Page 25 of Love Me Steadfast
When I reach Morning Star, I peek into the bag, and the shell around my heart cracks a little. Six perfect cinnamon-sugar donut holes are waiting for me. I pop one in my mouth and close my eyes to savor the airy cake and the gritty-sweet cinnamon-sugar coating. It pulls me right back to my freshman year when Theo would take me to Glory Holes or the taco truck next to the 76 station on our way home from school. In between scarfing down our snack, we’d debrief the day. A pang of yearning flashes in my chest. I miss my brother. How close we used to be.
A sharp honk startles me back to where I’ve been idling for far too long. I give the woman behind me a wave and turn left, passing the turnoff for the Huttons. That William bought a house near Barb and Henry makes me think they’re still close. I brush unexpected tears from my eyes and try to distract my mind with the classical music playing quietly from my radio.
But it’s impossible to pretend I don’t miss them all so much.
When I turn down the long gravel road marked only with the faded green “SALT CREEK” sign, the donut holes in my stomach turn to bricks.
The road is rutted and bumpy with washboards, and so dry a thick plume of gray dust rises like a storm cloud behind me. Tallpines mixed with aspen and huckleberry brambles line the left side of the road, their leaves and needles coated with road dust, like it hasn’t rained in weeks. On the right, bordered by barbed wire fencing, are back-to-back horse pastures complete with barns and abandoned farm equipment, rusty pickup trucks, modest homes, and other outbuildings.
After I dip down to the creek crossing, the road forks. I veer left, passing beneath the sign for Thunder Mountain Horse Rescue. That old sense of hope scratches at the surface of my thoughts, but I kill it with a firm breath. Back when this land became ours, I was broken and scared. It seemed like the right choice. Especially for Morgan. It wasn’t wrong to think that way then, but now, I know better. Now I know the price of keeping my secrets. And I’m sure Morgan does too because why else would she be back in that place? Is that why she let Dad sell The Limelight? She didn’t have the strength to confront him about it?
The gravel road curves around a band of trees to a turnaround with a two-story farmhouse that looks even older than I remember. The 322 acres of open prairie and forest are fenced by a combination of pole and post and barbed wire. Close to the house are four small pastures for the more social horses or the ones that need more care. Beyond is a bigger pasture for the horses who like more freedom, with lean-to shelters and watering systems throughout. The hayfields in the distance are pale yellow and stubbled after the last harvest.
Morgan’s best friend Adeline is attending a horse therapy training in Oregon, so I’m not surprised her car isn’t here. I have questions for her, ones that she might not like. Morgan’s Dodge Ram is parked in front of the house, dusty and with a few more dents than the last time I saw it. Gus’s Ford is parked past the barn, but I’ll deal with him later.
When I step onto the dry gravel, a horse whinnies from somewhere out of sight. The air is rich with the scent of animal musk and dry prairie, the cool autumn wind whistling through the gaps in the fences. Instead of going inside the house, I walk to the nearest fence,clicking my tongue. The Appaloosa is already plodding toward me, her head bobbing. Despite her age, her coat looks thick and healthy and her eyes are soft and clear. The scar that runs down her left shoulder is barely noticeable now.
“Hey, Misty,” I say when she scarfs up the horse treat I stuffed in my pocket earlier. As she crunches it, I stroke up her dusty forehead to the swirl of cowlick and give it a good scratch with my knuckles. Misty’s long eyelashes lower and she huffs in contentment, nostrils flaring. Her bestie Maverick ambles over and crowds in next to her, snarfing up the treat I offer him. He’s the rescue’s oldest horse and the one with the most problems, but he makes up for it with his charm and the way he watches over his ladies.
“Hey, Mav.” I rub his forelock. “You’re lookin good, old man.”
He watches me with his soulful brown eyes, swishing his long tail.
“How bad is it inside, huh?” I ask him, my stomach like a wet towel being squeezed dry.
The other two horses in this corral, a mare and her foal, stand close together on the far side. They must have come in since my last visit because I don’t recognize them.
Swallowing hard, I give Mav a kiss on the nose, then turn toward the house. Up close, it looks even worse. A board in the middle step is rotted through. The railing is missing on one side. There’s a crack in one of the windows, the screen torn. In the right corner tucked above the molding is a swallow’s nest that would be cute if their guano hadn’t stained the siding and an area the size of a dinner plate below it.
The porch is littered with the detritus of ranch life: a lead rope draped over the railing, a stack of delivery boxes from vet supply stores, a shoe cubby mostly empty except for a set of rubber boots, one sneaker caked with dried mud, and a pair of work boots so worn they might as well be slippers. A hammer is propped upside down against the siding next to a box of U-bolts and a thick coil of shiny new barbed wire. On the right side is a dismantled automaticwatering system, and stacked milk crates full of who knows what. The rescue has a shop off the barn, but Mo has obviously stopped using it.
I dig out my key because the first responders would have locked up when they left. When I step into the entryway, I make the split-second decision to leave my shoes on. There’s a distinct sour smell that could be any number of things. Soiled laundry in a forgotten hamper. Dirty dishes. A bathroom that hasn’t been cleaned in too long. Something dead.
Though technically I’m only here to check on the animals and pack some of Morgan’s things, I won’t be able to leave it at that—I’ve always been the neat one. But I also won’t be able to tell her I spent hours cleaning. She already knows it’s bad. Flashing it in her face is counterproductive.
I scan the living room to the right, relieved to see the piano is still here, but the tan couch looks untouched since my last visit and the painting I gave her to hang above it is still propped on the floor.
To the left, the too-big dining table is stacked with more vet supplies—equine supplements and books on animal husbandry, horse therapy guidelines, alfalfa farming at elevation, pasture management. Shit my sister was drawn to but when it came to actually committing to learning about, the concept either overwhelmed her or her attention had already flitted to something else. I flip through the pile of unopened mail. Most of it’s junk but there are a few envelopes that look important, going back months. Not surprising, but a sign she’d been deteriorating for longer than she let on. I also find a bong shaped like a grinning Buddha, an empty carton of cigarettes, several empty beer cans, and a giant bag of shelled pistachios, the zip top partly open. Gripping my waist, I glance out the dingy windows and sigh.
The scuffed hardwood floor feels gritty under my clogs, like it hasn’t been swept in months. I push through the swinging door to the kitchen and cover my mouth. Not only are dishes and pots piled next to the sink and on the counters…god, the stench. Though I’m tempted to start here, I need the complete picture. I pass through the kitchen to the empty space in the corner, where what looks like tractor engine parts are strewn over a flattened cardboard box next to a rolling tool chest, then turn right, bringing me to the back of the living room. I walk to the piano, taking in the layer of dust and the bench tucked neatly beneath it, as if whoever used it last never meant to return. I press middleCand wince. I try a few more keys, then stop. No wonder Morgan hasn’t played. It sounds awful.
Of all the things to let slide, this one hurts the worst. Because without music, of course Morgan couldn’t cope. That billboard of Nic Salazar’s face flashes in my mind. My fists tighten, nails digging into my palms. How big a part does he play in this? Did his upcoming tour stop at Creekside shove Morgan off the cliff she was already teetering on, or did that billboard send her running for it? Regret burns in my chest but I shake my head—hard. I’m not going there today.
Next I visit the guest bathroom. No surprise, it’s a disaster. I head upstairs, grounding myself in the smooth banister beneath my palm and the soft squeak of the wood under my feet. Everything happened so fast when Gudrun’s property became ours. It would have been smarter to knock her old house down and build something new. Maybe one of those tiny homes. Less space for Morgan to care for on her own. Fewer old house problems to stay on top of. But Morgan would have waved me off. And I was in such a rush to leave, I wouldn’t have put up much of a fight.
The first room on the right is still empty, the windows bare, the closet containing only a handful of wire hangers. It was supposed to become a guest room. I had offered to supply the furniture, but Morgan assured me she had a plan to do it herself. I thought it might bring her a sense of accomplishment to let her handle it.
The middle room is the office slash recording studio. Unease washes through my belly as I take in the desk coated with a thin layer of dust and the overflowing trash can. I cross to the instrument storage cabinet, my fingers shaking as I twist thehandle.
Bare shelves stare back at me. The locker is empty.
Her violin, guitars, and sound equipment are gone. Even my old trumpet case is missing. The instrument I bought with my own money my senior year of high school and that now I only play when I’m with her.
Gone.
I gaze up at the ceiling, blinking back tears.
Did someone steal from her, or did she sell them?
