Diamonds at Dusk

By Catalina Claussen

It's hard to miss Cassie. She's the one in the cowgirl boots who up until this morning wasn't interested in boys. But on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, something inside her knocks loose. His name is Chad Holbrook. He's a prep school boy from Albuquerque and Cassie's "fair weather" friend. He promises to stay for Cassie's sixteenth birthday. Just when Cassie thinks she can count on it, Chad breaks his promise. But he leaves behind a treasure hunt that convinces her Chad may be sweet on her, too. Cassie becomes jealous when she discovers her best friend Ahzi knows all about the treasure hunt. To make things worse, Cassie meets Maverick, a charming misfit, who threatens to steal her heart and the gold Grandpa has kept quiet about all these years. Maverick has a dark secret that draws Cassie and Ahzi into the perilous world of gold mining and drug dealing. Cassie must risk trusting Maverick if she and her friends are to get out alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Progressive Rising Phoenix Press, LLC
• Release date: Mar 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781944277451

Catalina Claussen

Catalina Claussen is an award-winning young adult novelist, poet, and short story author who carries on a love affair with the land, language, and people of southwest New Mexico. She lives with her dog Bandit and raises a prolific organic garden on a ranch in the Mimbres Valley. Her two young adult novels Diamonds at Dusk (2016) and Diamonds at Dawn (2018), have been recognized by the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards, The Wishing Shelf Book Awards in the United Kingdom, and the New Apple Book Awards for Excellence in Independent Publishing. Last year she released the young adult novel Holding on to Hope and her debut short story collection Being Home: A Southwestern Almanac. Being Home, Too is the sequel to her debut short story collection, Being Home: A Southwestern Journey. To listen to the podcasts of the stories included in this book, go to the author's website at catalinaclaussenbooks.wordpress.com.

Book preview

Diamonds at Dusk

by

Catalina Claussen

Copyright © 2016 Catalina Claussen. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, from the author.

Book & Cover Design by Kalpart.

Visit www.kalpart.com

Published by Progressive Rising Phoenix Press.

www.progressiverisingphoenix.com

Printed in the U.S.A.

Book Editor: Dr. Diana Edwards

ISBN: 978-1-944277-45-1

Acknowledgments

Building a novel takes a community. Special thanks to my editor, Diana Edwards, who has believed in and supported this project from early on and who has helped me polish the piece line by line, idea by idea. To my children, Ajalaa and Banyan Claussen, for getting me out to adventure wherever we are. To Brenden Claussen whose deep connection with the land permeates his every move, with brilliant gardening and reverent harvest of deer in the winter season.

Special thanks to the wonderful writing community in southern New Mexico, nurturing me and my school community with enriching writing workshops. We have been privileged with workshops from Philip Connors, Sharman Russell, Denise Chavez, Derek Markham, Damien Davies, Doug Fine, Jimmy Santiago Baca, Dr. Emma Bailey, and Mary Sojourner.

I deeply appreciate the master writers who have taken time to read and provide thoughtful blurbs and reviews for the book including Dr. Jon Stott, Sharman Russell, and Chris Lemme.

Thank you so much to Chris Lemme, editor of the Silver City Quarterly Review for your excitement about the project and acknowledgement of the work in the Winter 2016 issue.

Last, but most certainly not least, I would like to recognize my daughter's best friend, Michelle Narvaez, whose early praise of the novel spurred me to push for its publication. And who along with Zach Donnelly's expertise in technology spent hours in the school computer lab on a Saturday working on a cover. My daughter's gorgeous photos made the design process a lovely experience for all. Aji, I thank you for your dedication to your art and inspiring me to move forward with mine.

Thank you Amanda Thrasher, Publisher, and Anne Dunigan, Acquisition Editor, at Progressive Rising Phoenix Press for being willing to take a chance. You inspire me!

Chapter 1

Race you to the end of the field, I challenge, mounting Cinnamon, my fifteen-year old Arabian mare. Grandpa Norm got her for me when I was born. Grandma Alice scolded him for it, the latest of his Cracker Jack ideas. Who buys a horse for a newborn?

You’re on, Chad grins, swinging his leg over Beau, his dappled gray Appaloosa.

I dig my heels into Cinnamon’s groomed sides. Her loose mane floats in the wind along with my unbound, sun-streaked hair. I lean forward. The wind howls in my ears as Cinnamon leaves Chad and Beau behind in our dusty tracks. The edge of the road falls away to the creek rushing by in the opposite direction. The cottonwood trees chatter with the breeze kicked up by the looming afternoon thundershower. The summer rains have grooved the road with dozens of dry rivulets that gouge at the contour. I watch ahead to protect Cinnamon’s hooves at this breakneck speed.

Oh come on, you can do better than that, I tease Chad, turning to look over my other shoulder. He, too, is hunkered down with the full intent to overtake us. But Beau’s not as young and spry as he used to be and Chad’s out of practice. We’ve been riding like this side by side for ten summers now. Chadwick Dean Holbrook III is the grandson of a millionaire and a junior at Sandia Prep. He always has to go back to the city in the fall.

Red cliff faces, dotted with junipers and the odd prickly pear cactus, watch us pass. Waist-high grasses skirt the base of the cliffs, swaying in the pre-storm gusts.

The road widens into a field of wild sunflowers, grown head and shoulders above the fence posts. Skirting the edge of the field, the black and yellow flower heads bob in our wake. Suddenly, the ground breaks into the arroyo. I pull up hard on Cinnamon’s reins. Wheeling around, I gloat in our victory.

You still can’t catch me, I laugh at Chad, blazing to a dusty finish.

I did once, he says, smiling at the memory.

That doesn’t count, I protest with a hot mix of competitiveness, fury, and laughter. I’ve warned girls about you since then--fancy prep school boys. You have way too much time on your hands if you can figure out how to undo a girl's bra while saddled up.

The look on your face was priceless, he laughs, showing his perfect white teeth and tossing his dirty blond waves. His green eyes glitter. He looks a little too long at me. I look back--bold and unflinching. From just under his rolled short sleeve, I trace the curve of his bronzed bicep where it meets his shoulder muscle. The open collar of his western shirt reveals a trickle of sweat that glides from his cheek, down his neck, and into that little hollow above his collarbone. The opalescent snaps catch the sun, teasing at what’s inside. A shimmer of attraction takes hold. I look away.

Boy has he changed! I’ve taken pride in how Cinnamon’s muscles are defined and well formed under her silky coat, showing off years of teamwork between us. But, until now, I’ve never really appreciated it on a guy. And I never thought I would be appreciating it this much on Chad.

Hey, Cassie . . . I, he starts softly. The rush of hooves pounding the road behind us interrupts him. Ahzi reins Yas up short. Yas is Beau’s white-lightning foal that has grown into a stallion only Ahzi can control. Ahzi’s waist-length, raven-black hair settles seductively, framing her dark brown eyes, raised cheekbones, and full lips.

Where’d you come from? I ask her.

Up on the ridge, she breathes. Then she turns to Chad with a victorious smile. Still can’t beat her, can you? she teases. When are you going to learn you can’t beat us, right Cassie? She shoots me with her finger, our old signal for 'girls rule, boys drool.' I shoot her back and laugh.

Chad sloughs off the slight, a little too easily this time. He’s caught up in Ahzi’s sparkling eyes and irresistible charm. Ten years of playing hide-and-go-seek, tag, capture the flag, buried pirate treasure, and our personal favorite, wild princess warriors save the wounded knight from the dragon’s lair, has acquainted him with our charms. But, today, something’s different. Chad looks at her and glows. A pang of jealousy races through me. I wish it would stop.

Chad plays back. There’s nothing wrong with trying. I mean you girls have to have someone to sharpen your blades on.

Shut up, we say and shoot him with our ‘guns.’

That’s just it. We’ve always had each other’s back. Rural New Mexico is lonely country. Grandpa Norm’s ranch is different from most. He parceled it out thirty years ago after an angry bull pulverized his pelvis. Most of the neighbors are what Grandpa calls fair-weather friends since we tend to see them in summer while on vacation.

Ahzi Toadlena has been there for me always. Her family lives here year-round and her grandpa or Sicheii has been friends with my grandpa since the beginning of time. Yeah, we’ve fought over whose kachina doll belongs to whom, who gets to play Barbie, who gets to play Ken, and who gets to read the new issue of Seventeen, Sicheii’s latest cruel test of our ability to share.

But we never fight over anything that cuts deep or lasts long enough to tear us apart for more than a day. So, I don’t want to start now. I don’t want to be attracted to Chad. And I don’t want to be jealous of her.

The clouds rip open with a blast of thunder, startling Cinnamon. She’s a sweet, steady girl, but Arabians tend to be high-strung and jumpy in rainstorms. Sheets of rain fall thick and heavy driving us all apart. Cinnamon’s patience runs out.

See you guys, I say. I dig my heels into her sides and hunch over. Rain pummels me hard and fast. Drops glance off Cinnamon as she charges for the stable.

Chapter 2

Cassie, Grandpa Norm calls out from his bedroom as soon as he hears the screen door slam. My shirt, hair, and pants are plastered to my skin. I wriggle out of my mud-caked riding boots.

I’ll be there in a minute, Grandpa. I’m soaked, I call back.

Grandma Alice turns from peeling fresh roasted green chili, to assess my condition, You better get changed.

Cassie! Grandpa bellows again.

Hold your horses, Norm. She’s gotta get dry, Grandma answers.

Grandpa mumbles something loud enough for us to hear, but not loud enough to argue. He knows you don’t cross Grandma. I hurry into my room to change.

If Grandma wasn’t there for me, I’d be sunk. I’ve been living with them since day one. Mom was a mess when she had me. Methamphetamines, even way out here, are too easy to find and way too easy to get addicted to. Daddy loved iron horses and went to every motorcycle bar in the state. One night he met Mom and she convinced him to try a little ice. He never turned back. One time and he was hooked. And somewhere in that mess, I was conceived. Mom did manage to keep clean a few months at a time when she was pregnant with me--but Daddy never. His addiction was all day, everyday.

After I was born, Grandma took me home. I’ve been here ever since. It’ll be sixteen years next week.

When I was a baby, Grandma worried over me, taking me to doctors to make sure I hadn’t suffered brain damage. She says babies who have been exposed to meth cry, shake uncontrollably, and then have problems learning and bonding with others. By some miracle, I escaped all that. She says she got the best end of the deal with a big, fat, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked baby girl. And, she got to name me herself, Cascade Rose Jennings, after the waterfall upstream and her favorite wildflower. I know it was tough on her. She took care of Grandpa and me--and still does.

So what’s up, Grandpa, I joke from his doorway.

He’s got his eyes closed. He’s not sleeping. He’s just meditating, or so he says. Sometimes his meditations are accompanied by a herd of wild horses rattling his skull, and to me that’s just plain sleeping.

He pats the top of his summer quilt sewn from a hundred women’s dresses into a Texas star pattern that takes your breath away. We’ve spent hours this way, me perched on the edge of his bed, since he can’t roam the woods on horseback like he’d rather do. He tells wandering stories instead, while I trace the silky, velvety textures of the fabrics in each star and millions of shades of purple, red, and orange that come together as one.

Well, Cassie, next week you’ll be sixteen, he starts, taking a deep breath and exhaling. Sometimes I get impatient ‘cause it takes him forever to get his point across. But the way he says things makes them sound important, like a chapter in our unwritten family history book, or at least that’s how I imagine it. You’re fixin’ to be a young lady and there’s some things that you ought to know.

Seems like every adult I talk to lately starts off like this. It’s like they think as soon as I turn sixteen a switch is gonna flip in my head and I’ll go after the first boy I see. I mean maybe there’s some truth to that judging how I was ogling Chad earlier, but still. . . . It’s not like my brain’s gonna fall out and I won’t be able to think for myself.

Don’t worry Grandpa, they covered it all in sex ed at school, I say, running my index finger through my favorite piece of deep, thick red velvet to avoid making eye contact. I look up at him. He’s been quiet for too long.

Well, that must be some sex ed class if they can cover the history of the ranch and your stake in its future, he says, breaking into a chuckle.

Sorry, Grandpa. It’s just . . . like everyone . . . never mind. I feel like telling them all to get a grip. Who would I go out with anyway? At my school there’s like sixty kids total--kindergarten through twelfth grade. And there’s always been a shortage of boys for some unknown reason that’s been mulled over in Grandma’s quilting circle for years.

There are a grand total of three boys my age. Irwin is this pale-faced freckly boy who wipes his sweaty palms on his khakis every time a girl gets near him. And he’s been