After World War II, Grandpère’s family came to America and settled in Boston. That’s where he met the Carruthers family and my grandmother. (BTW, when Grandmère died, that was the saddest I have ever seen my grandfather.)
I have only one sibling, my little brother, Cody. He’s ten, has red hair, and ten tons of freckles. All my friends think he’s wickedly adorable. Not me. My dad’s first job after getting his doctor’s degree was in Cody, Wyoming, so Mom named him for the city. I keep telling Code (that’s what I call him) that he’s lucky they weren’t living in Albuquerque. Or Butte, Montana (ha-ha).
After Cody was born, Mom couldn’t have any more kids. Cody and I fight sometimes, but not as much as we used to. He’s way smart and helps me on the computer sometimes. And he loves math. (I tell him that’s because Mom dropped him on his head when he was a baby.) He’s a funny kid. And fun, too. And he’s got a smile that makes me laugh even when I’m so mad at him I could spit. But for a kid—and especially a boy—he’s okay.
My dad—or Papa, as they say in French—is the funnest and best dad anywhere in the world. He’s amazing! He and I are really close and do everything together. His name is Lucas McAllister. Guess what his nickname is? Not Luke. Everyone calls him Mack, just like they do his father, Grandpa Mack. Except Mom never calls him Mack or Luke. She always calls him Lucas. She thinks Lucas and Angelique sound musical together.
Dad grew up in Butte, Montana. Grandpa Mack was
a mining engineer at the copper mine there, but they lived on a small ranch outside of town. That’s how my dad became a cowboy. He went to college in Colorado and Michigan, and now he’s a mining engineer consultant. BTW, I was born in Michigan while Dad was getting his—
Hey! Dad’s truck just turned in to our lane. Gotta go!
Chapter 2
“Hey, Danni!”
I looked up. It was just after ten the next morning. The battered old Ford F-150 pickup was just pulling into the front yard. Charlie Ramirez, Ricky’s dad, was driving. Ricky was beside him in the cab. He was waving as they pulled up.
I slapped a couple of strips of tape on the last of the crepe paper and left the rest for Mom to fix. It was her thing anyway, not mine.
Ricky jumped out of the truck, holding his backpack and sleeping bag in one hand and a present wrapped in light purple paper in the other. “Thanks, Dad,” he said.
“Yeah, thanks for letting Ricky go camping with us, Mr. Ramirez,” I called. I really meant it. I never thought he would let Ricky be gone for two whole days. Ricky’s mother had left them some time back, so he had a lot of responsibility tending his two younger sisters and helping with the family’s small farm.
Charlie Ramirez gave me a quick nod; he wasn’t much for long conversations. He looked at Ricky. “Ricardo, you help Mr. McAllister. And mind your manners.”
“Yes, Papa.”
With a wave, Ricky’s dad drove off again.
When I turned to Ricky, he had a grin as wide as the state of Utah. He looked a little goofy, actually. But that was all right. I’m guessing I did too, because I was ready to jump up and down. Ricky was at my birthday party and—unbelievably—was going camping with us.
“Our stuff’s over there by the truck,” I said, motioning toward the barn. “Dad doesn’t want us to pack it in until he’s here.”
Still grinning, Ricky trotted over and tossed his stuff on the pile. In a minute he was back, still carrying the present. He stuck it out at me like he was eager to get it over with. “Happy day-after-your-birthday, Danni.”
I slugged him. “Chill! You don’t have to tell everyone that.” I took it. “But thanks for remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
“That lavender’s my favorite color.”
“It is?”
I slugged him again, only this time harder. He just laughed.
He turned and called out to where Mom and Dad were blowing up balloons and Grandpère was putting candles in the birthday cake Mom had ordered special from Mrs. Oliver in town. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. McAllister. Hi, Mr. LaRoche.”
They waved.
Squinting in the bright sunshine, we surveyed the yard. Spread out beneath the large cottonwood tree in front of the house were several decorated tables. One was filled with presents, one had the cake on it, and all of them had balloons and crepe paper decorations.
“This all your idea?” he asked as I set down the lavender-wrapped present on the table. “Thought you said it wasn’t going to be anything special.”
“This is my Mom’s idea of not anything special. She even bought party hats for everyone. Hello! You’d think I was six or something. Fortunately, Dad and Grandpère vetoed that idea.”
“Your Mom’s funny sometimes.” Seeing the look on my face, he added quickly, “But she’s cool, too.”
“Yeah, in a really strange sort of way.” I picked up the scissors and tape, and motioned for him to move to the next table with me.
Rick was still watching my parents. “Everyone thinks your mom and dad are great, you know. They’re so different,” he said, wistfully, almost talking to himself. “It’s great that they love each other so much.”
I watched Ricky out of the corner of my eye, sensing what was behind that statement. Ricky’s dad is Hispanic—his grandparents were from Guatemala—but his mother was pure California girl. He got his dark black hair and deep brown eyes from his father, but his fairer skin and facial features from her. (All my girlfriends think he looks like a really young Antonio Banderas.)
I’m not sure how his parents ended up in Utah—Ricky’s never said—but I know his mother hated it here. A year or so ago, she called Mr. Ramirez and their children together one night and announced she was leaving. Ricky said his dad was so shocked that all he could think of to say was, “But what about the kids?” With Ricky and his two sisters standing right there listening, her answer was, “If we go to court, it will be to decide who has to take them, not who gets to keep them.”
Ricky doesn’t talk about it anymore—he refuses to say anything bad about his mother—but rumor in town is that Hanksville and the isolation out here wasn’t the only reason she left. They say she was ashamed to be married to a Hispanic.
As far as I know, the family’s never heard from her since she left.
So I wasn’t surprised that he’d watch Mom and Dad and feel a little envious.
He was giving me a strange look and I wasn’t sure why. “What?”
“Some people in town say that one morning we’ll wake up and your family will just be gone.”
I jerked up. “Who said that?”
“Sheesh, Danni. It wasn’t me. Don’t take my head off.”
“Well, it’s not true.”
“Uh . . . well, the story is, your mother only agreed to come here because your dad was trying to get a start as a mining consultant. She said she’d stay no more than five years.”
“Yeah, and that was eight years ago.”
“So it’s not true?”
I began to sense what was behind all this. “It is true. When my parents first came to Hanksville to look at the land that was for sale, Mom kept saying, ‘No! No! No!’ She’s from Boulder, Colorado—a university town renowned for its quality of life, its culture, education, and art. The greater metropolitan area of Boulder holds about a quarter of a million people.” I made my voice sound like I was reading off a brochure.
Ricky laughed. “Heck,” he drawled, “we’ve got twenty-seven hundred people in our county alone. That’s a little over one person per square mile. Bet Boulder can’t match that.”
Laughing, I pulled a face. “I think that was part of the problem. But she knew how much Dad wanted to do this, so she agreed to stay.”
“What happened to change her mind?”
“She got to know the people. And there are so many beautiful places around here for her to paint. Oh, she’d still love to be in a big city somewhere, but now she says she wants Cody and me to finish school here. She agre
es with Dad that this is a great place to raise kids.”
I could see the relief in his eyes, and it touched me to think he’d been worrying about us—me—moving away. He turned away, a little embarrassed. We were quiet for a time, both of us watching my parents.
When Dad thought Mom wasn’t looking, he snitched some frosting off the cake. She caught him at it and slapped his hand. His answer to that was to put some frosting on her mouth, then kiss her.
“You don’t know how lucky you are, Danni,” Rick said quietly.
I turned in surprise. “Yes, I do,” I said. Then, embarrassed that my eyes were suddenly burning, I jumped up. “Let’s get this over with and get out of here.”
“I’m for that,” he said with a grin. “Except for the cake. Don’t rush the cake part.”
I slugged him again.
“Ow! How come girls get to hit boys, but boys can’t hit back?”
“’Cause that’s the proper order of the universe.”
To prove it, I gave him the scissors and tape and told him to finish up with the decorations while I got something from the house.
I watched him walk away from me, thinking about how strange it was that we were such good friends. We have nothing in common except for our dark hair and slender builds; we look enough alike that we could be brother and sister. Actually, in the details, he comes out much better than I do.
But we really are different. I’m brash and opinionated; he thinks everything through carefully. I’m bossy; he’s easy to get along with. I love to read and learn things; he loves to work with his hands, take things apart and fix them. I’m a motormouth; he’s quiet. Except when we’re not around other people. Then he talks a lot. Like seriously, he goes on and on forever. And, though you’d never know it, he’s a terrible tease.
My friends keep giving me a bad time about Ricky being my boyfriend. He’ not. He’s just my best friend who just happens to be a boy. If he was my boyfriend that would ruin everything.
Chapter 3
“Happy birthday, dear Danni. Happy birthday to you.”
As the singing stopped, everyone started clapping and hollering.
“Blow out the candles,” Tanner Kingston called out.
“Yeah. Show us how many boyfriends you have,” Marti Benson added.
Then Lisa Cole just had to do it. “There’s only one boyfriend. Right, Ricky?”
I glared at her, then shot a quick glance at Ricky. His ears were bright red, and he was pretending he hadn’t heard. Lisa’s my second best friend, but she can be such a pain sometimes. If she keeps saying stuff like that, I might have to send her to the bottom of my list. Maybe off it completely.
Bending down, I took a quick breath, then blasted all thirteen candles out with a single puff. So there, Miss Lisa Smarty Pants. I glanced at Ricky again. He was visibly relieved.
Then someone gasped and people started hollering again. I fell back a little. One of the candles was on fire again. How had I missed that one?
“Danni’s got a boyfriend! Danni’s got—”
I blew out the candle again before anyone else could join in with Lisa. Then to be absolutely sure, I licked my thumb and forefinger and pinched out the wick, pretending it was Lisa’s nose.
I saw Grandpère watching me, his eyes twinkling with that mischievous look he sometimes got. So that was it. It was Grandpère. “It’s one of those trick candles that you can’t blow out,” I explained to everyone. “Right, Grandpère?”
He shrugged.
And at that precise moment, the stupid candle burst into flame again. I jumped and gave a little yelp. Everybody thought that was hilarious. They were clapping and yelling and stomping their feet. Before Lisa could start in again, I jumped up, ripped the candle off the cake, and dunked it in the nearest glass of punch. There was a momentary sizzle and a wisp of smoke. Not wanting to take any chances, I held it there for another moment.
“Ah,” Grandpère said soberly, “that should do it.”
To my surprise, Mom stepped forward to stand between me and Grandpère. “Stop it, Dad,” she hissed, really angry at him. Then, turning around, she forced a bright smile and clapped her hands once. “Okay, everyone. Find a chair. Before we have cake and ice cream, Carruthers is going to open her presents.”
As everyone scrambled for seats, I glanced at Grandpère. He smiled, gave a little bow, and snapped his finger. I was still holding the candle in the punch, and to my utter astonishment, the wick burst into flame again. I pulled it out. It was still burning brightly. I ducked it into the punch a second time, but it kept right on burning, making a gurgling sound and little smoke bubbles in the punch.
I looked at the others, but they were already moving away. Except for Ricky. He had come up right beside me and was staring at the smoking cup of punch with eyes bigger than a couple of paper plates.
I turned back to Grandpère. “How did you—”
He could look so innocent at times. At other times he was like a little boy caught putting a frog in his sister’s bed. Right now, his expression was a combination of both. He gave me a sad little smile, did another little bow, then blew me a kiss. The very instant he did so, the candle sizzled and went out. And this time, it stayed out.
The presents were nice, but predictable. Grandma and Grandpa Mack sent a new sweater and skirt. Lisa and three of my other friends went in together on a buckskin vest, which I loved. Ricky got me a new hat to go with it. (I guess they told him what they were doing.) Cody got me the table game Hilarium.
When Mom handed me her present, I knew immediately what it was, and suppressed a groan. From the size and shape of the box, which was wrapped in purple paper, I knew right away that it was a new dress. And she’d probably thrown in a couple of training bras too. Great! In front of everybody. Ricky leaned forward so he could see better, which wasn’t helping. Pretending to fumble a little as I tried to open it, I lowered the box to my lap, hoping maybe I could ditch the bras under my chair without anyone seeing.
However, to my surprise, inside was another box; and in that one was another box, and then another. And then my jaw dropped. I squealed so loud it probably startled the cattle out in the pasture. It was a new cell phone. I couldn’t believe it. Mom and I had been fighting for the last three months over whether I was old enough to have my own cell phone, and she hadn’t budged an inch.
I leaped up and threw my arms around her. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. Then she pulled me closer. “Had you scared, didn’t I?” she whispered. “You thought it was a new dress.”
I laughed right out loud, then hugged her tighter. “You’re the greatest, Mom. I love you so much.”
“And I love you, Carruthers.” Eyes dancing with anticipation, Mom placed her hands on my shoulders and turned me around. “I think it’s your father’s turn now.”
Dad was at the other end of the table, but to my surprise, he held nothing in his hands. His expression was apologetic, almost sorrowful. I felt a sinking feeling. Where were my cowboy boots?
“Danni, I . . .” He looked away. “Those boots you wanted were sold out. I’m so sorry.”
I managed a smile of sorts. “That’s all right, Dad. You tried.”
“I can either give you the money, and we can look for them the next time we go up to Salt Lake City, or”—he reached behind the table for something—“you can have this instead.”
For a split second, my brain wouldn’t register what my eyes were seeing. Then I gave another shriek. I dashed around the table to where he stood, holding out a rifle in both hands.
“Is that mine?” I cried. I was vaguely aware of the oohs and aahs sounding all around me. “Is that really mine?”
“Yep. It’s a Winchester—”
I cut him off. “I know, I know. A Winchester lever-action, repeating rifle. It’s a copy of the original Winchester Model 1873, the gun that won the West.” I caressed the stock, loving its cool smoothness. I turned and sig
hted down the barrel at the barn. “Oh, Dad. Thank you so much. I love it.”
Mom joined us and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Carruthers, you know how I feel about guns. But I also know that when you’re out camping or with the cattle, there are rattlesnakes and coyotes and other things that can be a problem. So I told your father I wouldn’t object. But you have to promise me that you’ll be very, very careful. I never want you shooting it around the house or anywhere near town. Or going hunting just to kill things.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Anytime it’s in the house, it stays locked in the gun cupboard. And you never bring it into the house when it’s loaded. And—”
“Geez, Mom, all right. I get it.”
I was instantly sorry as I saw her face fall. Then I felt the rifle jerked from my hands. I turned to see my father, just inches away from my face.
“You want to reconsider what you just said there, Danni?” he said in a low voice. My dad rarely got angry, and mostly it was when Cody and I were sassy to Mom, and this was one of those times.
“I . . . I’m sorry, Mom.”
“That’s not an apology, Danni,” he said. “That’s closer to an insult. Your mother didn’t say one thing that I don’t fully agree with, so let’s try that again.”
Face flaming, keenly aware of everyone’s eyes on me, I went over to her. “I’m really sorry, Mom. You’re right. I’ll do everything exactly as you said. And I appreciate you letting me have it.” I meant it this time.
For a long moment, she looked into my eyes, searching. Then she smiled. “Good. Then happy birthday.”
Dad returned the rifle to me. He brought out a leather case for it, and everything was all right again. “Grandpère’s gathered up a whole garbage sack of empty pop cans,” he said, “and I’ve got two cartons of shells in the truck. We’ll stop along the way somewhere and let you and Ricky do some target shooting.”
It took another hour before everyone left and we had things cleaned up and put away. While Ricky and I loaded our personal gear into the truck, Dad and Grandpère saw Mom and Cody off for Salt Lake. Mom was going shopping and had promised to take Cody to two movies if he would go with her instead of with us.