by Vince Milam
“We’re going drinking and dancing?” I asked.
“You going to live in the moment? Or wallow?”
I chose the moment. It would be great seeing Miriam again. A Montana lady, she took things at face value, never pried or fished for rumor. Plus Irene Collins, fresh from California and a bad relationship. Time for focus, maintain mindfulness. And not be a jerk with the guest Marcus had invited for dinner.
She arrived in her new pickup as Marcus fired the porch fire pit. Irene was nothing short of impressive as she sauntered up, her jet-black hair in a ponytail. Not a classic beauty but arresting, different. She wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and a Carhartt fleece-lined jacket. She’d gone local.
Marcus did the introductions, she asked for a glass of red wine, and I fetched while she stood on the porch. A glance before entering the ranch house showed her warming her hands over the pit fire, a smile wide and wry. A chesty laugh at something Marcus said.
I poured wine and a Grey Goose, told myself to take it easy on the booze. Marcus moved a few logs around, then added more.
“Were you guys shooting last night?” she asked. “Thought I heard gunfire through the wind.”
Well, the deal is, Irene, there was a little gunfire last night. Had to blow away six hired killers. Plus an old comrade. Shot them dead. Dug a hole, dropped them in. Came back and had a drink.
“We tried out a couple of new guns,” Marcus said.
“At night?”
“Welcome to Montana.”
They both laughed; I forced a smile. Marcus headed inside to set the table. Irene and I stood around the fire pit and chatted.
“What happened to your face?” she asked.
The kitchen door’s wooden splinters had left wounds, now cleaned and—I had thought—only minor telltale signs.
“Fell down bird hunting. Steep coulee.”
She bought it and moved on.
“Marcus tells me you travel a lot,” she said. “Sounds mysterious.” Her one-corner smile had an element of teasing.
“Independent investigator. Clients hire me to find answers, report back. Mundane stuff.”
“Well, it still sounds sort of James Bondish. Independent investigator. Find answers. Man of danger and shadow.” She laughed good-naturedly.
Enough about me, and a few spikes appeared along the top of my personal wall barrier. I didn’t talk about my current career. Jake exited the dog door, wandered over, and sought recognition. I scratched his bushy eyebrows.
“James Bond without the tux, excitement, or glamour. So, you’re a scientist?”
She sipped wine and shrugged—an indication she found her own activities mundane.
“Biological chemistry.” She explained the PhD from UCLA that focused on the study of chemical processes related to living organisms. She worked for an LA pharmaceutical company who allowed her to do her research remotely. A great gig, which must have paid well. It let her dive in the netherworlds of arcane research, living wherever she wanted.
“So you’re a SoCal girl?” I asked.
“Bakersfield. Working-class girl. You?”
“Coast of Georgia. Working-class guy.”
“I thought I heard a slight lilt. A Southern gentleman.”
“Southern, sure. Gentleman—well, I try.”
A couple of more dives into her work life hit surface ice each time. She wasn’t interested in discussing her research—either for professional and nondisclosure reasons or because she’d learned it led to boring conversation. A change of topic, and I peeked over her personal barriers. A few hackles displayed.
“I understand you’ve taken over your grandad’s place. Big move. LA for the Wild West.”
“Marcus must have informed you of my recent breakup. You’re assuming it drove me to make the move.”
“Wasn’t prying.”
“I’ve been married, divorced, and thought this last guy different. He wasn’t.”
Her look and physical stance projected feisty rather than bitter. Challenging instead of remorseful. I didn’t recall asking for details.
“Still. Big change. And you’ll experience the dubious pleasures of a Montana winter shortly.” I said it with a smile. Weather as neutral ground.
“I’m looking forward to it. The isolation doesn’t bother me.”
Dusk moved into night. Marcus hit the porch lights, went back, and started another fire in the large great-room fireplace.
Headlights, a rattle from a road rut. Miriam’s pickup rolled up and squeaked to a stop. She slid out; a cow dog followed.
“Behave, Dity. Is that you, Case? By God, you’re getting more handsome by the month.”
We hugged and swapped brief tales. Jake bounded from the dog door and confronted Dity. They’d met before.
“Dity, I mean it,” Miriam said, her full-force intent sufficient to curb the cow dog’s aggressive nature. “Irene, don’t you look good. Has Marcus been telling you more lies about ranching?”
“A few.” We laughed; Jake and Dity cut inside to seek handouts. Miriam soon followed. “If he’s setting the table, we’re liable to end up with a combination of chopsticks and ladles.”
It was good seeing her again, honest and salty and sincere. The real deal.
Irene and I huddled over the fire pit. Serious cold had arrived.
“So what’s your social situation?” she asked. No buildup, no circling. A quid pro quo. She’d revealed enough. My turn.
“A mom and kid sister. No partner.”
“Marcus said something about you living on the East Coast.”
“Live on a boat. Ply the Intracoastal Waterway between Virginia and Florida. Alone.”
She digested the information. There were a lot of ways to look at my situation, one of which was loner nutcase. I added, “I’ll settle at some point.”
“Are you gay?” she asked.
“I need to learn to ask that.”
“What?”
“Nope. Not gay. Single.”
She sipped and assessed me over the wineglass rim.
“You have the rugged good looks thing working. So what’s the issue?”
“No issue.” I brushed the truth as this had gone deep way too fast. “I’m widowed.” It was tossed on the table as a sign of previous stability, normalcy. And because it meant something. Meant something to me, a verbal acknowledgement of fierce love.
“Sorry.”
“It was a while ago.”
She took a deep draft of wine, and commentary commenced as she stared into the outdoor fire. Logs popped, crackled. Coyotes yipped from a nearby gully. Rocky shoals appeared on the conversational front.
“I’m not heading into the ‘You’re clearly running from something’ routine. But it isn’t a lifestyle that indicates emotional maturity, widowed or not. Just saying.”
Yeah, just saying. And drawing conclusions without knowing a damn thing about me. The real me. It irritated.
“A person might want to know the larger picture before slapping labels,” I said.
She looked up from the fire, a look of observation, clinical, clear in the firelight. Jake had returned and leaned against me. Dity sat away, sought no affection. I scratched Jake’s beard, and he drifted into dog heaven.
“So off you go on mysterious jobs in mysterious places under the direction of mysterious clients,” she said. “Then return and wander up and down the East Coast. On a boat. Alone.”
Well, it’s the whole deal about the $1 million bounty for my head, Irene. A moving target is harder to hit.
“It’s not a bad life.”
“No girlfriend.”
“Didn’t realize it was a black mark on my character.”
“Black mark is a bit harsh. But I can only circle back to the emotional-maturity facet. Just an observation.”
You should have observed me last night, Irene, and drawn a few clinical conclusions from that little event.
Marcus’s appearance halted our conversation.
“G
orgeous night. Might get a dusting of snow,” he said. “Come eat.”
Seldom do my social interactions go off the rails with such rapidity. Irene was bright as hell, with striking looks and an initially pleasant demeanor. Then the clinical assessments. Maybe an affectation from her job. Clinical. Or maybe an in-your-face personal assessment delivered from past burned relationships. Either way, it grated.
I followed Irene and Marcus, halted, stared northeast. Out there, buried, forgotten. Cold, cold ground.
Marcus held the door for Irene and waited. When I started toward him, we locked eyes and stayed locked as I passed. I stopped when his hand pressed my chest.
“Push it behind you,” he whispered. “Now.”
I returned a nod, acknowledgement, resignation. A fire log popped; Miriam called us in.
Cold, cold ground.
Chapter 38
We settled at the great-room table; the fireplace flames threw heat, and we enjoyed the meal. I switched to red wine and stopped reminding myself to take it easy.
Marcus led the conversation and discussed cattle with Irene. Management, pasture rotation, hay procurement, getting through the winter.
“You’ll want a good ax. Your grandad probably had one in the barn,” Marcus said.
“For firewood?” Irene asked.
“Yes, but also for chopping the ice on the water tanks for the cattle. Even with solar heaters, it’ll freeze solid.”
“I’ll do that. Three water tanks on the place.”
“Twice a day. They’re tough critters, but there’s an element of babysitting you’ll have to do during winter.”
Irene nodded, without a trace of resentment or irritation at Marcus’s instructions. This is how it’s done. Plain and simple. She absorbed the information. Clinical. Checked a box. Moved on.
The conversation drifted through Billings grocery trips, new tires, good dogs, movies.
“Did he tell you about the movie we saw?” Miriam asked. “A good one. Real tearjerker. Marcus fell asleep.”
“Next time let’s drive spikes into my eyeballs for entertainment.”
“Every time you pick one, it’s a bullets-flying, women-swooning, hero-could-use-a-bath movie.”
“Yes, but at least they’re in color.”
We laughed, teased, talked mundane part-of-life things. Good stuff—real, comforting.
Marcus sent us back outside with two brandies while he and Miriam cleared the table and washed dishes. My old friend played matchmaker, corralled Irene and I together. If it was obvious to me, Miss Clinician would pick up on it as well.
The porch fire pit contained red coals and low flames, so I added three midsize logs. Flames lifted and cast warmth. Irene and I had both put our jackets back on. I’d added a black fleece watch cap.
“Great meal,” Irene said. “Good conversation, good company. You’re still upset about our discussion earlier.”
Irene Collins damn sure went straight to the point. No guesses about what she thought.
“Let’s just say we disagree on your assessment. Of me.”
She shrugged, took a nose hit from the brandy snifter, and sipped. “I wasn’t trying to belittle you. Or be mean.”
“Okay.”
She flashed a smile, good nature expressed with the delivery. “You’re not pouting, are you?”
Man, she could push buttons. Pouting? No. More of a disconnect, a lack of mutual understanding.
“Maybe a little.”
She laughed. “This whole woman–man thing has a lot of variables. I’m certainly no expert. But each time is a learning experience. I do try to learn. Absorb. Figure it out.”
“Not easy, for sure.”
“No. Not easy.”
Jake wandered out the dog door, having begged what he could from Marcus. He stood, barked once at the deep night, and strolled over. Dity joined us and parked ten feet away.
“Is what you do dangerous?” she asked and lifted a booted toe to scratch Jake’s hindquarter.
“No, not really.” My butt wound began to ache. Too much activity the last twenty-four hours. But the stitches held.
“Marcus said you two were soldiers. Army.”
Army would have been all he’d said about it. Delta Force, technically, didn’t exist. A band of warriors, better trained than any, and the worst-kept secret on the planet. But Marcus wouldn’t have gone there. Telling someone—anyone—you were former Delta cast you into the “Dude’s a stone-cold killer” category with the general public. We were a helluva lot more than that, but the easy road lay in the more general term army. If pressed by a current or former military individual, we’d further elaborate and state airborne, the army’s elite parachute troops. Much of Delta Force’s personnel came from airborne, and it made for good cover.
“True enough. Several years ago.”
“Did you kill people?” she asked with a flat voice, a clinical inquiry.
Should have been here last night, Irene. Plenty of killing going down.
“Weird question.” Seldom did the question come so fast, so blunt. Most often it was couched in terms like “Did you see action?” or “Were you in any firefights?” Or questions about combat experience. But diving to the heart of the matter, killing, seldom pierced a casual conversation.
“Not so weird,” she said.
“You going to finish that?” My brandy had disappeared. She poured hers into my snifter with a sure and easy move.
“Thanks,” I continued. “I don’t talk about it. Killing. So how many cattle do you have on your place?”
“How’d you kill them? Long rifle shot? Close up?”
Clinical questions. Not a trace of macabre fascination. Information for her relationship data banks.
“Let’s park that subject. Why don’t you tell me about LA life? Working in the corporate world. Bright lights, big city.” A single gulp downed her brandy.
“Traffic. Organizational secrets. Who is developing what. The next cancer treatment. Cures for very specific diseases.”
Jake stopped his dream lean and wandered over to an old folded blanket near the dog door, circled twice, and plopped down. Dity joined him.
“Sounds pretty cool. Smart people.”
“My ex-husband found it irritating I couldn’t talk about what I did at work.”
“I can see where that’d be tough.”
“Like asking you if you’d killed.”
“A bit different.”
“The last guy didn’t like my long hours,” she said. “His excuse for cheating. I was always at work.”
The proverbial ten-foot pole appeared, and I shifted subjects. “Well, it’s nice you can work remotely and still keep the bosses happy.”
“It’s a specialized field. Lots of research. Research feeding the lab work.”
“Good for you.” I meant it.
“There’s too much killing in the world. That’s why I asked. I don’t know what drives it. Psychosis. Culture. Manifestations of what we call evil. I don’t know.”
Thin ice, but an interesting topic. I shuffled onto the winter lake. “At the detail level, the individual level, there are really nasty people in the world. Evil people. People that should be removed.”
“I thought you were regular army. Jumping out of planes.”
Damn, she was sharp. Regular military personnel aren’t in the “go terminate a couple of select bad guys” business.
“Just thinking out loud.”
“Hmm.”
She didn’t buy it. Back to terra firma. “So what do you do for fun?”
“Read. I like biographies and historical novels. Take long walks. This country is perfect for hiking.”
“It is. Be aware of grizzlies.” If you hiked the Beartooths or Absarokas, either potent pepper spray or a more potent sidearm was well advised. A lot of folks hiked with a bear bell clanging off their packs as they strode to warn bears away. Not my preference. Too much noise.
“So I’ve heard. You and Marcus were
talking fly-fishing. I may give it a try. It looks very cool.”
“Great sport.” No elaboration was needed. Either you did it and dove into the endeavor, or you didn’t. It could be a frustrating learning curve.
Miriam and Marcus put the dogs inside, and we bundled into Marcus’s Suburban, ventured forth to the social center of this four-hundred-square-mile area.
The band played country standards; we danced the two-step. Marcus and I swapped partners every third dance, and the other thirty or so patrons crowded the small dance floor. Each pass of the potbellied stove brought a wave of wood-fired heat, and the touch of Irene felt fine. A good time—laughter, conversation, drinks. Grey Goose flowed.
When the band busted into a reel, the dancers spun, a whirlwind of Levis, boots, and let ’er rip. Irene and I joined, spinning, building momentum.
Eyes closed, an overwhelming desire flooded me. Spin out of here, through the wall, soar. Fly over the grasslands, the mountains. Soar into the atmosphere where sky and light and lightning lived. Spin, release, escape. Snatches of memories. Rae in shorts and halter top, bright, alive, radiant. Spin. Twirl off the bad things, the ugliness. Fly and depart and leave it behind. Wash in joy and happiness. Bring Mom and CC and even Tinker Juarez. Spin and twist my way out of blood and death. Holding hands with Rae, walking on the beach. Fly away from cold, cold bodies. Into the light, the warmth of love past, unbounded. Toward a place where unbridled joy reigned. Depart the great tumbler of life, rolling, changing. Fling, fling myself away from it, float, relax.
And bring back my wife.
Chapter 39
The Raleigh flight departed early afternoon. Marcus and Miriam prepared breakfast. My former team leader challenged me to eat and keep it down. Yeah, a bit of a rough night. But this day, better. Going home.
“So you’ll head back,” Marcus said. “See your mom and CC.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Cruise on the Ace.”
“Amen.”
“Hide until the next catastrophe.”
“You’re getting snarky in your old age.”
He lit a cigar and inspected the burning tip.
“You remember the invite?”
He meant move to Montana. Live there.
