The Four Winds

Elsa brought her hand back quickly. “Where are you going?”

He opened the bottle of gin and took a long drink, then handed it to her. “My folks are making me go to college.” He rolled onto his side and rested his head on one hand and stared at her as she took a stinging, fiery drink and clamped a hand over her mouth.

He took another drink. “My mom wants me to graduate from college so I’ll be a real American. Or something like that.”

“College,” she said wistfully.

“Yeah. Stupid, huh? I don’t need book learning. I want to see Times Square and the Brooklyn Bridge and Hollywood. Learn by doing. See the world.” He took another drink. “What do you dream of, Els?”

She was so surprised to be asked, it took her a moment to answer. “Having a child, I guess. Maybe a home of my own.”

He grinned. “Heck, that don’t count. A woman wanting a baby is like a seed wanting to grow. What else?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“I want to be brave,” she said, almost too softly to be heard.

“What scares you?”

“Everything,” she said. “My grandfather was a Texas Ranger. He used to tell me to stand up and fight. But for what? I don’t know. It sounds silly when I say it out loud…”

She felt his gaze on her and hoped the night was kind to her face.

“You ain’t like any other girl I know,” he said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“When do you leave?”

“August. That gives us some time. If you’ll meet me again.”

Elsa smiled. “Yes.”

She would take whatever she could get from Rafe and pay whatever price there was for it. Even going to hell. He’d made her feel more beautiful in one minute than the rest of the world had in twenty-five years.

FOUR

By mid-August, the flowers in the few hanging planters and window boxes in downtown Dalhart were scorched and leggy. Fewer merchants c

ould find the energy to prune and water in this heat, and the flowers wouldn’t last much longer either way. Mr. Hurst waved listlessly as Elsa passed him on her way home from the library.

As Elsa opened the gate, the cloying, sickeningly sweet scent of the garden overpowered her. She clamped a hand over her mouth but there was no way to hold back her sickness. She vomited on her mother’s favorite American Beauty roses.

Elsa kept dry-heaving long after there was nothing left in her stomach. Finally, she wiped her mouth and straightened, feeling shaky.

She heard a rustling beside her.

Mama was kneeling in the garden, wearing a woven sun hat and an apron over her cotton day dress. She set down her clippers and got to her feet. The pockets of her gardening apron bulged with cuttings. How was it that the thorns didn’t bother her?

“Elsa,” Mama said, her voice surprisingly sharp. “Didn’t you get sick a few days ago?”

“I’m fine.”

Mama pulled off her gloves, one finger at a time, as she walked toward Elsa.

She laid the back of her hand against Elsa’s forehead. “You’re not fevered.”

“I’m fine. It’s just an upset stomach.”