#something a little lighter and shorter after our four day poison arc

[thesconesyard]

Something a little lighter after the last three or four chapters…

Where the West Begins

17. Trick Roping

“What are you doing out here?”

Jaylah glanced up as Pavel sat down next to her on the dark front porch.

“It’s cold out here,” he continued. “Not as cold as at home in Russia, but cold for you.”

“It’s fine,” Jaylah said softly.

“You’re not,” Pavel said, and set his hand on the arm of her chair. “Do you want to talk?”

A brush against her leg made Jaylah look down. Two eyes glowed up at her before Franklin jumped into her lap and began to purr. She stroked down his back and held him close.

“How can we ever trust people?” she asked quietly. “Why do they want to hurt us?”

“Oh.”

Jaylah buried her face against Franklin’s soft fur for a moment.

“Most people are fine,” Pavel said slowly. “Only two people have come here to try to hurt us. And we will be on more alert if someone comes again.”

“But Kati was so nice!” Jaylah burst out. “What if someone else comes who’s nicer but does more bad?”

“I know,” Pavel answered in a defeated tone. “It is rough now. I liked Mr. Harrison when he came. But we all came here once and Jim took a chance on us.”

He moved his hand to rest on Jaylah’s. She glanced down at it.

“You are sitting in the dark and cold. It will be better in the morning.”

“Do you think so?” Jaylah asked.

“Da.”

The front door opened and Franklin jumped from Jaylah’s lap. A small smile pulled her mouth as Leonard and Montgomery Scotty stepped onto the porch. The little cat twined himself around the doctor’s legs.

“Sonofa—! This damn cat’s gonna make me break my neck one of these days!” Leonard exclaimed.

“He loves you!” Jaylah said, her smile growing.

“Killing me ain’t love,” McCoy grumbled. “Why are you sitting out here in the cold? Get back inside and warm up.”

“Len.” Montgomery Scotty touched the doctor’s arm, and Jaylah saw his eyes dart to look at Pavel. Her own eyes widened at what Montgomery Scotty must be thinking.

“Well, don’t stay out here too long,” Leonard conceded, a twinkle beginning in his eye.

Jaylah was glad to be sitting in the dark as her face warmed in a blush. The two older men left the porch and called good night as they went. Little meows followed them as did grumbles from Leonard.

“Were you ready to go in?” Pavel’s voice sounded stiff as he asked. Jaylah strained to see his face, but he was more shadowed than she was. Was his face also coloring?

“I suppose we should,” Jaylah said slowly. She got to her feet. “Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” Pavel asked.

“For helping me feel better.”

The winter sun shone on Jaylah as she crossed from the barn to one of the empty pastures. Pavel had been right and she felt better about the world in the daylight. It was a gamble, knowing who to trust in life, and on the ranch she had hit a jackpot.

Part of her hoped no one else would ever come wanting to stay. She had lost her real family to cruel outlaws; the people on the ranch were her new family. Jaylah swallowed back a lump that threatened to become tears.

She had come outside for the fresh air. She had helped with the morning chores, but she wanted a break from work for a little while. She smiled as she set herself up by a fence post. James T had taught her roping for fun. She had practiced and practiced until she could hit the post nearly every time.

In the spring, when the baby calves began to run around, James T promised to show her how to rope moving targets. Jaylah couldn’t wait; she knew how good she was getting. After that she would try on horseback and the thought was exhilarating. She’d be able to ride and help move the cattle.

“What are you doing?” came Pavel’s voice from behind her.

Jaylah grinned, then spun around and sent her rope flying towards him.

“Hey!” Pavel exclaimed as the lasso settled around him. Quickly Jaylah pulled it tight around his arms before he could push it off. She began to laugh.

“Let me out!” Pavel protested.

Jaylah pulled the rope back towards herself and Pavel was forced to stumble forward. He was still talking but Jaylah didn’t understand the words.

“You better not be cursing at me,” she told him firmly.

“You bet I am!” he cried. “Let me go!”

“Not until you say sorry for cursing me!” She continued to pull the rope towards her. He stumbled to a stop a few feet from her.

“Fine. I am sorry for cursing,” he said, trying not to make a face. “Now you.”

“Me what?” Jaylah asked.

“Say sorry for catching me with the rope!” Pavel huffed. “And let me go!”

“Oh,” Jaylah said. “But I am not sorry!” she grinned.

“Jay—”

But before he could finish calling out her name again, she reached forward for the knot of the lasso and pulled him forward. Stretching up, she kissed his cheek. As she settled back on her heels, Pavel took one step back, face flushed crimson. Jaylah’s hands loosened the knot and lifted the rope over his head.

“You are free,” she smiled, and began coiling the rope on her arm again.

[hmhteen]

HMH Teen Teasers: THE SPECIAL ONES by Em Bailey

If you like your summer with a side of spooky, psychologically thrillers, then THE SPECIAL ONES is the book for you. It’s eerie story about a cult where ‘The Special Ones’ are believed to be reincarnated from a photograph and inhabit specific roles—and worshipped on the internet by followers they can never meet or cry out to for help. And of course, like any good psych thriller, there’s a big twist: the main character, who goes by the name of Esther, manages to escape...and that’s when the reader is introduced to the POV of her mysterious captor, and learn why this cult was founded in the first place. 

You can read the first two chapters of THE SPECIAL ONES below! 

CHAPTER ONE

I hear the main gate slam closed, and I just know from the sound of it that Harry has news. He must have banged the gate really hard, as it’s a fair distance from the farmhouse. He would do that, I’m sure, only if he was sending me a message. He must have finally found our new Lucille. Relief floods me. We’ve never gone this long without one before, not in the whole time I’ve been here. Finally, we’ll have some good news for him.

       I’ve drawn the heavy velvet curtains on the windows, but the heat creeps in around the edges anyway. Beneath my corset and layers of petticoats, my body sweats. A heavy wind rattles the windows. Bushfire weather—that’s how my father would’ve described it. Fire was something my parents worried about a lot when we lived in our old house, surrounded by trees.

       Fire. Family. My old home. Things I don’t let myself think about in here.

       It will take Harry at least five minutes to cover the expanse from the gate to the farmhouse—longer if Felicity spots him coming—but even so, I long to gather up my skirts and dash out of the parlor, outside, to the very edge of the front veranda, and wait for him to come into view. I love watching Harry walk. There’s something so reassuring about his unhurried lope.

       But I am the Esther, and Esther doesn’t dash. Her remembering book is very clear about that. Esther’s movements are dignified, considered—especially in the parlor. Esther would never let excitement or nervousness show, or waste time watching people walk.

       Sometimes being Esther feels like wearing a Halloween costume. One that doesn’t fit. One I can’t ever take off.

       With great effort I stay in my chair, listening to the daytime noises of the farmhouse and continuing with my work. On the little wooden table beside me are the socks for darning. Clothing repairs are normally the Lucille’s task, but the mending has piled up to the point where it can’t wait any longer. The sock I’m currently working on is one of Harry’s and it has his smell. Hay, earth, sun. As I push the needle through the fabric, I picture him striding across the farm toward me, coming closer and closer. Past the chickens and the area where the crops grow. Past the peach tree completely covered, the Felicity assures me, with promising green nubbles of fruit. Then, finally, between the two lemon-scented gum trees standing like border guards where the farm officially ends and the kitchen garden begins.

       When I know Harry must be close, I strain to hear his steps—and yes, there they are. Purposeful but not rushed, matching the steady rhythm of his breath.

       I am always edgy when Harry leaves the farm. When I first arrived here, he made it clear that the farm was the only safe place left in the world. Beyond the front gate were innumerable dangers. Security guards, police officers, doctors, teachers, parents, all lying in wait to force us back into lives that didn’t really belong to us. And even though I don’t believe this anymore—not really—I’m always relieved each time Harry returns safely.

       The handle of the front door rattles as it turns. There are footsteps in the hallway and finally the parlor door swings open. Harry fills the doorway as air and light flood the dark, stuffy space. He’s breathing deeply, and when I sneak a quick glance at him, I notice that his wheat-colored hair forms damp swirls against his forehead. It’s hardly surprising, considering the thick trousers and woolen jacket he’s wearing.

       I put down the sock and hurry (while trying to appear not to hurry) over to the sideboard, where I have a carafe of water waiting. My hand trembles as I pour a glass for Harry.

       Slow, considered movements, I remind myself. He is probably watching us right now, and he mustn’t suspect how tense I am.

       Outside the window, the generator whirs. I have questions, lots of them, but I keep them in check. Conversations between Harry and Esther must be as formal as a script. I hand the glass of water to Harry, careful not to let our fingers touch or our eyes meet. “Did you see Lucille today?”

       My voice is smooth and calm and perfectly Esther, but I’m sure Harry senses my nervousness. Last time, the Lucille was renewed in four days. This time it’s been almost three weeks. The followers—especially Lucille’s—keep asking how much longer it will be before they see her again. And it’s only a matter of time before he loses patience with us.

       Harry gulps down the water. “Yes,” he says when he’s finished. “I saw her.”

       Although it’s the answer I was expecting, I can barely keep from flinging my arms around Harry’s neck. I refill his glass to give myself time to regain composure. If any of the followers are watching, they need to see that we have everything under control—that Lucille has simply gone away and will come back soon, just like she has before.

       “How is she?” I ask.

       Two dents appear on Harry’s forehead, as though invisible fingers have pressed into his skin. The impressions are gone in an instant, but I know what they mean. When normal forms of communication are restricted, you learn to gather information in other ways. That slight frown means there are changes to the Lucille. Significant ones.

       “Her hair seems straighter, and a little lighter.” Like me, Harry knows better than to let his concerns show in his voice. “She’s obviously been spending some time in the sun.” Automatically, my eyes flick over to the photograph above the mantelpiece. Gilt-framed. Dominant. The image itself is a little blurry—as if it’s been enlarged—but it’s still clear enough. Four figures stand on the veranda of an old stone farmhouse. Three of them are girls in gloves and long white dresses.

       The smallest girl in the photo has thick braids and a cupid’s kiss of a face. Above her, written in old-fashioned cursive, is a name: Felicity.

       Near her is a male, and his beard makes him look older than he really is, which is probably no more than nineteen. He has one arm protectively around Felicity, his shoulders seeming so broad compared with her tiny child’s frame. Harry.

       To his left is a girl with dark curls and a curvy figure. Her chin is held up in a way that could be proud or defiant, or both. Lucille.

       The fourth figure, standing near the front door, is a tall, thin girl with her hands clasped. Her expression is smooth and unreadable. That’s me. Esther.

       Screwed into the wall beneath the photograph is a little brass plate. I can’t read the engraving from here, but I know what it says. The Special Ones.

       The followers often ask me the same question during evening chat:

What were you thinking about when that photograph was taken?

       At first the question frightened me so much I could barely type a reply. I was convinced they’d picked me as an impostor. That they already suspected the girl in the photo was a total stranger to me.

It’s hard to remember exactly.

       My hands would shake as I typed my reply.

It was so long ago.

       Not a great answer, I knew that. But no one ever challenged me about my response and gradually I became more confident. My answers improved.

When that photograph was taken, I was thinking about how I, as a Special One, can help to guide you, my loyal follower, through your times of need.

       Sometimes I’d even twist the question around, making it seem as though I were doing the testing.

What do you think I was thinking?

       “The sun is good for the soul, and its effects on Lucille will soon fade once she’s back here,” Harry says mildly now. “And her hair will right itself too.”

       I turn to find that he has moved from the doorway and is standing near me now, also looking at the photograph. I nod in reply. Of course, we both know that the Lucille’s hair won’t really right itself, but at least changing straight, fair hair into dark curls will be easy compared with other transformations I’ve had to make—like the time I had to turn a Felicity’s short, dark frizz into smooth, plaitable blondness. Besides, the greatest challenges with reintroducing a Special One have nothing to do with physical appearance.

       “Otherwise, she’s just as she was,” Harry adds, draining another glass of water.

I take this to mean that her height and weight are pretty accurate, which is good news. In Lucille’s remembering book, she is described as being taller than Felicity but shorter than Esther. She needs to be soft, but in no way plump.

       “And she has that same look in her eye.”

       There’s the slightest hint of a chuckle in Harry’s voice as he says this. The Lucilles always have a particular expression. In her book, this is described as “being filled with strong emotion,” but I have always secretly thought of it as sulky and troublesome. I suspect Harry feels the same. No matter what the look is, the Lucille needs to have it. That expression is what the followers will be expecting.

       Harry tips his glass toward me as I pour, the water forming a connecting arc between us.

       “Where did you find her?” I ask.

       “In a food court, eating a hot dog and chips,” says Harry.

       “Poison,” I say primly, but my mouth salivates. When was the last time I ate anything like that? Probably when Mum took me to the local shopping center, soon after we’d moved. She was hoping, I guess, that the outing would make me see the benefits of our new location. But what fun could I possibly have without the friends I’d left a thousand kilometers behind? Mum dragged me into shops, where I steadfastly refused to try on anything, and then I picked, stony-faced, at the lunch she bought me.

       “Poison,” agrees Harry, but I think I catch the tail end of a smile on his face before I hastily look down.

       Harry and Esther are not allowed to look directly at each other for more than three seconds at a time. What does Harry make of me in those brief glances? Does he just see Esther—her neat hair, her tightly corseted body, her controlled face? I used to hope that he would see more, or at least sense the things buried deep inside. But then I wondered if this was the wrong thing to wish for. Maybe Harry wouldn’t like the real me. Esther is capable, strong. She gets on with things without complaint. She doesn’t freak out at the sight of blood or cry when things don’t go her way. In other words, she’s nothing like I am inside.

       There’s a long silence until, with a start, I remember that there’s another question I’m expected to ask. The most important one, even though I already know the answer.

       “Does Lucille remember who she is?”

       In my peripheral vision, I see Harry shake his head. “I would say she’s completely forgotten everything.”

       “Awareness is sometimes slow to dawn,” I recite. “After all, it’s been a long time since Lucille’s old form left us. It’s not surprising that she’s forgotten a few things.”

       Harry nods. “The renewal process can leave the mind temporarily confused,” he says. Somehow Harry can make the stiffest of his mandatory phrases sound natural, even comforting. “Once she is safe at home with us, she will soon remember.”

       I suddenly hear Felicity’s voice, wafting in on the hot northerly wind. She’s out in the garden, singing a jumbled song. “Merrily we roll along, on a cold and frosty morning.” Most songs are forbidden in here, of course, and I am not even allowed to hum—but the Felicity is expected to sing nursery rhymes. For some reason, though, this particular Felicity always gets the words wrong. It makes me uneasy. It’s the sort of thing that could make him very easily upset.

       The song stops and a plaintive voice calls out. “Is Harry home yet?”

       Harry gives a low laugh and I smile too. The Felicitys are always so sweet. It’s hard not to get attached.

       “Yeah, I’m home, Flick,” Harry calls. “I’ll come right out.” He turns to me. I keep my eyes firmly on the ground, although the urge to look at him is always strongest when he’s about to leave. “I’ll take her down to the farm and get some ingredients for dinner. Today’s word was .º.º.º?”

       “Rejoice.”

       It worries me that Harry so often forgets the guiding word, as it is supposed to shape everything we do, think, and feel each day. In our remembering books it says that the guiding words form the basis of the teachings for our followers; that he watches us always, recording everything we do and say, and then the most inspirational—the most Special—moments of our lives are made into short films from which our followers can learn.

       When I received the guiding word this morning, there wasn’t much to rejoice about. But the news about the Lucille has changed things.

       “Rejoice—that means meat, if you ask me,” says Harry thoughtfully. “No chance of getting a rabbit at this time of day, though. How about a chicken?”

       I hesitate. We have only five chickens left and their eggs are very valuable. I should say no. Esther is supposed to restrain this kind of extravagance, and it’s really too hot for roasting anyway. But the idea of eating fresh meat rather than the boiled potatoes and green sauce I’d been planning is too tempting to resist. Plus, there’s the added thrill of saying yes to Harry.

       “I’ll make some mash to go with it,” I say, and look at Harry just long enough to see his eyes crinkling at the corners.

       “Perfect.” He strides off, whistling, and I feel a pang, knowing I’ll be alone in the farmhouse again.

       “Make sure she wears her hat,” I call after him. The Felicity in the photograph has very pale skin. “And don’t let her on that peach tree.”

       I don’t remember which Felicity broke the tree-climbing rule—the first, or the second?—but I’ll never forget her punishment. The image of that tiny figure, lashed to the peach tree for an entire day, crying out for water and forgiveness, still flashes into my mind sometimes.

       I doubt Harry will forget it either. He was the one who had to tie her to the tree in the first place.

       I hear Felicity squeal with joy as Harry appears outside and I picture her flinging herself on him, as though it’s been months since she saw him and not just a few hours. I’m glad she can do this with Harry. A child her age needs physical contact—hugs, kisses, tickles—but Esther is not allowed to touch the other Special Ones, and the Lucilles just don’t do that sort of thing.

       In the kitchen I catch sight of them through the window, Felicity holding Harry’s hand as they make their way past the gum trees. A little while later a squawking, flapping noise rises on the wind, gaining rapidly in tempo and intensity until it is suddenly cut short.

       Harry’s news has filled me with optimism. There is still a lot to do, but I feel strong and capable, energized despite the heat. Soon there will be four Special Ones back here again. This means another person to share the work, to speak with the followers, and to keep him happy.

       Part of me remains tense, though, because what lies ahead is daunting. Planning for a kidnapping is never easy, even when you’ve done it as many times as I have.

CHAPTER TWO

In our remembering books, it’s called “collection.” It’s described in a way that makes the whole process sound very straightforward—as if all we’re doing is bringing someone back to where they belong. What you’d do with anything that’s gone missing and has turned up in the wrong place. Like a puppy that’s wandered into a neighbor’s yard, for instance. Or an umbrella left on a train.

       As I go about my afternoon chores, I start a mental list of what needs to be done. The most pressing thing is to start preparing Felicity for what to expect. She has been with us for only six months—in her “present form”—and hasn’t gone through a collection before, other than her own and that’s completely different. It’s vital that everyone reacts the correct way when a Special One rejoins the group.

       I’m peeling potatoes at the kitchen table when Harry and Felicity return late in the afternoon. Felicity proudly carries the wicker basket filled with freshly harvested items from the kitchen garden: radishes, baby carrots, silverbeet. The scent of outside clings to them.

       Harry triumphantly holds up the headless chicken. “Dinner!” Blood drips onto the stone floor.

       “It’s Martha,” Felicity informs me. “She hardly laid any eggs, so it’s fair, really.”

       “Thank you.” I take the carcass and use some string Harry gives me to hang it up over a pan to let it drain. We had chickens in the backyard of our old house in the country, but they were pets. The idea of eating them would’ve horrified me. Now I find myself thinking of all the ways I can use this small chicken. The feathers can plump up our pillows. The fat can be used for cooking. The bones will be boiled to make stock for soup, and once they’re removed and dried, I’ll grind them into a powder for my medicines. Nothing is wasted here.

       Our followers will enjoy this, no doubt, if the scene makes it into one of the teaching films. Your life seems so authentic, so sustainable and honest, the followers write to me. I never correct them, of course.

       Martha’s blood splashes rhythmically into the pan. Funny to think that I used to be fussy about my food. No gristle, no fat, nothing that looked too much like the creature it came from. One lean winter in here and all that changed. Now I eat everything. Eels from the dam, frogs, grubs. Once I even fried up a snake that Harry killed on the veranda steps. It’s surprising how anything can taste good if you’re hungry enough.

       Outside the window, the leaves of the eucalyptuses shimmer silver-white in the late afternoon sun. Felicity slides into one of the heavy wooden chairs that Harry made the first year I was here and watches as I sort through the vegetables. The lettuces are caterpillar-holed but the radishes are red and perfect. Radishes always grow well here for some reason.

       “Any news?” Felicity asks me. She knows that Harry has been searching for the Lucille, but she isn’t allowed to speak to him about it. Questions of this nature must be directed to Esther alone.

       I take a breath and plaster on a smile, making sure I’m turned toward the main camera on the wall. “Yes. Good news!”

       Felicity sits up straight. “Lucille’s coming back?”

       “Yes. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

       “I’m glad. Really, really glad,” says Felicity, wrapping herself in her arms.

       The Felicitys and the Lucilles are generally not very close—the age gap is too big for them to be friends, and the Lucilles are not exactly the motherly type—but I understand why Felicity is pleased. It feels unbalanced here when one of us is missing. Like a table minus a leg.

       Now my smile is genuine. “Me too.”

       I send Felicity to fill a bucket with water from the well. “It’s a bit murky,” she says apologetically when she brings the pail into the kitchen. She’s right—the water is muddy, a sign the well’s getting low. It’s concerning, but now is not the time to dwell on this particular issue.

       I plunge the vegetables into the water and begin to wash them. “Now, Felicity,” I say. “You know that Lucille may seem a little confused when she first returns.”

       “Will she?” says Felicity. “Why?”

       A small black beetle loses its grip on a leaf and begins swimming in desperate circles. I fish it out and deposit it onto the windowsill. It’s nice to be able to save a life once in a while.

       Meanwhile, Harry picks up his cue. “Remember the last time Lucille was renewed, Esther?” he says. “She didn’t remember any of our names when she came back—even her own!” He shakes his head as if this were simply a funny anecdote.

       Felicity’s face scrunches. “I don’t remember Lucille going away before. Do you mean before I got here?”

       Her mistake makes me freeze, but Felicity doesn’t realize she’s slipped up. Even worse, I see another question forming on her lips. Harry lunges at her and she screams as he scoops her up and tickles her with a furious intensity, making her small body squirm.

       “Oh, Flick, you’re such a joker!” Harry says loudly. “Pretending you don’t remember the last time Lucille was renewed. And pretending that you haven’t always been here!”

       Felicity wriggles away from Harry and gives him a reproachful look. “That’s more ouchy than tickly, Harry.”

       But she doesn’t say anything more. Either she’s forgotten the topic or she’s remembered that before is a subject she should avoid.

       When the vegetables are clean, I reward Felicity with the biggest and reddest of the radishes and then begin to slice. My favorite knife is the one Harry gave me last year, on the first anniversary of my arrival, though of course we couldn’t tell followers it was my first anniversary—they think I have always been here, just like Felicity. Harry carved the handle himself, so touching the knife is almost like touching him.

       I glance at Felicity to find her watching me again, the radish still in her hand. She gives me a smile, the same one she uses when we’re being verified. The sort you put on when you know someone is watching you. I give her the same smile back.

       I wish I could reach over and stroke her hair, reassure her that everything will be fine. But I can’t, and instead I find myself noticing the things about her that need attention. There’s a rip at the hem of her pinafore, and her dark roots are starting to show again. My insides pinch. More things to do. “We all feel a little out of sorts without our Lucille,” I say, speaking clearly so the mikes can pick up every word. “That’s why it’s such good news that she’ll return soon.”

       Felicity makes tiny mouselike marks in the white flesh of the radish. “When will she be here?” she asks.

       “Tomorrow,” says Harry, as if there’s no possibility of anything going wrong. Maybe it’s genuinely how he feels. I wish I felt that confident.

       “I’m going to make up a song for her,” Felicity announces. “A welcome-home song.”

       “What a lovely idea! That will make her feel glad to be back,” I say, then take the opportunity to sneak in another little warning. “And before we know it—maybe in just a week or two—Lucille will be back to her old self again.”

       For a second I catch Harry’s eyes, and I’m pretty sure I see in them the same thing I’m thinking.

       Let’s hope so. For everyone’s sake.

                                                              ***

If you’ve got chills, then this read will be perfect for those hot summer days! THE SPECIAL ONES publishes 7/18! Pre-Order by clicking the links below.

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