as if picking up the tension in the air, the horses shifted in their stalls, hooves rustling the straw, muscles quivering under coats that were becoming shaggy as winter approached.
Maggie shuddered, the inside of her skin quivering as it always had when Mary Theresa had contacted her through their own special means. Mental telepathy. Instinct. Magic. Witchcraft. ESP. Clairvoyance. Maggie had heard all the terms and slurs, knew that most people considered her eccentric at best and just plain crazy at worst. Slowly, her fingers sliding down the post and gathering slivers, she sank to her knees and rested her head against the solid wood.
She concentrated, willing her breathing to return to normal. Come on, Mary Theresa, come on. One more time. Eyes closed so tightly they ached, she strained to hear, but the only sounds that reached her ears were the constant rustle of hooves in straw, hot breath blowing out of nervous nostrils, the scratch of tiny claws as mice scurried along the concrete floor, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the old barn. “Don’t stop now,” she whispered, her teeth sinking into her lower lip until she tasted blood.
Nothing.
“Damn you, Mary Theresa…or Marquise or whoever you think you are. Talk to me!”
The inside of the barn felt as if it were freezing, and yet cold perspiration broke out all over her skin. “Mary Theresa—”
“Mom?” Becca’s voice sounded far away. The door to the barn creaked open, and a shaft of fading daylight sliced into the musty interior. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Fine,” she forced out, climbing to her feet and dusting her hands on her jeans. She managed a weak smile, hoping it would mask her lie a little.
Becca with her freckled face, eyes a little too large and a lot too serious for the age of thirteen, was instantly suspicious. “What were you doing in here?” She motioned to the post. “Praying?”
“No—”
“You were on your knees, Mom. Did you, like, have a heart attack or a stroke or what?”
“I was just feeding the horses and I, um, needed…a rest.” Maggie cringed inside because the lie was so ridiculous, but what could she say? That her sister, whom she hadn’t heard from in months, was finally contacting her through telepathy? She’d learned from past experience that no one would believe her, especially not her nearly estranged daughter.
Becca eyed the empty coffee can that had rolled against a burlap sack of feed. “Right.”
“I was. I just…well, if you want to know the truth—”
“That would be a change.”
“Becca,” she reproached, then held her tongue. The strain between them was palpable. Mother and daughter. How had they grown so far apart when they had once been inseparable?
“I…” Oh, God, how would she explain this—this connection she had with her twin? This weird way of communicating when it hadn’t happened in years. “It…It was…just a little spell.”
“A little spell?” Becca repeated, nodding her head as if she had expected just such an answer from a mother she could no longer trust, a woman who had single-handedly ruined her life. Turning away, she didn’t bother hiding the fact that she rolled her eyes.
Frustration caused a headache to pound behind Maggie’s eyes, and her fingers curled into fists. She’d love to tell Becca the truth, but then her daughter would just think she was crazy. Anyone who had heard her try and explain about the odd connection she had with Mary Theresa did. “Yes. A spell. When you get older—”
“You’re only thirty-seven, Mom. You keep telling me it’s not exactly ancient.”
Thirty-seven and sometimes it feels like seventy.
“Maybe you should see a doctor. Another one.” Was there just the hint of concern beneath the sarcasm?
“Maybe I will.” Maggie bent down, picked up the can and found a push broom hanging from a nail. “Nothing to worry about.” She swept with long, sure strokes, though she was still shaken. There was a chance she hadn’t heard anything after all. Maybe she was just overworked—exhausted from the move and the emotional turmoil that she’d been through.
Becca lifted a thin adolescent shoulder. Beneath her baggy polar fleece sweater and faded jeans, she showed off the beginnings of a womanly figure. “I, um, thought I’d go for a ride.”
“The sun’s gonna set soon.”
“I won’t be gone long. What do you care anyway?”
“I care, okay?”
“But I’ll take Jasper. You said yourself he’s more sure-footed than any other horse you’ve ever seen.”
It was useless to argue. No reason to. Becca was right. “Just be back soon, okay? For dinner. Before it gets dark.” She hung up the broom and scooped another ration of oats.
“No one’s gonna get me out here in the middle of nowhere,” Becca said as she pulled down a bridle. “It’s not like when we lived in California, you know, in the middle of civilization.”
“Just be careful.”
“Always am.”
“Take Barkley with you.”
“He’ll come whether I want him to or not, but he’s not much of a watchdog.”
“Just take him.”
“Fine.”
“And let Jasper finish his dinner first, okay?”
Becca rolled her eyes again, then let out a theatrical long-suffering sigh, but she did as she was told, leaving the bridle draped over the top rail of the stalls and even going so far as to grab the pitchfork and toss hay into the mangers. They worked in tense silence, the argument simmering between them. It took all of Maggie’s willpower not to make small talk or criticize her daughter. Patience, she told herself. The resentment will fade. Give it time. Lots of time.
When Becca was in one of her the-world-is-against-me-and-it’s-all-your-fault moods, anything Maggie said would only exacerbate the situation. She had learned it was better to hold her tongue. Besides, Becca wanted answers, and what could Maggie say? I heard your flamboyant aunt’s voice while I was feeding the stock. It came to me right here in this barn, hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away from her? Yeah, right.
When Jasper had eaten his fill, Becca brushed and saddled him, then slid a bridle over his head and walked the gray gelding to the pasture. The rest of the small herd snorted, nipped at each other, and tossed their heads as if they, too, were restless within the confines of the barn. Maggie leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and watched as Becca climbed into the saddle. Whistling to Barkley, their adopted German shepherd, Becca rode through a series of gates to the Forest Service land, where scrub brush was interrupted by stands of jack and lodgepole pine trees. The dog, with his mangled right ear and bad hind leg, followed right behind, loping easily on three legs across the dry acres that were guarded to the east by the Bitterroot Mountains.
Maggie rubbed her arms. Today, her jacket didn’t seem to keep out the cold of coming
