The Guardian. Cindi Myers
racing, she struggled to control her breathing and to push the memories away. She wasn’t in Afghanistan. She was in Colorado. In a national park. She was safe. This was probably just another hiker, someone else who appreciated the solitude and peace of the wilderness. She inched forward and pushed aside the feathery, aromatic branches of a piñon.
A small, dark woman bent over the ground, deftly pulling up plants and stuffing them into the pockets of her full skirt. Dandelions, Abby noted. A popular edible wild green. She replaced the gun in its holster and stood. “Hello,” she said.
The woman jumped and dropped a handful of dandelions. She turned, as if to run. “Wait!” Abby called. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She retrieved the plants and held them out to the woman. She was young, barely out of her teens, and very beautiful. Her skin was the rich brown of toffee, and she had high cheekbones, a rosebud mouth and large black eyes framed by lacy lashes. She wore a loose blue blouse, a long, full skirt and leather sandals, with a plaid shawl draped across her body.
She came forward and hesitantly accepted the dandelions from Abby. “Gracias,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
Latina, Abby thought. A large community of Mexican immigrants lived in the area. She searched her mind for what schoolgirl Spanish she could recall. “Habla inglés?”
The woman shook her head and wrapped her arms around what Abby had first assumed to be a bag for storing the plants she collected, but she now realized was a swaddled infant, cradled close to the woman’s torso with a sling made from the red, blue and green shawl. “You have a baby!” Abby smiled. “A niño,” she added.
The woman held the baby closer and stared at Abby, eyes wide with fear.
Maybe she was an illegal, afraid Abby would report her to the authorities. “Don’t worry,” Abby said, unable to remember the Spanish words. “I’m looking for plants, like you.” She broke a stem from the desert parsley and held it out. “Donde esta este?” she asked. Where is this?
The woman eyed Abby warily, but stepped forward to study the plant. She nodded. “Si. Yo conozco.”
“You know this plant? Can you show me where to find more? Donde esta?”
The woman looked around, then motioned Abby to follow her. Abby did so, excitement growing. So far, specimens of Lomatium had been rare. Having more plants to study would be a tremendous find.
The woman moved rapidly over the rough ground despite her long skirts and the burden of the baby. Her black hair swung behind her in a ponytail that reached almost to her waist. Where did she live? The closest homes were miles from here, and the only road into this section of the park was the one Abby had come in on. Was she collecting the dandelions because she had an interest in wild food—or because it was the only thing she had to eat?
The woman stopped abruptly beside a large rock and looked down at the ground. Desert parsley spread out for several feet in every direction—the most specimens Abby had ever seen. Her smile widened. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much. Muchas gracias.” She clasped the woman’s hand and shook it. The woman offered a shy smile.
“Mi nombre es Abby.”
“Soy Mariposa,” the woman said.
Mariposa. Butterfly. Her name was butterfly? “Y su niño?” Abby nodded to the baby.
Mariposa smiled and folded back the blanket to reveal a tiny dark-haired infant. “Es una niña,” she said. “Angelique.”
“Angelique,” Abby repeated. A little angel.
“Usted ha cido harido.” Mariposa lightly touched the side of Abby’s face.
Abby flinched. Not because the touch was painful, but because she didn’t like being reminded of the scar there. Multiple surgeries and time had faded the wound made by shrapnel from a roadside bomb, but the puckered white gash that ran from just above her left ear to midcheekbone would never be entirely gone. She wore her hair long and brushed forward to hide the worst of the scar, but alone in the wilderness on this warm day she’d clipped her hair back to keep it out of the way while she worked. She had no idea what the Spanish words Mariposa had spoken meant, but she was sure they were in reference to this disfigurement. “Es no importante,” she said, shaking her head.
She turned away, the profile of her good side to the woman, and spotted a delicate white flower. The three round petals blushed a deep purplish pink near their center. Half a dozen similar blooms rose nearby on slender, leafless stems. Abby knelt and slipped off her backpack and took out her trowel. She deftly dug up one of the flowers, revealing a fat white bulb. She brushed the dirt from the bulb and handed the plant to the woman. “Este es comer. Bueno.” Her paltry Spanish frustrated her. “It’s good to eat,” she said, as if the English would make any more sense to her new friend.
Mariposa stroked the velvety petal of the flower and nodded. “It’s called a mariposa lily,” Abby said. “Su nombre es Mariposa tambien.”
Mariposa nodded, then knelt and began digging up a second lily. Maybe she was just humoring Abby—or maybe she really needed the food. Abby hoped it was the former. As much as her studies had taught her about wild plants, she’d hate to have to depend on them for survival.
She turned to her pack once more and took out another collection bag, then remembered the energy bars stashed on the opposite side of the pack. They weren’t much, but she’d give them to Mariposa. They’d at least be a change from roots. She found three bars and pressed them into the woman’s hands. “Por usted,” she said.
“Gracias.” Mariposa slipped the bars into the pocket of her skirt, then watched as Abby took out the camera and photographed the parsley plants. On impulse, she turned and aimed the camera at Mariposa. Click. And there she was, captured on the screen of the camera, face solemn but still very beautiful.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Abby asked. She turned the camera so that the woman could see the picture.
Mariposa squinted at the image, but said nothing.
For a few minutes, the two women worked side by side, Mariposa digging lilies and Abby collecting more specimens of parsley. Though Abby usually preferred to work alone, it was nice being with Mariposa. She only wished she spoke better Spanish or Mariposa knew English, so she could find out more about where her new friend was from and why she was here in such a remote location.
Though the army had trained Abby to always be attuned to changes in the landscape around her, she must have gotten rusty since her return to civilian life. Mariposa was the first to stiffen and look toward the brush to the right of the women.
Abby heard the movements a second later—a group of people moving through the brush toward them, their voices carrying in the still air, though they were still some distance away.
She was about to ask Mariposa if she knew these newcomers when the young woman took off running. Her sudden departure startled Abby so much she didn’t immediately react. She stared after the young woman, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
Mariposa ran with her skirt held up, legs lifted high, in the opposite direction of the approaching strangers, stumbling over the uneven terrain as if her life depended on it. Abby debated running after her, but what would that do but frighten the woman more? She watched the fleeing figure until she’d disappeared over a slight rise, then glanced back toward the voices. They were getting louder, moving closer at a rapid pace.
Abby slipped on the pack and unholstered the weapon once more, then settled into the shade of a boulder to wait.
The group moved steadily toward her. All men, from the sound of them. The uneven terrain and stubby trees blocked them from view, but their voices carried easily in the stillness. They weren’t attempting stealth; instead, they shouted and crashed through the underbrush with a great crackling of breaking twigs and branches. As they neared she thought she heard both English and Spanish. They seemed to be searching for someone, shouting, “Come out!” and, “Where is