He drank his coffee while squatting on his heels beside the little fire, admiring the way the pale-yellow light of dawn glossed the waters of the crystalline lake and touched the very tips of the snowy peaks with a clear, bright light. It was quiet, so quiet he could hear the splash of a trout rising clear across the lake. Civilization felt a million miles away, yet only yesterday afternoon he’d heard a helicopter tracing along the western flanks of the mountains and he’d wondered if Joe Nash was flying some elk hunters into a remote camp. Guthrie had mixed feelings about Joe, but the man had never crossed him, and in spite of his somewhat shady reputation he was a good enough pilot. He’d helped Jessie out, too, and that had gained him some points. Truth was, if he’d thought of it, he’d have asked Joe to scope out the whereabouts of those wild mares. It would have saved him a lot of scouting.
But no matter. He’d caught up with them on his own, and if they’d left the valley during the night he wouldn’t be far behind. Unless, of course, he sat here drinking his coffee all morning long, admiring the scenery and daydreaming about Jess.
Guthrie rose to his full height and poured the remains of his coffee on the coals of the fire. He made sure the fire was cold out before saddling the mare. He led her to the shore’s edge to drink before bridling her, liking the way she took her cue and then lifted her head and gazed at him with those dark intelligent eyes, velvety muzzle dripping water. He wondered if Jess would consider selling him the mare, but the thought was fleeting.
He tightened the cinch, sheathed his rifle in the saddle scabbard and stepped aboard. The mare danced a few spirited steps and then quieted. He stroked her neck, shifted his weight and reached higher to rub behind her ears. No, Jess wouldn’t part with this horse, not with Billy getting on in years. All Jessie’s horses were good, but this mare was special and Jessie knew it. She’d keep Kestrel and count herself blessed.
He reined the mare around and she stepped out willingly toward the place that he had seen the mares the evening before. With any luck, they’d still be there.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HOW MANY TIMES had she ridden this trail on Billy, on old Seven, on a tough little horse called Mouse when her feet still dangled twelve inches shy of the stirrups? Yet still it surprised her, thrilled her, awed her and humbled her. She could never ride up into these mountains and not feel the magnificence of this great land. And even now, caught up in a clench of anxiety over Guthrie, she had to pause from time to time to sit for a few moments and absorb the vastness of it, breathe the very essence of what it was. Did Guthrie feel the same way about it? Perhaps he did but manifested the emotions differently. Perhaps a man couldn’t express his feelings the way a woman could, and perhaps a woman just couldn’t understand such reticence.
He could be so silent, so implacable. She would look at him and not know what he was thinking. It maddened her, because she had longed to be a part of him. She had loved him so painfully that it had frightened her, yet at times he was so distant, almost like a stranger. Like when he’d been turned down for the loan on the land along Bear Creek. For days he’d been noncommunicative and downright abrupt, yet for days he’d kept the news to himself, not telling her about this huge disappointment in his life, about the humility of having a banker say to him that he didn’t think he’d make good on the loan. He’d wanted that section of land so badly. He’d wanted to build a cedar cabin on it and move his father there. He’d worked so hard toward that goal and the banker had turned him down. Guthrie Sloane, the banker believed, was not a good risk.
Oh, Lord, she’d been so in love with him that his rejection had nearly driven her over the edge of the canyon. She hadn’t known the why of his brooding until one afternoon when he’d driven up to the ranch in that old rattletrap truck of his father’s. He’d taken the porch steps three at a time and swept her up in his arms, grinning ear to ear. “I got the money!” he said, holding her close. “That paper-backed fool in Livingston turned me down, so I went to another bank in Bozeman, and I got the money! I’m buyin’ the land, Jess. The papers are signed. It’s as good as ours!”
She’d been glad enough at his news, but the hurt of his prior silence still rankled. Why hadn’t he confided in her? She was a part of his life, wasn’t she? Everything he did affected her. His thoughts, his actions, his ideas, his opinions—they were the stuff of her life. She resonated with him, and in doing so discovered facets of herself that gave into her a more complete sense of being. Wasn’t it the same way with him? Why would he want to withhold anything from her?
She still remembered the times they’d had together when all was right and things were as they should be. She still remembered how he could make her laugh, how he could make her love.
Those memories were sweet, but they were painful, too. There was no going back. If they were to find anything like that again, it would necessarily be a melding of those turbulent times with the sweet ones, an amalgamation that would preclude the naive and youthful passion that had swept them up initially and deposited them all these years later like stones on a glacial moran, worn smooth from exposure to the harshest of elements.
Could they ever look upon each other in the same way? Would they even want to? People changed. Feelings changed. Sometimes there was no retrieving what had once been so precious and it was better to move on and let time dull the bitter memories and heal the raw wounds. Maybe in moving forward another life would beckon.
Another love…?
MCCUTCHEON DIDN’T WAIT for Badger to arrive from town to check on him. He dressed, fumbled his car keys out of his pocket, whistled up the dog and thumped his way on crutches clear to the ranch house, where his car was parked. It was an automatic, after all, and he only needed one foot to drive it. Lucky his left ankle—not his right one—was busted.
He drove to town, Blue sitting beside him on the buttery-soft leather passenger seat, looking well pleased with herself. He left her in the car and hobbled into the café, glad to see Bernie’s familiar face behind the counter. Badger was there, as well, sharing a booth with a friend, and half a dozen locals sat drinking coffee and chewing the fat. It was 8:00 a.m. and he figured every morning was pretty much the same at the Longhorn. Same faces, same booths and bar stools, same times. People were creatures of habit.
“Mr. McCutcheon!” Bernie smiled as he lurched up to the counter and slid onto a stool. “What can I get you?”
“It’s Caleb, please. Coffee for starters. And then breakfast—eggs, bacon, home fries, toast. Scramble the eggs or fry them—I’m not particular.”
“Hotcakes?”
“Sure.”
Bernie filled an ironstone mug with robust-smelling brew and nudged it toward him. “How’s Jessie doing?” she asked.
“Well, actually, that’s the reason I came into town,” he said, lifting the mug for a taste. “She was fine when I saw her last, which was about three hours ago, but she was heading up into the pass to find Guthrie.”
Bernie frowned. “What on earth possessed her to do that? Guthrie probably won’t get those mares back down for a couple days. She’s supposed to be laying low and taking it easy, same as you!”
“I know that, and so does Jessie. But she had a feeling something was wrong, so she went off to find him.”
Bernie looked pensive. “She had a feeling…?” She gave his breakfast order to the cook and then gazed pensively into space for a few moments before riveting her eyes on him. “Guthrie’s my brother, you know,” she said.
“Yes.”
“She said she had a feeling…?”
“Yes.”
“Guthrie’s pretty competent. He can take care of himself.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”
“Of course, if she had a feeling… I mean, things can happen…” Bernie’s smooth brow furrowed. “She shouldn’t be riding up there, anyways. No matter what she’s feeling. Not with that arm of hers.”
“No, I guess she shouldn’t.”
“Well.” Bernie
walked to the end of the counter, refilling coffee cups, then returned. “I’m not sure what we can do. A vehicle can’t get up there, and neither one of us can ride a horse. Jessie and Guthrie aren’t exactly overdue or missing, so calling the warden seems premature. But still…” Bernie paced the length of the counter and back. “If Jessie had a feeling…”
McCutcheon sipped his coffee and wasn’t surprised when Badger approached the counter. The old cowboy didn’t beat about the bush. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw and his eyes narrowed on McCutcheon’s face. “She said she had a feeling?”
“That’s right, and she said she trusted her feelings.”
Badger rubbed his jaw some more, then nodded. “Huh!” And then to Bernie, who had been listening on the other side of the counter, he said, “Can I borrow your phone? I guess maybe I ought to give the warden a call. When Jessie plays a hunch, it’s usually for real.”
“Wait a moment, Badger,” Bernie said, refilling McCutcheon’s mug with fresh coffee. “Maybe we’re reading this all wrong. Maybe Jessie went up there to spend some time alone with Guthrie, to try to sort things out between them. Maybe the feeling she was having was of a romantic kind.”
Badger snorted and shook his head. “Fireworks ain’t exactly been exploding between the two of ’em lately. At least, not the kind you and I are hopin’ for. No, ma’am. Romance ain’t why Jessie went.”
“Well,” McCutcheon said slowly, “I don’t know her the way you do, but she did seem genuinely worried.”
“’Course she was worried!” Badger said.
“But why would she be worried?” Bernie asked, giving Badger a pointed stare.
“Because.” Badger picked up his mug and took a sip, pausing long enough for everyone listening to get fidgety. “See, we talked last night, Jessie and me. About some things…”
“Badger!” Bernie set the coffeepot down abruptly and reached to take his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “Tell me what you know. Everything!”
Badger met her eyes and for a few moments maintained his stoic expression, but then his shoulders slumped. He knew when he’d met his match. “All right,” he said. “But first I better call the warden and let him know what’s goin’ on.”
JESSIE’S BAND of broodmares had left the high valley sometime during the night, working their way slowly westward through the pass. It would be ironic, Guthrie thought, if they brought themselves back to their winter pastures with no help at all from him. He didn’t push Kestrel to catch them up, but rather took advantage of the situation and enjoyed the slow, panoramic descent. It came to him, as the warmth of the morning sun began to work the kinks out of his muscles, that perhaps something else was motivating these wily mares. Perhaps that close encounter with the grizzly had spooked them enough to want to return to the safe and familiar haunts of their upbringing.
Jessie’s little band of mares might appear wild, but in fact each and every one of them had been gentled in their early years and had put in their time as working cow horses on the ranch. Jessie had kept the finest of the mares, and when they had passed their prime she gave them into a life of relative freedom, up until recently running them with that gentle gray stallion she had so favored. Each spring when the mares foaled she would keep them in the fenced meadows alongside the creek, and when the foals were big enough to be handled she would do so, hazing the mares into the corrals near the pole barn in order to spend time with the young ones.
To watch the mares around Jessie was a treat. They would put up a big wild front when first corralled, snorting and tossing their heads and racing around the enclosure with their foals pressed hard against their flanks, dust flying. And then Jessie would walk out into the middle of the corral with a pan of oats and shake it, and the mares would stop and face her, heads thrown up, ears pricked, nostrils flaring salmon pink.
The fire was still in their eyes but was tempered by the remembrance of gentler days, and by the remembrance, too, of the girl who had been kind to them, and had given them no cause to rebel against her. Their genetic compulsion to be free was gradually overcome by an equally powerful compulsion to be near Jessie, to waft the scent of her, to feel her hands work their magic in all the right places and to hear her soft, soothing voice.
In no time flat the mares would be lipping oats from the pan, while the wide-eyed foals watched and took in this human, who would become so formative in their lives. By the second day, the foals would allow Jessie to touch them. By the third day, they were following her around like long-legged pups. And the mares were equally tractable. At weaning, Jessie took complete charge of the foals and let the mares resume their idealistic lives.
The vast scope of the Weaver ranch had allowed her to do this, and had contributed greatly to the uniqueness of her horses. They had more vigor and spunk than the more conventionally housed horses, and it showed in everything they did. How would she manage now that she had lost the free range her mares had so coveted? Or did that really matter? Was the uniqueness all due to Jess? That was possible. Lord, that was probable. She herself was unique.
Guthrie reined in the mare and eased himself in the saddle. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. Once, he’d called Jess his Montana Rose, thinking she’d take it as pure flattery, being as how she loved the wild roses that grew in the untamed places she so favored, but she had laughed at him. “That fits, I guess,” she’d said. “I’m thorny as all get out!”
Thorny. That was how McCutcheon had described her, and he was partially right. Jess was sharp. She could cut a man to the bone with her tongue. She was quick to judge and quick to condemn. But Lord A’mighty, when she loved, she loved with all her heart, and her heart was easily the size of Montana. The things she cared about she would fight and die for. She had the courage of her convictions and the simple faith of a child who believed that good would always prevail.
The world would eat her up. It would destroy her. A part of him wanted to keep her in Katy Junction forever to protect her. But she had already faced the worst battle without him and had done the most selfless and courageous thing that anyone could ever do. She had given up what she loved more than anything to keep it from being destroyed.
He had failed her completely. If only he had had the financial ability to help her, he might have saved her world, but the truth was, he was just a simple hometown boy, with the bank account to match. McCutcheon and Steven Brown had it all over him, and that was written in black and white for anyone to see. Guthrie had done all right, by Katy Junction standards. He had a pretty good piece of land, a fine cabin and the means to keep them and make a modest living. But a modest living did not support the dreams Jess had of a west that knew no boundaries, had no limits and sprouted no fences.
A West that had no place for the simple dreams of a homespun cowboy.
SHE HAD TO REST Billy more often than she wanted, for he was not a young horse, or even in his prime. He was well past it and ready for retirement. He had paid his dues ten times over, and anything he gave her now was out of the stalwart goodness of his gritty heart. She stood at his shoulder and scratched his withers where he liked to have them scratched and gazed down, down, into a valley she could never look upon in quite the same way again, a valley that was no longer any part of her in reality, yet a valley that had been the very making of her. She now knew how the Crow and the Bannock and Blackfeet had felt when they had been pushed from this land, and she wondered if that anguish would ever go away, if time would soften the raw, rough edges of the pain.
Nagging doubts assailed her. Had Guthrie been right? Should she go back to school? The money she had realized after the debts on the ranch had been paid was enough to keep her comfortable for a good long while, but not forever, especially not if she bought another sizable piece of land. If she bought Dan Robb’s place she would have enough room to keep her mares comfortably ensconced and enough money to finish up her education. Perhaps that education was the key. Per
haps it would buy her more land, and give her into an existence that would make sense to someone who loved working with animals and who loved the wide-open spaces. Maybe… Maybe Guthrie had been right. Perhaps she should have called her professor and talked to him about it….
And then there was Guthrie. She could no more deny her feelings for him than she could deny her attachment to this land. He was a part of both, and in spite of her anger with him she still loved him. Most likely she always would.
Damn the man! In spite of her resolve to go it alone after he’d run off to Alaska, she felt herself caving in, weakening, wanting and needing the calm, quiet strength he had always offered her. Maybe he was the most close-mouthed cowboy ever born, but he was honest and loyal, and as Badger had told her time and again, Guthrie Sloane was all wool and a yard wide. And he loved her. Wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t it?
SENATOR SMITH HADN’T meant to fall asleep. He had kept a vigil ever since climbing into his tree stand at dawn. The bear would come. It would come, and he would be ready. The chair he sat in was comfortable. Not all tree stands were this luxurious, but as much as he enjoyed the hunt, he didn’t enjoy the hardships that normally accompanied it. He liked a good slug of brandy in his morning coffee. Cream cheese and lox on his bagel.
And, cursed he’d be if the world ever found out, he loved cold beans-and-franks right out of the can. He ate his breakfast up in the tree stand and kept the Weatherby close at hand as he did. After his second cup of coffee, liberally laced with a very fine old brandy, he relaxed a bit and leaned his shoulders against the rough tree trunk. It was quiet. Early quiet. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and the morning swell of birdsong was only just beginning. The bear was hungry. George could sense it. Feel it. The bear was on the move. On the prowl. Heading up to the kill site. George Averill Smith would be ready.
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