When Mountains Move

by Julie Cantrell

  For more than a week, Bump and I have made our best attempts to harmonize our way through cornstalks and hay fields, prairies and plateaus, right across the broad, flat waistline of America. I am hoarse, but every time I try to sit out a song, Bump encourages me to jump back in. “No fun without you,” he says. His voice is still pitch perfect. Now he stops singing. A guilty grin spreads across his face, and he looks like a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

  “What?” I ask, trying to figure what he’s thinking.

  “Well, I know you don’t like surprises … but … I got a good one for you.”

  The last time Bump surprised me, he announced his plans to leave Mississippi. It was the first time I’d met his family, and he told us the news as a group. “Colorado,” he said, and it hit me like a punch. I had no idea he was planning to leave town, and—until that day—I had no idea I’d care if he did.

  “So, what is it?” I hold my stomach, which is still turning, and hope it settles soon.

  “Guess.”

  Playfully, I roll my eyes, but then decide I’m game.

  “Jewelry?”

  “Nope.”

  “Horses?”

  “Negative.”

  “Books?” My voice reaches a hopeful peak.

  “You’re ice cold.”

  “Saddle?”

  “Forget it,” he says. “I’ll just tell you.”

  “Finally!”

  “I invited Oka to come visit us. In Colorado.”

  My heart jumps. “Oka? No way she’d be able to do that.”

  “Wrong again, Millie. That’s the surprise. She is comin’. And not just for a visit. She wants to live with us for a while, to help us get settled. Maybe stay for good.”

  “You’re kidding.” I roll my eyes, certain Bump thinks me gullible.

  “Not at all,” he insists. “I suggested she wait a month or two and then come up by train. Janine said she’d help with the arrangements. She and Mr. Tucker might even come with her.”

  I can’t break the smile from my face. We drive for hours, and all I can think about is Oka. Six months ago, I was an orphan with no family to call my own. Now, I’ve got a husband who loves me and a grandmother, too.

  I’m just about to ask Bump what he thinks of Janine and Mr. Tucker when he points west. “Welcome to the Rockies, Mrs. Anderson. Home sweet home.”

  The truck’s narrow window wears a coat of thick dirt, making it difficult to see much across the flat, stark horizon. “Pull over?” I request. “I want to remember the first time I see the mountains.”

  Bump laughs and steers the truck to the side of the road. I open the door and jump out before the wheels can fully stop their spinning. The mountains are barely visible, just cloud-shaped formations rising above the dry, dusty prairie. Nothing majestic or glorious yet, but still, they signal hope. Change. A new life. And suddenly, I think I might be ready.

  “Look,” I tell him. “Two peaks, standing together. Just like in my dream!”

  “Can barely see ’em.” He laughs.

  I stretch my stiff muscles. “Bump? You really think we can move mountains?”

  “No doubt,” my husband answers, full of confidence as usual. He walks back to remove tumbleweed that has just blown under the truck, and then tosses the tangled ball of vines into the wind.

  “Wait!” I run to grab the prickly sphere. “I want to mail it to Camille. She’ll never believe me otherwise.” Bump laughs again, watching me spin the twisted treasure until it finds fit in the cab of the truck.

  “You’re lucky it’s a small one,” he says. “I’ve seen ’em much bigger than that!”

  In the distance, a thin patch of trees trims the edge of a shallow riverbed. Most are covered in bright, new heart-shaped leaves. A number of seed pods cling to their limbs, but some have already popped open. Those that remain wait stubbornly for the right pitch of wind. With rough, gray trunks, the trees stretch more than twenty feet into the sky.

  “From what I hear, most folks chop those,” Bump says, following my gaze. “They’re cottonwoods. Make good firewood, won’t spit, but I don’t think they’ll grow up by our place.”

  “Why not?” I ask. We walk out to see the snowy seeds, the river.

  “Too high. They like the lower elevations. Flat land with good water.”

  As a child, I protested Jack’s threats to chop Sweetie, a tree that always offered me refuge and friendship. Now, I’m in awe of these feathery swells and the way the leaves blow in the wind. They make a sound I imagine is not so unlike ocean waves. I’m glad I can still hear the songs of the trees. “Why cut something so beautiful?”

  Bump smiles. “And that, Millie, is why I love you.”

  “That’s why?” I ask. “Because I like trees?”

  “That’s one reason. Sure.”

  “What are the other reasons?” I give him a playful grin, fishing for compliments.

  “Because you’re real, Millie. Like no other girl I’ve met.”

  His words are sweet, but they carry weight. Even though Bump’s given me no reason to think he wouldn’t understand, I’m still too afraid to tell him about Bill Miller. We’re worlds away from Diana’s husband now, too far for him to hurt me anymore, and still he has this power over me. Every time I think of him, I cower in fear. I wish, more than anything, that Bump already knew the truth. That I didn’t have to haul this heavy history. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to wonder why I am the way I am. Why I have woken every night, clawing my way out of the horrible dream. Why I’m sometimes distant, when I should be close.

  With each mile, the mountains grow taller and my excitement stacks with them. Before we know it, we are pulling into Lewiston, our new town. As Bump promises, it is burrowed into the eastern Front Range of the Rockies, a quiet valley deep beneath the steep rise of Longs Peak. The roads are rough, mostly dirt with small sections of rock to prevent washout. Glowing red canyons have stretched along the last leg of our route, but now rocky crests top slopes of aspens and evergreens. The land is greener than the parched prairies we’ve spanned for days, and a large lake sparkles at the bottom of the valley, its rim dotted with families enjoying the day.

  A row of wooden buildings stands straight and square against the picturesque backdrop, with false fronts to make the stores look taller and more significant than they really are. Cowboys in boots and spurs are gathered in front of a rustic diner, and a few mothers visit near the post office while their children play tag. An older woman, coughing, comes out of a building marked Doc’s Place. It fronts a large pasture filled with horses and stands next to a barbershop, where three men sit on a bench and smoke. One with a pipe. The others, cigars. Next to them, a few customers move in and out of the general store where another sign reads Justice. A faded American flag waves in the wind.

  “It’s like all the Wild West towns I read about in those Zane Grey books from the library.” I look around for dust-coated outlaws at odds with men who wear shiny badges on buttoned vests. This could be a town from a century ago, not 1943.

  “Hardly seems real, does it?” Bump parks the truck in front of the store and comes around to open the passenger door for me. I press the wrinkles out of my dress and signal Bump to tuck in his shirt. He adjusts his hat and gives me a confident grin.

  The altitude is already having its way with me. Mr. Tucker warned me about altitude sickness, but I never expected the change to affect me this much. At least not here, where still higher peaks pierce the sky above me. I try to extend my shallow breaths and will myself not to be a wimp, as I pat my curls for any unfamiliar clumps. “My frizz feels halfway tamed.” I smile. “This low humidity might be good for me.”

  “You’re beautiful, Millie. These mountain men won’t know how to handle the likes of you. In fact, come to think of it, it might be best if I leave you in the truck.” Bump takes my hand a
nd pretends to pull me back toward our vehicle. I playfully resist until he starts laughing. Then we walk toward the store, entering together, hand in hand. He’s not like other men who expect their wives to follow behind. Like a servant. Or a dog.

  When we step into the store, Bump nods at an old man behind the counter whose thick, bristly hair looks as if it has never been combed. Two white sideburns frame his face, and he looks like a character from a Hollywood Western. As if he’s just playing a part rather than running a general store in the actual wilds of Colorado.

  “Help you?” More of a challenge than a question. His guarded look—deep burrows plowed across his face—warns he might not take well to strangers. One corner of his lips pinches a toothpick as he surveys the new couple in his town.

  “Kenneth Anderson.” Bump introduces himself properly, extending his hand for a steady shake. “And this here’s my wife, Millie.”

  I blush at Bump introducing me as his wife, proud to have this title and grateful for the security it brings, the permanence of our partnership. I will never again be alone. I hold my head a little higher.

  The storekeeper stands and offers a hairy hand to Bump, nods his head to me. I smile. He doesn’t.

  “First day in town,” Bump explains.

  “What brings you to these parts?” With his teeth still set around the toothpick, I can barely understand what the shopkeeper says. He still hasn’t bothered telling us his name.

  “Plan to run a ranch. For our boss, Cauy Tucker. A breeding facility. Beef cattle. Stock horses.”

  “So you’re nesters, are you?” The man eyes a customer who has just eaten a nut from the bin.

  Bump looks at me as if he isn’t sure what the man means. Then he continues. “I guess so. Mr. Tucker bought a place out on Lone Ridge Road. It’s been abandoned for a while, from what I understand.”

  “Old Fortner place?” the shopkeeper asks. I try to read his expression, but his emotions are masked.

  Bump scratches his chin before he nods. “Name sounds familiar. That might be the one,” Bump says. “Know anything about it?”

  “Do, indeed. That’s where I got me this beauty.” The man points to a stuffed mountain lion mounted behind the counter. I can’t believe it’s not the first thing I noticed. It’s huge, more than a hundred pounds, certainly big enough to take down a calf or a colt. Or me. My stomach twists into knots again.

  The lion has been set as if it’s about to pounce, with front legs bent, ears perked, and head stooped. Two shiny yellow beads glare out at me, cold and hard in the sockets where eyes should be. I take two steps to the side to avoid the feeling that I might become the animal’s next meal.

  When I was a young girl, my neighbor Sloth taught me to slay roosters, squirrels, rabbits … pretty much anything we could cook and call supper. But it was a solemn act. Sloth always said, “Best take time to thank God and your food. Both be keeping you alive today.” Unlike this shopkeeper, Sloth never displayed the hide to gain bragging rights, even when he took a sixteen-point buck and all Mr. Sutton’s hands came to see. I stare at the lion, and I’m not sure what to make of it. I never considered hunting an animal as a trophy. Never knew anyone who did.

  By now, a half-dozen shoppers eye us with curiosity. With the shelves a messy disarray of goods and the walls lined floor to ceiling with everything from furs and traps to fabric and flour, I’m surprised the store can hold all of us.

  I offer smiles to the ladies, careful not to look the men in the eye. As I lean into my husband, an excited redheaded kid comes running through the crowd with a lollipop stick poking between his lips. His mother reaches out to grab him. “I’m Katherine Fitch Garner,” she says, moving closer to me, her long red hair falling loosely beneath a tan Stetson hat. She might be the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen: flawless pearly skin, sharp green eyes, and straight white teeth that form a smile so perfect it’s hard for me not to stare. Plus, she’s nearly as tall as Bump. “This is Henry.” Her son pulls the green lollipop from his mouth and holds it out to me.

  I smile. “Well, hello there, Henry. I think I’ll let you keep that one, but thanks for the offer.” He pokes the candy back into his mouth and extends a sticky greeting my way. I shake his hand and laugh, relieved to find kindness after the storekeeper’s intimidating greeting.

  “Friends call me Kat,” Henry’s mother adds, as she pulls her sugary son back into place. He must be about six years old, with curls that cap his frame like wildfire. The same color as his mother’s.

  “Millie,” I say. “Short for Millicent.”

  “I heard you mention the old Fortner place. My father’s ranch isn’t far from there,” Kat says. “Mind if we swing by sometime?”

  “That’d be great.” I try to contain my excitement. I never expected it’d be this easy to make friends here. It’s not something that ever came naturally for me.

  Others fall behind Kat and introduce themselves to Bump and me. They are polite not to shower us with questions, but they also offer little information. It’s different here than at home. In Iti Taloa, folks would have asked about my family, my church, and my husband’s line of business. They would have already made their minds up about our status in the community, and we would never be able to cross the line they would have drawn for us. Here, I get the feeling they don’t care one bit about where we’ve come from or where we’re going. They simply welcome us to town. It’s up to us to define the rest.

  The grumpy store owner seems to be enjoying the commotion. His smug expression has loosened into a look that could almost be considered a smile. “Let me help you find a few things.” He winks at Kat, and the crowd shuffles their attention back to bins of dried beans, horseshoes, and onions. I’m hoping he’s not as gruff as he first seemed.

  “We’ll just grab a few necessities for now,” Bump says, filling a sack with flour. I move to scoop oats, accidentally knocking down a sign that reminds shoppers to use ration coupons when purchasing sugar, coffee, and kerosene.

  The shopkeeper eyes the sign as I quickly reset it. He then prompts us to buy bullets, new boots, canning jars. “How about some rope?”

  “We’ll be back once we get a good look at the place,” Bump promises. “Got no idea what’s in store for us yet.”

  A big-boned woman cackles from the back corner. Then a silence wraps the room, and the only sound remaining is a caged bird squawking. A chilling warning. Even Kat’s son, Henry, stands still. There is something the locals aren’t telling us, and Bump seems to sense it too. He looks around at the shoppers. Looks back at the store owner. “Sorry,” Bump says, suspicion in his tone. “I never did catch your name.”

  “Halpin,” the man says. “Sheriff Halpin.” This surprises me, and I nearly laugh. How can this old man run a store and serve as sheriff? Must not be much crime here.

  Bump doesn’t react the way I do. Instead, he holds eye contact with the sheriff, and the long pause causes a woman next to me to shirk away awkwardly. I tug on Bump’s arm, hinting for him to move with me through the store. I’ve never seen him act like this, and I’m afraid we’re getting off on the wrong foot with the sheriff. Finally, Bump clears his throat and looks at me. “Find everything you need?”

  We work together, quickly selecting a few more staples before paying for the goods and carting our supplies to the exit. Just as we open the door to leave, a tall, sun-leathered man enters the store alone.

  “You’ve got no business in here,” the sheriff tells the new customer, more of a growl than a greeting.

  Others shift their attention to the man at the door. One of the younger women whispers something to her friend. Sheriff Halpin rustles his way from the back but stops halfway, as if he doesn’t really want a confrontation. The man stands in the entrance, leaving the door wide open. He looks to be about Oka’s age, early sixties maybe, with gray eyes and a rugged brown beard that matches a head full of thick
brown waves. A worn hat is in his hands.

  Around his neck, a collection of animal teeth has been strung with leather, and he wears a pair of buckskin pants. His skin is as pale as Bump’s, but he dresses as if he belongs to a native tribe. I count two pistols, each holstered on a hip, with a line of bullets wrapped around his middle. I try not to stare at the bone-handled knife attached to that belt. This strange man has probably been living in the wild for decades, but he offers a warm smile and shakes Bump’s hand, ignoring Sheriff Halpin’s warnings.

  “You the ones here to run the ranch?” It’s obvious this fellow has come to meet us. We’ve been in town a matter of minutes and word has already spread.

  Bump introduces us and repeats our plans to operate a breeding facility. “Plan to handle a little veterinary care for the region too.” Most people are surprised to learn Bump has completed vet school. It’s on account of his poor Delta roots that still shape the way he talks. His thick southern accent makes this man smile.

  In return, the stranger speaks with a soft, hollow voice, one of an old man with cloudy eyes and tired lungs, but nothing about him looks tired or weepy. “You’re bound to need some help out there.”

  “Might,” Bump agrees.

  “Well then, I’m the man for the job.” He looks at me with a charmer’s grin.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Bump answers, apparently not ready to decide if he needs more help than I can offer. I give him a glance to imply that yes, we will definitely need help.

  The man catches my look. “I know horses,” he says. “And cattle.”

  “What can you do?” Bump asks.

  “I do it all. Roping. Branding. Sorting cattle. Can do some light vet work too, stitch a wound, foal out mares.”

  Bump listens. “You break colts?”

  The man says, “Sure I do.” Then he adds, “I also braid reins, ropes. Some metal work too, shoes, bits. Nothing fancy, but they’ll do the job.”

  Bump looks at me as if he doesn’t believe all of his claims.

  The man continues. “Also know my way around the milking station, and I can handle crops pretty good too. Believe me, weather could wipe you clean in no time if you don’t know what you’re doing.”