She hunkered down on her bench in the solitary corner she’d claimed in the garden, cringing when her own name drifted to her ears. “. . . where’s Esperanza’s daughter?” “Wyatt? Oh, she’s probably skulking about somewhere.” The voice dropped to a whisper, and Wyatt could only make out those familiar words she’d heard applied to her too many times in her life. “. . . strange . . . bizarre . . .” The voices drifted away behind the vast hedges, and relief washed through Wyatt in a great wave. She’d already “made an effort,” as her mother called it. She’d stood among the crowd and endured the conversations for several minutes. But soon, the press of noises, the wafts of perfume, and the casual brushings of shoulders against hers had mounted into a cacophonic onslaught to her senses, and she couldn’t bear to remain in the middle of so many people. She walked away, determined to escape the entire family, Garzas and Enslows alike. She’d found shelter in the cool, dark corner of the grounds where drooping, green leaves shaded a stone bench near her mother’s stables.
