Page 37 of The Promise of Jenny Jones
Hands folded behind her head, she stared at the ceiling as anxious thoughts pounded her brain.
It would absolutely ruin her life if the kid died on her watch. Graciela’s illness was her fault. Who else’s fault could it be? She’d kept the kid in the sun too long, in the saddle too long. She should have done this differently, or that, or something else.
If the kid bit it, then Jenny decided she might as well dig a grave and jump inside because if Graciela died, Marguarita was going to be truly and seriously pissed. If Jenny didn’t kill herself, Marguarita would reach down from heaven and do it for her, and Marguarita would make it a horrible death, she knew that. If she let Graciela die, she would deserve a horrible death.
From now on, she vowed to slow their pace. Every other night, she’d rent a room for them. She’d make sure the kid ate three times a day and had fresh milk with every meal.
And from now on, she was going to start praying herself, begging God and Marguarita to keep Robert Sanders alive and in good health. The worst thing that could happen in her sorry life was for the kid to live but for Robert Sanders to die. Then she’d have the kid on her hands for the next fricking twelve years or so, and she’d be worrying herself half to death all the fricking damned time. Cleaning up vomit and God only knew what else that she hadn’t run into yet. Damn, damn, damn.
Eventually, racked with guilt and inhaling the strong odor of onions, she fell into a restless sleep. In her dreams, she was a child again, being chased by the cowboy and her mother, who pelted her with onions.
“I don’t know any stories,” Jenny insisted for the fourteenth time. She drew a long, long breath, held it, then let the air seep through her lips. Once kids got an idea in their heads, nothing under heaven could dislodge it. “I haven’t learned any stories in the five minutes that have passed since you last asked me. Look, I’ll read you some of my favorite words out of the dictionary.”
“We did that this morning.”
“Was it only this morning?” It seemed like weeks ago. Maybe a lifetime. She’d been sitting on a hard stool beside Graciela’s hammock so long that her tailbone ached, and so did her spine. The only time she had moved had been to mop up a new splatter of vomit. The rest of the time she’d watched the kid sleep and had struggled to amuse her when she woke.
Graciela unpinned the locket from her nightgown, opened the gold heart, and stared at the pictures inside. Tears gathered in her eyes.
“Let me see the locket.” Jenny didn’t care diddly about the pictures inside, but it was something to do to eat up a few minutes of this eternally endless day. And maybe if the kid wasn’t staring at the pictures, she wouldn’t cry.
After Graciela gave her the locket, Jenny hefted it in her palm, testing the weight and feel of real gold jewelry. It irritated her that a six-year-old kid was accustomed to wearing gold when she’d never owned any herself. Not that she wanted to. But every time she glanced at the gold-locket pin, it reminded her of the enormous gulf between who she was and who Graciela was. Sighing, she pried open the little gold heart and looked inside.
“So this is the sainted Roberto.”
The tiny portrait revealed a good-looking son of a bitch dressed in a formal jacket and wide tie. He had dark hair and light eyes, but Robert was softer-looking than Ty. Jenny knew at once which brother had thecojonesin the Sanders family. There was nothing tentative about Ty Sanders. Nothing indecisive inhisgaze. Robert looked like a man born to whisper pretty poetry in the moonlight whereas Ty was a man created in the hard heat of the sun. She sensed that Robert bore ink stains on his fingers where Ty had calluses.
Aside from an anxious concern for his continued good health, Robert Sanders didn’t interest Jenny.
Next she studied Marguarita’s portrait. It seemed to her that Marguarita’s lovely smile beamed encouragement. Guilt rocked Jenny’s chest. Things were turning out pretty much as she had predicted. She didn’t have a mother-bone in her body. But Marguarita had refused to believe it. Her unshakable faith in Jenny radiated up from the portrait. Jenny didn’t imagine it. Marguarita was smiling ather.Sighing, she closed the locket and tossed it back to Graciela.
“You must knowonestory. Make something up.”
“All right,” Jenny snapped. “If it will stop you from whining, I’ll try. Let me think… okay. Let’s say there was—”
“You’re supposed to start with once upon a time.”
Jenny bit down on her back teeth. “You’re pushing. But all right. Once upon a time there were six snotty little rich kids who were stolen as infants by a witch and her evil companion who took them to live on the side of a mountain.”
Graciela fixed her gaze on Jenny’s face. “Did the witch have red hair and blue eyes?”
Jenny’s gaze narrowed into a long slitted stare. “You know, there are times when I’d really like to smack the crap out of you.”
“What did the witch look like?” Not a flicker of fear or concern troubled the kid’s gaze. Which made Jenny wonder if Graciela had noticed that Jenny did a lot of threatening and blustering without much follow-through. She’d have to think about that.
“Too fricking bad, but the witch did not look like me. She had gray hair and snake eyes.”
“Oooh.” Graciela clapped her hands together. “Snake eyes!” She shuddered happily. “Did one of the snotty little rich kids look like me?”
“There were three girls and three boys, and one of the snotty little rich girls looked exactly like you.”
“What did she wear? Did she wear pretty clothes? Did she have tassels on her boots?”
Jenny cast a sly look toward the hammock. “What do you think she wore?”
While she listened to Graciela describe the little girl’s dress, she decided telling stories wasn’t as difficult as she’d imagined it would be. In fact, she might attempt this again. It was a good way to use new words and teach Graciela a few.
“The evil witch was a martinet. Do you remember what a martinet is?”
