Big Sky Ever After: a Montana Romance Duet

by M. L. Buchman

  At least he got to prove that the last big, white cow barn on the road from Choteau to Augusta was indeed the one at the turn toward Henderson Ranch. But that wasn’t the mistake.

  His real mistake was not checking the flight booking more carefully. Great Falls had a one-stop flight to La Guardia, six or seven hours depending on the layover. Helena’s only real choice was to fly the wrong way first—through Seattle. It was twelve hours, two stops, and no better connections. He’d driven an extra forty miles to end up with a flight that was going to take double the time. For reasons that completely eluded him, he had to travel a thousand miles further west to Seattle to get back to JFK.

  And he spent the whole time puzzling over what Julie had meant with that deadpan, “Bye, Nathan.”

  Not, See ya, city boy.

  No, Come back fast.

  Not a hug. Not a smile. Nothing except, “Bye, Nathan.”

  As if he’d been a nice screw, she was done with him, and she’d really meant goodbye. But it didn’t make any sense.

  Unable to sleep on the redeye—how was he supposed to sleep as he was flying over Montana again—he began working on a menu. Something had to distract him.

  Nathan started with a classically French menu. He made a dozen different attempts to veer that one way or another, but couldn’t seem to find it. Estevan, like most of New York’s finest French chefs, was Hispanic—one of the weird truths of haute cuisine. The flavors of Estevan’s youth had no place in a French restaurant…but what if they did?

  Nathan began listing ideas, crossing out more than he kept. Snails in salsa was ridiculous, but a slow-simmered pozole beef stew reworked with a Burgundy wine had possibilities. Coq au Vin, made with a yellow Oaxacan mole. Instead of Courvoisier-chocolate mousse, a chili-chocolate one.

  Mexican-French Fusion. He paid for some airborne internet time and did some searching. There were a couple people trying it, but none in New York and none doing it high-end. Of the few he found countrywide, most were panned. But there were a couple good ones. Someone had proved that it worked, but it wasn’t even enough to be a trend yet. Estevan was a good enough chef that maybe he could turn it into one.

  By the time Nathan reclaimed his knives from checked luggage and the cab got him to the city, it was eight a.m. Six a.m. back in Montana—time to get up and cook. He headed straight for the restaurant.

  He found Estevan crashed out on a sagging settee at his new place halfway between Ripert’s Le Bernardin and Keller’s Per Se, and not too close to Hell’s Kitchen. It was an amazing location…and a total wreck. It looked like a cattle stampede had come through.

  “Hey!” He kicked the settee just as Julie had kicked his bed a lifetime ago to introduce him to her horse.

  “Buddy, you came,” Estevan’s groan was dramatic. “What time is it?” He looked at his watch then collapsed back onto the broken settee. “Wake me some time past noon.”

  Nathan kicked the settee again, which may have been a mistake as he was still wearing the heavy boots that Julie had made him purchase in Great Falls. Standing in the heart of Manhattan, it was hard to believe that he’d ever shopped at a place called Hoglund’s.

  The heavy blow was too much for the settee. Something inside cracked, then the whole thing gave way, ejecting Estevan into a line of chairs that weren’t much better than the settee.

  “What?” Estevan yelled without opening his eyes as he rubbed at his banged elbow.

  “It’s time to cook.”

  “It’s eight in the morning.”

  “Exactly,” Nathan could get to enjoy this. “Let’s see the kitchen.”

  Estevan staggered to his feet, lurched into the kitchen, and punched the coffee maker—literally. It seemed to be a random act until Estevan did it again and the power light flickered on.

  “Cold or hot?” Estevan held up half a pot of blackened sludge.

  “I’ll wait.”

  Estevan poured one chipped cupful, looked around the wreckage vainly for cream or sugar, shrugged, and took half of it in one swallow like bad medicine. Behind him, the machine cycled to life and began dribbling hot coffee onto the empty burner. The reek of burned coffee filled the air before Estevan could dump out the half pot of cold and slam it back into place.

  “Time to cook?” he looked at Nathan through the one eye that might have been starting to wake up.

  Nathan knew how to cure that. He handed over the stack of recipes he’d spent the last half of the flight writing down.

  Estevan grunted at the first, went quiet by the third, and by the fifth was starting to smile.

  “Amigo! Muchas gracias! But why not espazote leaves here in the Tarte Flambée? It would go well with the bacon and onion.”

  “Because I didn’t think of it.”

  Estevan grinned at him. “You and me. Two weeks. This will be spectacular. Mexican-French fusion, but all the way high.” He wrapped Nathan in a bear hug and pounded on his back as if he wanted to break some vertebrae.

  “Simple ingredients,” Nathan managed once Estevan released him. “But perfect preparations.”

  “Yes. Yes. Haute cuisine, but with a big punch of Mexican flavor.”

  Nathan looked around the kitchen. “Where are we going to cook? We need to test this.”

  Estevan kicked an oven—the door fell off with a crash. “The crew hits in an hour. By tonight, we’ll have enough of a kitchen to start testing. By three days, the kitchen will be done and they will start out front. I knew you would come back. Help me start breaking down this old equipment. The Irish owner was so cheap that he never fixed anything. I have to replace it all.”

  “Hey, I’m Irish,” Nathan couldn’t help laughing.

  “Get some whisky in you, then you will be.” They went back a long way, long enough that they’d helped each other dry out before they became true chef-alcoholics.

  “It’s a good space. Show me your layout.”

  Estevan found a magic marker and began drawing directly on a countertop. They soon scrounged up a tape measure and were making adjustments to the layout of the cook line.

  Open in two weeks.

  You and me.

  I knew you would come back.

  Nathan didn’t know quite what was going on. Except that he knew Estevan would never get this place open in time without him.

  “Montana? Really?” Estevan began throwing rusted and broken utensils into a huge garbage can.

  Nathan didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s where I ran out of road.”

  Chapter 14

  Julie stood in front of the last yurt and looked around her, unsure of what to do next. Every bunk was in place, every heater tested, every screw tightened. Ama had done one of her Cheyenne patterns in tile for the communal bath and showers. That alone was so beautiful that the yurts could well become the preferred rentals.

  There were already tourists in three of the cabins—she’d finished the Ponderosa bathroom with only a day to spare. Next week, the first of the yurts would be occupied.

  Down in the big corral, one of the summer guides was doing a basics class for the new guests. The kids were making better of it than their parents, but she could hear their laughter.

  The ranch was waking up, but the springtime was slow. The local farmers were starting to worry and the part-time Montanan preoccupation with the weather had taken on a full-time chokehold. The spring rains had yet to come. The doomsayers were already calling for a dry year, her father was on the fence, and Mac was still hopeful.

  She had another day or two of work on Emily’s office. A few touchups where Patrick had backed the baler into the corner of the barn.

  But nothing major.

  Nothing to hold her here.

  She’d been too busy to line up other jobs. For the last two weeks since he’d left, she’d purposely kept herself too busy to think. Except at night, after driving past the darkened Aspen cabin, to go home and lie in the silence of her bed.

  “Damn you, Nathan.”

 
; He had given her so much in so little time. The way he saw her: more beautiful, more capable, stronger than she could even imagine. The way he’d held her. The way he’d loved her.

  But not enough to stay. Not enough to ask her to go with him. Could she survive out from under her Big Sky?

  She’d never be able to leave Clarence. So what would he do? Become a stabled New York horse, only allowed to see the sun when trotting slowly through Central Park? She could see him even now, pastured in with the other Henderson horses. She’d barely ridden him in the last hectic weeks and it had seemed too cruel to leave him alone on the Larson ranch. And that would be far less cruel than some big city stable.

  Mac came up the hill with another group. Only Aspen and Larch were still empty. Not able to bear it if they were headed for Aspen, and definitely not able to bear any more of Mac’s gentle probing, she tossed her tool belt in the back of the truck and drove down the track to the barn.

  The sooner she finished Emily’s office, the sooner she could get off Henderson land and away from all of the reminders of what she’d had here—however briefly.

  But today, she couldn’t even face that.

  Instead, for the first time in weeks, she went up to the corral. She didn’t even need to click her tongue to call Clarence over; he spotted her and cut through the herd at a brisk trot.

  “Just you and me again, my big man,” Julie scrubbed at his nose, then apologized for not bringing a carrot. “Stay there.”

  She doubled back to the truck and grabbed an old horse blanket she’d been using when she didn’t want to scuff up the new flooring with her tools.

  Clarence followed her on the other side of the fence until they reached the gate. Once he was through, she tossed the blanket over him, then climbed the first couple rails until she could hop on bareback.

  She gave him a nudge with her knees.

  His ears twitched forward and in moments they were off.

  Chapter 15

  Dos artichoke empanadas and tres crispy duck quesadilla,” Estevan called out the firing order.

  Nathan slapped three duck legs on the big griddle. Miguel began on the empanadas.

  “I swear to god, mi amigo. You ever get tired of this, you should become fancy pants consultant for opening of restaurants. You can charge a ton. Si?”

  “Si,” Nathan agreed because it was easier than arguing with Estevan.

  “And ‘meals half price while under construction.’ Brilliant, Nathan. F’ing brilliant. At the real open, there won’t be any sticker shock at the real prices.”

  They had a packed the house on the first day and with the open kitchen plan—it had taken an extra two days to knock out the wall but it was worth it—they could hear the excited buzz. It wasn’t just French-Mexican fusion cuisine, it was French-Mexican fine dining. Tall walnut tables and minimalist chairs, set in a space with twinkle lights and still untouched bare brick walls. Next week they’d clean up the brick. After that, add fine linen and better service ware. Then…

  The upbeat energy of being able to see the kitchen played off the attentiveness that even a French maître d’ wouldn’t be able to fault.

  Rather than a breadbasket, every table was started with quail-and-black bean grilled jalapeño poppers with just a little of Estevan’s killer-good secret salsa recipe. It was served in classic dimpled French escargot plates of the finest porcelain.

  There were some fine wines coming out of Mexico and one of Estevan’s more comely cousins was also a top-notch sommelier. The beautiful steward—as well-versed in beer as in wine—was proving to be very popular. Like so many Mexican restaurants, Estevan had made it a family operation as much as possible. But he ran them through hard-core training on proper deportment and fine service, right down to the daily lecture on dish ingredients and the best ways to describe each one. The typical Mexican casual was replaced with elegance.

  “C’mon, amigo. Give,” Estevan called out between orders.

  “What?” Nathan tapped one of the lobster tails but decided it needed another thirty seconds in the pan.

  “I know what you are thinking of when you go quiet.”

  “Shut up, Estevan.”

  “La mujer bonita. La jolie femme. The pretty lady cowgirl.”

  “I should never have told you anything. Leave it.” One late night, so late that he knew Julie would be waking up soon, he’d told Estevan just a little.

  Some of it had sounded stupid, sitting here half drunk in a Manhattan restaurant. The way she looked when she rode. Her easy confidence around the cows and horses. The way she had seemed so a part of the land.

  Nathan stayed focused on the six sauté pans lined up in front of him, each with a different order. He was having a hard time keeping them straight. It was as if the edges were blurring.

  Was he so out of practice? It had been years since he’d even had to think to keep a dozen separate orders all firing at once, just at this one station.

  And now all he could think of was the way that a blonde cowgirl had smiled at him while eating a meatball.

  After curry-combing Clarence and getting him settled back in the Henderson’s barn, Julie headed home. It was after dinner, after dark, even after Dad had finished the books and gone in to watch a game on the TV along with his sons.

  Julie dug around in the refrigerator and unearthed a piece of meatloaf and some leftover mashed potatoes. She didn’t even bother with the gravy, just nuked them in their plastic containers and sat down alone at the dinner table.

  She was halfway through the meal before she became aware that she wasn’t alone. Her father was leaning against the doorway, just like the weary cowboy that he was. He was tall, taller than Nathan, almost as tall as Mark. She knew he was impossibly strong, but he wasn’t built big. She’d gotten her leanness from him.

  “Can see you’re unhappy, Julie.” It was so rare for him to actually call her by anything other than “girl” that she didn’t look away. In a house full of men, “girl” had always been sufficient. “Anything I can do about it?”

  She shook her head. “I wish there was, Dad.” She looked back down at her plate and really wished there was.

  “Got to do with your little company?”

  She shrugged. “Not really.”

  “’Cause I was chattin’ with Vern about the kinda work you’re doing for Mac. He sounded mighty interested. You should give him a call.”

  Julie looked up at him. She’d hoped for recommendations from Mac, but never expected one from her father.

  “Their property is off a ways. Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad.”

  Vern’s spread was as far the other side of Choteau as they were. Sixty miles by the crow from here. Well clear of the Front Range. Well clear of the memories. She liked…and didn’t like that part of it.

  “Got to do with that young man.”

  He didn’t make it a question so it was hard to shrug it off.

  “He worth it?”

  She could only nod.

  “He’s gone back to New York?”

  Even the nod was beyond her.

  “Not coming back.”

  Again not a question.

  “Shit!” Then after a long pause, he spoke softly. “I’m real sorry, Julie.”

  By the time she could trust herself to look up, her father was gone.

  The next morning Mark nearly steamrollered her into the ground as she came into the barn and he was headed out.

  “Hey, Julie! Help me roll out the helo.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order.

  In five minutes, with hardly another word, Mark was in the air and headed East—fast.

  Emily was waiting for her when Julie reached the new office. It had changed a lot over the last six weeks. The battered loft filled with the unwanted refuse of a horse barn was now unrecognizable.

  Up the stairs above the two tack rooms and to the right was a set of cubbyhole shelves and hanging pegs for coils of rope. Leather strapping had a different shelf for eve
ry gauge. There was even a big bin of old horseshoes to be given to eager kids to hang on their walls at home.

  To the left was one of the strangest rooms Julie had ever been in—never mind built. From the outside, it looked wholly innocuous. She’d sided it with old barn lumber and normal-looking windows. But she’d found (and Emily had been thrilled with) special glass that looked mostly black from the outside—as if the lights were always out inside the room—but offered full visibility from within.

  The parts she’d picked up at Malmstrom AFB with Nathan offered an entire layer of electrical silencing. Nothing done inside the room traveled out except as an encrypted signal up to satellites via a few small antennas she’d mounted beside the solar panels. No emissions to detect. Even the fresh air system was a crazy collection of electronic filters and wave disruptors that she didn’t begin to understand, but the installation instructions had been clear enough for her to install them.

  Inside, Emily’ seat commanded a jet black cocoon of enough electronics to make an alien spaceship look average. What made it even stranger were the views out the windows overlooking the horse stalls, and the skylight on the sloping ceiling that allowed a view of the fields and sky.

  When she’d asked, Emily had laughed. “Nothing mysterious. I do tactical consulting on complex missions for my old unit. Since I refuse to leave my children in order to do that—the whole idea behind leaving the Army in the first place—they built me this. Well, you built it, but they paid for it. It’s a tactical command center.”

  Which had prompted Julie to add a small wooden plaque outside the door which read “Tac Room” to go with the two larger “Tack Room” signs below.

  The door was open when she reached the top of the steps.

  “I like my sign,” Emily greeted her and waved her to a chair.

  “I hoped you might.”

  “What’s left?”

  Julie ran down her punch list, which was actually depressingly short. She’d be done with all of her Henderson Ranch contract work by midday.