Wild Horses On The Salt

8

8A few days later, Becca cradled a mug of strong, hot coffee in her hands as she rocked in a padded, free-standing swing. The contrivance was mounted on thick railroad ties and situated on an oval of grass ringed by river rocks. The metal chain squeaked, though the sound was not unpleasant, especially since the quiet of this place, to a woman raised in New Jersey, was a bit unsettling.

While the air was cold, the sun shone brightly, and though it was winter, flowering trees spread their canopies over parts of the yard—snowy blooms that reminded Becca that anything white back home this time of year was actual snow. But while the trees were lovely, it was the mountains that made Becca hold her breath. The jagged peaks of the Goldfield Mountains cut the sky on the other side of the Lower Salt River, less than a mile away. A Sonoran Desert forest of towering saguaros and green-skinned paloverde provided the base from which the peaks sprang straight into the blue morning sky. A large bird circled above land that once lured miners with the promise of fortune, but which today attracted mostly hikers and horseback riders, and which was protected as part of the Tonto National Forest.

Becca inhaled the fragrant steam that wafted from the coffee—strong and sweet thanks to a large dollop of honey. Gaby had said something about the honey being local, but Becca had a hard time paying attention and couldn't remember the rest of the conversation.

When had this happened? This habit of letting her mind drift. Shutting herself off. Becca closed her eyes. She hadn't always been the woman she was now. Scattered bits of memory flashed. Her high-school valedictorian speech, proud parents puffed up with pride. An Ivy League college degree and law school. But those framed certificates now rested in a cardboard box in a shed at Ruthie's place; the accomplishments that had once meant so much had, over time, diminished in importance.

The red-tailed hawk disappeared into thick vegetation but rose quickly, some small mammal stilled in its beak. Becca watched the bird glide, languidly moving across the dark volcanic mountains before the creature vanished into the trees.

“Can I top you off?”

Becca jolted, spilling coffee on her pant leg.

Gaby frowned. “Sorry, hon. Didn't mean to sneak up on you. I'm on my way over to the forge. It's just down around the last cabin and through the mesquite stand.” She pointed toward the river.

Becca wiped at her jeans. “It's OK! Really! Not a problem!”

Gaby saw fear in the woman's eyes, then Becca glanced at the ground. A few moments of silence beat away, then Gaby held up a stainless-steel pot. “Coffee?”

Becca pursed her lips and held out her cup. “Sure. Thanks.”

Becca watched as Gaby walked the dirt path that stretched toward the river. The woman passed several cabins, which appeared identical to the one in which Becca was staying. Each of the small buildings had porches on which bent-twig rockers sat motionless. A line of potted red geraniums rested near the stairs of each cabin—their lush ball-shaped blooms lolling over dark green leaves—another reminder that winter in Arizona was nothing like the frigid dark season she'd grown up with in the east.

After chugging the last gulp of coffee, Becca rose and considered her options. She stared at the mountains and sucked in a breath. “What options, Becca?” She shook her head. The warm bed with soft covers beckoned like a lover. She longed to pull the blankets over her head, close her eyes, and snuggle into its soft embrace. She stared at the cabin door and took several steps in that direction. But then she stopped. Sleep had not solved her problems before and would probably not now.

Then she remembered that Gaby had said something about going to a forge. What had she said? Just beyond the last of the cabins? A short walk through some mesquite trees?

At that moment, a dog barked. Sitting on the dirt lane was a mixed-breed cattle dog. The animal barked again and ran toward Becca. The blue-eyed beast with mottled fur painted brown, black, and white, wagged a stubby tail. A pink tongue flopped from the side of its mouth, which made the dog appear to be smiling. It yipped again and trotted the path to the forge as if reading her mind.