Year Of The Miracle

By VJ Moore

Two thousand miles of barren, desert terrain mark the international border between the United States and Mexico. Known as The Borderlands, this stretch of harsh, unforgiving landscape is home to a diverse population, both human and animal. Dotted along both sides of the border you’ll find large cities, small cities and hundreds of small towns and villages where the people share elements of language, food, customs, music and culture. Today I want to welcome you to one of those small towns, to Copper Creek, where you’ll live alongside a few of its citizens as they struggle to survive a year marked by hardship and ultimately, hard won victories. Although you may feel that you know these characters, or someone very much like them, I want to assure you that Copper Creek and its inhabitants are purely a product of the author’s imagination. It is my hope that you will enjoy your visit and perhaps, someday, you will drop in again.
VJ Moore / Author / Year of The Miracle / “El Año Del Milagro”

• Language: English
• Publisher: VJ Moore
• Release date: Oct 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463462744

VJ Moore

Hello! Thanks for visiting my Smashwords page. I'm excited to be writing and publishing my Copper Creek series about small town life in the Southwest, my home territory. Cowboys, horses, Harley motor cycles, food that has that extra chile kick, old dogs and wily cats, these are only a few of my favorite things about the West. Its colorful history prevails into the present and I am happy to be presenting Book One of my series, which is titled "Year Of The Miracle", or, in Spanish," El Año Del Milagro"

Book preview

Year Of The Miracle

"El Año Del Milagro"

By VJ Moore

Copyright 2018 VJ Moore

Smashwords Edition

Chapter One

Julia lit a fire in the woodstove and covered the tiny flame with her hands as it struggled, leaping and jumping madly before finally catching on and igniting the blaze which would spread its warmth throughout her home. She took a stolen moment to breath in the woodsy fragrance of juniper and pine, a sweet fragrance on a bitter winter morning. The bone warming heat of the wood fire was a welcoming comfort. The stove took up more than its share of kitchen space, had an insatiable appetite for wood and spewed forth mounds of ashes which had to be cleared out of the fire box and dumped outside by the bucketful. Despite its drawbacks, the antique cast iron monster stayed rooted in its corner, keeping at bay Julia’s long held plan to install an electric stove. Wood to fuel the stove was plentiful and in these times the economy of heating the farmhouse with the kitchen woodstove could not be overlooked.

Along the wall opposite the stove, a polished vinyl countertop flanked an oversize stainless steel sink. A row of three stoneware mugs sat on the countertop, alongside a fat slab of bacon, a wooden cutting board and a long kitchen knife. A battered, blue enamel coffee pot hissed and sputtered from the back of the stove. The aroma of the coffee as it mingled with the hint of wood smoke took Julia back to the winter mornings she had spent as a girl, helping her grandmother make breakfast. The blue flowered apron Grandma Estes had always worn over her cotton dresses was still folded neatly inside a kitchen drawer. After hundreds of washings it was worn thin, yet Julia could not bring herself to throw it out. In Grandma’s day, the kitchen welcomed a large, boisterous family. The cooking never seemed to end but Grandma never once complained about the kitchen drudgery and instead took joy in seeing her family sit down to a meal together. Now days it was Julia in the kitchen, making sure that anyone in need of food would not leave hungry and anyone looking for a cup of hot coffee would find one. In the beginning, it was to please her grandmother’s spirit. Over time, it had become her habit.

She lifted the coffeepot from the back of the stove, filled a mug half full of cream, added sugar and topped it off with the steaming brew. She blew lightly across the top of the mug, savoring the first sip of the first cup of the day. Except for the crackling of pine sap burning off inside the stove, the house was quiet. Julia ticked off the day’s workload, a list of to-do’s as repetitious as they were unavoidable. There was the laundry she took in to supplement their meager earnings from the farm, a decision to make about what to cook for supper, and, most importantly, what she could do to make Gabriel more comfortable for the day.

The treasured peace and quiet was short lived, interrupted by a blur of faded pink pajamas.

It’s late. I’ve overslept. Molly streaked past, snatching her coat from its hook next to the kitchen door and rushing outside into a world encased in ice. Julia watched from the window as Molly hurried along the trail to the pasture, her shoulders hunched against the cold, her coattails fluttering along behind her like a pair of wings. Julia closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the windowpane, feeling the press of cold glass against her skin. These days, all the chores fell to Julia and Molly. The outside chores were a lot of work, more work than a girl of fourteen should have to face each morning before school, but it couldn’t be helped. The animals had to be fed and watered before the family sat down to eat breakfast. The ranching traditions hinged on the daily routines and as long as Julia drew breath the rhythm of the ranch would not be disrupted, not on this bleak wintry day and not on those to come. She picked up the gleaming steel butcher knife, checked it for sharpness against the pad of her thumb and attacked the bacon slab as if it were the enemy.

Molly’s been robbed of her childhood. I’ve been robbed of my husband. All for one big, dumb wild horse.

The knife slipped sideways against the cold slab of bacon and sliced into the tip of Julia’s finger, opening a small cut. She reached for a napkin to stem the trickle of blood, laid the knife aside and sat down at the kitchen table. Watching the bright red stain seeping into the white napkin, she felt the tears gather, felt the lump swell in her throat.

"No crying, Julia, over a little nick to your finger.’ It was more, much more, than a little spilled blood. A wound from a kitchen knife would heal. It was wounds that were not of the flesh which festered. Black thoughts, hopelessness, these were the enemies that hid in shadows, waiting to ambush. She turned away from the sight of the bloodied napkin and turned instead to thoughts of Molly, willingly racing out into the cold to take care of the farm chores.

‘She’ll be stronger for it. She’s already more capable, more responsible than most kids her age. And as for me, I should consider what Gabriel goes through each day, lying in that bed.’

She poured a fresh cup of coffee and resumed her work, slicing up the bacon, two strips for Molly, two for herself and two for Gabriel. The bacon sizzled in the pan, spraying out small missiles of bacon fat. Julia dodged the rendered bacon bits and wondered what luck she would have, if any, convincing Gabriel to eat something.

Chapter Two

Walking down the trail to the stock tank, Molly shielded her eyes from the glittering frost covering the ground. Against the icy morning air, her breath became a cloud of mist. She tugged at the sleeves of her coat, pulling the cuffs closer to the top of her tattered gloves, but it was no use. The coat was one size too small and the sleeves were too short for her long, thin arms. Her fingertips turned red and tingly and she jammed her hands deep into the coat pockets. Scanning the branches of the cottonwood trees, she searched for signs of the delicate green they would wear in the springtime. The branches were still skeleton bare. The apple tree would not blossom until after the cottonwoods leafed out. The lilac bushes would be the last to bloom. Closing her eyes against the stinging cold air, she could almost smell the lilacs.

Through the trees, she spotted the stock tank, its layer of ice sparkling in the sunlight. Crouching low, she ran a hand along the underside of the tank until her fingers wrapped around a smooth, sharply pointed rock. Raising the rock up over her head, she hacked at the top layer of ice on the tank. Her arms were aching when the ice finally split and cracked open. Water rushed through the crack in the ice and soaked into the fingers of her glove. She walked back to the barn, tossed an armload of alfalfa to the cow, fed the chickens and gathered a few eggs.

Out of habit she made sure that the heavy steel gate to the horse pasture was closed. The gate creaked and groaned as it swung back and forth on hinges long in need of oil. Molly stared out across the empty field. The truck bringing in a trailer load of mustang colts would not be coming this year. There would be no horses running through the pasture in the springtime, no vaqueros camped out in the barn, ready to take their chances riding the mustangs. Once the grip of winter loosened, the long, warm summer evenings would return, but without the voices of the men floating on the night air and the sounds of the horses, snuffling and snorting as they milled about in the corrals, the season would be a sharp reminder of better days. Without horses and cowboys to make it come alive, the pasture was the loneliest of places.

Leaving behind the empty horse pasture with its rusting gate, Molly filled her lungs with cold fresh air and began to run along the fence line. By the time she reached the back door to the kitchen, she had run out of breath, her fingers were stiff and red, aching with cold. She plunged her hands into the basin of warm wash water waiting for her on the stove. Sitting down to breakfast with her mother was her favorite part of the day. They sat at the small wooden table, sipping coffee and working their way through plates of bacon and eggs. Neither of them spoke of it, but the question Molly needed to ask burned in the backs of both of their minds.

Do you think my Dad will feel like sitting up for a little while today? They were only halfway through breakfast. Molly had intended to wait until the meal was over but the wait had become too much.

Julia’s fork stopped midair, a bite of fried egg dangling from the end of the fork. The silence between them stretched across the table. Molly fidgeted in her chair, pushing her food around the edges of her plate.

Julia finished off the bite of egg and took a sip of coffee, stalling for time while she searched for a truthful reply. She could say that Molly shouldn’t worry, that these things take time. The message written on her daughter’s face made it clear that it was too late for those words. They had been spoken so often they no longer held any comfort.

I don’t know, Molly. He’s very weak. It’s difficult to say what the day might bring. Finish up your breakfast so you can get changed. You don’t want to be late for school. Julia could only share that which she knew to be true.

From the kitchen window, she watched Molly walking with big, purposeful strides. It was Gabriel’s walk, a get there, get the job done and get on to the next thing type of walk which took the both of them through life with as little waste of time and effort as possible. Molly reached the end of the driveway and turned to wave goodbye. Julia waited until her daughter was out of sight before she turned back to the stove, to the skillet in which she would cook an egg for Gabriel, an egg which likely would turn cold, congeal on the plate into a glue-like mess, and later, would have to be scraped off into the trash.

The brutal winter weather, with its long, gray days, seemed to go on and on, with no end in sight. The even longer nights spent tossing about in an empty bed added to the misery. Fighting a daily battle against the bitterness that threatened to rear its ugly head drained her energy, leaving her body exhausted, her spirit weary. With each passing day the hopelessness grew stronger, filling her home with its presence, a presence as thick and dull as the mountains of clouds gathering in the eastern sky.

Sickened by these dark thoughts, she turned her attention back to the egg, sizzling in the skillet. It was done and as she slid it onto Gabriel’s plate, she attempted to conjure up at least a tiny grain of hope that he might take a few bites of his breakfast and that later he might feel strong enough to allow her to give him a shave. ‘Keep the goals small’, the doctors had cautioned. ‘Keep the goals small.’

Chapter Three

Walking to school on streets that were mostly empty, Molly collected her memories of happier times, those small treasures she held dear. Her father’s ever present smile, his warm morning greeting, his silly jokes in the evening, the way he would tease her about the boys and tug on the ends of her braids. And there was the dancing, dancing her mother across the kitchen floor while he sang ‘Rosa Maria’. At first her mother would pound her fist against his shoulder, trying to stop his nonsense with a stern Gabriel, stop being so foolish. The more he danced and sang the more impossible it was for Julia to stay cross with him. Joining her voice to his, she would reach for Molly, gathering her into the dance.

No longer able to walk, dance or mount a horse, her father had withdrawn into the shadows. The singing and laughing had been silenced. The passing of a year had done little to heal the scars left behind after the accident. Working together, Molly and her mother had been able to keep the ranch running, although nothing was the same, and would never be the same again. ‘What could they do about Gabriel?’ was the question that haunted Molly, day and night.

He became angry over the smallest things, shaking his fist in the air and cursing God. Frightened and sickened by his words, Molly fled to her room. Hiding behind the closed door, she covered her head with a pillow to drown out the sounds of his ugly temper. The days of total silence that followed were worse than the angry shouting and cursing. Molly spent hours plotting new ways to coax him out of his bed, but nothing seemed to matter to him anymore. Last week, after church, she had overheard Julia telling Mrs. Flores that Gabriel was refusing to leave his bed at all. She had rushed home that day, intent on getting her father into his wheelchair, if only for a little while. She had burst into the house like a miniature whirlwind, heart pounding, mind racing with ambitious plans for the afternoon. Gabriel was sleeping and could not be roused. The afternoon had slipped away, ending with her mother cautioning her not to expect too much when it came to thoughts of Gabriel leaving his bed. Such advice only served to fuel Molly’s determination to find a way, to think of something they hadn’t yet tried.

Julia carried the breakfast tray to the bedroom door, balancing it on one hand while she twisted the door knob and pushed the