Montana Dreaming (Home On The Ranch)

by Nadia Nichols

  “They can fix my arm without knocking me out!” she’d said.

  “No, they can’t. Don’t you understand what they told you? They have to cut your arm open and expose the ends of the bones. That’s blood-and-guts stuff. You can’t be awake for that! Now, sign the damn form or I’ll sign it for you!”

  “You’re not my guardian!”

  “I’m your best friend in the whole wide world and that makes me your guardian. Sign that piece of paper, Jess. I’m tired. You’re tired. Let’s get this over with so’s I can take you back home.”

  “I don’t have a home anymore. And I don’t give a damn what happens to my arm!”

  He’d bent over her, hands closing on her shoulders, and stared her straight in the eye. “Quit feelin’ sorry for yourself! We’ve got to get back so’s we can take care of Blue, feed and water the horses, check on the cattle. There’re chores to be done and no one to do them but us. Now, sign that damn form!”

  She’d signed it, all right, but the sparks had flown. She didn’t like being told what to do. Hadn’t liked feeling helpless. Hadn’t wanted to be knocked out to have her arm cut open. Truth was, he didn’t blame her one bit, but those were the breaks. Literally. And now she was sitting next to him, still reeling from the anesthesia but as tight as a bowstring and spitting mad to boot, all of which made him very uneasy. She should have been slumped against him, limp as a dishrag, dopey and drooling, the way Blue had been last night.

  “Well, I swear,” he said suddenly. “Wasn’t that Grover drivin’ that car that just passed us? Grover Vining? I thought they’d locked him up for a long time when he robbed that store in Livingston.”

  No response from Jessie, but McCutcheon dutifully turned his head, eyebrows raised. “He robbed a store?”

  “Yessir. Robbed the grocery at gunpoint last year. Got away with forty dollars and two packs of Marlboro cigarettes and made it as far as Gallatin before they caught him. Actually, he turned himself in, didn’t he, Jess?” Silence. “Yessir, he turned himself in at the gas station in Gallatin. Said he’d robbed a store and wouldn’t ever get to heaven that way. Or something along those lines. So the guy at the gas station told him to go on home and sleep it off, but Grover made him call the store in Livingston. So he did. And it turned out Grover was tellin’ the truth.

  “Well now, the guy at the gas station in Gallatin didn’t really know what to do. Here was this dangerous robber who was insisting that he hold him there until the police could arrive and properly arrest him. But the guy got scared that Grover would pull a gun on him and do something stupid like shoot him, so he told him to git on out of there.”

  “No kidding?” McCutcheon eased a cramp in his injured leg, stretched it out and bumped Jessie accidentally. “Sorry,” he said quickly, feeling her flinch. “What happened then?”

  “Well, Grover didn’t quite know what to do. So he drove back to Livingston and went back into the store with the two packs of Marlboros, less three cigarettes, and all the money except what he’d spent on gas in Gallatin, and he gave everything back.”

  “And then the cops came,” McCutcheon predicted.

  “Oh, hell, yes. Sirens, flashing lights, the whole shebang. They arrested Grover and convicted him of all sorts of nasty things. Grover’s always been a few bullets shy of a full load, but I wouldn’t consider him too dangerous. The law did, though. Didn’t they sentence him to five years with all but two suspended?” Guthrie said to Jessie.

  Another big silence.

  “Well, anyhow,” Guthrie continued, “I know that was Grover who just passed us, so he must have gotten out on good behavior or something.”

  “Ah,” McCutcheon said. The tension inside the truck was increasing by the moment. He was beginning to wish he’d rented a car to get himself back to Katy Junction. In fact, he was almost beginning to wish he’d never heard of a place called Katy Junction. “Maybe we could stop in town and get something to eat at the café before it closes,” he suggested tactfully.

  “If I know my sister, she’s left something for us to eat at the ranch. But I would like to stop at the store to pick up a few things, just in case. And we should swing by your motel room, too. Collect your bags.”

  “I could just as easily stay there,” McCutcheon offered. “It might be best if I did.”

  “Wouldn’t make much sense, would it? Hell, you own one of the prettiest ranches in the West. You might as well start enjoying it.”

  McCutcheon cringed inwardly. He half expected Jessie Weaver to whip out a six-gun and shoot both of them.

  He wouldn’t have blamed her one bit.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THEY MADE IT BACK to the ranch before dark. Time enough to get settled in. Time enough to do evening chores. Time enough to eat. Bernie had been there. Smoke was curling from the chimney of the old cabin. Guthrie drove the truck as near to it as he could get, took McCutcheon’s bags from the back and carried them inside, while McCutcheon struggled to climb down out of the truck. It was warm in the cabin, the smells of Spic and Span, wood smoke and Murphy’s oil soap attesting to his sister’s domestic ministrations. With the porch door ajar, the room filled with the soothing sound of the creek rushing past.

  McCutcheon thumped awkwardly up onto the porch and paused there. He leaned on his crutches, looked around at the spectacular scenery and drew a deep, grateful breath. “Jesus,” he said, but the way he said it, he wasn’t swearing.

  “I put your bags in the bedroom,” Guthrie said. “Bernie’s fixed the place up real nice. I’m going to get Jess situated and then I’ll come back and check on you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll be more than fine. Don’t worry about me. This is as close to heaven as I’ll ever get. You go on, take care of that girl. And thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  Guthrie was reluctant to return to the truck. Jess had moved over as far as she could and sat pressed up against the passenger-side door. He climbed in and slammed his door shut. “I’ll tend to the horses,” he said as he pointed the truck up the last stretch of road. From the old cabin to the ranch house was about one quarter of a mile. “And I’ll check on the cattle, though I expect they’re fine. I can carry Blue down the porch steps if she still can’t navigate them. Then I’ll leave you alone. I guess that’s what you’re wantin’ most of all.”

  He parked in front of the ranch house, picked up the bag of groceries he’d bought at the store and followed Jessie up the porch steps. She opened the kitchen door and was met by a very lonely little dog who would have leaped up into her arms if she’d had the strength. Jessie knelt and put one arm around her.

  “Blue! Hey, old girl, you’re lookin’ better! Come on, you must have to go outside.” She stepped past Guthrie, dog at her heels, and walked back down the porch steps. The dog followed after her, moving slowly but surely. Guthrie watched until they had both made it safely to the bottom of the steps, and then he turned back into the kitchen and deposited the bag on the table.

  His stomach churned with emotion and he could hardly think straight. He was so discouraged that it was hard to see the good in anything. He was still so desperately in love with Jessie Weaver, and she so obviously couldn’t stand to be near him. The long summer apart had done nothing to ease her sore feelings toward him. In fact, she seemed madder with him now than she’d ever been.

  His sister had left a pot of something delicious-smelling atop the stove. He lifted the lid. Beef stew. And there was a pan of fresh-baked rolls up on the warming shelf, covered over with a clean dish towel. Good girl! Jessie needed a hot home-cooked meal. She’d been through such hell. He fed some fresh firewood into the firebox and nudged the pot of stew over to warm. Then he went back outside to tend the horses. This was simple enough, just a matter of forking down some hay, making sure the water tank was full, arranging eight, equally spaced piles of grain along the edge of the corral, atop each pile of hay, so the horses could each get their share. He leaned over the top rail of the corral and watched them feed…h
ow the pecking order asserted itself. “Hey, Billy Budd,” he said to the gelding being pushed from one pile to another by the aggressive young stock. “Stick up for yourself, old man!”

  None of the cattle had come in from the range, so he figured they were okay. He returned to the kitchen. Jessie had lit a lamp against the coming dusk. “You’ll need to pull Billy out of the upper corral tomorrow,” he said. She was filling Blue’s dish with kibble and she shot him a hostile glance. “The ladies are picking on him. He’s too old and he’s worked too hard not to get his fair share.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” she said quietly. She put the bowl on the floor and Blue attacked it with enthusiasm.

  “I got some stuff at the store. Eggs, milk, bread, butter. Survival food.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Did the doctor give you anything for pain?”

  “I told him I didn’t need anything.”

  Guthrie sighed. “How’d I know you were going to say that? You should’ve taken what he offered. It’d help you sleep.”

  “I won’t need any help sleeping.”

  “No, I guess you won’t. Not tonight, anyways.” Guthrie unpacked the grocery bags and put the perishables in the propane refrigerator. “Hey!” he said. “Lookee here!” He removed the bottle of wine he found secreted within and whistled appreciatively. “It has a cork and everything! Expensive stuff!”

  Jessie dropped into a chair. “Bernie,” she said, staring with morbid fascination at the evil-looking contraption on her lower left arm.

  “She thinks of everything. Even the right wine for a hearty beef stew.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “What’s that?” Guthrie was rummaging through the empty kitchen drawers for a corkscrew.

  “She thinks we’ll sit here and drink it together and get married tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Hell, I’m all for that, but dammit all, I can’t find the corkscrew…”

  “Guthrie, don’t you remember how awful things were between us?”

  “It wasn’t all bad,” he said, digging in his jeans pocket for his jackknife. “Matter of fact, for fifteen years it was great. Just the last of it went wrong. That doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends, Jess.” He used the corkscrew on his knife to pry the cork out and poured two generous measures into the coffee mugs they’d drunk from that morning. He raised his cup. “To friendship.”

  Jessie raised her eyes and regarded him with open skepticism. “Friendship?”

  “No matter where you decide to go, what you decide to do or who you wind up marryin’, I’ll always be there if you should need me. I guess that’s worth drinking to, isn’t it?”

  The faintest of wry smiles curved her lips. “To friendship,” she said, and raised her cup to his.

  JOE WAS TAKING a taste of his very first bottle of beer that evening at his favorite saloon in Gardiner when a familiar voice spoke at his elbow. He straightened on his bar stool and glanced sidelong into the face of none other than Senator George Averill Smith.

  “Why, good evening, Senator,” he said. “I didn’t know you were in the valley.”

  “I flew in this morning for a few days at my lodge and maybe a little elk hunting on the side. Thought you might be free to take me up into the high country.” The lean, vulpine senator seated himself side to shoulder with Joe and was immediately served by the bartender with a double martini. He raised it elegantly in mock salute to Joe. The big diamond on his pinkie flashed in the dim light. “Rumor has it that you saw a bear today, Joe,” he remarked casually.

  Joe took another long swallow of his Coors. “Word certainly gets around quick, doesn’t it?”

  “I heard it was a big bear. A grizzly.”

  “Grizzlies are a protected species around here,” Joe said, studying his beer bottle.

  “Grizzlies that kill and eat livestock are a public menace,” the senator amended.

  “Well, the thing is, Senator, Jessie Weaver didn’t want to lodge a complaint against this particular grizzly, and it’s her livestock that bear’s been killing.”

  “That’s because she’s a tree-hugging bleeding heart. I wouldn’t have thought a Weaver could ever stoop to such a level, but she’s done it. I trust she survived her latest ordeal.” Senator Smith tasted his drink and lowered his glass. “I’ve never shot a Montana grizzly, Joe,” he said.

  Joe nodded, reading the fine print on the side of the label.

  “That kind of trophy would be worth a lot to me.”

  “Senator, you know Comstock’s been laying for me for years. I’ve taken you on trophy hunts more times than I can count, and he’s watched every one of them, waiting for me to slip up.”

  The senator nodded. Smiled. “Well, Joe, it’ll be worth an awful lot to you if you don’t slip up,” he said, standing. “Think about it. I’ll be at my lodge and I’m counting on you to give me the answer I want to hear.” He patted Joe on the shoulder as though he were an obedient dog and returned to his table, carrying the remainder of his drink.

  Joe finished his first beer and started on another. He thought about the big grizzly. Killing that bear wouldn’t exactly be a wrong thing. That great beast had been raising hell with the livestock on the Weaver ranch for a long time. Jessie Weaver might not approve of the killing, but her livestock would benefit.

  And the bottom line was, so would he.

  “YOU’D LIKE ALASKA, Jess,” Guthrie said as he ladled out a bowl of stew. He set it before her and dished out another, then carried it to the table. He refilled both their cups with wine and offered her a roll from the pan. “It’s pretty country. Hell, it’s beautiful. Wide-open, like here, only not as many roads. Most of the people live in Anchorage or Fairbanks, so the rest is pretty untrammeled. I didn’t get much of a chance to explore. Worked at the cannery, mostly, gutting salmon. I got promoted to shift supervisor after a while. The money was good, but I can still smell the fish.”

  Jessie pushed her stew around with the spoon and stared at the steam rising slowly in whorls. The stew smelled wonderful. Everything Bernie made smelled wonderful, yet Jessie had no appetite. She lifted her cup and took a sip of wine.

  “You’d like the Yukon, too. Wilder than hell, parts of it. I camped in the Yukon one night on my way home. I heard wolves howling, Jess. A pack of ’em. Made a chill run up my spine. One day we’ll hear them here, I expect.”

  “If people like Joe Nash and his clients don’t shoot them first.”

  “Him and a bunch of others,” Guthrie agreed, spooning stew into his mouth and taking a bite of a roll. “But times are changing. Attitudes are changing. One day we won’t hate and fear the wild things so much. One day we might learn to be more tolerant.”

  “Not for a long time.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Some of the ranchers are already changing their tune about the Yellowstone wolves.”

  “Senator George Smith keeps them stirred up. Now, there’s trash for you!” she said, firing up. “He’d like it if all wolves, mountain lions and grizzly bears were fair game so he could shoot them and put their heads on his walls. He wants to extend the bear-hunting season, expand the limit on elk and allow same-day shooting by hunters who are flown into their camps. He voted to open up the Arctic to oil drilling and he’s pushing for an open-pit copper mine in the Gallatin Mountains!”

  “Well, he definitely has a beer-and-bullets mentality, and he’s serving the interests of the people who got him elected. I guess that’s just how politics works. Eat your stew, Jess.”

  “I don’t know why anyone would vote for that lame-brain!”

  “Try one of Bernie’s rolls. They’re great.”

  “Joe Nash wanted me to file a formal complaint against that grizzly bear.”

  “That surprised you?”

  “He has a hell of a nerve.”

  “That’s a fact. The one thing Joe doesn’t lack is nerve.”

  “That man has no scruples. I can’t believe Ben Comstock would b
e caught dead flying around with him.”

  “Joe’s a good pilot. He can spot a flea on a dog’s back. Comstock uses those skills when he needs them. One of these days, he’ll bag Joe. In the meantime, he’ll take advantage of him, same as you did. Joe flew you to Bozeman, didn’t he? And he arranged for Blue to get fixed up, isn’t that right? You expect the world to be black and white, but it’s not. Not even a little. Eat, Jess. Before it gets cold.”

  “Comstock didn’t need Joe’s skills yesterday. I was fine.”

  “Nobody knew you were fine. Your horse came back without you. You could’ve been hurt. You’ve gotten hurt before. I know, it seems pretty near impossible that a gritty Park County cowgirl like Jessie Weaver could ever get hurt. But shit happens to the best of us, doesn’t it?” He stared pointedly at the alien apparatus on her arm.

  Jessie glared. “I broke my arm, that’s true, but I got myself to the hospital.”

  “What about the time that ornery bull knocked your horse over and you drove it off with your hat? You busted your collarbone that time. Remember?”

  “That was nothing!”

  “Okay, then how about the day we were baling hay down alongside the river and a big stack of bales fell on you and broke your leg? I had to carry you out to where the truck was parked. That was a long haul. If I hadn’t been there when it happened, you’d have had to crawl.”

  “If you hadn’t been there, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place!” Jessie said. “You drove the tractor right into all those stacked bales and tipped ’em over onto me. You broke the tractor, too, as I recall. Busted the tie-rod end. That was mighty poor driving.”