Desert Drift

            Speed. Purpose. Movement. Margie enjoyed the burst of power as she pressed down on the accelerator and the car surged forward down the straightaway. Hemmed in by the purplish mass of the Tuzigot Canyon walls, there was only one way to go--forward. On the left, the canyon wall almost brushed the hardtop; on the right, scrub grass and cottonwoods clung to the edge of the creek, which in turn traced the right edge of the canyon floor with the carefree precision of an artist’s sketch. Soon the road started a long, gentle curve to the left, and Margie looked ahead to where it disappeared in the distance, perfectly centering the car in the lane.

Margie loved these few minutes before she arrived home to her rented house on Red Rim Ranch. For the space of almost an hour she was free of roles, no longer assistant manager of West of West Books, not yet mother of a young teenager. And for a while the momentum of her speeding car could almost convince her that she was actually going somewhere, that her life had a plan and a purpose instead of having unfolded as a haphazard set of circumstances, landing her in the Arizona desert with a child to raise and a basket full of unpaid bills.

A few minutes later, her dusty, blue Mazda emerged from the canyon, and Margie turned onto the dirt road that opened into the small valley where she lived. The canyon walls were replaced by a sloping terrain of saltbush and pinon pine, which led to two leftover ranch buildings at the far end of the valley. One was the renovated bunkhouse that she and Laura occupied; the other, the small shed where Laura kept her horse.

Margie had learned to ignore the dust that rose from the road and streamed out in tired clouds behind the car. The car was three years old, with over fifty thousand miles on it when she bought it, a real stretch on the meager salary she earned as assistant manager of the bookstore. Not that Sherry, her boss, was mean-spirited. Margie had learned soon after she and her ex-husband Scott arrived in the desert that it was a sparse place for everyone, desert rat and two-legged creature alike. She worried that she had been selfish in buying a car that she could actually depend on. Scott had taught her to live with sacrifice, so that it had become a habit to see owning more than the bare necessities as frivolous and wasteful.

Pulling up beside the babysitter’s red Mustang, Margie saw her daughter standing in the middle of the paddock, lead rope in hand, guiding Firefall, her stocky, buckskin pony around in circles. In jeans, T-shirt, and cowboy boots, Laura could have stepped right off the pages of the cowboy stories Margie had read in her school readers back home in Georgia in the sixties. Those stories were punctuated with pet “dogies” and peopled with Norman Rockwell characters who colorfully rode their horses to a happy ending in every plot. Every kid had a horse and every story an adventure. Somehow, in spite of the current age of multiculturalism and truer, bleaker tales, Laura seemed to have soaked up these myths of the West, believing that blue sky, a horse, and land to ride on were the only ingredients necessary for total bliss. Her long, auburn hair swayed across her back as she pivoted with the trotting horse, now toward the hills, then back toward Margie, then away again, taking no notice of her mother as she stood by the car.

In the house, Margie received a warmer reception from Luke, her babysitter’s four-year-old boy.

“Goody! Time to eat!” Luke chimed, jumping up from in front of the TV. “Mommy’s makin’ fittatta!”

“Soon, soon,” Charlotte answered, standing behind the breakfast bar, spatula in hand, tending to two large iron skillets. In one, a thick amalgamation of eggs and fried potatoes lay, simmering at the edges; in the other a mixture of scrambled hamburger, onions, and peppers sizzled under a generous coating of chili powder.

“Smells wonderful.” Margie said, smiling at Charlotte. “Nothing beats coming home to a great dinner. Luke, how about going out and telling Laura that it’s time to put the horse away and come in for dinner? Don’t go in the corral, okay?”

Luke burst out the door, letting it slam behind him.

“She’s been with that horse every second since we got home.” Charlotte turned back toward the stove.

“I’m not surprised.” Margie reached into the cupboard beside Charlotte for plates. “This is going to be hard on her, but she’s had time to prepare.”

“Some things you can’t prepare for.”

“No, I guess not. But sometimes we just can’t have everything we want. In fact, sometimes I think I wouldn’t be able to manage at all if I didn’t have you to bring Laura home after school and cook us a decent meal a few times a week.

“Well, that works both ways. It’s good to have something to do while Greg’s at work. Now that we’ve run our lives around second shift for so long, I don’t know how we’ll adjust in the fall when Luke starts kindergarten. Have you decided what you’re going to do yet?”

“No. I think I’m waiting for a sign. Silly, huh? I’m afraid I’m taking the easy way out.”

Finished with the table, Margie pulled a platter out of the cupboard and held it while Charlotte slid the frittata out of the skillet and dished the hamburger mixture on top.

“Well, there’s easy and there’s sensible,” Charlotte countered as she pulled a narrow loaf of garlic bread from the oven, shutting the door with a flip of her foot. “Nobody would blame you for going back.”

“Nobody over thirty, you mean,” Margie responded as the kids’ footsteps sounded in the yard.

Hours later Margie took a cup of tea and slipped out the front door to sit on the steps in the cool, dry night. With the house at her back, not a man-made light could be seen, just the shadows of the hills sprawling like sleeping dogs around her. Ahead, the wide strip of night sky appeared frozen in motion, as though some great power had gathered up a fistful of stars and flung them full-force at the black sky, where they’d stuck fast, like buckshot. Margie never tired of listening to the quiet rustlings of the nights here, so different from the symphony of peepers and crickets she’d grown up with. Maybe nighttime anywhere can be peaceful, she thought, as long as you can get off to yourself.

Laura had gone back to the shed after supper, grooming Firefall and putting his tack in order until long after Charlotte and Luke had gone. Margie had waited to call her in, knowing that Laura would force her to go over the whole situation again, not because she didn’t understand, but to punish Margie for her decision.

Margie was folding a load of laundry she’d dumped onto the couch when Laura finally came in, smelling of horse sweat and dust.

“I just don’t understand why we suddenly can’t afford a horse,” Laura started, standing defiantly at the end of the breakfast bar, arms folded across her chest.

Margie took stock of her daughter, searching for the right words. She wondered why she always seemed to admire her most when she was being the most difficult. At thirteen, Laura had grown a full two inches and a couple of sizes just in the eighteen months since her father had left, and exuded a no-nonsense strength that Margie would have given anything for in her own timid, teenage years. She had her father’s angular build and Scottish complexion, nothing like Margie’s own dark softness.

Forcing her guilt deep into that compartment in her psyche labeled Things You Can’t Let Matter, she answered calmly, “Laura, you know we’ve been through this already. With the payments on the new car and the hike in the health insurance, the vet bills and the feeding bills are just too much for me to handle.”

“But the vet said you didn’t have to pay him right away, and Firefall’s leg is all healed now!”

“All bills have to be paid sooner or later. And what happens when he steps in another hole? I can’t let these bills pile up.” As she spoke, she continued folding the laundry, tossing bundles of socks into Laura’s basket with sure aim.

“Let Aunt Debra help you. She bought us the washer.”

“Yes, she did, but that was a necessity. And it’s not Aunt Debra’s job to take care of us. It’s mine.” Margie put the last fold into a pair of Laura’s jeans, bracing for a comeback.

“Are you getting ready to move back to Georgia?”

Surprised, Margie looked at her daughter sharply.

“Why do you think that?

“I hear you talking on the phone at night! I know that Grandma and Aunt Debra and Uncle Jeff want you to go home. Is that the real reason you’re getting rid of Firefall?”

“No, that has nothing to do with it. We need to pay our own bills, wherever we are. That’s all.”

Margie dropped the last pair of socks into Laura’s basket.

“Come get your laundry.”

Laura crossed the room but stopped before taking the basket from her mother.

“Can you at least talk to me about it before you decide? It’s my life too, you know.”

Hands still on her hips, looking her mother straight in the face, Laura was the picture of self-possession. Margie wondered how she had raised such a willful child. Resisting the urge to hug her, Margie handed the laundry basket to her daughter, replying in a business-like tone, “We’ll talk.”

Laura hoisted the laundry basket onto her hip and turned with a doubtful, “Humph.”

“And don’t forget to wake me up before the truck gets here,” she ordered as she strode down the short hallway to her room.

“I will. Goodnight,” Margie called after her.

But Laura had already entered her room and closed the door.

Looking back, the exchange had gone better than Margie had expected. No tears. No hysterics. No hateful words. Was Laura more grown-up than she realized? Or had worrying about the move already eclipsed the loss of her horse?

Margie set her teacup down and stretched her legs. The night had cooled considerably; she wouldn’t be surprised if the temperature dipped into the forties overnight. She lingered for a moment, tempted to fetch her sleeping bag and roll it out under the stars. But she knew she’d likely stay awake watching the constellations wheel slowly across the sky long into the night, and tomorrow was likely to be a trying day as it was, so she tramped up the step into the house and proceeded to close the windows against the night air.

When the alarm went off the next morning, Margie was already awake, watching the sky behind the eastern ridge turn bright through the curtainless window. This was the time of day that could almost inspire her with hope and promise. Margie snapped off the radio and began flexing her muscles underneath the comforter, tensing and releasing her thigh muscles and buttocks, enjoying the feel of the bedclothes brushing her legs. Moving her hands to her thighs, she massaged the morning stiffness out of them, alternately squeezing and releasing handfuls of flesh, working her way up from her knees. For thirty-five, she was in pretty good shape. With Laura’s high energy level and her own love of the outdoors, Margie found it easy to work in a few hours of hiking a week, which left her with firm thighs and a flat stomach with little effort. As her hands reached the tops of her thighs, she continued massaging in small circles, rubbing the insides of her hips, enjoying the feel of the hard bones below her flesh.

She closed her eyes, still picturing the light rising above the wild, dark ridge outside the window, and let her hand travel lightly down to her pelvis. She could feel the coarse circles of her pubic hair through the slippery nylon of her panties, making a natural cushion as her fingertips rubbed in a gentle circle above her clitoris. Mildly excited, she pictured herself lying on her back on a sleeping bag somewhere up on the ridge, out of sight of the house. The sky would be just like this, dazzling white-yellow, shimmering to blue, blocked only by the silhouette of the man who kneeled between her knees.

Her fantasies always broke down around this point, as her mind struggled to put a face on the lover who knelt there, tugging at the sides of her jeans, ready to enter her forcefully or with slow deliberation, depending on her mood. She’d been on few dates since Scott left and was amazed by how these men thought that she would throw herself at anyone with a steady job and enough cash to buy her dinner. They must have known better than she the paucity of available men around Sedona. So far, though, no one had made it through a whole meal without pissing her off or showing some repulsive habit.

The closest she came to any really eligible man was when, every few months, a customer would wander into the bookstore and unexpectedly catch her eye. Their eyes would meet and she’d be struck with the notion, now here’s someone who would fit. Usually that someone would be clean, neatly dressed but not fussy, intelligent looking but with a certain spark… and then the wife, or the child, or the wedding ring would jump out unexpectedly, and she’d be left blushing, averting her eyes as though her interest was written across her T-shirt in flaming script.

Rubbing harder, she strained to reconstruct the sensation of firm flesh against her bare breasts and the strengthening rhythm of groin against groin. Pressing her heels against the mattress, she tilted her pelvis upward and pushed against her fingers. The image of the man faded as she concentrated on the beauty of the rising sun, the feel of sand under her back, and her peaking excitement. A small gasp escaped her as she climaxed, and she clung to that moment, feeling the merging of sky, sand, and self. For a few moments she savored her pleasure and the image of being alone on the ridge, in perfect union with the desert. Then, with no one to kiss, stroke, or share in the afterglow of her lovemaking, she let her arched back relax onto the bedclothes, threw her legs over the edge of the bed, and headed for the bathroom.

Showered and dressed, Margie entered the kitchen a half an hour later to find that the automatic coffee maker had failed to begin brewing for the second time that week. So much for flea market bargains, she thought. Slapping the side of the water well, she was rewarded when the red brew light flickered on. At 6:30 she called to Laura from the bedroom door, and, before Laura had even emerged from her bathroom, she noted the stream of dust rising at the end of the road.

“Truck’s here!” she called, heading out the door.

The maroon pick- up with its small trailer stopped near the shed. A man dressed in blue denim hopped out and started toward Margie, and she recognized Dean Hawkins, long-time manager of Oak Creek Ranch. As he approached her, he reached up and pulled off his hat, revealing dark, straight bangs plastered against a wide forehead. His eyes were serious and his whole demeanor reminded Margie of someone paying respects at a funeral home.

“Hi, Margie. How are you all doing?”

Margie fought down the urge to reply, in funeral home style, as well as can be expected.

“Fine, Dean. How are you?”

“Doin’ good.”

“How about a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.”

Margie went into the house and returned with two thick mugs. Leaning their arms on the side of the truck bed, they watched Firefall as he nosed in the sand for scraps of hay.

“Well, that’s one beautiful horse we sold you.”

“Sold Scott, you mean,” Margie corrected. She thought of the times Scott had spent out on roundups or just wandering and camping with Dean. She’d always wondered if Scott had confided in Dean about his plans.

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just get to wondering sometimes, you know, about Scott buying that horse for Laura so close to when he left. Like he was getting her the horse to make up for what he was about to do.”

“Yeah, I wondered about that, too. Do you hear from him much?”

“No, I guess Laura’s birthday was the last time, and that’s been ten months or so.”

“He was a good hand. He learned quick, was patient…”

“Yeah, he liked the work, but, I don’t know, seems like he was just one of those people; he just never could stay satisfied. It took me a while to catch on.”

Margie’s gaze darted from the paddock to Dean’s face. His expression was calm, matter-of-fact and without a trace of pity or guilt. She went on.

“Did he ever tell you about his parents?”

“No. He didn’t really talk much about himself.” Dean took a long sip of coffee.

“They owned a big peach orchard outside of Augusta. When Scott was about sixteen some orchard hands came to the door and said they were having car trouble and asked if Scott would come take a look. Even then he was doing a lot of the maintenance on his dad’s equipment. A couple of the hands stayed at the house, said they had to use the bathroom, while Scott went with the other one. When he got to their car, two more guys got out and jumped him. They tied him up and put him in the trunk. Meanwhile, back at the house, the others shot his father and mother and ransacked the house, looking for the orchard money. When they were through, they drove Scott out of town and left him on a road in the woods somewhere. He could hear them arguing the whole way about whether to shoot him, too. The guys in the car hadn’t wanted to shoot anyone, but the others didn’t want to leave any witnesses.  So, they dumped him, still tied, figuring that by the time he got loose, they’d be pretty far away. It worked. They never did catch them.”

“Wow. Rough story.” Dean’s gaze rested on the ridge beyond the horse shed, as though he was picturing the scene in his mind.

“Yeah. And according to Scott, people never did treat him the same. He felt like everyone pitied him behind his back. Some kind of survivor’s guilt, I guess they’d call it. He even turned it on me sometimes. How do you support someone who turns all your help into an insult? Anyway, that’s why we ended up out here. This was going to be Scott’s chance for a fresh start-- no orchard money and no one who knew his history.”

Margie looked at Dean, wondering how he was taking this outpouring. His brown face still held its stoic mask, as though he was used to hearing and accepting hard luck stories. She was sure now that he hadn’t had any more warning about Scott’s decision than she, and she hoped he hadn’t noticed her fishing for information.

“It must have been a shock when he took off,” Dean finally said.

“Actually…” Margie started, recalling the way Scott’s discontent had permeated their lives, “I was relieved. And, anyway, we’re surviving.”

As she spoke, Laura emerged from the house.

“Mom, can I load Firefall if it’s okay with Mr. Hawkins? He’ll be calmer with someone he knows.”

Margie looked at Dean.

“Sure,” he answered. “If you’re still as good with horses as you used to be, I should be hiring you.”

He smiled, and Laura grinned at the compliment and hoisted herself over the fence.

“She’s always had a real nice touch with animals,” he observed, walking around to the back of the trailer.

Margie held the gate and watched as Laura led Firefall to the trailer. Instead of using a bridle and bit, she’d merely looped a piece of rope through the horse’s halter. With a calm more suited to an old mare, Firefall followed docilely behind Laura, his hooves clopping methodically on the packed dirt and sending tiny puffs of dust into the air.

“Come on boy,” Laura spoke soothingly, holding the horse’s head close to her shoulder and laying her left hand on the area just above his nose. “You’re going back to your old friends.”

Dean stood by the end of the trailer, ready to fasten the chain behind the horse’s withers. Margie noticed the square set of his shoulders and the stark contrast between his sun-browned skin and the faded blue of his denim shirt. He held the chain patiently, but his eyes closely followed the movements of horse and girl.

“Atta girl, good job,” he praised as Firefall calmly followed Laura up the ramp.

Scrambling from the trailer, Laura remained business-like as she described Firefall’s feeding and exercise routine.

“I’ll go get the rest of his tack,” she finally volunteered, starting back to the shed.

“That’s some kid you’ve got there,” Dean commented as he slammed the ramp up against the back of the trailer.

“I try,” Margie answered, looking after Laura and feeling suddenly awkward.

Laura reappeared shortly, lugging Firefall’s blanket, saddle, and bridle, and swung them into the back of the truck.

“Come visit anytime,” Dean called as he stepped up into the cab. Then, in another cloud of dust, he was gone, leaving Margie and Laura standing in front of the glaringly empty paddock.

Mother and daughter stood rooted, like pine and sapling, until the dust cloud shrank to a mere wisp. Then Laura turned on her heel and retreated into the house.

The rest of the morning wore on at an almost imperceptible pace. When Margie went back inside, she dropped the blinds and closed them tightly against the growing heat, the blinding sun, and the lifeless corral. The door to Laura’s room stayed closed, the house as silent as the desert that surrounded it. Margie sat at the counter, sorting through some bills when the phone rang.

“Hey, Marg, how did it go?” her sister Debra’s voice greeted her.

“It just went. Quietly. Very quietly.”

“No tears?”

“No, just a mild confrontation last night and lots of silence today.”

“Ah, the punishment.”

“Yeah, maybe, or maybe she’s just given up. She’s figured out that I’m thinking of moving back.” The words of a Robert Frost poem echoed in her head as she spoke, Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in…

“Well, she’s not stupid. What did you tell her?”

“Not much. That I haven’t made up my mind, and that we couldn’t keep the horse either way.”

“But she could have one here. Did you tell her that? Mom’s still got the old barn just like when we had our horses. You know her, she never changes a thing.”

“Right. That’s part of what makes it so hard. I’m not going anywhere here, but I’m not real keen on going backward, either.”

“Hey, I stayed, and I’m not exactly oppressed, you know.”

“I know, I didn’t mean it like that. Besides you’re married, and you don’t have to see her every day. I can just see her rubbing my nose in every little bit of help I may need, and, if I’m going to go back to school, I’ll need some.”

“Well, you didn’t ask Scott to drag you out there and then leave you. It’s sure not your fault. Every way I look at it, you held up your end of the bargain.”

“Yeah, I guess. I just want to be sure I know what I’m bargaining for this time. I can’t seem to make a plan. You know, five years ago, I thought that I helped make the decision to move out here, but I guess I didn’t, or else why would I be so paralyzed now?”

“You aren’t hoping he’ll come back, are you?”

“God, no… I just can’t figure out who I was before I built my life around him.”

“Forget about that. Remember what we were talking about last week? You can get some kind of job as a receptionist or something, save a little money over the summer, and start at that technical school at night in the fall. Mom can watch Laura or she can stay with us at night. It’ll probably only be a couple nights a week. Once you get here and settle into a routine, you’ll feel a lot better, I’m sure. Mom offered to pay for your courses, right? And Laura can have a horse and be around family and all kinds of people. I swear, within a few months, she’ll have new friends and be thanking you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. And you know, Mom’s offer only stands if we move back. I hate giving in to her manipulations.”

“I know, but really, this could be a very positive change for you. And if you graduate as a paralegal, you can move anywhere, or maybe even go into law school.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Well, you know I’ve got a point. When are you going to decide?”

Gathering a stack of torn envelopes from the counter in front of her, Margie frowned. “Soon, I guess. We’ll get a check from the horse this week, and then I can pay a couple of bills and see what’s left. I’m hoping to start off the month as close to debt-free as I can.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. Call me after you talk to Laura. And be sure to mention the horse.”

“Right,” Margie replied as she hung up. As though any horse would do, she thought. As though Laura wasn’t smart enough to know when she was being bought off.

Hours later Margie once again settled onto the front step under a full night sky. After a day of silence, the inevitable show down had erupted over a dinner of frozen lasagna.

“I’ll hate Georgia, you know.”

“How do you know that?” Margie had braced herself as she drizzled vinegar on her salad.

“Easy. My horse is here, and the desert is here.”

“But you’ll be able to have a lot more friends. And Grandma will let you have a horse.”

“Oh, so now everything in my life will have to be okayed with you and Grandma? Besides, I have all the friends I want. I don’t need a bunch of prissy, bubble-headed, cheerleader friends to giggle with over bra sizes and boys.”

“Well, for a thirteen-year-old, you seem to have the world pretty neatly boxed in and figured out.”

“Hah! You know how people are in Atlanta. They think a BMW in every four-car garage is what life’s all about, and diversity is inviting their rich Nigerian gynecologist to their dinner parties.”

“Where did you get all that?”

“Listening to you and Aunt Debra talk about Grandma. And I do have eyes, you know.”

“Your grandmother may not be the most enlightened person, but she has good intentions. And, as a matter of fact, so do I. We are not making it on my salary. I’ve got to try something else. Can’t you understand that?”

“Can’t you try something that won’t ruin my life? I like it here. This is my home. Can’t you understand that?”

A waning moon rested just above the ghost-like ridge. Margie thought about the summer Georgia evenings, picturing herself rocking on her mother’s back porch, fending off mosquitoes and self-doubt. Laura could be right, she knew; movement for the sake of movement might not be progress at all.

As her thoughts skipped back and forth across the country, a stream of dust rose from the road. By the time the pick-up came into focus, Margie had guessed its occupant.

Dean hopped down from the cab, his hands hanging awkwardly. “I thought we might talk a little more about that horse of yours.”

Margie stood and dusted off her pants, for some reason not surprised at the visit. But the little wooden step was too small to accommodate two adults.

“Hold on. I think I stuck a couple of lawn chairs out in the shed.”

Dean motioned to the truck. “Or we could ride up on the ridge and sit in the back of the truck. It’s great for staying above the scorpions.”

“A scorpion here or there never bothered me, but ok. Let me write a note for Laura. I think she’s already asleep. Can I offer you a beer?”

“Sure, I’d appreciate it.”

Margie stepped into the house and looked down the hallway to Laura’s door. Silence. Pulling an envelope from the basket, she scrawled a note, “Gone up on the ridge. Back soon,” and left it on the counter before grabbing a six pack from the refrigerator.

Dean swung back into the cab, but instead of climbing into the passenger seat, Margie hopped into the bed of truck, letting her calves hang over the open gate. Dean took off slowly, zigzagging gently up the slope. Saltbush and pinon grabbed at the sides of the truck, making an odd squeaking sound, almost like a cry. Dean stopped the truck at the top, facing away from the valley, and jumped up beside her.

“I brought back your saddle and tack,” he said as he twisted the cap off of a beer. “We don’t need them, and maybe you’ll be able to get another horse someday, or you could sell them later.”

“Thanks.”

“How is Laura doing?”

“She’s upset, but she has a very quiet way of dealing with it. No tantrums, just scathing sarcasm and blunt reasoning. She hates the idea that we might move back to Georgia, and she’s not exactly ready to see things from my point of view.”

“Which is?”

“We’re barely scraping by out here with no improvement in sight. I’ll lose my babysitter this fall, and I’m afraid that Laura spends too much time alone. I know she seems responsible, but way out here there’s just no one to help if there’s an accident or an emergency.” She took a long drink and wedged the bottle between her knees. “And that’s just for starters. I’m not going anywhere, and what’s really scary is that sometimes I don’t even care. I feel like I could just walk into the desert and never come back. If it weren’t for Laura, maybe I would.”

“This landscape tends to have that effect on people.”

“Yes, but it can be deceiving, too. It accepts you on your own terms, no questions asked. But with such easy acceptance, you can lose your focus altogether. Maybe staying here and barely scraping by is just an escape from the pressure to actually do something with my life.”

“So, you’re trying to be a responsible mother, move back to civilization, and start a career… even if neither of you really wants it.”

“Something like that.”

Dean leaned against the side of the truck bed and studied her profile. “I believe you’re trying to be two people at once.”

“If I could narrow it down to two, that would be progress.”

“What makes you so sure that living in Georgia would be better for Laura?”

“She’d be around family, she could spend more time with people her age, maybe she’d see more options to life than ranching…”

“And all those options have made people there happier than the folks out here?” Dean had pulled his knees up to his chest and was squatting more than sitting on the tailgate, like some old, native shaman. “Is it worth cutting out the heart to give the brain more options?”

“I know Laura loves it here, and I know she doesn’t care about money or having a lot of nice things, but if this is all she knows, is that really a choice? I could float along here forever, but maybe she deserves a little broader horizon to choose from.”

As the words left her mouth, Margie knew she’d chosen the wrong metaphor. The moon climbed higher in the sky, and the layers of ridge and red-rock concealed and revealed each other until they ended their hide-and-seek in a field of stars like a meadow of tiny white blossoms. Along the ridge in front of them, ocotillo reached its long, slender fingers toward the stars, and the lumpy forms of Joshua trees stood hunched like burglars escaping across the sand.

“Yes, a broader horizon. I see…” Dean mimicked. “And have you thought about your own heart?  Or would that be too selfish?”

His words seemed suddenly very personal, and it occurred to Margie that he might have had more than Laura on his mind when he drove up the road. I followed my heart once, she thought, and look where it got me. She tried to flash through the snippets of information Scott had mentioned about his foreman. Didn’t he have an ex-wife somewhere in Flagstaff? Kids? None that she could remember. She could invent a reason to check on Laura and draw the conversation to a quick close, but she knew she didn’t want to. Not because she wanted something to happen; she was just enjoying being up on the ridge, away from the house and all the responsibilities it held. The desert was still except for the faint rustle of the breeze. Being up here in the middle of the night made her worries seem small and contrived.

Still squatting, with a bottle of beer on the tailgate between them, Dean continued to look out over the canyon, seeming to forget that he’d even asked a question, so she didn’t attempt an answer, just took another swallow of beer and watched the moon shadows quiver on the sand.

“The school bus stops at the ranch, you know. Laura could ride it after school and visit with Firefall. There’s enough to do that she could work in exchange for riding. And if you’re really set on going back to school, you could head up to Flagstaff a couple nights a week, or go to the community college. Laura could even go with you and do her homework. I’m not trying to talk you into anything, I’m just wondering whether you’ve thought about all the options. You know, there may be more choices out here than you think.”

Margie finished her beer and set the empty bottle down between them. She’d considered these options before—all the driving back and forth, dragging Laura with her, getting home late at night. The thought alone exhausted her. The beer was making her drowsy, and she wanted to forget her problems, not sift through them again and again. She stared across the canyon, idly following a jet trail as it sliced the field of stars in two. Either or, either or, the sky seemed to taunt her.

The moon hung just beyond the horizon, casting invisible rays of reflected light that illuminated exactly half of each cactus, pine, and bush with white light, and, in the face of its glaring brilliance, Margie thought that she’d gamble all of her and Laura’s meager belongings for just one sliver of that irreducible clarity.