Sandstone Cactus

By Tami Brumbaugh

A Navajo girl named Michelle works in her uncle's stable for over a year in order to earn a horse of her own. Her alcoholic father loses their home and land through gambling. The family is forced to move into government housing. Michelle's father must sell the filly. Michelle is devastated and avoids anyone associated with her loss, especially her father. Her grandmother tells her it is fine to mourn her loss, but she needs to choose whether to persevere and grow or withdraw and wither.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tami Brumbaugh
• Release date: Nov 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465768414

Tami Brumbaugh

Tami Brumbaugh is a teacher and freelance writer. Although born in Colorado, she now lives with her husband and two daughters (and numerous pets) in Olathe, Kansas. She is passionate about writing uplifting, character-building stories for children and teens. She also thrives on writing stories about nonprofit organizations dedicated to helping people in need around the world. Several of these books were published by Beacon Hill Press and Rock Hill Press. Her short stories have been published by Pockets, On the Line, Celebrate, Shine Brightly, Partners, and Discoveries. Please continue to check Smashwords.com for her growing list of ebooks.

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Sandstone Cactus

Tami Brumbaugh

Published by Crescendo Books

at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Tami Brumbaugh

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Grandmother's Hogan

Chapter 2: Like Old Times

Chapter 3: Roll of the Dice

Chapter 4: Adaptation

Chapter 5: Government Housing

Chapter 6: To Have and Have Not

Chapter 7: The Road to Shiprock

Chapter 8: Sandstone

Bibliography

CHAPTER 1: GRANDMOTHER’S HOGAN

A velvety muzzle, still damp with milk, nipped the brush in my hand.

Hey now, I scolded. You’re making it too hard for me to brush your mom.

I gently pushed the filly’s muzzle aside, only to have her slide her small brown and white-splotched body in front of me.

You win, I said, swatting flies from my face. I guess that's good enough for today.

I returned the brush to the shelf and patted the filly’s silky coat. She skittered in a full circle around her mother and me, tossing her head in play. I untied the rope from the rusty hook on the stable wall and led the mare into the dry sunshine. The filly followed close beside her mother. When they were clear of the stable, I removed the lead rope from the mare’s halter. The pinto pair galloped across the sandy, brush-speckled field, leaving a cloud of dust behind them. The filly kicked her hind hooves in the air as she ran.

I leaned against the rough, wooden fence, zipped up my faded blue jacket, and thought about the day when that little filly would be racing across my field. I could hardly wait. A year of cleaning my uncle’s stalls and grooming his horses was about to pay off. The agreement was that the foal would be mine once it was weaned. The filly was now over seven months old and could nibble the newly emerging tufts of grass.

That little filly has lots of spirit, said Uncle Roy, as he came up behind me. If only I could borrow some of that energy for my next trip.

Are you kidding? I asked. I brushed my long black hair out of my face. You have more energy than anyone I know. I get tired just watching you during your events.

Be glad you only get tired. I’m still sore from that last steer I wrestled. He was a brute. My bruises have bruises. He pulled up his sleeve. Green, purple and blue all blended together across his forearm.

Why don’t you give up steer-wrestling, and stick to your calf-roping? That seems safer, I suggested.

I suppose. But I’d miss the thrill of wrestling. Besides, I’ve got my reputation to protect, he said, smiling.

Everyone already knows you’re one of the best in the rodeo circuit. Even my friends off the reservation have heard of you.

Hmm, Uncle Roy grunted. He kicked a clump of dirt with his boot.

Where are you headed this time?" I asked.

Gallup. I already have Red Rock loaded in the trailer. Would you like a ride home?

I nodded in agreement, even though I only lived a few miles away. I would use any excuse to be with my uncle. He reminded me of how my dad used to be.

Thudding sounds came from the trailer chained behind the white pickup truck. I peeked through the air vents. Red Rock was stomping the floor. He was a fine-looking quarter horse stallion. I loved watching him, especially when he was chasing a calf in the rodeo. He had muscular shoulders and massive hind legs that helped him follow Uncle Roy’s every command and keep up with even the fastest calves. His chestnut coat had a red tint and glistened with repeated grooming.

Red Rock’s broad head poked out of the vent. He snorted in my face. Uncle Roy laughed and scratched him behind his alert ears. I wiped my face in disgust, but smiled. The two of them made a great team. Soon my filly and I would have the chance to bond like that.

Uncle Roy and I climbed into the truck and bounced across the gravel roads, dust swirling all around us. He dropped me off in front of my home—Grandmother’s old hogan. I still had my own chores to do.

Hey, Michelle! Take extra good care of the horses while I’m gone, will you? Uncle Roy asked.

Of course. Good luck at the rodeo! I yelled over my shoulder.

He waved and drove away.

Grandmother was at the side of the hogan, sitting on the ground on an old sheepskin. She was intently weaving another rug on her loom. The weaving loom was even taller than I was. I could make simple patterns on the loom, but Grandmother made some of the most detailed rugs and blankets in New Mexico. Each creation was different from the others. I loved the pattern she was making now. Many tiny brown and white diamonds formed together to make a large diamond, which completed yet another pattern in reds and yellows. Grandmother’s rugs always fetched a good price at the Crownpoint rug auction.

"Ya’at’eeh," I said in greeting. I did not know much Navajo, but I knew my grandmother enjoyed hearing what little I could say.

"Ya’at’eeh, she said in return. When you are done with the sheep, I will need you to card some more wool for me. It won’t be long until I have used all that I have."

Yes, Grandmother, I replied as I headed to the sheep shed. The shed was really just an old ramada, or shade house. Father built it long ago as