Spirit Riding Free--Lucky and the Mustangs of Miradero Read online

  “Mary Pat and Bianca are both home with the sniffles. They usually take the mail into town for me.” Mary Pat and Bianca were Samuel’s twin daughters. Even though they were only six years old, they were quite independent and could often be found riding tandem on their horse, Tugaboo.

  “Sure, we can do it!” Abigail said.

  After Lucky, Pru, and Abigail had mounted their horses, Samuel handed each a mail pouch, which they draped across their horses’ shoulders. Then, with a good-bye wave, they headed into town.

  But just as they reached the bend in the road, Spirit stopped. He turned toward the mountains, his ears alert. “Spirit, what’s wrong?” Lucky asked.

  “Look, it’s his herd,” Pru said.

  A few mustangs appeared on the horizon. They also stopped, keeping their distance. Spirit stomped his front hoof. Then he whinnied. A faint whinny was returned.

  “What’s wrong?” Lucky pleaded. He whinnied again, then began to shuffle back and forth. “Okay, okay, I’ll get off,” she said. She grabbed the mail pouch and slid to the ground. The result was immediate. Spirit took off, charging toward his herd.

  “Uh, well, good-bye to you, too!” Lucky called, feeling a bit neglected.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Pru told her. “He’s a free spirit.”

  Lucky wrapped her arms around the heavy mail bag, watching as Spirit raced away. It was odd for him to leave without a good-bye snort.

  Was something wrong?

  7

  Cora Prescott opened the door to the Miradero general store and stepped inside. A little bell jingled overhead, announcing her arrival.

  “Howdy, Miss Cora. I’ll be with you just as soon as I finish helping Orval.” The voice belonged to Winthrop, the store’s owner.

  Cora nodded and grabbed a basket. This week’s shopping list was longer than usual. She headed toward the clothing section. Jim had been spending so much time on his feet overseeing the railroad workers that he was wearing right through his socks. Three new pairs would do nicely. And Lucky had lost another hair ribbon during a ride, so that needed to be replaced.

  In Cora’s former life, her housekeeper had done all the shopping. And cooking. And cleaning. But this was her new life, and she was surprised to discover that she didn’t mind the work. Back in Philadelphia, Cora had overseen fund raising efforts for libraries and art museums, and the results could be measured in large ways. But here, cooking a meal or buying a sock, the results were measured by the gratitude of her family. By love. She felt needed in a whole new way.

  The wooden floorboards creaked beneath her boots as she perused the ribbon selection. The general store was a cluttered place, carrying most everything a family needed—brooms, dish towels, frying pans, and kettles to name a few. There were department store catalogs for ordering special items.

  A fat white cat wound around Cora’s feet. Cora had never been one to keep pets. But last month a rogue field mouse had chewed a hole through her sugar bag. She now understood the sensibleness of keeping a cat.

  As she reached down to pet the purring creature, the conversation between Winthrop and Orval caught her attention. “I’m gonna have to double my order,” Orval said. “On account of the weather. Don’t want to go hungry like those other folks. They nearly starved to death.”

  Cora’s spine stiffened. “Starved to death?” she asked. The two men turned and looked at her.

  Winthrop was quite young to be a business owner, but that wasn’t unusual in the West, where opportunity existed if you were willing to take a chance and set out on your own, often without family or friends. His customer, Mr. Orval Sanchez, was a goat farmer.

  Orval pulled a toothpick from his mouth. “Don’t mean to worry you, ma’am. But Miradero Mel says we got severe weather coming in.”

  “Miradero Mel?” Cora stepped over the cat and approached the misguided farmer. “Mr. Sanchez,” she said with a pitiful look, “surely you can’t be serious about listening to a pig.”

  “As serious as a tortoise on a fence post,” he said, pushing his ten-gallon hat up his forehead.

  Winthrop smacked his hand on the counter. “I never heard that one before.” He laughed. “A tortoise on a fence post. I’m gonna have to remember that one.”

  Cora loosened her wool scarf. The general store’s stove was putting out some heat. “There is a difference between folklore and fact,” she insisted. “A pig cannot predict weather.”

  Mr. Sanchez and Winthrop shared a look of confusion. “You don’t believe the pig?” Mr. Sanchez asked.

  “I’m sure it’s a very nice pig, but really, it’s a…pig.”

  Winthrop moved down the counter, past the display of beeswax candles and the basket of lemon-scented soap, until he stood directly across from Cora. “Miss Prescott,” he said, in a very serious voice, “I know you’re new to these parts, so our customs may sound a bit strange to you. But that pig is so smart, he could go and get himself a university degree.”

  Mr. Sanchez nodded. “If Mel says it’s gonna be bad, then it’s gonna be bad. Real bad.”

  “Badder than it’s ever been,” Winthrop said, lowering his voice to an eerie whisper.

  Cora pursed her lips. She wasn’t going to let some folktale scare her. How silly these people were with their superstitions. She held out her list. “I need eggs,” she said. “And flour. And sugar.”

  The front door opened and the bell jingled again. Lucky, Pru, and Abigail charged in, panting and stumbling as they each carried a large mail pouch. A display of jam jars rattled. Winthrop’s eyes went wide. “You kids be careful. You might break something!”

  “We brought the mail,” Lucky told him. With a thud, her pouch landed on the floor, as did Pru’s and Abigail’s.

  Since coming to Miradero, Cora often found herself looking at Lucky as if she hadn’t seen her in months. Was that girl in the pants and cowboy boots really her niece? Cora had always recognized the wildness that flowed through Lucky, an energy she’d inherited from her mother. But now, in Miradero, that energy was more obvious, no longer stifled by starched collars or long wool skirts.

  “Hi, Aunt Cora.” Lucky’s cheeks were pink, her eyes sparkling. The outdoors suited her.

  “Hello, Lucky.” Cora kissed her cheek. “Hello, Pru and Abigail.”

  “Hello, Miss Prescott,” the girls replied. Cora was so pleased that Lucky had made friends. Both Pru and Abigail were delightful young ladies with excellent manners. Cora highly approved.

  While Winthrop lugged the pouches behind the counter, Abigail sank to the floor and pulled the white cat into her arms. “You’re so fluffy!” She pressed her face against the back of the cat’s neck.

  Lucky glanced at the list in Cora’s hand. “You need help?”

  “That would be nice,” Cora told her.

  Pru stepped up to the counter. “Hey, Winthrop,” she said. “My dad wanted me to tell you that we’ll need to order extra oats for the horses.”

  “You and everyone else,” he grumbled. “A bad winter is going to be good for business, but it sure means a lot more work.”

  Cora put a jar of mustard into her basket. “Pru? Does your father believe that winter is going to be severe?”

  “He sure does,” Pru replied.

  This surprised Cora. Al Granger seemed an intelligent man. Why would he fall for such a silly tale?

  “Pigs are smart,” Abigail said as she continued to sit on the floor and pet the cat.

  “Animals can sense things that people can’t sense,” Pru said. “My mom wrote a paper about it.” Pru’s mother, Fanny Granger, was the town’s only veterinarian. “If you go outside and look around, you’ll see that the snakes have disappeared into their holes earlier this year. And the songbirds have migrated earlier, too. And just look at the wild horse herd. We’ve never seen their coats so shaggy. All those things point to a cold winter.”

  Mr. Sanchez settled onto one of the counter stools. He took out a pouch of tobacco and began to fill his pipe
. “I remember the old-timers talking ’bout the first winter. They called it ‘the winter of the starving.’”

  Both Pru and Lucky gasped. Abigail stopped petting the cat and got to her feet. “I’ve never heard that story,” Pru said.

  “What happened?” Lucky asked. Even Cora couldn’t hide her curiosity. She set her shopping basket on the counter, then sat on another stool, ready to absorb the tale.

  Mr. Sanchez tapped his pipe to settle the tobacco. Then he looked up at his audience. “Well, back in the old days, Miradero wasn’t a town. It was just a couple of shacks where the railroad workers lived. And after a couple of months, their families joined them. But there was no general store. They didn’t have anything but those shacks. All their food and supplies came by wagon, and what they didn’t get, they had to hunt and gather themselves.”

  Cora tried to imagine living in such an isolated way. It was difficult enough that there was only one type of black tea at Winthrop’s General Store, but at least there was tea!

  Mr. Sanchez continued. “But that first winter was harsh. The snow was so high they could hardly open the doors. They huddled together in the shacks. They melted snow for drinkin’, but as the weeks passed, the wagons couldn’t reach them on account of the blizzards and avalanches. So they ran out of food.”

  “What happened to them?” Abigail asked, the white cat hanging from her arms.

  “One day, a group of mesteñeros was riding through. They’d come looking for mustangs. The mesteñeros heard an eerie sound. They thought it was the wind, but as they got closer, they discovered it was people crying for help.” Cora shuddered. She reached out and pulled Lucky close. “They dug through the snow and opened the first shack’s door. They found the families in a real pitiful state, as skinny as string beans. The mesteñeros fed them.”

  “Whew!” Abigail cried. The cat scampered away.

  “The mesteñeros ended up staying. They stayed for the rest of their lives and helped build the town.”

  “So no one died?” Lucky asked.

  Mr. Sanchez shook his head. “Not that I know of. But they came real close.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t happen now,” Cora insisted. “Even if winter is severe, we have the railroad to bring our supplies.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Winthrop said. “Even a train can be stopped by the weather. Nature is mighty powerful.”

  Mr. Sanchez pointed his pipe at Cora. “That’s why I say, listen to the pig! Don’t get stuck like a tortoise on a fence post. Ready yourself for the bad weather, or else you could starve.”

  An eerie feeling washed over Cora. This time she did not argue.

  8

  A fire flickered in the hearth, casting warmth and light throughout the parlor. Evening had set. Jim lit the parlor’s lanterns. He also pulled the heavy curtains, to keep out the chilly night air, which had a way of seeping through the windows. Lucky sat on the carpet. She’d set her homework on the coffee table. She had a whole page of math problems due tomorrow, but no matter how hard she tried to focus, her mind was elsewhere.

  Why had Spirit run off? It was so unusual for him to do so. Maybe Pru was right, that he’d simply wanted to join his herd and play. Was Lucky being silly? Spirit was a horse, after all, not a person who’d been taught that it was good manners to say hello and good-bye. She smiled to herself. Yes, he’d just been acting like a horse. But still, he usually said good-bye in his own way, with a nudge or a snort.

  “This cake is scrumptious.”

  That exuberant voice snapped Lucky out of her thoughts. Althea Bradley, owner of the town’s only inn, had stopped by for a visit. Althea was the president of the Miradero Ladies’ Aid Society; Cora was the treasurer. And it just so happened that Jim had taken a pound cake out of the oven a few minutes before her arrival.

  “Glad you like it,” Jim told her. “Cora’s teaching me some of the basics. Gotta do my share around here.” He sat in his favorite chair, his long legs stretched out, his slipper-covered feet resting on an ottoman. There were no formalities when Althea visited. She often said, “Don’t need anything fancy. I’m as happy as a pig in a puddle.” She had a colorful way of speaking, and a colorful way of living. While she and Cora had become very close friends, they were quite different. If they were bouquets of flowers, Cora would be perfectly arranged, with delicate hues and trimmed stems—flowers that had been grown carefully in a garden. Althea, on the other hand, would be a bunch of wild flowers, vibrant colors tied together with twine—flowers that had survived in difficult places; still lovely, though, weeds and all.

  “If you try real hard, you might convince me to have a second helping.” Althea’s eyes sparkled. She held out her plate.

  “Please, have as much as you’d like,” Cora said, cutting another piece.

  “Well, if you insist!”

  Althea settled against a pillow to enjoy her cake. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her brown dress had fringe on the sleeves and her leather belt matched her leather boots. She was a rather plump woman, and tonight her face was pinkish on account of her sitting close to the fire. “Mighty fine cake.”

  Lucky put down her pencil. “Althea, how long have you lived here?”

  “All my life, young lady. I’m like that old walnut tree, the one next to the church. There’s no moving us. Our roots go deep.” She laughed, then took another bite.

  “Do you know the story about the first winter in Miradero?”

  Althea stopped eating. “My great-granddad lived through that winter. He got so hungry, he nearly ate his own foot!”

  Cora cringed.

  “You don’t say,” Jim said. “His own foot?”

  Althea nodded. “They got so hungry, they ate tree bark, like animals.”

  Lucky tried to imagine such a scene. She’d felt hungry after coming home late for supper once in a while. But she couldn’t imagine eating tree bark. Cora filled a teacup with black tea and set it in front of Althea. “Now, now, Althea, you’ll give Lucky nightmares. Jim, tell Lucky not to worry. The train will always bring us food and supplies.”

  “We’ll, I’d like to say that’s the case, but…” Jim set his cup aside. “The train is a machine, Cora. It’s not infallible. Weather can be a serious factor. Blizzards. Avalanches. Those sorts of things can stop a train.”

  Cora’s brow creased. “Oh, now I’m worried,” she said. “What happens if winter is as bad as everyone believes? What happens if we run out of supplies?”

  “I’m not eating my own foot,” Lucky said.

  “And you’re not eating mine!” Althea winked at her.

  Cora rose from the couch and began pacing. “I don’t know how to prepare for winter. Al Granger is ordering extra feed for his horses. But what about us? Should I be storing extra food? What should I be doing?”

  Althea reached out and took Cora’s hand, pulling her back to the couch. “Settle down, Cora. No use getting your nerves all in a tangle.” She pushed aside her empty plate. “I think we should discuss this at tomorrow’s meeting of the society. Information is power! If we share ideas and tips, we can help one another get ready. We can make sure each household has enough candles, firewood, and canned food. And most especially, we need to think about the elderly, the ones who live alone with no one to look after them.”

  “There’s old Mrs. Marsh,” Lucky pointed out.

  “There sure is,” Althea said. “And old Mr. Broomgerry. He lives all alone up there in the hills. His legs aren’t so good anymore. We’ll need to make sure they have enough blankets and lantern oil and such.”

  “This is an excellent idea,” Jim said.

  “Growing old alone is not for the faint of heart.” Althea gave Jim a long look. “You wouldn’t be fixin’ on growing old alone, would you, Jim?”

  Jim laughed. “Of course not. I have Cora and Lucky.”

  Althea leaned forward. “What I mean is… you ever think of getting married again?”

  Lucky shifted position. What kind of q
uestion was that?

  “Why, Althea, are you proposing to me?” Jim asked seriously.

  Lucky froze. Was Althea proposing to her father? Did Althea like Jim? Silence descended—awkward, weird silence. Lucky wanted to move her legs since they were falling asleep, but she didn’t want to miss a second of this exchange. Even Cora was sitting at the edge of the couch, waiting.

  Then both Jim and Althea broke the silence with laughter. Even Lucky laughed. Jim and Althea married? What a silly idea. “No, I’m not looking for a husband,” Althea said. Her laughter abruptly stopped and she raised an eyebrow. “But my sister is. She lives in Boston but she’d move anywhere for a nice man.”

  “I’ll keep your sister in mind,” Jim said.

  “You’d be quite the catch, Jim. Quite the catch.”

  Lucky half-smiled. They were still teasing each other. That was all it was. Teasing.

  Althea stood. “It’s getting late. I’d best skedaddle.” Jim got up and collected her coat. “See you at tomorrow’s meeting,” she told Cora. “Good-bye, Lucky.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Just as Althea was heading out the door, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which she handed to Jim. “My sister’s mailing address. Just in case.” And, with a wink, she left.

  Jim closed the door, then stood there for a moment, reading the address, unaware that both Lucky and Cora were staring at him. He looked up. “What?”

  Cora stepped forward. “Jim, you’re not actually thinking about writing to her? Are you?”

  He folded the paper. “Of course not.” He ruffled Lucky’s hair. “I have you two. That’s all I need.”

  That night, as Lucky lay in bed, she stared at a poster that hung on her wall. It was an advertisement for El Circo Dos Grillos. In the illustration, a young woman wearing a sparkly blue dress stood on a horse’s back. She was Milagro, Lucky’s mother, a performer known for her courageous and unparalleled stunts with her horse, Equuleus. Lucky had never really known her mom, who’d died when Lucky was only two years old. That poster had hung on Lucky’s bedroom wall for as long as she could remember, and before going to sleep she always whispered, “Good-night, Mom.” But since meeting Spirit, the poster had taken on a whole new meaning. Lucky now knew that while she’d inherited her mother’s skin tone, brown hair, and green eyes, she’d also inherited her natural instinct for riding and relating to horses.