Kansas Troubles Read Online Free Page B

Texas?”
    “From 1871 to 1888, until the Santa Fe Railroad changed it to Derby to end confusion with the one in Texas, but it wasn’t changed officially until 1956.”
    We passed a small tan building on our right. A tilted green derby over the D in The Daily Reporter gave the newspaper’s name a jaunty air. A large banner with a turkey-red Bear’s Paw quilt pattern in each corner stretched across the building advertising the Bear’s Paw Quilt Guild’s First Annual Quilt Show: “From Our Hearts To Yours—Quilting From The Kansas Heartland.” When I’d spoken to Gabe’s sister Becky on the phone last week, she was excited about us being here during the show. She was current president of the three-year-old guild, and with the list of activities she reeled off, it sounded as if I’d have plenty to keep me busy while Gabe was off with his friends. That relieved my performance anxiety somewhat. I couldn’t picture spending two weeks trying to make conversation with a new mother-in-law who, I suspected, was not thrilled with her son’s impulsive decision to remarry.
    We made a U-turn and came back to the middle of town where we turned left on a small street, crossed the railroad tracks and the Arkansas River, and drove down a narrow dirt road with houses on the left and open fields on the right. Most of the homes had deep front yards, dense with trees and vines. Boats and campers crowded many of the narrow gravel driveways.
    “You can’t tell from here,” Gabe said, “but these houses sit right on the river.”
    “The Arkansas River, right?” I said, showing off my topographic knowledge of his home state.
    “No,” he said solemnly. “The Ar kansas River. Remember where you are.” He turned into a narrow driveway, pulling up in front of a white, two-story wood-frame house with a steep gray roof and a red brick apron. The shady front porch held a natural wood porch swing, a yellow bird feeder, two white wicker chairs, and a padded redwood chaise longue. As Gabe turned off the engine, the screen door opened, and his mother stepped out. She stood as tall and sturdy as an elm tree, resting large hands on her narrow hips. She wore an iris-blue skirt, a white tailored blouse, and sensible navy loafers. Her pale skin had the translucence of nonfat milk.
    “Mom,” Gabe said, walking up the steps and throwing an arm around her shoulders. “You look younger every time I see you.”
    “Oh, get on with you,” she said, slapping him lightly on the chest. Her stern expression softened to one of indulgence. Next to her creamy complexion, my dark-skinned husband looked like a foundling until mother and son turned and regarded me with the same mercurial eyes.
    “This must be your new wife,” Mrs. Ortiz said, her face holding the same I’ll-make-up-my-mind-when-you’ve-proved-out look I’d seen so often on her son.
    He smiled widely. “Must be. This is Benni.”
    I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ortiz.”
    She shook it firmly, her expression appraising now with the experienced evaluation of a public school teacher. “I’m glad you could come.” Her voice was as cool and dry as the palm of her hand. I had no trouble picturing her clapping her capable hands briskly and bringing a rambunctious group of fifth-graders to attention. “Please call me Kathryn.”
    I nodded, thinking how different it was when Gabe was heartily welcomed into my extended Southern-born family. Half the time Dove, whom Gabe affectionately calls Abuelita , takes his side over mine in disputes. I had a feeling that wasn’t going to be the case with Kathryn and me.
    She looked up at Gabe, her granite face again turning gentle and liquid. “Are you hungry? Supper’s waiting. I made your favorite chicken and rice casserole. When was the last time you had a good, home-cooked meal?” She linked arms with her son and led him toward the front door.
    “I don’t know,” he said. “Let me think.” He peered over her head and gave me