All the Wind in the World Read online

  I grip Bell around her waist and take the reins in one hand. The little girl twists and squeals. How can she be so slippery?

  “Calm down!” I shout. “It was just a snake!”

  “It wasn’t a snake!” Bell clutches my arm. “It was bees! One of them landed on my leg!”

  I manage to pull Britain to a stop, but she’s obviously agitated. I guide her around in a quick circle so that I can search the sky for a mass of hovering specks. I listen for a hum. There’s nothing. Just wind and desert.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Britain might’ve gotten stung, but she’s fine. You want me to run her back to the ranch?”

  “No!” Bell shakes her head so furiously her hat almost flies off.

  Bell’s survival instincts are terrible. She wants saving from imaginary bees and then she doesn’t. I slide my arm out from around her so I can take the reins in each of my hands and then coax an uneasy Britain into a walk.

  If what Bell said is true, if her dad doesn’t love her, then of course I feel sorry for her. Lane and I didn’t know our dads, so we couldn’t know what it was like to be blamed for something in such a cruel way. It’s tough to tell how Farrah is with her sister. Aside from that first day, I haven’t seen them together. Lane and I were inseparable, each other’s shadows.

  She was eleven when she died. It happened in Chicago, at the tail end of winter, when it had been sleeting for days on end. That morning James said he was going to take Lane out to get a new coat—hers had been threadbare and in tatters for months—but he’d lied. He’d taken her to a carnival. He won her a cheap stuffed bear by knocking over a tower of milk bottles with a baseball. They rode that god-­awful Ferris wheel that rocked and wailed even when the weather was decent. They drank hot cocoa and ate kettle corn, all paid for with money James had won in cards the night before.

  Lane was already feverish by the time the two of them got back to our room. I stripped off Lane’s wet clothes and wrapped her in a wool blanket, but within hours her temperature spiked. We didn’t take her to the hospital because hospitals cost money and James had gone and spent too much at the carnival. Instead, we threw open all the windows to keep Lane cool and took turns running to the tap at the end of the hall to wet a cloth to lay across her forehead.

  “It’s my fault,” James said, as if that needed saying. Lane was sleeping, breathing noisily out of her mouth. “I’ll fix it. Tomorrow. I’ll find a game.”

  I held my tongue because I didn’t want Lane to wake up and hear me yelling at James, but I wanted more than anything to heap layer upon layer of blame on him until he was crushed by the weight of it. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have taken her out, no matter how many times she asked. She was my sister. How could he be so careless with her?

  James left the next morning before the sun had risen and when Lane’s fever appeared to be breaking. But then she died within the hour, and things went to shit.

  When James finally came home, I tried to bring the walls down with my screams. I railed at him and demanded he look at me while I did it. He did this; if he’d just gone out and bought my sister a coat like he said he’d do, Lane would still be alive. I told him I wished I’d never met him, that he ruined my life and killed my sister. He killed my sister.

  James said nothing. He didn’t try to touch me. He was breaking down. I could see it—in his posture, in the way his spine seemed to curve forward as if he was being eaten from the inside out. He nodded his head, heavy on that bent spine, as if he understood, as if he deserved all the blame and would accept whatever punishment I saw fit.

  I kept Lane’s body with me in that room for two days. Eventually, James called the undertaker. He had to hold me back as Lane was carted off. The whole time I was screaming, and James kept taking it.

  My sister would’ve been buried outside the city limits in a pauper’s grave, but James won a burial plot for her that night in a game of cards. So there was that, at least. No grave marker. But I will give her one, eventually. It’ll be small—I’ll never be able to afford anything big—but it’ll be something with her name on it: Lane Maria Crow.

  After my sister died, I stopped going to the diner I was working at and got fired. Most days I just slept. I think James knew that if we stayed in Chicago, I’d die in that room like my sister. He came up with the idea of us catching trains and seeing the country. He reminded me of the stories I used to tell him about growing up with my grandmother and how I always reminisced about working with my hands out in wide-­open spaces. I didn’t want to go with him at first, but he eventually convinced me with this: we’d make more money cutting maguey in the big desert than we’d know what to do with, and the first thing we’d do when we could afford it was come back to Chicago and buy Lane a proper headstone.

  That was when our plans began.

  It took a while—months—but I eventually apologized for all the things I’d said when Lane died. I told him there was no one to blame—not him, not me. Lane dying was just one of the cruel realities of life. People came down with fever; some of those people died. That’s just how things work.

  James took my hand in his. He grazed his thumb across my roughened palm and said nothing.

  James still blames himself for Lane’s death. I know he does.

  I hate that Bell makes me think about this.

  TEN

  Eva is preaching. She’s hopped onto a tree stump near the campfire. Cast in the flickering light and wearing that hat of hers, she looks like she’s made of beasts and magic. She tells everyone to listen, reminds us of her visions, and then claims those visions are never wrong.

  “Did you hear about the California quakes, the big ones that nearly split the state in two?” she asks.

  “Yes!” someone shouts.

  Of course we had all heard about that.

  “I foresaw those,” she claims. “I felt cracks in my bones a day before those quakes hit. I was in so much pain I could hardly move. And those hurricanes that destroyed the Texas Gulf? Remember those?” Murmurs of assent ripple through the crowd. “For three straight days before they came, I was hit with wave after wave of nausea. It was at least a week after the storm passed before I could find enough balance to walk on my own two feet.”

  I glance over to where James is sitting with Odette. He’s looking down into his bowl of runny beans, smirking. Odette, however, has gone absolutely still.

  Eva lifts her hands to the sky and repeats her warning about a plague of small pests. “They are coming!” she proclaims, scratching violently at her arm. “Even now I feel them crawling across my skin. You are being punished for your evil deeds and for living wickedly, but it is not too late. I can save you!”

  I can save you—these are the magic words. Several more jimadors stop eating to listen to Eva’s message. They balance their plates on their knees, stop with their cups lifted midway to their lips. Even after a lifetime of this life and this work, people still hold out hope for a savior. I watch as Odette starts to fiddle with blood-­crusted bandages around her foot. James has modified her boot—cut away some more of the leather, spliced the laces—so that she can hobble around the maguey fields and work again.

  Eva demands again that we all get clean. “No more meat!” she shouts. “No more pulque! No more gambling.”

  It’s too much. James grins so wide it tugs at the scar on his lip.

  Alone and in the dark, I smile, too.

  AFTER HELPING ODETTE back to the bunkhouse, James re­turns to the campfire, along with Leo, Bruno, and a jug of pulque. I can tell by the way they’re walking—all off-­rhythm and clumsy, like the injured Odette—that Leo and Bruno are already drunk.

  “I predict . . . !” Leo exclaims, mimicking Eva by throwing his arms to the sky. “I predict, uh . . .”

  Bruno removes the half-­smoked cigarette from his mouth, pulls out the cork of the jug with his teeth, and spits it onto the ground. “Eva’s a much better prophet than you, Leo.”

  James laughs, and Leo snick
ers.

  “I’m serious.” Bruno plops down next to me.

  I’m warm from the fire, but Bruno’s large body heats me up even more. There’s a knot on his forehead and a mottled bruise above his eye from where he was hit with the rifle. I reach out and skim it with the pads of my fingers.

  James turns his head to the side.

  “You talked about stuff rising up from the ground,” Bruno says to Leo. His voice lowers as he leans ever-­so-­slightly into my touch. “Eva talks about stuff coming out of the air. Her version is way scarier.”

  I think that’s true as well. The sky seems bigger than the ground, bigger and more out of control. I’ve heard of earthquakes but never felt one. Storms, though—I’ve been in so many of those, all different kinds.

  Leo ignores Bruno and stands in front of me. “Bell likes you.”

  I snort.

  “Seriously. She says she likes you because you don’t treat her like she’s a baby.”

  “Well, she’s not a baby, so . . .”

  James pulls a crate across from me, flips it, and sits. My hand moves from Bruno’s forehead into his dark hair, but I’m watching James out of the corner of my eye. Our knees are less than a yard apart. I can smell him, his smoke and oil smell. He scoots his foot toward mine a couple of inches, then retreats. This is code. It means: Stop whatever you’re doing with Bruno. It means: I want everyone to leave so that I can have you and your hands to myself.

  “You should put in a good word for James,” I say to Leo. “He could work at the house with us.”

  James tenses, sitting up a little straighter.

  “Farrah mentioned something about it,” I add.

  “Farrah mentioned me?” James asks. “When exactly did this happen?”

  Before I can answer, Bruno leans in, nuzzles my cheek with his nose, and plants an unexpected, tender kiss on my temple. I lean into it; I can’t help it. James scoots his boot forward again, nudging the toe of his against mine.

  “It was that morning when I first went up to the house,” I say. “When Gonzales told me about my new job. Farrah stopped me as I was leaving and asked what kind of work you can do.” I smirk. “Maybe she . . .”

  Likes you, I silently finish. But then, what started as a joke swiftly bends into something else. A plan forms: one in which the object of James’ affection shifts from desperate Odette to frail Farrah. If he gains access to her, he gains access to the house, and, even better, its treasures. There might be one thing, just one small thing, hidden in the depths of a drawer or the recesses of a closet, that he can pocket when she’s not looking. Then we can flee to the nearest town, hock that one small thing, and be in our house in the hill.

  All this time, my fingers have been against Bruno’s skin, in his hair, but now I drop my hand and fold it with the other in my lap. It’s started to tremble. James glances down, so quick anyone else would miss it. A puzzled, expectant expression settles onto his face. Even in the dark, he gleams. He’s irresistible, even to a ranch owner’s daughter who’s so high above him in class she might as well be in the sky.

  Leo clears his throat, and I turn my head at the sound. He cocks his eyebrow, questioning. Leo waits, but I say nothing. “I’ll see what I can do,” he offers. “About James. And the house.”

  “Leaving so soon?” James asks.

  “Yes, yes,” Leo replies. “Good night, cousins.” He begins to stumble off in the direction of his bunkhouse, then stops. “Bruno, come with. We need to work on forming our rival cult. Let’s round us up some followers.”

  Bruno gives my knee a squeeze and goes off with Leo. James and I wait, listening to the sound of twin sets of boots shuffling across the earth.

  “What was that about?” he asks once he’s sure we’re alone.

  “I want you close.” My fingers reach up and grip the collar of his shirt and then search for skin. “If I can get you a job in the house, then I can have you near me. Besides, if you’re able to worm your way into Farrah’s good graces, she may let slip where her father keeps their money stashed, or their jewelry.”

  “Worm my way?” James lifts his hand and rests his thumb on my bottom lip.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do know what you mean,” he says, his eyes holding steady on my mouth and making my pulse race. “But I seriously doubt the ranch owner’s proper daughter wants anything to do with a grubby field hand.”

  I swallow. “Clearly, you haven’t read enough romance novels.”

  “Clearly.” His fingers move to skim the line of my jaw, and he leans in to whisper. “But I do know that girls often fall for the big and strong type.”

  I huff out a laugh. “Bruno’s very big and very warm. It’s hard to resist.”

  “I can keep you warm.”

  “I know,” I say, nearly breathless.

  “I want to be closer to you, Sarah, so I won’t turn down a job at the house. But I’m already conning one poor girl. I don’t look forward to doing it to another, especially one who’s dying. You wouldn’t want me to be that cruel, would you?”

  That word—cruel—it stings.

  “But I’ve got my own idea,” James says, his lips grazing across mine. “A new plan.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  We are co-conspirators again.

  “One day, while the owner’s out,” he whispers, “you and I will go into the house and steal his eggs. We’ll find out where each of them came from, and we’ll return them—one by one.”

  I laugh. What’s a bird going to do with an empty shell? Aside from that, their nests are probably long gone.

  My lips land on the corner of James’ mouth, at his scar. I can feel him smile.

  “Think of all the trees you’ll get to climb,” I say.

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, a truck pulls up to where James is working a couple of rows over from me. After a brief exchange, James sets down his coa and hops in the back. I watch him disappear in a cloud of dust.

  He doesn’t come back to the field that day, and he’s not in line for supper.

  The next morning, Leo comes to get me to ride with Bell. Together we walk up the hill to the ranch house, and there, on a ladder, patching up the plaster on one of the exterior walls, is James.

  “Meet the new groundskeeper,” Leo says. “Just like you wanted.”

  Just like I wanted.

  James climbs down the ladder just as Bell emerges from the house. She sees him and smiles, all bashful.

  “Well, good morning.” James goes over, places a hand on Bell’s shoulder, and leans in. “You know you have the best riding instructor there is. Sarah Jac grew up around horses and has never met one she can’t tame. She can also ride faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

  “James . . .” I don’t want him talking about me to her like that. He used to do the same thing with Lane: lean in and lower his voice, like they were in on some grand secret. “She doesn’t even really want to learn. Her father’s forcing her.”

  James straightens up, shrugs. “Teach her something else, then.”

  “Like what?” Like lying, stealing, sprinting to catch a train?

  “You know a lot about plants.”

  I snicker.

  “Or what about the violin?”

  “There’s no violin here.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I have no idea if they’re true or not.

  Why is James doing this? He has to see that Bell reminds me of Lane, of what I lost, and what I’ll never have again. I can feel my lips twist into a scowl, but he’s just leaning casually against the ladder, wiping the sweat off his brow with a forearm covered in white plaster, and grinning at the sunshine.

  “You can play music?” And there it is, in Bell’s tone: interest, maybe even wonder. Exactly what I didn’t want.

  “Probably not anymore.” I turn away from the house—and from James, who I don’t want to even look at right now—and make my way over to the yard. “It’s been a while. Let’s go. The horse is wa
iting.”

  “But you could still teach me?” Bell’s behind me. I can hear her running to catch up.

  “Do you even have a violin?” I shout over my shoulder. “Is there one in the house?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, no. I can’t teach you.” I spin around, and Bell stops short. “Besides, your dad doesn’t want you to learn music. He wants you to learn how to ride.”

  “Violins are good luck,” Bell says. “They ward off bad spirits.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “My mom. She said that the music they make calms down angry spirits.”

  I don’t know what to say. I’ve never heard anything like that, but as far as folktales go, this one isn’t half bad.

  ELEVEN

  James is doing this thing he does with a knife. It’s a little like that trick when someone shoots an arrow through an apple that’s perched on someone’s head, but we don’t have an arrow or an apple. It’s always better when there’s a crowd—in this case it’s people who work in the Gonzales house, gathered together in the kitchen drinking coffee before the family wakes for breakfast—and when there’s some betting involved. The trick is, I hold the end of a spoon—the thin end—between my lips. James stands off to my side and a ways away. He squints as he aims, hesitating as if he’s not quite sure, as if he hasn’t done this a hundred times before. He cocks his hand back quick and then releases the knife. My eyes are closed as I feel the spoon ripped from my mouth and hear it clatter to the floor.

  A cheer goes up, and coins are dropped onto the table. James scoops them up and deposits them into his pockets, and I take a shuddering breath to release my built-­up nerves.

  “What are you going to do about that?” I ask, gesturing to the knife, stuck in the wall above the stove.

  James grins. “Fix it. That’s my job now.”