Chapter 1 #3
Madeline wades through the crowd in hopes of finding her husband, but all she sees is a sea of cowboy hats and Gucci purses.
A property developer who has been sniffing around their land reaches out a hand to touch her belly just as the photographer they hired snaps a picture.
Madeline recoils, turns, and comes face-to-face with Mia and Sully Preston, their neighbors to the west. If the Drake family is a Wyoming institution, the Preston family is a downright dynasty.
Sully Preston brokered horse sales for Madeline and Wes’s ranch and equestrian business, but that didn’t last long.
Sully was more interested in making money than the health and safety of the horses and their riders.
The dissolution of the partnership was swift but ugly.
And now the Prestons have shown up, uninvited.
Mia, dressed in cowboy boots, a short denim skirt, and a bustier studded with pearls, places both hands upon Madeline’s stomach.
“You are absolutely glowing,” Mia says, her long red nails garish against the white cotton of Madeline’s dress. Beside her
is Sully, wearing a black shirt with a flying eagle embroidered on each side of his chest. He’s carrying a large package gift-wrapped
in Tiffany blue and topped with a black satin bow. Madeline suddenly finds it hard to catch her breath. These people, thinking
that they have the right to touch her. Where is Wes? And why hasn’t Johanna come back? She would step between Madeline and
anyone who dared to try to caress her stomach, and with her narrowed-eye stare the offender would back away.
“Look at all this,” Mia says, her overly made-up eyes wide with mock admiration. “I have to say, you’ve really outdone yourselves.
I mean, a rodeo? Reba? You two are the perfect hosts, now, aren’t you?”
The Prestons have made their lives miserable for the better part of a year, and Madeline wants to tell Mia to take her husband
and leave but is aware of all the eyes on them eager to see what will happen next.
“Why are you here?” Madeline whispers, stepping back, away from Mia’s touch, but making sure to keep a smile on her face.
“We wanted to congratulate you,” Sully says, pressing the gift into her hands. “A little peace offering. Where’s Wes? I’d
like a word.”
“This isn’t the time or place,” Madeline says, trying to keep her voice low. “Please leave.”
“Come on, now,” Mia says, pulling her face into a pout. “We’re just trying to mend fences, Madeline. Let’s not get ugly.”
Madeline pulls her phone from her pocket and begins typing an SOS message to Wes. Over the buzz of the crowd, she hears her
brother-in-law’s booming laugh. Three years older than Wes, Dix Drake is a hulking bull of a man with a quick sense of humor
and two ex-wives who are still a little in love with him. Madeline gets it: he’s fun and laid-back. The life of the party.
But Dix always seems to disappear when it’s time to go to work and goes through money hand over fist. They argue over everything
from the kind of hay to feed the horses to how much they should sell a prized gelding for, but before their father died he
insisted that the family business stay in the family. Wes and Dix Drake may have an even more complicated relationship than
Madeline and her sister, who she hasn’t spoken to since their father’s funeral.
“Why don’t you go talk to Dix?” Madeline says. “I’m sure he’d love to catch up with you both.” She hands the wrapped package
to Mia. “He’ll know what to do with this.” Madeline turns her back to the Prestons and begins to say hello to other party
guests with what must sound like false cheerfulness. Out of the corner of her eye she watches as the Prestons approach Dix.
With a tight smile, he leans in and whispers something in Sully’s ear. The two stare at one another, faces stony, until Dix
claps Sully on the back and turns away.
Package in hand, the Prestons move toward the gift table but are stopped by Johanna, who greets them with her hands on her hips.
Johanna knows the history Madeline and Wes have with Sully and Mia.
They appear to exchange a few words before Sully hands the package to Johanna and moves toward a waiter carrying a tray of champagne.
From across the yard, Johanna catches Madeline watching, and Madeline smiles and waves, but Johanna only lifts her hand half-heartedly and then rushes away, gift in hand.
Madeline spends the next fifteen minutes making small talk with a former congresswoman and her husband until she finally sees
Wes coming toward her, rifle in hand. Alyssa must have found him and told him about the forecast. He holds up the rifle. “It’s
showtime.”
“Wes, the Prestons are here,” Madeline says, as he grabs her by the hand and leads her toward the hay bales.
“Ignore them,” Wes says. “Don’t let them ruin our night.” Madeline wants to tell him that they already have, but he’s right—this
is their day, their special moment.
The crowd that has formed behind the row of bales parts, and two hundred pairs of eyes stare back at them, smiles wide, eyes
bright. A man wearing Johnny Cash–black and a Stetson pulls a handgun from its holster, lifts it in the air, and shouts, “Pistol!”
Madeline, for a second believing that the man is going to fire the weapon, nearly stumbles. Wes steadies her, and a woman
wearing a turquoise jumpsuit cries out, “Pearls!” A dueling chant follows.
“Pearls, pearls, pearls!” the women shout.
“Pistols, pistols, pistols!” the men counter.
I don’t care! Madeline wants to cry out. Why does it matter? And why did they invite these people, strangers really, to their
home?
From the crowd, Alyssa reappears, clipboard in one hand and a wireless microphone in the other. She hands the microphone to Wes, but Dix steps in and grabs it from his fingers. Wes gives a little laugh, shakes his head in resignation, and gives a sweep of his arm, as if inviting Dix to speak.
Dix waits until the chants quiet before speaking. “Welcome, everyone!” he begins. “Thank you for joining us in this momentous
event. I know that Wes and Madeline are so happy that you’re here with them tonight to find out who’s going to be taking over
their lives in a few short weeks!” His comments are met with knowing laughter. “Rain may be heading our way, so there’s been
a change in plans.”
Madeline glances over at Wes, expecting to see him simmering with irritation. Instead, he is smiling broadly and laughing
along with the crowd.
Someone from the back of the group lets out a big whoop and shouts, “Pistols forever!”
Dix hands the microphone to Wes who in turn holds it out to Madeline. Madeline shakes her head. The last thing she wants to
do is speak in front of a large group—and where is Johanna? It doesn’t feel right to find out the sex of the baby without
her.
Again, Wes pushes the mic toward her, forcing it into Madeline’s hands, and gives her an encouraging smile. A challenge. Reluctantly,
she takes the microphone and scrambles for something—anything—to say. Finally, she speaks. “Thank you, everyone, for being
here and for joining us on this very special day. And whether we have a boy or a girl or anything in between, we’ll be happy.”
Madeline hands the microphone to Wes and takes a little step backward to let him know that she is done. When she was competing
in dressage, Madeline didn’t mind all the eyes on her. She knew that spectators were really watching the horse, and that Madeline
was just an accessory, an extension of the beautiful beast she was riding.
“All right, then!” Wes says, “Are you ready for the big boom?” It’s followed by a cry of “Yes!” and another round of chants. Pistols . . . Pearls . . . Pistols . . . Pearls . . . Pistols . . . Pearls . . .
“Okay,” Wes says, “simmer down and make sure everyone stays behind the hay bales and plug your ears if you don’t like loud
noises.”
Madeline takes a step back, but Wes reaches for her hand. “Where are you going? Let’s do the honors together.” He holds out
the high-powered rifle toward her.
Does she want to be the one to send a bullet flying eighteen hundred miles per hour toward a vintage truck holding an explosive
device filled with blue or pink powder? No, she does not. Madeline doesn’t like the feel of guns, doesn’t like the heft of
them in her hands or the cold metal against her fingers. She doesn’t like the idea of how its simple mechanism can send a
tiny piece of metal through the air with such force that it can shatter bone, pierce a spinal cord, or eviscerate organs.
“You do it,” Madeline says, pushing the rifle back toward him. “I’m fine watching.”
Wes sets the rifle on the top the stack of hay bales, bends his knees, and presses his eye against the rifle’s sight. Then
he straightens and snakes an arm around Madeline’s waist. “Everyone is watching, Madeline,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Just do it.” Reluctantly, Madeline nods, and Wes slides behind her so that his chest rests against her back. He settles his
chin onto her shoulder and gently bends her over the bales in a way that feels slightly erotic. The partygoers must think
so too, because there comes a cascade of knowing laughs and whistles.
Wes repositions the rifle so that both their fingers rest upon the trigger. Madeline feels his warm breath on her neck, smells
his cologne. She doesn’t like the idea of a firearm so close to the baby. Madeline thinks she can feel its tiny heart slamming
into its birdcage chest in fear. Or maybe that’s her own heartbeat. “Ready?” Wes asks.
“I was hoping to wait for Johanna,” Madeline says, trying to stand up straight, but Wes’s weight keeps her pinned in place.
“Come on, Madeline,” Wes says, impatiently. “This isn’t about Johanna. It’s about us and our baby. Let’s go, already.”
Off to the side, someone starts a countdown. “Ten, nine, eight, seven.” The rest of the guests join in. Madeline closes one
eye, and the black painted X on the truck comes into crisp focus. “Six, five . . .”
“Here we go,” Wes says, smiling against her cheek. He increases the pressure atop the finger that is crooked around the trigger.
“No going back now.”
Madeline feels a surge of excitement shoot through her. This is it. “Two, one!” the crowd shouts. Wes presses his finger sharply
against hers, and Madeline feels the bullet rip smoothly through the chamber. The kickback is immediate, and the butt of the
rifle slams into the soft skin just below her collarbone. The truck explodes into a fiery ball, and she hears a chorus of
oohs and aahs and excited laughter. Madeline looks to the sky, eager to see the plume of blue or pink smoke, but from behind her comes
another eardrum-crushing boom that ricochets against her skull.
Madeline is lifted from her feet. The reassuring nearness of Wes’s body disappears, and the rifle flies from her fingers.
For one panicked second, Madeline imagines the gun discharging a rogue bullet into the unsuspecting crowd or, worse, into
her womb. A blast of heat envelops her, and Madeline can feel the fabric of her dress curdle against her skin. She closes
her eyes, and for a moment she remains suspended in air. The world around her falls silent: she feels no pain, no sensations
of any sort. It’s a pleasant, floaty feeling, reminding Madeline of when she and her sister were young, lying together in
a big black inner tube, legs intertwined, floating languidly down Prairie Creek.
Then Madeline hits the ground hard, her breath lodging in her chest like thick sludge, blocking any air from reaching or leaving her lungs.
Her eyes pop open. Around her people are screaming, stumbling, clutching at one another’s arms, clambering to get away.
Cowboy hats and wineglasses litter the ground.
Where is Wes? Johanna? Unable get up, Madeline looks into the sky.
Black clouds hang heavily in the air. Has the storm arrived? No, it isn’t that.
Pain floods her limbs, her back, her head. Madeline’s hands fly to her midsection. The baby. Is the baby okay? She tries to
cry out, but a charred, burnt taste clings to the back of her throat. Snowflakes float lazily down. But that doesn’t make
sense. It doesn’t snow at this elevation this late in May. Besides, Madeline thinks, giving way to the irresistible urge to
close her eyes, snowflakes aren’t pink.