Twister: Star Valley

Chapter One

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Gabriel Vasquez resisted the urge to lift his arm and shield his eyes from the sun rising up over the horizon ahead of him. He felt rivulets of blood trickling down his forearm, but he didn’t want to look down. There was no point in giving the mare in front of him the same target twice. He risked only a second to glance down at his arm. His denim work shirt was split, and the ends of the tear flapped bloodied and useless in the breeze. He probably wouldn’t need stitches. The jagged outline of horse teeth stood out against his dark skin.

Ahora fácil, he said gently despite the pain in his arm.

This filly was tough, a fighter through and through. Gabe didn’t want his sister Dakota anywhere near her until the mare was calm enough for safe handling. Her mane was tangled, black with streaks of lighter brown running through it. Just like Gabe’s own. His darker Latin features still weren’t all that out of place in Wyoming. The Vasquezes were just one of hundreds of families, half a dozen in this county alone, who’d come up from the border at the turn of the century.

Gabe’s heritage was all around him, from the supple, braided reata in his gloved hand to the lilting Spanish he spoke to the horse to calm her down as he approached her again.

And sometimes the past felt even closer than that.

A shadow flickered from the corner of his eye. Despite the summer sun beating down on him now, there were times when Gabe could still feel the cold of last winter’s blizzard. He did hear footsteps on the packed earth, though, and waited, watching the mare watching whomever it was coming up behind him. Gabe couldn’t resist turning, but he put some distance between himself and the mare as he did so. He saw Walker Barlow, the owner of the land on which Gabe was standing, coming up to the round pen’s fence, a large white horse following him just a few steps behind.

Didn’t mean to startle you, said Walker.

You didn’t. I just…wasn’t expecting you. Gabe frowned. ‘I was expecting to see my dead father’ would’ve been closer to the truth, but that would’ve sounded crazy. Though maybe not to Walker. Maybe Walker sometimes turned around expecting to see his own father, Rafe, watching over him from the porch of the Big House as the man so often had when he was alive.

It had been almost six months since Gabe’s father, Manny, had ridden out into a wild Wyoming snowstorm chasing after Walker’s dad. The two men had never come back. Gabe had carried his father’s body home on his horse. Walker had done the same for Rafe. Gabe looked away from his boss and shrugged. It seemed the one thing the two men had in common was the thing pushing them further apart these days.

We’re going to head out early next week, said Walker as he circled the round pen and put himself in Gabe’s line of sight.

Gabe nodded, silently watching the man he’d once considered his best friend. Now that Walker was in charge of the place, they had little to say to each other these days. At least nothing that wasn’t about work. Gabe couldn’t describe his feelings any more than he wanted Walker to take responsibility for them. It wasn’t Walker’s fault that Rafe had decided to take the easy way out. To die, leaving a large insurance policy, rather than stay on and try to save Snake River Ranch from bankruptcy. Nor was it Walker’s fault that Manny, stubborn old goat that he’d been, had somehow gleaned what was about to happen on that cold winter day and gone after his best friend to try and save him.

But Walker still felt guilty, Gabe knew. And Gabe himself was still angry. Maybe neither of them would ever really move on. The summer heat shimmering in the air did nothing to melt the wall of ice that now stood between the two men.

Nero, all white mane and muscle, stood behind Walker and tossed his head. The gelding eyed the mare in the pen with Gabe. Walker kicked the dirt in front of him, mimicking the horse he was leading, possibly without even realizing it. Nero snorted, now bored with the mare who was showing no interest in him anyway. He was now anxious to head down into the valley, same as Walker, whose eyes kept flicking past Gabe and toward the horizon. The Snake River horses were just as dedicated as the cowboys who rode them, thanks entirely to the Vasquezes, who trained them.

Vasquez horses were sought after both in the state and beyond. Dakota bred them with precision, somehow coaxing agility, intelligence, athleticism, and hardiness to coalesce into the finest equine lines not seen since the old days. Gabe, for his part, trained his sister’s stock into workhorses that barely needed a rider to do the job of working cattle.

The Barlows had the land and the Vasquezes provided the horses. The two families had tied their fates together more than a century ago—friends, but also co-workers. Family, but not family. The two newest heads of each clan faced each other now, though, with an unspoken awkwardness hanging between them.

I’ll be ready whenever you are, Gabe told his boss.

Walker nodded and moved away.

Gabe waited until Walker and Nero were several yards away before tightening the filly’s lead rope once again.

You’re up early. You beat me to her. The voice came from behind him and though Gabe’s mouth quirked up into a grin, he didn’t dare take his eyes off the filly.

Maybe you’re getting lazy in your old age, he told his sister.

Dakota was four years younger and grunted at the joke instead of laughing.

I’m serious. I had plans for her today, she pressed.

Gabe shook his head and slid his gloved hands down the rope that secured the prancing horse. He murmured to her in lilting Spanish to calm her nerves. To his sister, he continued in English, though the two of them would’ve been comfortable conversing in either language. This one’s too wild, he said. She’s a bit older than we thought.

Older meant she’d been wild for longer. Gabe had a theory, that once a horse had been wild for too long, it was impossible to break them. He’d heard stories of Mustangs hurling themselves against stall walls, breaking loose and jumping off cliffs to avoid the saddle. Thankfully, he’d never seen it happen himself. Manny had told him never to try breaking a horse that had been wild too long. He’d taught Gabe how to spot the intense feral look in their eyes that indicated it was cruel and murderous to even try.

Some of them, though, were much easier to tame. The escape from harsh weather out on the range and the temptation of daily, easy-to-obtain food often times was enough to strike a bargain with the captured animals. Life in the foothills of the Tetons was not easy for any creature and could prove deadly at any moment. Flash floods, sudden storms, blizzards, mountain lions, and even bears were a constant threat. To live here was to dance as close to death as it was possible to get. Sometimes small kindnesses were more like miracles. Regular meals and a lack of predators could make the Snake River Ranch seem like heaven to these forgotten, struggling wild horses.

Gabe heard a boot scuff the earth behind him and suppressed a laugh. His sister was pawing at the ground, he’d bet, just like the horses she raised and cared for. Her resemblance to the wildlings she bred was sometimes uncanny…as was the fact that her temperament nearly matched Walker Barlow’s. Perhaps it was a good thing that Walker didn’t seem to return Dakota’s interest.

Fire and ice.

The two of them colliding could kick up a tornado, no doubt.

Snake River might not survive a coupling like that.

Hell, Wyoming may not survive it.

Dakota half snarled at Gabe. I could—

"You could, said Gabe, cutting her off. But you could also get hurt. And Ma would never let me hear the end of it. Or Walker," he added before he could stop himself.

At the mention of his name, Dakota turned and gazed out across the large paddock toward the white gelding that stood at attention as Walker swung up into the saddle and took up the reins. Horse and rider took off over the gentle slope of the eastern hill toward where they were keeping the yearling calves down in the valley.

At least one of us gets ridden hard, she muttered.

Gabe’s attention shifted instantly to his little sister, who now mirrored his own horrified expression, he was certain.

Um, she said, fumbling, clearly not having meant to say it aloud.

Gabe’s mental image of Dakota was that of a knock-kneed ten year old with dirt on her face and straw in her hair. He preferred not to think of her as an adult—or worse—a woman. His mouth snapped closed for a moment before he said, Dakota, I don’t—

The filly sensed her chance and struck out, ears pinned, teeth bared, taking advantage of Gabe’s momentary lapse of focus.

"Gabe!" Dakota cried.

Gabe shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and dodged at the last second. The mare came away only with another thin piece of denim from his shirt, where his forearm had been half a second earlier.

I…shit. Sorry. Do you need the first aid kit? Dakota asked nodding to the bite wound he’d received earlier.

He shook his head. No. I need space to work. He tightened his grip on the rope and held the horse firmly in place. The tension now swirling around their little family unit was too much of a distraction.

Gabe could probably live with Walker claiming his sister. However, Walker not claiming his sister was becoming increasingly difficult to deal with. Perhaps they could make a go of it, if either of them would give an inch. If they could knock each other’s bullheads off and let their guards down.

Gabe didn’t know what Walker’s problem was, and he hated to see his sister hurting so much. As he watched Dakota walk back toward the barn, he wanted to call out to her, to tell her that he was sure things would get better, but since he didn’t know what the problem was and therefore didn’t know how to fix it, it didn’t seem helpful. Gabe himself didn’t exactly have the best track record when it came to relationships, so it was probably best to just stay out of it entirely.

He turned back to the filly and took up slack in the rope, circling ever closer to her. You’re not the first to take me by surprise, he told her in a soft, calm voice.

She snorted, as if in response.

Females. Surely one of you will kill me someday when I’m not paying close enough attention.

The filly tossed her head, possibly delighted with the notion.

Gabe almost smiled at her spirited nature. But not today, he told her and took a step toward her.

Chapter Two

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Phoenix Snow hurried along the polished marble floor that was chilled from the air conditioning, insulating the building from the oppressive Los Angeles heat and today’s high level smog alert. She wove her way through a throng of the city’s elite toward the large double doors in front of her, not bothering to glance at the A-list actors, rappers, singers, and celebrities that had gathered in the lobby to see and be seen. Phoenix waved her laminated pass at the security guards, who parted to let her into the cavernous auditorium.

While all the other photographers gathered in the main room mosh pit like fanatic concert goers, attaching their lenses to their cameras and aiming the entire apparatus at the runway, Phoenix instead ducked through a doorway that led to the back area of the building. She smiled at the security guards who knew her by now and parted for her passing like automatic (yet heavily muscled) doors.

Phoenix turned the corner of the short hallway, following the sound of tense, sharp voices, and eased herself into the mass of people swirling about the room. Some were frantically sewing last-minute hems and steaming garments as the models pulled them on. A permanent cloud of finishing spray had wafted in from the hair and makeup alcove and hung like a thick yet invisible fog, perfectly mirroring the thick atmosphere outside. Phoenix hoped no one lit a match. The entire place would surely go up in flames like the Hindenburg.

She settled into an easy, familiar rhythm of adjusting the settings on her camera then taking a few test photos. Happy with the exposure quality, she set about documenting the inner workings of a world class fashion show rather than focusing on merely the runway images. She left that job to her colleagues in the pit these days.

Darling! came a voice through the hairspray haze.

Phoenix turned to find her mother, looking lithe and sleek in a crisp, white pantsuit moving toward her. Even at 50, Gigi Snow still outshone all the other models in the room. Phoenix smiled. Hey, mom, she said as her mother drew her in for a hug.

You’re almost late, Gigi said.

Phoenix shrugged. Traffic.

Gigi grimaced. The woman had her own driver but unlike her mother, Phoenix was determined to get through life with as few staff and caretakers as possible.

Well, I’m glad you made it.

Phoenix eyed the designer of the collection just a few feet away, frantically hemming a sheath dress. How’s it going? she asked her mother.

Gigi sighed. First time jitters, she said, gazing at the young woman with a wistful smile. It’ll all come together. I’m sure.

Phoenix nodded. Having Gigi Snow’s stamp of approval definitely meant something. The woman had single-handedly launched the careers over half a dozen designers and artists in her lifetime. She knew talent and she’d always encouraged Phoenix, even when it became obvious that Phoenix’s talents were behind the camera rather than in front of it.

Gigi’s connections had gotten Phoenix her first job. Phoenix certainly wasn’t the first photographer to journey from the catwalk to the staging area, but her pedigree (the daughter of a supermodel and the granddaughter of an equally world-famous wildlife photographer) not only got Phoenix behind the curtain but allowed her to photograph models and designers more candidly than her predecessors.

Phoenix Snow, even at an embarrassing five foot five inches complete with a (small) muffin top, was still a member of this exclusive club thanks to her heritage and was often rewarded with shots of these pseudo-celebrities at their most vulnerable and most likable.

The supernatural creatures that stared out from the pages of Vogue and Vanity Fair, dressed in finery few readers could actually afford, were stripped down to their humanity when Phoenix was behind the lens. These images adorned walls of the chicest art galleries in L.A., New York, London, and Paris.

Models often requested copies for themselves and Phoenix happily complied, knowing that her mother Gigi’s favorite photograph of herself wasn’t a Mario Testino editorial but a photo of Gigi and Phoenix riding a horse together when Phoenix was five. Phoenix’s grandfather, August, had taken the snap. A casual family outing. It hung in the living room of Gigi’s multi-million-dollar mansion in Hollywood hills, a constant reminder of her humble beginnings. And of the father she had adored when he was alive.

Gigi sighed again. I suppose I’d better go an offer my moral support. As she walked away, Phoenix felt a hand come down on her shoulder.

You were almost late, said Russell as he rounded her, coming into her view. At six feet tall he towered over her. Phoenix smiled, ready to offer him a kiss in greeting, but Russell’s gaze slid over her shoulder and beyond her. I thought you might not come. That you might prefer to stay home and rest. It seems like you just got off the plane.

She shrugged. Over a week ago, she reminded him, which felt odd because they lived together. Though he had been working quite a bit.

I’ll be late tonight, he told her.

Phoenix tried to hide her disappointment.

Cleo’s thinking about getting new representation, he said, nodding toward a barely legal girl with long legs and hair extensions to match. And she has a friend who’s unsigned. If I can snag them both, it’ll give me the edge here on the coast and in New York.

Okay, said Phoenix, though it was the second time this week and she hadn’t even been back from South Africa all that long. I guess I can get some work done. Sort through all these photos.

Russell gave her another winning smile and turned to go. Phoenix made a mental note to have a longer conversation about spending more time together when they were both actually in the same zip code.

She left her boyfriend to his fishing expedition and returned to her camera and her own work. Nearby, Phoenix snapped a shot of two world famous teenagers posing for a selfie before their turn on the catwalk, a sort of meta image of millennial celebrity and fashion. Phoenix knew her eye was different from most photographers, but in her famous family, that had never been a bad thing. She’d long ago stopped comparing herself to these waifish women and forgiven Gigi for being less a mother than an eternal ethereal goddess. Gigi was like a living camera lens through which everything was filtered whenever anyone turned an eye on Phoenix. But it couldn’t be helped, and Phoenix had eventually gotten used to being judged alongside her famous mother.

Phoenix was just fine where she was, behind the camera, directing the lens that was an extension of her eye. Like her grandfather had taught her, she saw the composition of the image in her mind before she ever clicked the shutter button. Phoenix’s photos were less like snapshots and more like glimpses inside her own mind. She could get at the heart of things, tease out the essence of a scene, and immortalize it in a single moment, preserve it for all time. It was like plucking a salmon out of a river or catching sight of a falling star. A photograph was the magical stoppage of time. Phoenix let her eye take in all the images around her and let her camera begin to tell the story.

Chapter Three

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Gabe stepped out of the shower and pulled on a fresh set of clothes before dinner. He’d never disrespect his mother by showing up to the table filthy and smelling like the barn. The smell of his mother’s home cooking was too nice to spoil and had him ravenous the minute he stepped into the kitchen of the Big House through the side door.

He gave his mother, Sofia, a quick peck on the cheek. Smells good, he told her.

She tugged at his rolled-up sleeve. You’re hurt, she said, clucking at him sternly.

Gabe shrugged and picked up a biscuit. Better me than Dakota.

His mother’s noncommittal noise told him she agreed but still didn’t like it.

From outside, the shriek of a small child drifted in and Gabe knew that Rowan, Seth, and Rowan’s daughter Willow had arrived for dinner. It was a complicated little trio to be sure, with Seth being the little girl’s uncle and stepfather. The waters had been made even murkier now that Rowan’s pregnant belly made it into the kitchen before the rest of the woman. Gabe gave her a smile anyway, because he liked her, and God knew he’d had his own issues.

Rowan lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table with a long sigh. Sofia practically sprinted over, offering tea and fresh baked biscuits. Rowan waved her off, though. "I’m