LITMIR.BIZ

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Iris.” Lily tried to exchange a glance with her daughter, but Iris wasn’t doing her part. The cowboy and his horse were more interesting.

      Yeah, okay, so maybe they were. But even so, Lily wasn’t letting anyone call Iris girl.

      “Haven’t had a girl on the place since you left, and now there’s two. Gonna take some getting used to.”

      “We’ll make it easy on you, Dad. I haven’t forgotten how to drive a tractor.”

      “You can drive a tractor?” Doubting Iris was back.

      “She can, but she won’t have to,” her father said. “Drivin’ tractor’s about all I do lately. Jack takes care of the heavy lifting. If you can still bake that strawberry rhubarb pie you used to make, that’s all I ask.” He winked at his granddaughter. “What’s your specialty, g—Iris?”

      Iris laughed. “Guy-ris? How’s that, Mom?” She raked her finger through her strawberry-blond bob. “I’m letting my hair grow out. Does Jack live here?”

      “I wish he did.” Mike glanced at the weathered red barn, where the cowboy and his filly had taken refuge. The dog was gone, too. “Jack’s a day worker, and he’s in high demand. I can’t afford him full-time.”

      “What’s a day worker?” Iris wanted to know.

      “Cowboy for hire. Jack’s a top hand. I let him keep his horses here, and like I said, he takes care of the heavy stuff. That’s where he lives.” Mike pointed to a long white gooseneck trailer, hooked up to a red dually pickup that was parked upwind of the barn.

      “Isn’t that for horses?”

      “Part of it is.” Mike folded his arms across his narrow chest. “He’s a gypsy, Jack is. That’s his wagon.”

      Iris smiled, casting a wistful glance toward the open barn door. “So that’s what Gypsies look like.”

      “Jack’s part Chippewa, Cree, something like that. Métis, he calls himself. Mixed-blood. Gotta admit, I never paid much attention to the different tribes around here until Jack came along.”

      “I had Native American friends in Minnesota,” Iris said. “That’s not the same as Gypsy.”

      “All I know for sure is Jack McKenzie is one hell of a cowboy. Without him, I don’t know … I’d’a been in deep trouble this winter.”

      “Is he married or anything?” Iris persisted.

      “He ain’t married. Don’t know about anything. He’s got a couple kids up around Wolf Point. Goes up there to visit pretty regular.” Mike’s eyes narrowed in amusement. “You writin’ a book or somethin’?”

      “He’s a hottie.” Iris gave her grandfather her recently perfected bug eyes. “Duh.”

      “That’s it, Iris. No duh,” Lily said.

      “Sorry, Grandpa.” Iris hung her head. Like the blush that followed, the hangdog posture was rare. “It just means, like, obviously,” she explained quietly.

      “Hottie, huh?” Mike chuckled. “Like I said, it’s gonna take some getting used to, havin’ girls around.”

      Mike helped them carry luggage and a few boxes through the kitchen, down the hall and into the bedrooms. Lily said more was being shipped—she hadn’t been able to fit everything in the car—but what she didn’t say was that she’d sold everything she could. She wasn’t looking forward to the day when the boxes arrived and Iris started missing things. Among other things, her bike had been sold, and all but three of her stuffed animals had gone to the Salvation Army.

      Iris had left the apartment each time Lily asked for help sorting their stuff out. She’d been warned. If you leave it to me, you might be sorry later. Lily had been grateful for Iris’s silence on the matter, but she knew her daughter’s denial had been considerably deeper than her own. Sooner or later there would be tears.

      It felt strange to haul her suitcase full of women’s clothes to their temporary quarters in the bedroom she’d painted pink and green when she was a teenager. Stranger still, the room hadn’t changed. Her father hadn’t been kidding about that. As much as he’d hated her music, he hadn’t taken her posters down. The Dave Matthews Band, Hootie and the Blowfish, beautiful Gloria Estefan, whose dress was the same shade of pink she’d chosen for her walls. The quilt her grandmother had made—the one she regretted not taking with her—the Breyer horses, the ruffled café curtains, everything looked the same as the day she’d hauled her pregnant self out to Molly’s pickup.

      “Wow, Mom, this was you?”

      Lily turned to find her daughter standing next to the chest of drawers and holding a silver picture frame. There were more frames on top of the chest. They hadn’t been there before, so she had to step up and take a look. With a nod she acknowledged her high school portrait, even though it was hard for her to recognize the carefree smile on the girl in the picture. Not the way she remembered the time the picture was taken. What had she been doing that day to put that look in her eyes?

      “Wow. You were hot.”

      Lily laughed. “Duh.”

      “Nope. No duh.” Iris set the picture back on the bureau and picked up another one. Lily standing beside Juniper. “Whose horse is this?”

      “Mine. Well …” Could she really say that? She’d left the horse, along with everything else in the room. “She was mine then.”

      “Beautiful.” Iris set the picture back in its place and turned her attention to the rest of the array. “It’s almost worth it, coming here, just to see what you looked like when you were young.”

      “When I was young?” Aloud Lily chuckled, but in her mind she puzzled over the mere fact that the pictures were on display, neatly framed.

      “Okay, young-ger. How old were you here?” Iris pointed to a picture of Lily wearing a dress. A rare image for those days.

      “About fifteen.”

      “I hope I look this good when I’m …” Iris rested her hand on top of a small album. Lily recognized the flowered cover. “Are there any of my father?”

      “I don’t know what’s still here, sweetie.” She knew she’d bought that album herself, but she couldn’t remember what she’d put in it.

      Iris tapped her fingers on the cover. “You’re gonna let me find out for myself?”

      “It’s your room. I didn’t take much with me when I moved out, so it’ll be fun to see what you dig up.”

      Fun? Maybe that was pushing it. But oddly enough, the word wasn’t hard to say. It could be fun. The girl in the pictures looked surprisingly happy.

      Iris turned to one of two sets of wall shelves her father had put up—grudgingly, as Lily remembered—for her books and other treasures. He’d complained about putting holes in the wall. “What’s all this about?” Iris asked.

      “I was in 4-H. State fair competitions, mostly. Different kinds of …” Iris picked up a small silver horse. A big blue ribbon was looped around the base. “That’s for Western Pleasure.”

      “‘Grand champion,’” Iris read aloud from the ribbon. She examined more ribbons, all dusty, mostly faded, but the recognition stamped in gold still shown. “First place. Second place. First place.” Grinning broadly, she looked up at her mother. “You got first place in rabbits?”

      Lily couldn’t help smiling. “I raised rabbits one summer. Hoppsie and Poppsie.”

      “For pets?”

      “Well, that’s just it. There’s an auction at the end of the show, and you never know what the buyer will do with your prize animal. Maybe use it for breeding. Maybe for eating.”

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