Chasing the Dream

by Paige Lee Elliston

  Amy glanced at Julie’s left hand. “I see you’re married,” she said, swinging the conversation away from herself.

  “About a year ago—a great guy. You’ll have to meet Danny. He’s a veterinarian. You’ve probably seen his van around.”

  “He’s the guy with that big collie, right? I saw him at the coffee shop in town a couple of times.”

  “Right—Drago’s Café is kind of the meeting place of Coldwater. Everyone goes there for the coffee—and for the gossip.”

  “Well, I’m looking forward to meeting Danny.”

  “What about you, Amy? Is there a guy in your life?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never married. I guess I just didn’t have time. I think someday I’ll meet a handsome prince on a white charger, but I’m not actively looking for him. Whatever happens, happens.”

  “What about when your novel’s finished? Where to then?”

  “I really am planning on permanence. I want to fit in here, become a part of the people I respect and like so much. I’ve done enough traveling and I’ve lived out of enough suitcases to last me for the rest of my life.”

  Julie rose. “I’m sure you’ll fit just fine, Amy. This is a good place to live. I guess you already know that, or you wouldn’t be here.” She held out her hand.

  Amy took Julie’s hand in a firm handshake. “Please stop by or call whenever you care to,” Amy said. “I’d like it a lot if you did.”

  “I will,” Julie promised. “And you do the same. I’d love for you to meet Danny and my friend Maggie Lane and her husband, Ian, our minister.”

  Amy watched as Julie dashed to her truck through the rain, started the engine, and drove down the driveway to the road. She looked at the business card Julie had given her. On the back, Julie had written her home telephone number, her husband’s veterinary clinic number, and her cell phone listing. Amy folded the card carefully and put it in her shirt pocket.

  She turned from the door after shutting it, shivering a bit from the damp breeze that had invaded her home as Julie left. The rain continued its monotonous assault, and a sharp burst of thunder startled her. She hadn’t seen the lightning this time, but the blast was terribly loud and immediate—not the muted thunder she’d become accustomed to. It was followed by a strange sensation that stopped her from taking a step—a sort of barely discernible trembling under her feet. The silence after the thunder seemed slightly different too. Along with the vibration, Amy heard—or perhaps felt more than heard—a very soft drumming, almost like the vibration of a nearby train in a city.

  “What in the world...?” Amy mumbled to herself as she walked to the kitchen and looked out the window over the sink.

  A pair of large, chestnut brown eyes stared back at her through the rain-streaked glass. Amy yelped and leaped back. The horse reacted similarly, snuffing and rearing. The animal wheeled and bolted, and the thrumming sensation became more pronounced as Amy stepped back to the window.

  Twenty or so quarter horses in headlong flight from something or other churned past the rear of Amy’s home, their shod hooves sinking inches into the soupy, water-logged soil, punching sloppy holes with each impact, tearing tender young grass away from its precarious hold and flinging it aside in their wakes.

  Amy raced back to the picture window facing the driveway, where her bushes had been lovingly planted and where the grass had barely taken hold. A flood of moving color—bay, black, chestnut, dapple-gray, white—washed over the grounds. As she watched, horrified, a pair of running mares collided, and one went down on her side on the sodden earth. Her legs flailing, she skidded over one of Amy’s bushes, flattening it before she scrambled to her feet. A thump from the rear of the house drew Amy back to the kitchen. She ran to the window, and once again an equine face peered, wide-eyed, back at her.

  “Shoo!” Amy yelled. The horse skittered away from the window as another slid and skidded against the back of the house.

  Amy yanked the telephone from the wall and glared at the crumpled business card Jake had given her and that she’d carried in a back pocket of her jeans until her house was built. Tacking it to her corkboard had been one of the first moving-in things she’d done. She punched in the numbers with a trembling finger.

  “This is Jake,” the man’s voice answered, his tone slow and welcoming. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to talk with you, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll get right back to you as soon as—”

  She slammed the receiver back onto the wall mount. There was another thud as a horse banged into her house. “That does it!” she grumbled, grabbing a jacket from the small kitchen closet. She dashed into the attached garage, climbed into her Jeep Cherokee, and thumbed the electronic garage door opener. As the door lifted she cranked the Jeep’s engine to life. Two horses stood in the driveway just beyond the garage. Amy laid on the horn, and the animals hustled out of her way. She backed down the driveway and scanned the damage to her landscaping. The lawn looked like it had been strafed by dozens of enemy aircraft, the bare spots opened by hooves pocking its surface. A chestnut horse was casually grazing on one of her bushes and eyeing the Jeep as it approached. Amy blasted the horn again, and the horse reluctantly moved away, a short branch dangling casually from its mouth and bobbing between the animal’s lips as it chewed.

  Amy raced down the rest of her driveway and spun her tires in a full-throttle leap toward Jake’s home. She careened up his driveway and skidded to a shuddering stop outside the main barn, an impossibly long and wide structure Amy had been told contained an indoor riding arena, Jake’s rodeo operation offices, stalls for animals, and hay and grain storage areas. As she opened the door of her Jeep, the drumming of the rain on the metal of the barn was almost deafening. A cowhand seated on a bale of straw under a roof overhang at the side of the building worked quite industriously with a large, curved, leather-sewing needle, repairing a bridle. The fellow was thin, and he was wearing jeans, a work shirt with the sleeves rolled to midarm, rundown Western boots, and a Stetson that looked older than Methuselah’s grandmother. She exited her car, slammed the door, and sprinted to the cowboy’s side.

  “I need to see Mr. Winter,” she said. “Is he around?” The man’s face was wrinkled from decades in the elements, but the crinkles around his startlingly blue eyes were friendly, put there by laughter. “Jake’s inside with a buyer,” he said. “Just go on in.”

  “Well, look—there’s a herd of his horses tearing up my yard, and I need them off my property,” Amy said. “Can you...”

  “You’d best see Jake about that,” the cowhand said. “Like I say, jus’ go on in the door here an’ follow the aisle to the big ring in the middle. Jake’ll be there.”

  Amy glared for a moment and then decided the man was right—she needed to speak directly with Mr. Winter. She tugged open the door and stepped inside the building. Her first surprise was how quiet it was inside. She’d expected a machine gun–like racket from the rain assaulting the metal sides and roof of the structure. She glanced upward and saw that insulation ran between the joists many feet above her head, muffling the impact of the storm.

  She looked down a long, fluorescent-lighted aisle that seemed to stretch to the next horizon. There were doors off it, just as there’d be in an office building. The floor, however, was a gritty, sandy-colored substance—not quite dirt but not far from it, either. The air was richly fragrant with the scent of cut hay, fresh soil, and animals. It reminded her of childhood summers spent at various youth camps. It was a good, clean, evocative aroma that generated quick images of sunshine and expanses of fenced land and small lakes and laughing kids in camp T-shirts.

  Amy started down the aisle, not quite comfortable in the cathedral-like silence, and peeked in whichever doors happened to be open. One she passed was equipped with three desks, each with a computer monitor on it, a series of beige filing cabinets, a large copier, a fax machine on a counter, and boxes of what appeared to be brochures and catalogs stacked neatly against one w
all. The office had a shiny oak floor, Amy noticed. As she stood in the doorway, a telephone buzzed with businesslike authority. A machine answered with an abrupt click in the midst of the second buzz, but Amy couldn’t hear the outgoing message. A large sign on the rear wall told any visitor that he or she had entered J. W. Quarter Horses & Rodeo Stock, Inc. The printing was centered over a logo of a cowboy on a bucking bronco. Amy hustled on toward the center of the massive building, her shoes making quiet, shuffling sounds as she hurried along.

  There was a door at the end of the aisle at a point Amy figured was halfway into the building. As she came closer to it she felt the thrumming of hooves lightly through her soles. She opened the door and passed through. Now she was in an arena that seemed as broad and as deep as a baseball field, except that it lacked the seating. Set in the center of the expanse was a movable corral made of pipes. Inside the corral were ten or so horses that moved about nervously, as if they didn’t care to be there.

  Jake Winter, his back to her, stood with a boot on the lowest rail of the enclosure. Next to him a shorter, slighter man with long, raven black hair stood in an almost mirror image of Jake’s stance.

  Amy smiled. It seems like all cowboys stand like that, she thought. They’re like policemen, in a sense—they can always be picked out of a crowd. It wasn’t their clothing, either. These Montana cowboys could never be mistaken for insurance salesmen or dentists or mail carriers. There was something about these guys—the way they stood, the way they moved, the way they used their bodies. Even in the diner in Coldwater, Amy could pick out the cowboys just by watching them walk through the door and step up to the counter.

  Neither of the two noticed Amy coming up behind them. The conversation they were involved in seemed deep, important to both of them. Although she couldn’t see their faces, Amy realized that their eyes were focused on the horses in front of them. She stopped a few yards away, not wanting to intrude quite yet.

  Jake’s words—at least most of them—reached her. “I’d go with the chestnut, Juan. You give him the time he needs, and you’ll be roping in the Calgary finals next season.”

  The other man’s voice was lower and a bit hesitant. “The chestnut is a fine horse.”

  “Yep. He is that.”

  “I don’ have that much money, Jake.”

  Jake shook his head. “Look here; you’re one of the best calf ropers I’ve ever seen. You take that chestnut out there and work him, and you’ll be making good money at every rodeo you hit. Give me a down payment and the rest on installments.”

  Juan nodded his head and turned to face Jake. “You know that my word, it is good.”

  “’Course it is,” Jake huffed impatiently. “I got things to do, my friend. Bring your trailer around the back, and Wes or one of the other boys will help you load the horse. It’s a done deal. Like I said, I got things to do.”

  Juan stood flat-footed, hands at his sides, shaking his head very slightly, as if dazed. Jake turned to him and held out his right hand. Juan took it slowly and shook it formally, as if sealing a deal—which he was.

  That sure isn’t the way we do business in publishing, Amy mused. She cleared her throat to get Jake’s attention.

  Jake, surprised at seeing her, smiled and stepped closer. “Amy, good to see you. What’s up?” His eyes teased her. “Looking for a good horse?”

  “Uh, no, I’m not looking for a horse.”

  “So, then, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “Well... a bunch of your horses got loose and ripped up my new lawn. They wrecked some of my bushes along the driveway too. I don’t know how to get them off my property, and each time they move, they sink in and tear up grass. It’s a real mess.”

  “Whoa—I’m sorry, Amy. Must be some of my mares got through the fence. I’ll get the horses off your property right away—right now—but I’ll have to wait until the ground dries a bit before I can have the area rolled for you.” He looked her in the eye. “It’ll look as good as new, I guarantee that. And I’ll replace any shrubs and lawn they wrecked.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “I’ll make sure the fence is good and tight and ratchet up the electricity going through it. That’ll keep the mares where they belong. What probably happened is that lightning struck a fence post and shorted out the system. I’ll back up that fence line so this won’t happen again.” Jake tugged a cell phone from his back pocket and flipped it open. “Why don’t you go on home and I’ll get a couple of men and be right over to shag those old girls off your lawn. OK?”

  He turned away from Amy, then pushed the speed dial on his phone and began talking. “Billy,” he said, “get whoever’s there mounted up and meet me out front. Our mares must’ve busted through the east fence, and they’re ripping up our neighbor’s lawn. And hustle, Billy. This needs to be done right now.”

  Jake turned back to Amy. “If you can find your way out, I’ll go through the back here, grab a horse, and get over to your place. OK?”

  “Sure, Jake. I appreciate your attitude about all this.”

  “I’m just sorry it happened.” He paused for a moment. “Maybe we can get together soon? Maybe go for that ride after the rain stops?”

  “Okay. I’ll look forward to it.” Amy smiled.

  Jake climbed over the enclosure, and Amy started back in the direction from which she’d come through the building. Get together soon? You bet!

  A couple of men in slickers on horseback were already at her house as Amy pulled into her driveway. One whirled a loop of lariat over his head as his horse charged toward one of the intruders. The loop flashed out as accurate as a rifle shot and settled around the other horse’s neck. The rider turned his mount and led the captured mare back toward the Winter pasture. The other rider herded a pair of horses in front of his own, whistling shrilly, goading them toward their home. Jake appeared on a big chestnut quarter horse as Amy pulled into her garage. She watched through the garage window as the men worked the loose horses.

  Jake rode with an easy and unconscious grace that told of a lifetime in the saddle. He moved with the horse—almost as if he were part of the animal—and seemed to be conveying very few commands to his mount, even though the horse was turning and changing gaits quickly, heading off and directing a couple of the mares.

  It didn’t take more than ten minutes until Jake and one of the cowhands were cutting the last mare back into the pasture. Several men were stretching new wire between fence posts already, and the fence line was secure within moments of the last horse being chased home.

  Amy looked over the lawn before going into her house. Without the horses and men the expanse was forlorn and quiet. It was a swampy mess of more mud-brown than grass-green, pocked with countless holes, deep skid marks, and scattered branches torn from the bushes.

  She sighed and shivered a bit as she walked into her kitchen. It wasn’t actually cold out, although July in Montana was reputed to be a whole lot hotter than the current temperature. Still, the bleak grayness of the rain carried its own chill.

  Amy ground some coffee beans; the sound of the little machine seemed harsh and screechy in the quietude of her home. She poured the ground coffee into a filter she’d placed in her Mr. Coffee, added three cups of cold springwater, and watched the coffee brew. Good coffee chased chills and improved perspectives, she believed.

  Amy poured a mugful and carried it to her kitchen table, setting it next to her laptop. She sat, sipped, and clicked on the computer. It made its strange little whirring sounds, and in moments the page where she’d left off the night before appeared on the screen, the letters crisp and sharp against the white of the screen.

  I started yesterday on this page, wrote four pages, deleted each of them, and ended up here again. Swell progress.

  Amy had begun The Longest Years, a fictional chronicle of a large farm family during the Great Depression, almost a year ago. The characters, Amy was certain, were strong and believable, the plot solidly based
on actual history, and the drama intense without being overpowering. Categorized as “romance/history/action-adventure,” The Longest Years seemed to have the elements that fiction readers sought in the books they purchased or borrowed from libraries.

  The story and the time period were close to Amy’s heart. In college, her roommate, a girl from Oklahoma, had shared with her the diaries of her great-grandmother, who’d lived through the Depression years. Amy had been captivated immediately by the sheer courage and tenacity of the struggling, dozen-member family, and enchanted by their closeness. Hannah—the great-grandmother—possessed an indomitable and unshakable faith in the Lord, and her sense of humor never failed her. The protagonist in Amy’s novel, renamed Sarah, had a quiet strength that carried the family—and the book—through the most desperate of times and situations.

  What was wrong, then? Amy simply didn’t know. Her novel had stalled at page 150 and showed no good signs of starting up again.

  She sighed and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. She pictured Sarah and her family in her mind, sitting at their kitchen table, passing around jackrabbit stew and potatoes from the garden. Sarah and Calvin, Sarah’s husband, were talking, their faces appearing strained and serious. The ten children were eating, talking, laughing—paying no attention to their parents. Amy could almost hear the conversation between Sarah and Cal. Let it flow... let it come... listen to them...

  A cold, wet nub pressed against Amy’s cheek. A half moment later a weight dropped into her lap. The weight mewed. Amy opened her eyes. Nutsy stared back at her, not at all abashed at having fallen off the laptop on the table and into Amy’s lap. In fact, his demeanor indicated that he’d done it on purpose and that there’d been no uncatlike clumsiness involved.

  Amy began to scratch lazily between the kitten’s ears. His motor kicked in immediately, and to Amy the purring sound seemed louder than a kitten could logically produce. Nutsy’s tongue on the underside of Amy’s wrist felt like wet sandpaper.