Desperado

  Desperado

  By

  Sara Barnard

  This is a fictional work. The names, characters, incidents, places, and locations are solely the concepts and products of the author’s imagination, or are used to create a fictitious story and should not be construed as real.

  5 PRINCE PUBLISHING AND BOOKS, LLC

  PO Box 16507

  Denver, CO 80216

  www.5PrinceBooks.com

  ISBN: 13: 978-1-63112-017-6 ISBN: 10: 1631120174

  Desperado

  Sara Barnard

  Copyright Sara Barnard 2014

  Published by 5 Prince Publishing

  Front Cover Viola Estrella

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations, reviews, and articles. For any other permission please contact 5 Prince Publishing and Books, LLC.

  First Edition/First Printing March 2014 Printed U.S.A.

  5 PRINCE PUBLISHING AND BOOKS, LLC.

  To Mom, Aunt Jay, China, Non, and Great. Without y’all, this story wouldn’t be possible.

  Oh, and in honor of the haunted mallet, too.

  Desperado

  Chapter 1

  “Okay let’s have a contest to see who can tell the scariest story.” Mom’s voice was much too chipper for my taste. She was all into this camping stuff, but there was nowhere for me to plug in my curling iron, so I could care less about being out here.

  The flames from the fire danced, as though alive, as I shot a pained look at Dad. Showing off his trademark grin, Dad gave me a wink and tiny nod as if to say, humor your mother, she loves you.

  Defeated, I pulled my old holey blanket around my shoulders and tried to ignore the encroaching shadows that looked to be dancing with the flickering firelight.

  My baby sister Rhea straightened her back and leaned forward in her camp chair. “I’ll go first,” she chirruped. Rhea’s seven-year-old voice tried to sound scary and her blue eyes widened as she began her tale. “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away...”

  I stuffed a whole s’more into my mouth.

  Rhea held her hands up like claws. “There was a blue, no wait, make that a green bird.” She looked from face to face until she got to mine. “No, not a bird, a sister.”

  I rolled my eyes as the corners of my mouth twitched upward.

  Unfazed, Rhea continued. “The green sister was silly.” She dropped her voice low. “And I mean very, very, very silly.” She dropped her claw-hands into her lap, sat back in the camp chair, and grinned. “The end.”

  Mom and Dad applauded wildly. I hid my ghost of a smile behind a nose twitch and passed Rhea another gooey s’more. “That was pretty good, Sissy,” I commended. “Take a few storytelling classes and you’ll be as good as Stephen King someday.”

  The fact that I adored my baby sister was no secret, and I flattered myself to think that the feeling was mutual.

  Rhea blew her blonde bangs up in a dramatic huff. “Shelby, do you always have to talk about him?” Her voice was an octave away from a full-on whine. “That movie he wrote scared me.” She glanced over her shoulder and scooted closer to Dad.

  I crossed my legs. “Rhea, he writes books. Not movies.” It was an old argument the two of us shared ever since she snuck in and hid behind the couch while I was watching Pet Sematary one night. Rhea had watched the entire thing before I discovered her back there, terrified. She’d been sleeping in my room ever since then. “They make movies based on his books—”

  “Ahem.” I could feel Mom glaring at me. My cheeks burned as the rest of my sentence fizzled, forgotten. Busted.

  “We will talk about movie rules when we get home tomorrow, young ladies,” she said sternly. “As for now, who wants to hear a scary story? A true, scary story.”

  “I do. Oh, Mommy, I do,” Rhea trilled in her normal, singsong voice. She scooted a little closer to Mom.

  Dad rose from his camp chair. “If you ladies will excuse me, I think I will go find a tree right quick.” Turning, he trotted off into the shadowy woods.

  Mom cut her gaze to me. “Shelby, are you up to it?”

  I nodded and scooted in a tad bit closer to the fire.

  Mom pulled her pink camouflaged backpack into her lap. “Good. Well, when I was a little girl, we were at a family reunion, not too far from here.” She gestured widely with her arm toward the west. “Before we left for the hour’s ride home, my mom, grandmother, great-grandmother, and I stopped at a garage sale on the edge of town. The house itself looked like it was out of a Stephen King novel––boarded up windows, creaky wooden front door swinging to and fro, peeling paint––the works.” She glanced at me. I smiled. She knew I was eating this up.

  Mom leaned in and shifted her gaze back to Rhea. “Your great-great grandmother noticed that the homeowner was in a hurry to sell everything off. When she started poking around in a box of kitchenware, he accepted twenty-five cents for the whole box of stuff. Antiques, he said they were.”

  The fire glinted off Mom’s face, making her wide eyes sparkle even more than they usually did. Rhea’s mouth hung open, a bit of marshmallow stuck to her cheek. A rogue arctic blast suddenly swept through our campsite, sending a collective shiver through all three of us. I tugged at the ends of my blanket and snuggled down deeper into my camp chair, taking care to not look into the dark woods behind me.

  “Antiques?” Rhea asked through sticky lips. “What’s that?”

  “The man told Great Gran that the stuff she bought had come west with his grandparents by way of a wagon train. Everything in that box was all that had survived a hellish campfire accident on their journey from the Pennsylvania.”

  Rhea was sticking and unsticking her fingers. “Oh. Okay.”

  Mom slowly slid up the zipper of her backpack. “Well, on the ride home, we had the radio on while your great-great grandma sorted through her box of treasures. She gave a purple glass bottle marked 1806 to my mom, a strange little garlic press to me, and a tiny tin snuff can to my grandma. From the very bottom of the box, she pulled out this.”

  Mom reached into her backpack and drew out a weird looking wooden kitchen instrument.

  “Is that a mallet?” I asked, letting my eyes rove over the little tool. “And what’s that stain? Is it ...” I gulped. “Blood?”

  Mom nodded. “Yes and yes. The wagon train came under attack by a bad outlaw after the campfire accident. His grandma grabbed this mallet and swung it to kill, knocking the desperado’s black hat clean off his head. As Great Gran told the story to us in the car, the song on the radio changed to Desperado by The Eagles.”

  “Oh, I love The Eagles,” I cooed.

  Ignoring me, Mom continued. “While she told the story, Great Gran somehow managed to cut her finger on the mallet. Probably on this rough spot right here.” Mom slowly held the mallet out to me.

  Equally slow, I reached to feel the spot she spoke of. The world around me melted into the blackness of the night as I touched the ancient piece of wood.

  “BOO!” Rhea shrieked.

  Chapter 2

  Mom and I each caught air between our bottoms and our respective camp chairs. “Rhea!” I scolded, my heart thundering in my chest. “Ow! The old mallet scratched me, too.” I immediately stuck my bloodied finger in my mouth.

  With a nervous laugh, Mom stuck the mallet back into her backpack. “Anyway, after Great Gran cut her finger, we decided to put the mallet back in the box. Then the strangest thing happened.”

  Silence befell the campsite as Rhea and I stared at Mom with unblinking eyes, waiting. I don’t even think I was breathing.

  Mom’s eyes widened. “Desperado started playi
ng again, even though it had just gone off. Gran looked down to change the radio station and Mother screamed watch out! Gran had to jerk the car hard to avoid a huge black streak in the road.”

  “A black streak?” My voice was a whisper.

  Mom nodded. “A whole herd of migrating tarantulas. Not uncommon in the West Texas summertime.”

  My brow furrowed. I didn’t care much for spiders.

  “We avoided the tarantulas, but at that moment a huge semi topped the rise in front of us. Everyone in the car was screaming and the trucker laid on his horn. Our car jerked back the other way and spun out on the side of the road.” Mom shuddered at the memory.

  I stared at her, the fragility of life coming into focus in my young mind.

  “Sometimes, when I hear that song, I still feel that same blast of wind from when the semi flew past us.”

  The three of us sat still and silent, relishing each other’s company in the throes of the spooky story. Maybe it was just me, but the darkness of the woods seemed more menacing than before.

  “Anyway,” Mom continued, shaking her head. “We all crashed and banged into each other in the back seat. When we finally came to a stop, I got carsick and threw-up all over everything. And that dang song was still playing.”

  “Eww,” Rhea and I groaned in unison.

  “My mother took immediate command and ordered us to change the channel. Said she couldn’t stand that song anymore. Someone switched it over to a country station as we piled out to unwind and clean out the back seat and me. When we got in the car again, Clint Black was singing on the radio.”

  I laughed off the uneasiness that had weighted my shoulders. “Thank goodness The Eagles don’t play on country stations!”

  Mom’s voice was grave. “He was doing a cover of Desperado.”

  I gasped at the uncanny coincidence.

  Mom narrowed her eyes. “Then, the gear shift wouldn’t go down into drive. So we just sat there.”

  Rhea grabbed another graham cracker. “What’d you do, Mommy?”

  “Your great-great grandmother flung that creepy mallet out the window. As soon as she did, the song ended, the car accepted the drive gear, and we drove on home, no worse for wear.”

  The eeriness of the moment gone, my skeptical nature retuned with a vengeance. “Uh, Mom, if she threw it out the window, how do you have it in your bag?” I tried not to sound too cocky.

  “After we got home and everyone calmed down, we sat around and tried to come up with theories as to the happenings of the afternoon.” Mom set her backpack beside her camp chair and crossed her ankles.

  “Well, what’d y’all come up with?”

  Leaning forward, Mom commanded our attention. Her voice was low.

  “The old man’s story was that everything in the box was from the cowboy days. And the bloodstain on the mallet? It had to have been from when his grandmother used it to defend herself against the plundering ...” Her voice trailed off into the shadows that surrounded us.

  “Desperado!” Rhea and I chimed in.

  “I think,” Mom said, “all the strange occurrences happened because of the desperado’s ghost.”

  Excited, I sat forward so quickly I almost tumbled into the fire. My blood surged as my heart raced to a gallop. “Maybe he was coming after the mallet that was his ultimate undoing!”

  Mom nodded. “You can imagine how relieved we were to have gotten rid of that stinkin’ mallet. We drank some sweet tea, laughed off the uneasiness, and waited for my dad and the other men folk to get home.”

  “Where were they?” Rhea asked, through a mouthful of chocolaty marshmallow.

  “Dad, grandpa, and the rest of the men were in another car a little ways behind us,” Mom explained. “They weren’t too keen at stopping at garage sales on the way out of town.”

  Rhea smiled. “Like Daddy!”

  Curiosity eating me alive, I didn’t wait for Mom to answer Rhea. “Did they believe your story?”

  “Well, a few moments later, in walks your grandpa, all grins. In his hand, was something he’d found for me along the side of the road.” She patted her backpack. “The mallet.”

  I shivered at the sudden yuckiness that plagued my stomach. “Dad, is Mom telling the truth?” I glanced over to the spot where Dad had been. “Dad?”

  “He must not be back from using the restroom,” Mom said. “Honey?”

  Rhea looked panicked. “Daddy?”

  With a deep breath, I stood and ventured to the edge of the campsite. “Dad?” I called into the darkness. Meek doesn’t begin to describe the tone of my voice.

  A deafening crash sounded behind me. I screamed, scurried to the safety of Mom.

  “Oh no, the mallet ghost got Daddy,” Rhea cried.

  When I opened my eyes, a giant limb laid on the ground behind me.

  A low chuckle came from the black woods. Dad stepped forward, hands raised in mock surrender.

  “Daaa-aad,” Rhea whined. “Stop trying to scare us.”

  He scooped her up; ignoring the look Mom was giving him. “Guess it’s time for bed,” he said in his best Dracula voice.

  “I wasn’t that scared,” I whispered. Dad wiggled his bushy eyebrows at me.

  ***

  Rhea fell asleep with her head on Dad’s shoulder. With the firelight dying down and sleep tugging at my eyelids, I retreated to my tent and pulled the sleeping bag up tight around my ears. Strangely, it took a while for sleep to find me.

  Chapter 3

  I was awake long before the gentle rays of the morning sun hugged my tent.

  Rhea’s Princess sleeping bag was empty. She must have slept with Mom and Dad. Without hesitation, I started flinging stuff into my overnight bag. I even rolled up Rhea’s little bag for her and put it in with my own.

  When I climbed out of my tent, I wasn’t surprised to find myself the only one awake. The calm quiet was magical. I let my gaze wander over the morning view of the woods.

  Everything was fresh and serene. A stream babbled in the distance, birds sang all around, and the pastel green trees swayed slightly beneath the warming rays of sunshine. This must be why people love to camp, this moment right here, I thought. I can’t believe I let myself get weirded out over that funky old ghost story.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and took a deep breath. They caught in a mat, halfway down the length of my mane. “Man, I need a shower.” With a sigh, I turned and began demolishing my tent, humming an old Eagles tune.

  “Whatcha doin, Shelby?”

  I jumped.

  “Relax. It’s only me, dear ole Dad.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me again.

  “I’m getting ready to go home. We do go home today, right?” I tried to keep the sarcastic tone from my voice, but it shaded my words anyway.

  Dad exchanged a look with Mom. She had just emerged from their tent with her hair askew and clothes rumpled. Finally, he dragged his gaze back to me “Before breakfast? I thought we could at least have one more meal on the range before heading back to civilization, cowpoke.”

  Glancing down, I spoke softly. “I’m ready to go, Dad.”

  Mom had overheard. “I’ll take her home.”

  “Carol,” Dad began to protest.

  Mom held up her hand. “Jeremy, Rhea’s still asleep. You know I can’t enjoy being out here if I feel like I’m torturing one of my girls. Y’all can come on in your truck when she wakes up, after breakfast.”

  She turned to me. “Let me grab my bag, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Dad gave her a peck on the cheek and turned to finish taking down my tent. “Get busy on that room when you get home, Shelby,” he commanded without looking at me. “Remember, I let it slide because we were coming to spend the weekend out here.” The brokenhearted note in his voice deflated my selfish balloon. I had forgotten he had taken off work early to meet us out here for a weekend of family fun.

  “Okay, Dad,” I muttered, trudging toward
the car. Mom had already pitched our bags inside. I flopped onto the passenger seat as her VW Bug roared to life.

  “McDonalds’ drive-thru for breakfast?” she asked, pulling her sunglasses down from her bushy hair.

  I grinned. “Sounds great.”

  ***

  After the cinnamon rolls and hash browns had been eaten, we turned onto the long stretch of Highway 7 that would take us home. A couple of tarantulas were attempting to cross the road. I watched as we blew past them.

  “They didn’t even move,” I said in disbelief. “That one even reared up at us.”

  Mom laughed. “They’re not scared of anything.” She glanced at me and lifted her shades. “Feeling brave?” She cut her gaze to the radio.

  “I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down.” I pressed the ON/OFF knob dramatically.

  We both went slack jawed when Don Henley’s voice met our ears, but we joined in the last words of Take it to the Limit. As the chorus ended, we dissolved into a fit of nervous giggles.

  “Wouldn’t that have been funny if it had been Desperado?” Mom said, gasping, between laughs.

  “No!” I cried. “It’s a good thing you left that mallet back at the campsite with Dad and Rhea!” I swiped at the stream of tears that trailed down my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Otherwise, I might have actually believed that story you told last night.”

  Mom’s giggles slowed as the lighthearted smile faded from her face, transforming into one of consternation. “I didn’t leave it, Shelby. The mallet is still in my bag. I tossed it in the back floorboard.”

  Chapter 4

  The DJ’s voice sliced through the sudden quiet. “If you folks enjoyed that tune, you’ll love this next one. On our Salute to the Eagles Flashback Weekend, here’s the satiny-voiced Don Henley singing Desperado.”