“If you hadn’t been ripping your shirt off, I never would’ve hit that stack of hay bales. You distracted the hell out of me!”
“There was a hornet inside it. What did you expect me to do? And anyway, I’d have crawled out of there on my hands and knees if I’d had to.”
“I know that. But you’ve got to admit that my being there was helpful. In fact, you used to like having me around. It never used to bother you a bit until you went off to college.”
Jessie prodded a chunk of beef in her bowl of stew. She took another sip of wine and raised her eyes. “That’s not true. My going away to college was just a catalyst for something that had been happening between us for a while.”
Guthrie sighed and carefully laid down his spoon. “Here we go again. Say it. I’m a chauvinist. I was stifling you. I was jealous and possessive and all I wanted was for you to be barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen.”
Jessie flushed. “That’s all true.”
“I can’t believe you really think that.”
“Everything I did was a threat to you. If I went to the university library in Bozeman you nearly had a fit, worrying about me driving so far by myself, about me meeting someone I might, God forbid, be attracted to, about maybe discovering there was a world outside Katy Junction and maybe I might like it and not want to live here anymore. Well, you know what? You were right. All I want to do now is get as far away from this sorry place as I possibly can!”
Guthrie pushed aside his bowl. He sat very still for a few moments, as if gauging her outburst, and then he stood, ran his fingers through his tousled hair and reached his hat off the seat of the empty chair next to him. He turned it round in his strong fingers, eyeing it for a long silent moment, then glanced at her. “I was hoping things might’ve changed between us, but I guess they haven’t. I’m sorry you feel the way you do. I’m sorry you believe that I ever meant to stand in your way.” He moved toward the kitchen door. “I’ll look in on McCutcheon before I leave, and be back first thing in the morning.”
“There’s no need,” Jessie said. “I can take care of things here. I’ve been taking care of things here long enough to know I don’t need your help. And all your words about always being there for me no matter what were just empty words. You ran off to Alaska at the first sign of trouble, didn’t you? A body can pretend to care—but can’t pretend to be there.”
He pulled his hat on and stared at her, his eyes shadowed beneath the hat brim. “You were the one who told me to go, Jess. Remember?” Then he strode out the door, closing it quietly behind him. Jessie sat in her chair, heard his truck start up, the tires squelch through the mud as he drove away.
She raised a trembling hand and pressed cold fingertips to her forehead. Her throat ached and her eyes burned. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. The long struggle leading up to the cataclysmic events of the past year had hollowed her out, emptied her of the ability to feel anything remotely soft and vulnerable. She knew Guthrie still loved her, she knew that she had hurt him terribly with her words and she knew that she’d spoken those words in spiteful anger.
Anger. Of late, it was the only thing she could feel! Terrible pent-up anger about everything. That her father had gotten ill. That the insurance company had raked him over the coals. That the bottom had fallen out of the cattle market. That the medical bills had skyrocketed. That the only way she could save the land she so fiercely loved was to give it up to someone else.
Worst of all, she felt a terrible anger at Guthrie Sloane for running out on her when she had needed him the most.
MCCUTCHEON was very much enjoying his evening. Sitting in a comfortably overstuffed chair, his injured ankle propped on a pillowed footstool, with oil lamp, bowl of stew and glass of wine laid out on an end table at his right hand, he was reading an old book he’d found on the shelf. It was entitled The Vigilantes of Montana, and it seemed fitting that on his first night in his new home he should be reading such an account. He was completely absorbed in the story, when he heard the tap at the door.
“Come.” He carefully laid a strip of paper to mark his page and looked up as Guthrie Sloane stepped inside. “Chilly night, isn’t it?” McCutcheon said. “That woodstove feels good. You were right about your sister. She thought of everything. There was a delicious pot of beef stew, some fresh yeast rolls, a bottle of red wine. Sit down and pour yourself a glass. I’m having a fine old time reading all about one of Montana’s most notorious road agents.”
“Henry Plummer.” Guthrie grinned. “I know the book. Must’ve read it six or seven times in the years I lived here.”
“Did you get Jessie settled in?”
“As much as she’d let me.”
McCutcheon had to stifle a laugh behind a cough, but his sympathies were with the young man who stood in the lamplight, looking so glum. “She can be thorny.” He pointed to the cupboard. “Glasses are in there. It’s a nice wine.”
Guthrie took him up on the offer and poured himself a glass. He sat down on the edge of a chair. “I’ve been thinking. I had an idea last night about how you might get Jess to stay on as ranch manager.”
McCutcheon raised his eyebrows. “Oh? I got the definite impression from both of you that nothing would ever convince her to accept that job.”
Guthrie rested his forearms on his knees and admired the ruby hue of the wine. “Maybe I was wrong. Anyhow, this particular idea has to do with how you happen to feel about barbed-wire fences,” he said.
McCutcheon reached for his wineglass and settled himself more comfortably in the chair. “Go on and tell it,” he said. “I’m all ears.”
BERNIE HAD PUT IN a long day and she was tired. She would have liked to have closed up early, but her customers had other ideas. Badger was chewing Charlie’s ear off and showed no signs of running out of steam. That the two found so much to talk about, seeing each other the way they did on a daily basis, amazed her. She wondered how things were going with Guthrie and Jessie. She wondered if Caleb McCutcheon was enjoying his first evening out at the ranch. She wondered if, with all that had happened, Jessie would change her mind about leaving. Of course she would. She had to. How could she marry Guthrie if she left?
And she had to marry Guthrie. No other man on earth suited her the way Guthrie did, and surely no other man could ever love her as deeply. Yes, Jessie would stay. She and Guthrie would be married out at his place in late spring, or early summer, maybe, when the wildflowers were at their peak and the wild roses along the creek were in full bloom. That sweet little cabin they’d built together would be a pretty backdrop to the day. A few big picnic tables, a bluegrass band, a big bonfire when evening drew near, a big boisterous barbecue with all the trimmings. All of Katy Junction would want to attend.
What would Jessie wear? Somehow Bernie knew that it wouldn’t be a long white wedding gown, though she’d be beautiful in one. No, Jessie would opt for something simple. And Guthrie? Why, he’d look handsome in a white Mexican wedding shirt with a pair of clean black denims and some boot black rubbed into his old cowboy boots. Guthrie would look handsome no matter what he wore. Bernie couldn’t understand why Guthrie’s looks alone wouldn’t melt Jessie. That grin of his, and the strong, calm, masculine competence. And the way he rode a horse. Oh, my, the way he rode a horse!
She envied him his cowboy upbringing. She’d spent her childhood with her mother in assorted big cities. The death of her and Guthrie’s father had brought brother and sister back together again. Bernie had arrived in Katy Junction the day of the funeral, a stranger dressed in a simple black dress, standing at the very back of the crowded room, feeling frightened and out of place. Something about Guthrie had seemed vaguely familiar, but twenty years was a long time, and the tall, broad-shouldered, handsome young man bore little resemblance to the toddler she’d known. It wasn’t until after the service that she approached him.
“Hi,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m Bernie Sloane, your sister. You probably don’t remember me—you were
so young I last saw you. You were barely walking, as I recall.”
The dark-haired slender young woman standing beside him was the first to react in the silence that followed this announcement. “I’m Jessie Weaver,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m so sorry about your father.”
“Thank you. I am, too,” she said. “I had so many questions I wanted to ask him. I caught the first flight out as soon as Mama told me. Somehow she knew he’d died, and she knew where you were living, but the only thing she ever told me all these years was that Daddy had run off on us a long time ago and taken you with him.”
Bernie vividly recalled Guthrie’s expression of shock. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, and then he fell speechless, trying to assimilate the fact that for some unfathomable reason his father had never told him he had a big sister. “Lord,” he finally said with a shake of his head. “I don’t understand any of this, and that’s no lie.”
Bernie was all adrift and so was he. She gazed up at him and her eyes filled with tears. There was no telling where the truth lay, and they both realized as they stood there, speechless, that in many ways it no longer mattered. Guthrie reached out and took her hand.
“Let’s the three of us go get something to eat,” he said, “because the two of us have some real serious catching up to do.”
Bernie had fallen in love with the area, with her baby brother again and with Jake Portis, the Ford mechanic. She and Jake wasted little time courting. They were married within the year and they settled into a sturdy little house on the outskirts of town where, shortly thereafter, they commenced raising a family. She’d managed the Longhorn for over a year now and loved it. Loved her husband and kids, too.
Now, if only Guthrie and Jessie would come to their senses…
“Bernie?”
Bernie blinked. She was standing in the middle of the room, holding a pot of coffee. Ben Comstock had just entered the café. He looked as tired as she felt, but he grinned at her when she focused on him. “You were a million miles away,” he said, hitching up to a seat at the counter.
“Not that far,” she retorted, walking around the counter and filling an ironstone mug. She set it in front of him. “I was planning a wedding.”
“I won’t ask whose, but if I were you I might hold off awhile before ordering the flowers.”
Bernie laughed. “O ye of little faith. What brings you into town at this hour? Did Ellie kick you out?” She teased him about this frequently. Everyone knew about his enduring marriage.
“Nope. Though I will admit that she ought to have a long time ago. Do you know that in two days we will have been married forty-two years?”
“Still like her?”
“She’s still my high-school sweetheart.”
Bernie smiled. “Ellie’s a lucky woman.”
“I’m the lucky one. Thanks for the coffee. I was hoping to run into Badger. I see he’s here.”
“He’s been sitting there talking to Charlie since before suppertime. Can I get you something to eat?”
“Nope. Ellie fed me.”
“Was it as good as what I cook?”
“I’m way too diplomatic to answer a question like that.” Comstock pushed off his stool and walked over to Badger’s table. “Hey,” he said, pulling up a chair and dropping into it. “I have a little job for you, if you’re interested.”
Badger perked up. “Hear that, Charlie? You’re sittin’ here tellin’ me I’m too old and worn-out to be good for anything, and Comstock walks in and tells me he has a job for me. Who’m I to believe?”
“You interested?” Comstock raised his cup for a sip of coffee. Black, no sugar. Better than Ellie’s by a long shot, but he hadn’t married Ellie for her coffee-making skills.
“Hell, yes. Who is it this time?”
“George Smith’s in the valley.”
Badger leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The senator himself?”
“Himself.”
“Here to shoot somethin’ in an extra-large size, no doubt. Think he’ll hunt with Joe?”
“He always does. I need your eyes and ears, but I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you backed out of this one. The senator is a powerful man, and he could make life mighty miserable for anyone who crossed him. Still and all, I’d sure like to trim his ears. He’s been breaking the game laws around here for a long time.”
Badger puffed up with importance. “Count me in, Warden!” he said. “You know I’ll keep my eyes peeled and my ears perked. Always have. Can’t abide them rich trophy hunters dressed in camo, carrying thousand-dollar rifles. Never could!”
“I was hoping I could count on you,” Comstock said, pushing out of his chair. “You have my phone number. If you see anything out of the ordinary, give me a call. Leave a message if I’m not home.”
After he had left, Badger settled back in his chair with a smug expression. “Now, what was that you was sayin’ about how old and useless I am, Charlie?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
JESSIE COULDN’T SLEEP. The ache in her arm forced her to pace the kitchen floor back and forth, back and forth. It was 2:00 a.m., and this night was proving to be as long as the night she’d spent with Blue up in the mountains. As long, but nowhere near as easy.
Guthrie had come back, and suddenly everything had changed…everything except their inability to communicate with each other. He still didn’t understand why she was so angry with him, and he probably never would.
Yet in spite of her anger with him, there was this undeniable truth: he had truly loved her, and for a long time, too, if love could be measured as a meaningful emotion in the heart of a thirteen-year-old boy.
Guthrie’s father had worked for the Weaver ranch back in its glory days. He and Guthrie had come as a package deal, and Jessie clearly remembered first laying eyes on them.
It had been a windy day, with a strong steady spring wind that dried the mud, made the laundry fly out straight on the line and skimmed the meadowlarks above the greening grass. She’d been pegging a load of fresh wash on the line with difficulty, struggling to hold the snapping line in one hand while she fished another shirt or pair of pants out of the basket at her feet.
The rickety truck backfiring its way slowly up the dirt track from the main road had startled her.
“We’re lookin’ for work, miss,” the man had said after climbing out of the truck and politely removing his hat. “My name’s Sloane, Arthur Sloane, and that’d be my son, Guthrie. Folks in town said you might be hirin’.”
Jessie stared first at the skinny middle-aged man with the worn blue jeans and faded chambray shirt, hands gnarly with calluses, then she narrowed her eyes and peered through the cracked, fly-specked windshield at the boy named Guthrie.
“Why, he don’t appear old enough to be workin’, mister,” she said. She’d always spoken frank. Her father said it was because she’d been raised alongside a bunch of mannerless cowboys. He must have heard her, that boy in the truck, because the passenger door wrenched open and he climbed stiffly out. She saw then that he stood taller than his father, and was a whole lot better-looking.
“I’m fifteen years old and I can do a man’s work,” he said. “Same as you!”
“How would you know I can do a man’s work?”
“Heard so in town. That is, if you’re Jessie Weaver.”
“I am.”
“I’m Guthrie Sloane,” he said, his young skinny chest puffing out. “Me’n my daddy can outwork just about anybody we ever met. We lost our place when the cattle prices fell, but we didn’t lose nothin’ else. We’re just as good as we ever was!”
“Maybe so,” Jessie said, “but you ain’t no ways near fifteen. I’d guess if you said you were ten you wouldn’t be stretchin’ the blanket quite so tight.”
“I’m thirteen!” he retorted in self-defense.
“Guthrie,” Sloane said quietly, casting his son a warning glance. “Miss, is your father about?”
“Nossir. But he’ll be home for his di
nner about noon. If you wanted, you could wait and talk to him then.”
They wanted to, all right, and her father had signed them on, both of them, and put them up in the old log cabin down on the creek.
Of course Guthrie had to go to school, same as she did. They shared the ten-mile ride in to Katy Junction, each on horseback, leaving their horses in the common corral outside the school. They also shared the same classroom, and the same ride home at the end of the day.
It didn’t take long for Guthrie Sloane to start acting real strange. One afternoon, barely a month after he’d arrived, he bent low in his saddle, picked her a bunch of wildflowers blowing in the tall grass beside the creek and handed them to her, grave as could be. “One day you and me are going to be married,” he informed her, “so I guess I best start treatin’ you right.”
Guthrie’s mother had run off with another man when he was scarcely a year old, so he had no memory of her whatsoever, yet he sometimes spoke of her with a kind of wistful affection, and once he confided to Jessie that his mother never would’ve left if he and his dad had behaved different toward her. Jessie figured that sentiment had to have come from his father, since Guthrie as a baby could only have acted like any other baby. Oh, maybe he’d been colicky and hadn’t slept through the night, but that wouldn’t make a mother abandon her babe. Jessie felt sorry for him, and less apt to pity herself for losing her own mother to a legitimate illness when she was just shy of seven.
The Weaver ranch had not been totally without a woman’s influence, however. One of the full-time hired hands, Drew Long, fortuitously married a buxom Mexican woman who hailed from Tucson. She ruled the Weaver household firmly but fairly, and had dispensed copious quantities of delectably authentic Mexican food for nearly sixteen years. Drew and Ramalda were the last to be let go when the ranch began to fail, and many tears were shed on both sides that sad day.
As for Guthrie, his ambitious plan to marry Jessie never wavered through high school, although the time they spent together had shrunk considerably. Guthrie’s father liked the bottle, so much so that Jessie’s father asked him to leave after one particularly ugly binge in the old cabin. He and Guthrie rented a battered little trailer outside of Katy Junction, though both continued to work at the ranch. Guthrie was holding down two jobs—after school at the feed store and weekends on the ranch. He put all his savings toward buying a piece of land out on Bear Creek so he could get his father out of that miserable trailer on the outskirts of town. He thought that if his father could just have his own place again he’d give up the bottle and straighten himself out.
Montana Dreaming (Home On The Ranch) Page 10
