by Rain Trueax
She walked into the kitchen she had always loved. Two woodstoves stood at opposite ends of the long room. The first, Aunt Rochelle's cook stove, was as yet unused by Helene, although she remembered wonderful meals prepared on it by her aunt and before that by Great-Aunt Tessie, Amos's mother. The other, a cast iron woodstove, took the chill off the kitchen on nippy mornings and was capable--when the electricity went out--of heating the entire downstairs. Along two walls were tall cupboards and long counters to prepare any kind of feast a woman was inclined to make.
In modernizing the kitchen, a dishwasher had been added just before Aunt Rochelle had died; and with the modern range and refrigerator, Helene had found cooking these last weeks a pleasure, especially when she could look out the window and see the Absarokas rising high above her or go out the backdoor and stand on the long porch to gaze across a mountain meadow, that seemed to stretch forever and sometimes had a small herd of elk grazing at one end of it. She would draw into her lungs clean mountain air filled with the scent of pine and sage and wonder why she'd ever left this place.
A vegetable and beef stew simmered on the back of the electric range, the smell of freshly baked bread was strong in the air. She smiled as her uncle and his large German shepherd, Hobo, came through the outside door, answering grins on both their faces. "Smells pretty good in here," Amos decreed as he headed for the simmering stew and Hobo plopped himself down behind the heavy cast iron woodstove, out of way of errant feet.
"It's not done," she warned as Amos lifted the lid on the cast iron pot.
"Just the smell's good enough for me." He took a cup of coffee from her. "You know this place hasn't smelled or looked so good in the two years since Chelle died."
Helene washed her hands, dried them on her jeans, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat with him at the long, rough-hewn oak table, the centerpiece for the large kitchen.
“I uh found her journal, I think.”
Her uncle looked at her. “I didn’t know she kept one.”
“I didn’t either. Should we burn it? I didn’t read it.”
He considered that a moment. “You know, Chelle knew she was dying. The cancer had come back and it was no surprise that she was at the end of fighting it. If she’d wanted it burned, she’d have done it.”
“Then you want it?” She went back to the cupboard and brought it to him.
He considered a moment. “Let me see if she has anything in it to tell us what to do.” He opened it to the first page and then grinned. “It’s for you,” he said, handing it to her.
Helene opened it to that first page and saw the inscription. “For Helene if she ever comes to Montana to live.” Helene wasn’t sure if she was here forever but she guessed this was the time her aunt had in mind for her.
“I’ll read it later,” she said putting it down. So many relationships had ended up being a disappointment to her. Was this to be another one with words from beyond the grave? She’d think about it before she went further with reading.
"It's good having you here, girl,” Uncle Amos said probably to distract her from the journal. “Since Emile married Nancy and took over her folks’ place, I been bouncing off these walls, feeling lost. Never knew what was missing until you got here."
"And the missing link was food," she teased.
He shook his head. "More than that. It's the sort of thing a woman brings to a house. Like them daisies you put on the table. Nancy brings me baked goodies, but it ain't the same as having a woman bake them right in the house. The smell of that... well, it makes a man want to come home."
Helene felt pleasure at his compliments. "I was thinking of driving down to Nancy's with one of the loaves of bread I baked this morning. Do you have anything you especially want me to do before I go?"
"Nah. Curly and me figured we'd go check that upper leased range for strays. The count's low, so we must have a few steers still up in the brush."
"Actually," Helene said wistfully, "that sounds like more fun that going to see Nancy, but I'm afraid if I don't go now, I won't make it until after the baby's born, and I do have a little gift I want her to have."
"There'll be plenty of time for helping with the cattle--if you plan to stay."
"I will stay at least through the winter that is if you will have me. I don’t have anyplace else I want to be. Sure not back to Concord."
"I'll be begging you to stay on for as long as I have this place. You're bringing life into this lonely house, making it a home with your bustling around, cleaning, making me take off my boots when I get inside before stomping around in them. Reminding me not to feed Hobo table scraps." At the sound of his name, the big dog lifted his head, decided nothing serious was afoot, and laid it back on his paws.
Helene sighed. "It's a heaven sent for me. I've always felt more like I belonged here than Concord and now with my folks squabbling over property division, I'm grateful you're letting me impose on your hospitality."
"You're no imposition," her uncle corrected.
"I know what you've said, but I've been eating like a horse since I've gotten here."
"And working like a trooper."
She grinned more broadly. "Well, whether you want me to help out financially or not, I want to. Actually, I thought maybe I could get at least a part-time job in Livingston."
"It ain't necessary," he repeated stubbornly.
"Maybe not for you, but it is for me. I thought that little weekly paper might have a place for a beginning journalist. I don't imagine the pay would be much, but it would be a start." She grinned. "Not so fancy as my last job, but definitely something I think I could earn on my own."
He shook his head. "The workings of a woman's mind are beyond me, but you do what pleases you. Just remember with winter, sometimes we get snowed in up here. A week or two can go by before the snowplow can make it our way or our four-wheel drive truck can make it out."
"That's the advantage of a part-time job. Also I could email or fax my stuff to them when need be. I don’t know what kind of arrangements they have for that; but if I can interest them in giving me a try, I’ll find out. People can work about anywhere these days."
Amos smiled again, shaking his head. "That mean I need a computer line up here?”
“There are internet dishes that don’t even need a phone line. I will, of course, pay for it.”
“I can't keep up with all this modern stuff." His tone grew more somber. "Not on ranching or nothing else. We don't live far enough in the woods. Progress keeps coming up and nailing me."
Helene slipped on a leather jacket. With jeans and boots, she knew she looked like most of the other ranchers' wives she occasionally saw.
"I'll be back before it’s time for dinner," she said as she headed out the door into the crisp air. Although fall had not yet come to the valley below, it had nipped the trees around the ranch house. She could feel that new crispness to the air, feel it in the crackling of the leaves underfoot. Change was in the air.
#
Stepping from his newly purchased, four-wheel drive truck, Phillip leaned against the cab, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he took a moment to look around. He had to admit to a sense of awe, a feeling new in his experience. Partly it came from the fact he was in Montana at all--something which still seemed a little insane to him--and partly at the beauty of the setting in which he stood.
He had pulled the truck up in front of a brown, two-story ranch house. Encircled by porches, the home showed careful tending, even down to the frost blackened but weedless flower garden behind a white picket fence. The cottonwood and ash trees behind the house were in full fall colors, Yellow and brown leaves dropped at the faintest touch of the breeze.
To the east timbered hills rose with a powerful upthrust, rugged, high mountains, a fitting backdrop for this pioneer ranch perched at their base. The air at this elevation was clear, almost painfully so; the sky a blue he didn't remembering seeing often in Boston, but then maybe he'd always been too busy to look up.
He thought of Helene and her likely reaction at seeing him. He smiled sardonically. The bad penny returns. She wouldn't be the first who had thought it.
Whatever her reaction, it wouldn't be a kiss. The last kiss he gave her had been intended to teach her a lesson, but he was afraid he was the one who'd learned the lesson as he'd been unable to get it out of his mind. He doubted he would be standing at the foot of her gate if he'd resisted that kiss. He definitely knew he would have slept better the last two weeks as he had wrestled with the decision of coming.
He took a last, long drag on his cigarette before tossing it into the dirt to grind out with the toe of his boot.
"Hey you!"
Turning, Phillip looked toward the assortment of barns below the house. A man he didn't recognize was striding toward him, an irritated expression on what was visible of his face; his eyes nearly hidden by the battered brim of a cowboy hat. Phillip wondered if he'd incorrectly followed the primitive map Amos had drawn. The roads had wound back into the hills farther than he'd expected, and the wood-burned sign where private road turned off of county had no name, only a brand, which to Phillip's inexperienced eye had seemed might have indicated a Rocking H. Maybe not.
Puffing by the time he got to him, the tall, skinny old man looked at him belligerently. "What yuh want, young fellow?"
Got me cased as a city slicker, which he doesn't like and which is, of course, exactly what I am. "I'm looking for the Amos Hartz place."
Before the old man could respond, Amos emerged from a large, log barn, a mammoth dog at his side and a broad grin on his face. "So you came," he said, reaching out to shake Phillip's hand.
Phillip smiled. "I flew into Bozeman early this morning. This is quite a place you've got here."
"Yeah, we like our little spread."
Phillip looked a little uneasily at the big dog. Was the dog friendly or trying to decide where to take a bite? Phillip stood quietly as the dog sniffed of his legs. When Phillip saw the wagging tail, he relaxed a little. Somewhere he'd read a dog wagging his tail never bit. He hoped whoever had written it knew what they were talking about.
Amos grinned. "This here's Hobo."
Taking his cue from the name, Phillip asked, "He also a stray you picked up?" He took the risk of patting the big animal and received more dignified tail wagging for his effort.
"Nope, purebred German shepherd. Got him as a pup. Paid a bundle for him too. I know he looks like a cross between a bear and a dog, but he's--"
"This here a fella looking to buy the ranch?" Curly impatiently interrupted. He glared first at Phillip, then back at Amos as he took off his hat and using his sleeve, wiped sweat from his bald head.
"Nope," Amos said laughing and shaking his head. He didn't hesitate a moment as he added the explanation, "This here's my new hand, Phil Drummond. Phil this is Adolph Sampson, but we call him Curly."
"For the hair he had," Phillip guessed.
"Nope," Amos said still smiling, "he’s had that name since him and me was in school together but never had no curls that I remember."
"This guy don't look like no cowhand to me," Curly grouched. "You can't be serious about hiring him. I'll be spending all my time tryin' to teach him the ropes." He looked dubiously at Phillip. "And even at that, I don't figure he's goin' to make any kind of hand."
"That's neither here nor there," Amos said. "Phil'll be sleeping in the bunkhouse down by the barn."
"It won't put you out, will it?" Phillip asked, leveling his gaze on Curly. Clearly, his very existence was putting out the older hand.
Amos laughed and shook his head. "Curly lives in the little house over to the left there, when he ain't staying in town with his sister." He pointed toward a shed at the end of a long line of ramshackle buildings. "The bunkhouse is what city folks'd likely call--rustic."
Phillip shook his head. "It's what city folks would likely call a shack."
Amos grinned. "Wal, it might take a mite of cleaning and fixing at that, but you can do that when you're through work at night. It's got its own bathroom. Even put a shower in. Sometimes it's even got hot water. Little woodstove keeps the place cozy when you remember to build a fire. You could cook on it, but you're welcome to take your meals up at the house with me and Helene."
"What about Curly?" Phillip asked, skeptical that Helene would welcome him at any table she set.
"His place's got a kitchen, does most of his own cooking. Mainly cause he leans toward beans seven times a week. Food's been real good since Helene got here. You'll be needing good food workin' hard like you'll be.
"As to the work, do we need to discuss that?" Phillip asked uneasily. He knew nothing about ranch work, still less about creatures like cattle and horses or for that matter--dogs. In fact, standing there listening to Amos discuss the daily tasks for a ranch hand, Phillip couldn't believe he'd taken the older man up on his dare. It had seemed stupid and rash when he'd first heard the idea. He knew part of it was the derogatory way Helene had regarded him as a man who could do nothing that didn’t require a checkbook.
The idea though was crazy and no less so as he'd ordered his Learjet readied for the flight west. When he'd landed in Bozeman, he'd nearly changed his mind, fueled up the plane, and headed back east where he belonged. But instead, he had found himself purchasing a Dodge Ram and studying the small map Amos had given him.
To come to Montana had involved more complications than Phillip cared to remember. It had taken him almost a week to get his business affairs in order for an absence longer and more complete than the two week honeymoon he'd planned, a honeymoon which had been conveniently planned to incorporate business with pleasure, visiting several offices he had contracts with in Europe.
It wouldn't be easy to keep a handle on his various enterprises while working at the isolated Rocking H, but with computer, fax, telephone, and a plane when he needed to fly out for a quick meeting, he thought he could manage. Dale Cranston, his assistant, had vehemently disagreed until Phillip sharply reminded him who was boss. A month or two wouldn't be catastrophic. He hoped.
"So, you ready to ride with us?" Amos asked, slapping Phillip on the shoulder with good humor, obviously quite pleased with himself over his scheme, whatever that scheme was.
"Ride?" Phillip asked. He looked back at his new truck.
"Curly and I were just saddling up the horses. We were going to take a mosey up into the hills looking for a five or six missing steers. Tally came up short last week when we brought the main herd down from the summer range. You can dump your stuff into the bunkhouse and change while we finish saddling up."
Phillip looked down at his new jeans, expensive suede leather jacket, and Justin boots. "Change into what?"
Curly laughed derisively, more a cackle than an expression of humor. "I could tell he wasn't no cowhand. What's going on here, Amos?"
"We'll talk about it while we ride," Amos said. "On second thought, I think Phil and I can scout the area out alone. Curly, why don't you drive into town for the salt blocks and vaccine."
Curly snorted with derision but seemed relieved to escape Phillip's company and headed for Amos's truck.
"It appears Curly doesn’t think much of me," Phillip understated.
"He'll come around as he gets to know you."
Phillip raised his eyebrows. "I take it from his laughter this isn't quite the clothing to wear riding."
"The brush'd be the end of that jacket, assuming it was warm enough, which I doubt. High country gets nippy in the fall. Don't feel bad though. No way you could know that. Tell you what. I got a sheepskin lined coat Rafe left afore he headed off for Abilene. I think it'd fit you fine."
Phillip shook his head with disbelief and a growing sense of unreality. He drove his truck down to park in front of the bunkhouse and unload his gear, wondering all the time what in hell was he doing. He'd ridden horseback all of two or three times in his life and then on a riding trail with an English saddle. He had no idea what rounding up cattle enta
iled, but it looked like he was about to find out. He tossed his expensive but evidently useless jacket over a wooden chair and gave the sparsely furnished bunkhouse a cursory look. He'd lived in worse places but hadn't expected to do it again.
When Phillip got back up to the barns, Amos was sitting on his horse, holding the bridle for another mount, a tall horse that looked anything but friendly. Its ears were erect as it turned to watch Phillip with about the same level of mistrust Phillip felt.
"This here's Sunshine," Amos said with a grin, transferring the reins to Phillip's hand. "We call him that for his disposition."
"Is that anything like the same reason for Curly's nickname?" Phillip asked with a wry smile as he shrugged into the thick jacket Amos had thrown over the saddle.
"How'd you guess?" Amos asked, kicking his own mount lightly in the side and leading off.
#
Seated at Nancy's round oak table, scratches and dents in its surface from seventy years of McGuire family's use, Helene might almost have forgotten a year had passed since she had visited with her friend. Might almost that is if Nancy's dominantly protruding stomach weren't a constant reminder of her approaching motherhood.
"I wish I could have come to your wedding. I'd have loved being one of your bridesmaids or in my case I guess that would have had to be matrons!" Nancy laughed as she opened the oven door and took out two trays filled with oatmeal cookies. She tested their doneness with a fingertip before she took the spatula and began piling them on a cooling rack.
"No airliner would have likely let you fly. Besides, you didn't miss much," Helene retorted, sipping her coffee, "and if you'd found a way and gone into labor in Boston, Emile would never have forgiven either of us. You know he's planning on this baby being a born and bred Montanan."
Nancy grinned, her good natured face not particularly pretty but infinitely appealing in an elfish sort of way. Short red hair and blue eyes gave her a gamine look, something Nancy's puckish sense of humor reinforced. "He sure is acting like a mother hen with one chick--babying me like I've got a disease instead of a bun in the oven." She shook her head. "If it wasn't for Mom having six of us with nary a slip, he'd be worrying even me."
