Fated

I’d like to ride her again, if it’s okay with you. And, of course, okay with her.” I reach down to pat Kachina’s neck, but again I’m not very graceful, not yet used to her movements, and I end up teetering so precariously it takes all of my strength not to tumble right off her back. “By the way, what is it you saw back there?” I ask, once I’ve gotten myself straightened out. Jabbing my thumb in the direction we came from, knowing that whatever it was, it was enough to turn us around and cut our ride short.
    Chay veers ahead, the words breezing over his shoulder when he says, “You’re not ready to go there just yet.”
    I squint at his back, my curiosity more piqued than ever, but recognizing a dead end when I see one, I choose not to pursue it.
    Choose to just nod in agreement when he turns to me and says, “So, what do you say we return our rides to the stall, get ’em settled in for the night, and grab ourselves a couple of sodas? Soon as your training kicks in it’s going to be a while before you taste one again.”
    *   *   *
    Once the horses are brushed, watered, and fed, with their stalls lined with fresh straw, we hop into the truck and head out. Stopping at the gas station/convenience store where Chay runs inside to get our drinks, while I field yet another frantic phone call from Jennika.
    I slip out of the truck, head over to the edge of the lot where I park myself on the curb next to the water and air pumps. Struggling through really bad reception that strangles her words, making it sound like she’s calling from somewhere deep underground.
    Though it’s not much of a struggle to fill in the blanks—it’s pretty much a repeat of the same conversation we’ve been having for the past several weeks. Ever since the day she woke to a string of angry messages from me, only to call Paloma and learn I’d been hit by a car. Her questions coming so fast, it’s like an assault. One blending into another until there’s no way I can answer them all.
    “I’m fine, seriously. There’s no reason for you to come here,” I say, which pretty much serves as my standard reply every time she mentions quitting the gig in Chile so she can come get me.
    But it’s not like it works. It never does. She just goes on to say, “Daire, you can tell me—has Paloma done anything weird ?”
    I roll my eyes. From Jennika’s perspective everything Paloma does is weird, but I no longer see it that way. Paloma may be strange, definitely on the outside of mainstream, but there’s no doubting her healing powers—no doubting that she’s the only one who truly understands what’s happening to me.
    “Define weird, ” I say. It’s what I always say.
    “ Daire …” She drags out my name, wanting me to know that kind of reply no longer floats. “Answer the question. You know exactly what I mean.”
    “Paloma’s fine. I’m fine. Chay’s fine. Enchantment is … fine. ” My fingers curl around the phone as I try not to choke on the lie. “I’ve already told you, I had a first-day freak-out. That’s all. And trust me, you’d be amazed by what Paloma’s been able to do. My wounds are healed and I don’t have one single scar—including the cuts on my arms that I got in Morocco. Oh, and the cast is coming off soon—maybe as early as tomorrow.”
    “I need pictures! I need proof! You need to send me lots and lots of pictures. It’s the only way I’m going to believe you’re okay. The only way I’m going—”
    I sigh, yank the phone away from my ear, and place it on the curb just beside me. Jennika’s frantic voice screeching, threatening, pleading—a song she’s sung too many times. Leaving me to bury my face in my knees and wait for the chorus to end.
    Glancing up in time to see Chay waving to me as he heads back to the truck, the sight prompting me to say, “Jennika, I gotta go. Seriously though, there’s no need to come here, no need to worry. I’m perfectly okay. I’ll send you a photo—a whole slew of photos. I’ll send you so many photos, you’ll be sick of looking at me, okay? But until then, try to chill. Try to believe what I tell you.”
    I rise to my feet, brush my hands against the seat of my jeans, and hobble across the lot. Maneuvering around an old, primer-gray Mustang pulling up to the pump, as a boy with beautiful, long, dark hair climbs out of the driver’s side, and an older female draped with the most exquisite turquoise jewelry opens the passenger