Chapter 2

Chapter 2

INDYA

Age Eight

“Crazy Mountain Cattle Resort.” I read from the brochure on the cabin’s dining room table. “That’s a cool name, huh, Daddy?”

He hummed from where he was lying on the couch. His eyes were closed, his head resting against two brown throw pillows.

“Indya, your dad is going to rest until dinner.” Mom took the brochure from my hands and tucked a lock of curly hair behind my ear. “Why don’t you go outside and explore? I saw a swing set over by the lodge.”

“I don’t want to go outside.” I sighed. “Do I have to?”

“No. You can either go outside or go to your room and read.”

“Mom,” I moaned. “The books I brought are boring.”

“Then go outside.”

I almost rolled my eyes. Almost. But Mom got mad when I rolled my eyes. “Are there other kids here?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.”

By going outside.

“Fine.” I trudged toward the door.

“Indya,” Dad called, and when I turned, he had a finger pressed to his cheek.

I ran to the couch and gave him a smooch.

“Thanks, pumpkin.” He cracked his eyes. “Just let me take a quick nap; then we’ll go to the campfire dinner. Grown-ups get steak, but kids get hot dogs. Maybe you can sneak one for me.”

“Okay.” I smiled, studying his face for a moment.

He looked the same as normal. He was still the tallest dad at my school. He was still the strongest person I knew. But he was tired a lot lately. He took naps all the time.

Mom was always shuffling me to my room so he could rest. And when they thought I wasn’t listening, I heard them say cancer.

I knew about cancer.

Mrs. Davy was supposed to be my teacher in first grade, but she was gone that whole year for cancer. Sometimes our principal would come to our classroom and show us pictures. Mrs. Davy didn’t have hair anymore.

Was Dad going to lose his hair?

Mom said I was her mini except for my hair. It was the same as Dad’s. Curly and blond and wild. Well, mine was wild. I had a lot of hair.

I hoped Daddy didn’t lose his.

“Out you go, honey,” Mom said.

I huffed and climbed off the couch, then shuffled to the door.

“I love you,” Dad said.

“I love you too.” I waved at Mom, then went outside and hopped down the cabin’s porch stairs.

We were in the Beartooth Chalet. It was the biggest cabin at the resort. That’s what the lady had said when we’d checked in today. There were four bedrooms and a loft.

I had picked the loft to sleep in even though it had the smallest bed.

We had a kitchen that Mom said we weren’t going to use because she didn’t go on vacations to cook.

Sometimes she was really confusing, because she didn’t cook at home either. Our chef made our meals. Did she even know how to cook?

I skipped along the stone path that led from our cabin to the lodge, twirling as a yellow butterfly flittered past me. I loved butterflies. We had them in our garden at home. Mom had asked the gardener to plant flowers for butterflies and ladybugs.

Were the butterflies in Montana the same butterflies we had in Texas? Could a butterfly go that far? How long would it even take?

I was spinning, watching the butterfly, when the toe of my shoe caught on a stone. I yelped and crashed to my hands and knees.

“Ouch.” I shoved up to my feet, then checked my hands first. My palms were scratched—but no blood.

Until I looked at my knee. Red pooled from a scrape, and a tiny flap of skin was hanging loose.

Owie, owie, owie. I sucked in a sharp breath, waiting for the sting to pass. If I went inside, Mom would pour that fizzy stuff—hydro something—on it that stung ten times worse than the actual cut.

“Owie.” I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” A boy came jogging over from the lodge.

“Yeah.” I nodded.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Not that bad.

“Need a Band-Aid?” he asked.

I shook my head. “My mom has a lot. She says I’m clumsy.”

“Oh.” He looked me up and down, his eyes narrowing. “Are you going to cry?”

Not while he was watching me. I jutted up my chin. “No.”

“Girls cry. Especially when they get hurt.”

“Not me.” Sometimes I cried. But the sting was already fading, and he seemed like a boy who wouldn’t play with me if he thought I was a crybaby.

“Cool.” He nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Indya.”

“India?” He gave me a funny look. “Like the country?”

“Kinda. I-n-d-y-a. It’s spelled with a y. What’s your name?”

“West.”

That was a cool name. Not as cool as mine, but pretty cool. “I’ve never heard of the name West before.”

“I’ve never heard of Indya before. Where are you from?”

“Texas. Where are you from?”

“I live here.”

“Like on this ranch?”

“Yep. With my dad and mom and baby brother and grandpa and grandma.”

This seemed like a fun place to live. “How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“I’m eight. Want to play on the swing set with me?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” My shoulders sagged.

“Want to see my horse?”

“Okay.” I nodded wildly and chased after West to the barn, the scrape on my knee forgotten.

His horse’s name was Chief. We climbed over a fence and walked out to him in a field. West had a handful of grain in his pocket, and Chief ate it from his palm.

Mom got mad when she couldn’t find me on the swing set and made me promise to tell her before I went anywhere with West again. Before dinner, she poured that fizzy stuff on my knee, even though the bleeding had stopped. The medicine made it hurt way worse than it had in the first place.

Dad helped me cook my hot dog at the big campfire they built that night. And he took a lot of naps.

Mom always made me go outside, which was okay. Sometimes I had to play on the swing set by myself. But other times, West was there, and he’d let me go with him to pet his horse.

Montana was a pretty fun place to go on vacation.