Sixteen and Dying by Lurlene McDaniel Read Free Book Online Page A

stained-glass window, spilling a rainbow of colors over the altar. The wooden floor and pews gleamed, and a faint odor of lemon wax hung in the quiet air. He saw Anne sitting alone in the very last pew, her head hung low. Suddenly, he felt like a trespasser. He tried to ease out, but his boot scraped on the floor, and she turned.
    Her eyes grew wide with recognition. “What are you doing here?” she asked, looking as if he’d caught her doing something sinful.
    “I saw Golden Star tied outside, and I came in to investigate.” He hoped the half-truth would be enough of an explanation for her. “You okay?”
    “Sure. Fine. I was … um … just contemplating.”
    “Contemplating what?”
    “Things.” She gestured vaguely. “I asked permission from the minister. He said I could stay.”
    “I’m not prying,” Morgan said hastily. Now that the mystery was solved, he felt foolish. “I was surprised to see one of the ranch’s horses outside … that’s all.”
    Anne stood. “I come here some afternoons to bealone. Some days, I stop by the library and check out books. I’m real careful with the horse.”
    “I’m not worried. I’ve seen how well you take care of him.” He fiddled with the hat he’d removed when he came inside. “You go to the library? Man, when I graduated, I swore I’d never read another book.” Anne looked horrified, as if he’d blasphemed. He chuckled. “Let me guess. You’re a bookworm.”
    “The worst kind. I can’t imagine never reading another book. It would be like your never riding another horse.” She started for the door, and he felt bad, sensing he had spoiled something special for her.
    “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
    “It’s all right.” She glanced at her watch. “I should be heading back, before Dad misses me.”
    He followed her outside, where they paused and blinked against the brightness of the sun. To one side of the church, there was an old cemetery. “Have you ever checked out the tombstones?” he asked, trying to make up for intruding on her. “Some of them date back a hundred years.”
    For a moment, her expression clouded, then her large brown eyes warmed. “Show me,” she said.
    He walked her through the old graveyard, pointing to various headstones. He stopped at one and said, “Here lies my Great-great-great Grandmother. She was a full-blooded Cheyenne who converted to Christianity.” The stone looked ancient and sun-bleached and bore the name Woman Who Wears a Cross.
    “I didn’t realize your family went back so far. Tell me about them.”
    Morgan was annoyed at himself for mentioning it. The last thing he wanted to discuss was his family. “Some other time,” he said, stepping to the next marker.
    Anne stooped and plucked a handful of wildflowers from around the old gravestone. “One of my favorite poets is Emily Dickinson. She wrote about death in many of her poems.” Anne cradled the flowers against her cheek. “One of my favorites starts out, ‘Because I could not stop for Death— / He kindly stopped for me— / The Carriage held but just Ourselves— / And Immortality.’ ”
    Morgan felt a chill as he saw the image of black-robed Death pulling up for him in a horse-drawn carriage. “Emily was kind of depressing, don’t you think?”
    Anne looked thoughtful, and he was struck again by the fathomless sadness in her eyes. “She was very original, and her imagery is wonderful.”
    “You sound like a teacher.”
    Anne laughed. “Sorry. I’ve always wished I could write poetry, so sometimes I get overly enthusiastic.”
    Morgan saw pollen left by the flowers on her cheek. He reached down and smoothed his thumb across her silky skin, then wished he’d kept his hands to himself. Touching her made him want to touch her more. “Whatever happened to old Emily?” he asked.
    “She died a recluse. It must be sad to die alone. Yet, I don’t think she was afraid of death. In another poem, she wrote, ‘I never spoke with