A Noble Calling

by Rhona Weaver

  He dutifully called his mother and made an upbeat report on his uneventful trip across half the country. He didn’t mention the near shoot-out on the mountain, the less-than-friendly new coworker, or the altitude sickness. She wanted pictures of his new house, his office, and Yellowstone. He promised to send some, but it occurred to him he’d been so sick yesterday afternoon and last night that he had no idea what his new place looked like.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the morning’s second knock on his door. This time it was firm and direct. Okay, maybe Johnson decided I might die last night and is finally checking to see.

  Instead, he opened the door and looked down on a slight young man dressed in green—obviously the color of choice here. “Hi, hope it isn’t too early, I’m Jason Price, Assistant Facilities Manager for National Park Service Housing.” Win raised an eyebrow in disbelief; the kid couldn’t have been over sixteen or seventeen years old. Apparently, he got that response a lot. “Well, uhhh, my father is the actual facilities manager, but I homeschool and work part-time since staffing’s been reduced. Federal budget cuts, you know.”

  The kid looked official enough, with his thick clipboard and uniform, so Win opened the door wider. It was nearly as cold in the dreary room as it was outside, where, as if on cue, the snow began to fall.

  “So sorry about the condition of the unit,” the young man was saying. “We weren’t expecting you until Friday, but I’ve got a six-man crew lined up to go to work at eight o’clock. The last tenant moved out two months ago, and this unit has been scheduled for an upgrade for, like, thirty years, but, you know—”

  “Let me guess, federal budget cuts?” Win interjected, smiling.

  “Yeah, yeah, but this is a real sweet house. It was built in 1894 as the park’s seat of justice. It’s in the Fort Yellowstone Historic District. Constructed of Yellowstone sandstone—the walls are eighteen inches thick, two beautiful fireplaces, oak floors and paneling—all original to the early 1890s. The Federal Magistrate wanted a modern place, so he lives down in Lower Mammoth. Lots of our employees want to live in newer houses, but units like this have real character.” He was talking and writing on the clipboard as he walked through the living room. “Needs paint, lighting . . . bathroom needs lots of work, plumbing issues. Kitchen needs new appliances and counters, polish the hardwood floors and woodwork . . .” He paused and gave Win an expectant look. “The last tenant used the big southwest room as a bedroom and office. It gets a little late-afternoon sun in winter and looks out over the Lower Terraces of the hot springs. We got those rooms and the upstairs bedrooms and bath shipshape last week. What did you think?”

  “Uh, didn’t feel well last night,” Win admitted. “I haven’t made it past this room and the bathroom. I—”

  “Altitude sickness, I’ll bet,” the kid interjected. “Pretty common. Drink lots of water and rest.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Feeling much better. Wanna show me around?”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind, my guys will be here in a few minutes. Why don’t you pick out your new living room furniture from my photos.” He handed Win his phone. “I’m planning on installing Wi-Fi today. Want satellite TV? I’ve got two 42-inch flat-screens in the warehouse you can have.”

  He had Win’s attention now. He’d been told there was no television or internet service in park housing. “You can do that? Yeah, sure.”

  “The rental units for tourists don’t have TV or Wi-Fi, in keeping with the park’s rustic, back-to-nature concept, but hey, you’re here for the long haul. We can make this house totally awesome.” His thin face took on a determined look as his eyes ran over the stained sofa, sagging curtains, and scuffed floors.

  Win was starting to realize the assistant facilities manager would be a good man to know. Unfortunately, his headache was making a reappearance. He sat down on the old couch and cradled his head. It was obvious that staying in the house wasn’t a good option for the day.

  “I might check out the park,” he offered.

  “Hmmm,” the boy said, “tell you what, this will take two full days, then there’ll be things to tweak. The park roads are all closed because of the snow except for the Gardiner entrance. Won’t be any snow issues on the main roads north of here. You might want to get down to a lower altitude anyway, maybe run to Walmart and stock up on stuff. Maybe spend the night at the hotel or in town. Could meet you here at 5:30 tomorrow afternoon and let you inspect the place. Is that a plan?”

  Lower altitude was sounding like a wonderful idea. Win stowed the few possessions he’d unloaded the day before back in his truck and leaned his head against the frigid steering wheel to let the nausea pass. According to Jason, Walmart and civilization were about ninety miles north in Bozeman, Montana. He drove out of the park down the same slick mountain road he’d driven in on—this time he remembered the forty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit.

  * * *

  As Jason predicted, all signs of altitude sickness left him as he descended over a thousand feet in elevation from Mammoth into Gardiner. The snow had stopped by the time he drove the five and a half miles into town, and except for the low, gray clouds, there was no sign of winter. There was no sign of spring either, but he was in Montana’s mountain country; he couldn’t expect the seasons to be the same as in the South. When he’d left his childhood home in Arkansas late on Easter Sunday, the dogwoods and redbuds had been in full bloom. He shook his head to clear the homesickness and tried again to appreciate his new, very different surroundings.

  He’d blown through Gardiner on his way to the park the day before, but he’d been in too much of a funk to really notice it. This trip, he slowed and meandered through the sprawling community of about nine hundred that straddled the high banks of the Yellowstone River. The old downtown lay south of the rushing river; its stone and clapboard buildings had once fronted a long-abandoned railroad. The structures now faced the iconic stone arch heralding the north entrance to Yellowstone—the town literally sat at the doorstep of the world’s first national park.

  A couple of bars, a café, and a few businesses were open, but most of the storefronts were dark and sported signs promising to reopen in mid-May. Win turned north off the main drag and drove across the river bridge, passing an assortment of convenience stores, motels, and tourist shops lining the highway leading out of town. Many of those businesses remained shuttered as well. Apparently the little town hadn’t shaken off winter just yet.

  As he drove north toward Bozeman, the low clouds met the tops of the rolling gray and brown hills, giving the countryside a claustrophobic feel. From the photographs he’d seen on the internet, he knew there were vast mountain ranges and forests in the area, but the snow clouds obscured any view of them. Clumps of low brush and an occasional stand of evergreens or bare cottonwoods dotted the landscape. The Wyoming-Montana border region would have to grow on him. His first impression was of its barrenness.

  He was expecting Bozeman to be a sleepy, declining little cow town, but was pleasantly surprised to see a city of almost fifty thousand that appeared to be in a bit of a renaissance. Montana State University sat near a bustling main street that had an upscale college vibe. The modern airport had nonstop commercial flights to a few major cities. Shoppers were friendly and outgoing. He couldn’t figure out what was fueling the economy, but something sure was working. His new home in Mammoth, Wyoming, was within two hours of Bozeman. Maybe he hadn’t been exiled to the far side of the moon after all.

  Win had already decided his usual attire of a dark suit and tie wasn’t going to cut it in Yellowstone. He’d stick out like a sore thumb. After an hour of relaxed surveillance outside the local courthouse, he could see that attorneys and law enforcement officers dressed more casually here, with a bit of a western flair. Stops at two outdoor supply stores and a couple of western-wear shops provided the needed additions to his wardrobe.

  Driving back into the park the next day
, he felt a bit of his natural optimism returning. Some of the apprehension had left him, and his better nature was trying to reframe his new posting as more of an adventure than a trial. His overloaded SUV eased up the final mountain onto the plateau where Mammoth sat and into the same winter weather he’d left thirty-two hours earlier. The low clouds still hung over the hills, and a thin dusting of snow covered everything.

  He was running early for his meeting with Jason, so he took a few minutes to look over his new hometown. The internet told him Mammoth had a year-round population of fewer than three hundred people, which swelled to more than two thousand with additional park employees, contractors, and temporary workers during the short tourist season. A retro post office and a medical clinic sat on the opposite side of the divided street from the Justice Center. Vintage stone buildings contained the park’s headquarters. The massive stone Albright Visitor Center was just across the divided street from the FBI office. Several large two-story brick-and-clapboard houses extended to the south from the Visitor Center. The tourist brochure he’d picked up called the big houses Officer’s Row, and said they’d housed Fort Yellowstone’s Army officers and their families back in the late 1800s. Many of the historic buildings faced an open area, which had served as the cavalry’s parade grounds more than a century ago. Just beyond the houses, on the southern end of the historic district, was a pretty gray-stone church. It pulled at his heart for a moment, before he looked away. I have to get back into church.

  A hundred years ago, someone had the good sense to plant dozens of trees in this area. Their towering bare branches now rose above the chapel and many of the nearby buildings. It would be green and shady here if spring ever came.

  Win looped back toward the FBI office and then turned west on the highway toward his house. He passed the expansive Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel and two restaurants. There was a general store, an old-fashioned gas station, and a small number of other buildings, all in the cream-and-gray paint scheme of the historic district. His house stood slightly apart from the others; it was the last structure before the Grand Loop Road climbed past the Lower Terraces and southwestward into the western part of the park. When Yellowstone’s roads fully opened, that highway would lead to Old Faithful and its famous geyser basins, fifty-two miles away, and to West Yellowstone, a town of fourteen hundred, fifty miles away on the western boundary of the park.

  The brochure said his new house had been the residence of the park’s first judge, as well as a courthouse and jail. It was a solid-looking gray-stone structure with one and a half stories; the upper level had double dormers and a snow-covered wood-shingle roof. Two stout red-brick chimneys rose from the center of the house. Large evergreens shielded its covered front porch from the highway and the open parade grounds. A porch swing and two Adirondack chairs had appeared on the porch since his earlier stay. Every window glowed brightly in the dwindling light of the gloomy afternoon—the house, his house, actually looked inviting.

  Having tourists nearly on his doorstep would take some getting used to, but the view from one side of the house was the trade-off. The cascading white terraces of the hot springs dropped off a mountain in layers for several hundred feet toward the side of the house. Shallow streams of scalding water, colored orange by bacteria, flowed less than seventy feet from the driveway. Raised wooden boardwalks meandered around some of the features, but no tourists were braving the weather this afternoon. Steam rose from the hot pools on the terraces and blended into the spitting snow, creating a floating curtain of vapor and fog. Win figured few folks had such a fascinating next-door neighbor.

  Workmen were hauling tools and ladders out the back door as Win pulled into the gravel parking area between the rear of the house and a small wooden shed. When he stepped out of the truck, Jason beamed. This kid clearly loved his work.

  “We finished right on time, sir. Still have a few things to do. But come on in and let me show you around.”

  There was new tile and paint in the mudroom, laundry room, and kitchen—and new appliances and countertops, polished wood floors and paneling, even curtains on the windows. Stained French doors led from the kitchen into the room where Win spent his first night in Yellowstone. He wouldn’t have recognized the room. The vintage light fixtures were burning bright against the stamped-copper ceiling. The brick fireplace looked freshly scrubbed and was outfitted with substantial-looking black-iron hardware and screen. A cream-colored sofa, with matching chair and ottoman, had taken the place of the dilapidated couch where Win had slept. A large flat-screen TV sat on an antique credenza against the opposite wall.

  “It’s all hooked up, sir. Let me show you how the TVs and Wi-Fi work here.”

  Win was liking this little guy more and more.

  The large first-floor bedroom was where the judge’s office and a portion of the jail were located when the house was built in 1894. Although Win hadn’t seen the room earlier, he suspected Jason had worked his magic on it as well. There were antique wooden bookcases and a leather reading chair with an ottoman in the corner, and a large walnut bed faced the structure’s second brick fireplace. A flat-screen TV dominated the space above the fireplace’s mantel—his mother would hate that, but he loved it. The comforter on the bed, the curtains, even the wool rug in the room proclaimed the colors of nature: greens, blues, browns. The bedroom and office were outfitted exactly as he would have done it if he’d had any talent at interior decorating—which he did not. He decided he owed the assistant facilities manager a steak dinner.

  After Jason finished the grand tour and left, Win walked back through the house. He was accustomed to having his own things, but almost everything he owned was now in storage. His high-rise apartment in Charlotte couldn’t have been more different from the piece of history he now occupied. Back in Charlotte, Shelby had selected modern furniture. She’d also picked out the twelfth-floor apartment with the city view, in a building with a gym and a pool. He’d lived there for nearly three years, but had never really felt at home. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure she’d asked him what he preferred. He’d let her make so many of their decisions. . . . He’d gone with the flow.

  He fought back a wave of emptiness as he ran his fingers over the kitchen’s new granite countertop. Goin’ with the flow isn’t who I am. Nearly thirty years old. . . . Shoulda figured that out before now.

  * * *

  Win’s phone was buzzing the 5:15 a.m. alarm and he hit the snooze. As his head fell back on the pillow, he realized he’d been holding her soft hand; it was warm and comforting and so painfully real he immediately felt moisture come to his eyes. He blinked the beginnings of tears away and tried to swallow the lump rising in his throat. She’d never been big on sleeping too close to him at night, but whenever he awoke he would always touch her hand. Often he’d held it when he drifted to sleep. Someday maybe he’d actually wake up and not have dreamed of her, or felt her touch, or longed for her. But the heavy tightness in his chest and the gripping pain in his heart told him “someday” hadn’t come quite yet. He forced himself to crawl out of bed and face the morning. One more step toward moving on with his life. Eventually it had to get better; everyone said it would.

  He wondered if that was true.

  * * *

  A little later that same morning, seven miles as the crow flies northwest of where Win sat in his kitchen, drinking his second cup of coffee, a man stood staring out the window into the falling snow. The man was a little past middle age and of medium height. His dense brown hair was in a short cut, and heavy brows hooded his eyes. There wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about his appearance; he was still fairly slender and strong for a man his age. He wore the uniform of his age group in the West: black Roper boots, sharply creased Wrangler jeans, and a white snap-button long-sleeved shirt. A gray Stetson hat sat on the desk nearby. A large silver belt buckle from one of his son’s rodeo wins anchored his leather belt, The Lord Lives! engra
ved along its length. His face and hands were weathered and tan, and his mouth seemed to be permanently set in an almost-smile. The look could change in an instant from a genuine smile to a threatening snarl—it was a perfect reflection of his heart.

  He was looking out his second-story office window over the grounds of the new church. They’d only been here eleven months and already had ninety-eight adult members. And membership did have its requirements: church services three times a week, tithing of income, and commitment to some service for the church at least twice a week. Adherence to the church’s doctrine left little time for other pursuits, which was just the point. Eventually it would become a self-contained community. It was destined to be the spear tip of the Lord’s return in glory.

  The church building was actually a large, wood-frame hunting lodge whose original owners hadn’t weathered the latest economic downturn. After the seventy-five-acre tract with its substantial improvements slid into bankruptcy, the federal government tried to buy the land. It was one of the few inholdings within the boundaries of Yellowstone National Park, but funding requests at the Park Service moved at the pace of cold molasses, and the bankruptcy trustee finally sought another buyer. The church’s cash offer had quickly been approved. The renovation of the main lodge, manager’s house, twelve log cabins, and barns was now complete. And the location was perfect. The church was only four miles by gravel road from the main highway and the national park’s north entrance at Gardiner. Their land was in the foothills of the mountains. It was isolated, but not remote.

  Providence had led him here, no doubt. Southwestern Montana was the ideal site for his church. The ruggedness of the region drew men and women who valued their independence and had low tolerance for a government that continually tried to meddle in their affairs. They were God-seeking souls who needed a strong leader to guide them.