster—” Then she saw Mommy, lying there. “Oh my God!
Don’t touch her!
” she yelled at Bret. “I’ll get Dad.”

Bret couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. He just sat there, staring down at his broken mommy, praying and praying for her to wake up, but the prayers had no voice; he couldn’t make himself make any sound at all.

Finally Daddy ran into the barn.

Bret popped to his feet and held his arms out, but Daddy ran right past him. Bret stumbled backward so fast, he hit the fence wall. He couldn’t breathe enough to cry. He just stood there, watching the red, red blood slither down his mommy’s face. Jacey came and stood beside him.

Daddy knelt beside her, dropping his black medical bag into the dirt. “Hang on, Mikaela,” he whispered. Gently he removed her helmet—should Bret have done that?—then Daddy opened her mouth and poked his fingers between her teeth. She coughed and sputtered, and Bret saw blood gush across his daddy’s fingers.

Daddy’s hands that were always so clean … now Mommy’s blood was everywhere, even on the sleeves of Daddy’s flannel pajamas.

“Hang on, Mike,” his dad kept saying, over and over again, “hang on. We’re all here … stay with us….”

Stay with us. That meant don’t die … which meant she
could
die.

Dad looked up at Jacey. “Call nine-one-one
now
.”

It felt like hours they all stood there, frozen and silent. Finally red lights cartwheeled through the dim barn, sirens screamed; an ambulance skidded through the loose gravel alongside the horse trailer.

Blue-uniformed paramedics came running into the barn, dragging a bumping, clanking bed on wheels behind them. Bret’s heart started beating so loud he couldn’t hear.

He tried to scream
Save her!
but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a thick black cloud. He watched the smoke turn into a bunch of tiny spiders and float away.

He clamped his mouth shut and backed away, hitting the fence so hard it knocked him dizzy. He covered his ears and shut his eyes and prayed as hard as he could.

She is dying
.

Memories rush through her mind in no particular order, some tinged with the sweet scent of roses after a spring rain, some smelling of the sand at the lake where she tasted the first kiss that mattered. Some—too many—come wrapped in the iridescent, sticky web of regret
.

They are moving her now, strapping her body to a strange bed. The lights are so bright that she cannot open her eyes. An engine starts and the movement hurts. Oh, God, it hurts …

She can hear her husband’s voice, the soft, whispering love sounds that have guided her through the
last ten years of her life, and though she can hear nothing from her children, her babies, she knows they are here, watching her. More than anything in the world, she wants a chance to say something to them, even if only a sound, a sigh, something …

Warm tears leak from the corners of her eyes, slide behind her ears, and dampen the stiff, unpleasantly scented pillow behind her head. She wishes she could hold them back, swallow them, so that her children won’t see, but such control is gone, as distant and impossible as the ability to lift her hand for a final wave
.

Then again, maybe she isn’t crying at all, maybe it is her soul, leaking from her body in droplets that no one will ever see
.

When he was young, Liam Campbell hadn’t been able to get out of Last Bend fast enough. The town had seemed so small and constrained, squeezed as it was inside his famous father’s fist. Everywhere Liam went, he was compared to his larger-than-life dad, and he fell short. Even at home, he felt invisible. His parents were so in love … there simply wasn’t much room left over for a boy who read books and longed to be a concert pianist.

To his utter astonishment, he had been accepted at Harvard. By the time he’d finished his undergraduate studies, he’d learned that he wasn’t good enough to be a concert pianist. The best player at Last Bend, even the best at Harvard, wasn’t good enough. He could be a music teacher at an expensive private school, maybe, but his talent didn’t include the power or the anger or the desperate passion of the best of the best. So he’d quietly tucked that youthful dream aside and turned his attention to medicine. If he wasn’t talented
enough to entertain people with his hands, he believed he was caring enough to heal them.