Big Sky, Loyal Heart

by M. L. Buchman

  As they sat, she began remembering some of the other things that Patrick had said last night. Other than his follow you anywhere nonsense. So not going to deal with that.

  “Why are you really out here, Michael? If you won’t tell us why you’re on the ranch, why are you on this hunt?”

  The colonel looked up at her from the branch he’d been idly whittling with his Cold Steel SRK knife. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “Okay. That was you about to say it sounded like fun. And I don’t think that you’re just birddogging me. I was only a dog handler, not some super Delta who now needs handholding. You and I were on barely a dozen missions together over the years.”

  Emily’s eyes widened at that. She’d clearly been operating under the assumption that their close association was the real reason he was here, despite Michael saying he was on a leave of absence. Well, at least Emily could finally stop pretending that Lauren was somehow special. She could do with a little bit of settling into obscurity.

  That would leave only Patrick that she’d have to figure out what to do with. An even less comfortable topic than facing down the colonel.

  Michael appeared to be carving a tall skinny tree out of the branch. Though the piece of wood he was working was less than a foot long and two inches wide, it felt as if the tree he was carving was truly huge. He’d worked the name Nell into the base. His wife was Claudia. Was there some former lover? Or—

  “Oh, no!”

  “What?” Patrick and Emily asked in unison. She ignored them.

  “You S.O.B.,” she faced the colonel. “That’s why you wouldn’t speak to your wife about it. You’re just like other men.”

  “Who?” Gibson’s brows knit together in confusion.

  “Who! Who?”

  Mack shushed her, then nodded toward the woods.

  “How can you ask who?” She nearly strangled with turning her shout of rage into a whisper. She couldn’t believe that the colonel was just another cheating, low-life. Wasn’t there integrity anywhere in the world? Did Claudia know? Or were Mark and Claudia doing it even now in some seedy Great Falls hotel and Emily didn’t know? Lauren trusted Emily, but—

  “I can ask because I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sergeant Foster,” he remained completely unperturbed. “Therefore, I can ask again. Who?”

  Emily’s eyes were wide, but her face was grim. “Michael…” she drew it out like a threat. She clearly understood what Lauren had uncovered. Though Emily said it more like a question than a threat. “What’s happening here?”

  At that Colonel Gibson looked less certain of himself. She’d never seen him unsure of anything, but facing Emily Beale’s ire was apparently enough to chip through his facade of perfectly passive warrior. Okay, maybe Emily wasn’t a part of whatever was going on. That, at least, tilted a tiny part of Lauren’s world back toward rightness.

  “Seriously. I don’t—”

  Lauren snatched the carving from his hand before he had a chance to hide it and tossed it to Emily. “Who the heck is Nell?”

  Rather than the fury Lauren had expected from Emily, she spoke softly. “Is that her name?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Whose name?” Lauren could only watch in befuddlement as Emily very carefully returned the carving.

  Neither one appeared willing to speak.

  Emily caved first. “It’s the name of a redwood tree.”

  “A—” Lauren couldn’t manage more.

  Michael wiped it with his fingers, caressed it as if her touch had sullied it. “I fell in love with Claudia while climbing that tree with her.”

  “While climbing a tree,” she could only echo dumbly. “Were you children together?”

  “No. Nell is a redwood tree. Claudia and I were three hundred and eighty-seven feet up the tallest tree anywhere in the world.” Michael didn’t return to his whittling though he continued to stare down at it.

  “A tree,” Lauren couldn’t imagine why someone would name a tree. “You’re not out here looking for another tree and another woman, are you?”

  “No,” he glanced up, then tried to return to his whittling, but she ducked down to keep his gaze on her when he tried to refocus his attention.

  “Then who put you on leave and why?”

  He huffed out a breath. “Just like last time, I put myself on leave. And I came here because I’m thinking of quitting Delta.” His unreadable face wasn’t so unreadable anymore. It was distinctly grim.

  “Oh my!” Emily’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Lauren couldn’t have said it better herself.

  Patrick had no idea what was going on, but it was clearly important.

  Mack tapped him on the shoulder, but Patrick was afraid that if he even glanced away from the scenario unfolding in front of him it was just possible Emily, Michael, and Lauren would all somehow evaporate, or beam back up to the mother ship in a Galaxy Quest pod of trans-warp goo.

  Mack tapped him again. “Boy,” his excited whisper cut through Patrick’s thoughts.

  “What?” He turned to glare at the old man, but Mack wasn’t watching him, he was pointing toward the small hot springs.

  A small herd had gathered about the springs. A doe and a fawn almost as big as she was were settling into the pool. A magnificent male with a huge rack of antlers grazed on the far side. He was a prime, once-in-a-lifetime bull.

  “Those aren’t elk, they’re caribou,” Mack whispered. “Almost never see them this far south. But a bull like that, you don’t see but once in a lifetime.”

  Patrick could only nod in agreement as he watched the grand bull with a massive and complex rack of antlers.

  In between grazing, he raised his head and watched the surrounding woods vigilantly. A pair of young bulls milled slowly about—one of them making playful charges at the leader who didn’t even deign to look at him. He was going to be trouble for the herd’s leader someday soon though, especially if the two youngsters ever ganged up.

  Patrick could hear Lauren gear up to confront Michael again.

  He reached out to clamp a hand over her mouth.

  “Whagheffek?” She snarled against his palm.

  He turned her head until she was facing the herd of caribou by the pool. The big male was on alert and might be looking their direction at the moment.

  Maybe not, though. Suspicious but not yet alarmed.

  Her lips formed an “Oh!” against his palm, but she didn’t make a sound.

  Mack had his rifle up and ready, but hesitated.

  Then he held it out to Lauren, “You take my shot.”

  “Hey,” Patrick’s whispered surprise didn’t even get Mack’s attention. They had tracked all morning and waited through much of the afternoon for this moment. And now Mack was giving away a clean shot on the biggest bull Patrick had ever seen.

  Lauren eyed the gun carefully, then Mack.

  “That’s quite some prize for a young lady,” Mack continued. “Besides, he’s old. I expect he’s slowing down or he’d have a bigger harem. Might be his last winter.”

  “Maybe he’s just picky,” she whispered back.

  Patrick wasn’t a collector of antler racks, but that bull could tempt him to start.

  “Or take one of the youngsters. They’re gonna be nothing but trouble,” he winked at Patrick, which earned him one of Lauren’s rare half smiles. “Putting him in the freezer would be a kindness to this elder. His brother, too, while we’re at it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Gonna live on the ranch, you should know how to hunt, girl.”

  Live on the ranch? When had she said that? Patrick wanted to shout with joy and to heck with the hunt.

  “But I’m not—” Lauren protested.

  Oh, Mack was making it up.

  “Either take the shot, or we might’s well head on home.” Patrick had never heard Mack be so forceful about anything. What did the old man know that he didn’t? Just that there was some reason Lauren had t
o take the shot rather than Mack himself.

  Lauren still didn’t take the weapon.

  The tableau held long enough for the leader of the herd to take another mouthful of grass.

  “Together,” Michael said, unslinging the pump-action Remington Model 760 GameMaster that he’d selected. Funny, Patrick would never have pegged him as a traditionalist. Michael slid forward to sit beside Lauren. No lying on the ground for support or resting the rifle against a tree. He didn’t even bother to raise a knee to rest an elbow on it. He simply sat at the ready, waiting. They had three licenses as a group, so that wasn’t a problem.

  Lauren slowly took and lifted Mack’s Winchester Model 70 .30-06, resting it against her left shoulder. She didn’t use a knee prop either. How good were Delta shooters? Patrick supposed that he was about to find out.

  “The best is a double-lung shot. Just above and behind their shoulder, broadside,” Mack whispered.

  “I have the young bull to the south,” Michael spoke softly.

  “Roger.” Lauren felt her breathing steady. He was leaving the choice of the grand bull or the troublesome youngster to her.

  Live on the ranch? It didn’t make any sense. Yes, Patrick was here, but they barely knew each other despite what they’d done last night. Emily was here, which Lauren was starting to think was a good thing despite how humbling she was to be around.

  She sighted on the herd.

  But her life wasn’t here.

  Four hundred yards figuring five feet tall at the withers. The caribou’s height on the reticle marks inside the scope confirmed the estimate.

  “What’s the rifle zeroed at, Mack?” Her life wasn’t anywhere. She watched the bull caribou through the scope as he watched over the extended family. So easy to take him down.

  “Three hundred.”

  He’d never know what hit him. Just as Jupiter hadn’t known—the first blessing she’d found about the whole heart-rending situation. One minute he’d accepted her command to scout ahead and the next he’d been gone.

  She raised her aim to compensate for the extra foot of fall the round would take in the additional hundred yards from what the scope was set for. And just a fraction more for the wind blowing the scent of sulfur and caribou directly downwind in their direction. They couldn’t feel it here in the woods, but she could see the leaves near the herd flapping in about ten knots of wind. It ruffled the bull’s fur as well. The cool and dry Montana air was so close to the reference temperature and humidity for bullet flight that no compensation was needed, especially on such a punchy round as a .30-06 170 grain.

  A chance to kill the grandest bull of all. To take down the lead male just like she wanted to do to all of the arrogant men of her past.

  “On one,” Michael said. Old Delta joke—Delta shooters were always ready. “One.”

  She fired, their shots cracking out together.

  Half a second of flight time. By which time she’d worked the bolt and had another round chambered. Plenty of time to take out all three bulls.

  But she didn’t take the second shot.

  Impact.

  The two young bulls didn’t even have time to be surprised they were dead. Two seconds of stillness, then they began falling.

  A sharp bray from the grand male.

  Lauren kept his shoulder clear in her rifle scope, leading him even as he ran away with the doe and fawn, chasing them into the safety of the trees. Even after they were gone, she kept watch through ten long heartbeats.

  She lowered and safetied the weapon. Someone took it as she handed it off.

  Two young bulls. Meat for the freezer. Hides to tan.

  At least they all had a purpose—leading a herd, feeding others. Whereas she—

  Lauren left the carcasses to Mack, Patrick, and Michael to prepare.

  There was too much meat to pack out. So Emily radioed Mark, who flew out later in the afternoon. There was no place to land the helicopter, but he lowered a long line and swooped the cleaned and dressed caribou back toward the ranch.

  The entire time, Lauren sat where the sun slipped beneath the verge of the trees.

  Watching, yet not watching.

  It was the first purposeful shot she’d taken in two months. Being Delta, even just as a dog handler, meant that shooting was a significant portion of her training. And of her service as well. She’d shot maniacs running at her waving a machete, bomb makers, poppy growers harvesting and refining heroin so they could buy more weapons, men and women with rifles who left their families and risked everything for the chance to kill an American soldier. She could account for seventeen kills just against those who had targeted her war dogs over the years. That was part of the deal. They protected her and she protected them—until she hadn’t.

  By contrast, shooting a caribou was almost a peaceful act. Hundreds of pounds of meat. A beautiful hide that would become a rug or coat or something.

  “You’re being even quieter than Michael,” Emily sat down beside her after waving the helicopter aloft.

  “What’s up with him anyway?” Lauren’s voice felt tight and rough with disuse. She had no interest in sharing what she was thinking…because she wasn’t thinking. All she felt was numb. The aches in her muscles told her that she hadn’t moved in at least an hour. It could have been two or three minutes for all she knew except for the stiffness.

  “You broke the back of it. We’ll find out what’s bugging Michael soon enough. What’s up with Lauren?”

  She blinked as if coming awake. “Well, I found something useful to do. Even if it’s just once per year. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  Emily rested a hand on her shoulder and Lauren took immense comfort from that simple kindness. “It’s just a beginning.”

  Lauren looked over at her. Emily was smiling that half smile of hers…the one that meant she wouldn’t be explaining a thing.

  Figured.

  Chapter 8

  “Why didn’t you shoot the older bull?” Patrick rode so close beside her that they were practically rubbing boots.

  Last night she had sat at the campfire. No romantic forays into the night forest. No shared laughter around the fire.

  Mack had told stories. He’d done his two years of service, but just like everything else with him, none of it had happened in any normal way.

  “Out at the wrong end of a long training run, we were offered a ride back to base if we’d volunteer for KP. I never did mind kitchen work, so my hand was first up. Better that than a 10K hike back. Ended up in the cushy post of being a waiter in the Officer’s Club for my last eighteen months. Can’t say I had any real complaints. A darn sight better than going to Korea and facing off against the Chinese.”

  Patrick had added some film school stories of his own, but they seemed even more distant than Mack’s separation from the military—which had been at about the same time Patrick’s mom and dad were born.

  Even Michael had told them about climbing the big redwoods.

  Lauren had remained silent.

  When they’d bedded down, he’d made sure that he spread his sleeping bag near hers. His shock had barely been outweighed by his pleasure when deep in the night she’d scooted close so that they lay back-to-back in their separate sleeping bags. The bags were rated to far colder temperatures so it wasn’t for warmth, but he’d slept little as he’d relished the contact.

  She’d been up and tending the fire with Michael by the time Patrick had woken. The sky had gone slate gray in the night and the temperature was falling. Their plan to camp a couple more days—having the unlikely good fortune of bagging the caribou on the second day—was aborted. A September storm in the Flathead Wilderness wasn’t worth the risk.

  Lauren had appeared normal this morning as they rode back out of the mountains. Her silence no longer the texture of steel, instead it seemed she was back to just her normal state.

  They’d descended several thousand feet as they crossed out of the mountains and back onto ranch land, but the c
hill clung.

  She inspected the gray sky for a long time before answering.

  “It felt vengeful to take down the big bull. He has figured out how to survive a lot of years. He earned his right to enjoy his last winter or two, fair and square with no hunter snatching it away from him.”

  Patrick wasn’t quite sure why the answer surprised him, but it did. He’d led all sorts of hunters into the wild from first timers to seasoned lifetime hunters like Mack. He never took the shot himself, because that wasn’t the point of being a guide. Three years’ experience had taught him that, just like in real life, there was a fair spread from responsible hunters who valued the bounty as well as the hunt to ones who shouldn’t be trusted with anything sharper than a broken pencil. Not a one of them would have left that big caribou behind.

  “You’re a curious woman, Lauren Foster.”

  “In what way?”

  He coaxed Minotaur along to keep up with her fast-paced Colette. “You’re never quite what I expect.”

  A glance back showed that the other three had fallen well behind as they ducked down into a low swale of trees.

  “Whoa,” he eased Minotaur to a halt at a small brook and let the horse drink.

  Lauren stopped and did the same. “Is that a good thing, or bad? Because I’m never what I expect either and it’s scaring the heck out of me.”

  “With you, trust me, it’s good. And how can you not be what you expect?”

  She studied him for a long moment. Again he was fascinated by the winter-brown eyes and couldn’t look away.

  Without a word, she nudged her horse closer to him until their knees were practically interlocked. Not letting go of the reins, she leaned in to kiss him. This time there was none of the fire of the porch nor the desperation of the forest. This time, she kissed him long, soft, and slow.

  When she eased back, he found himself tipping more and more forward until he was at risk of dropping into the cold stream rather than a warm mud puddle.

  “That’s not like me at all,” she whispered.