When Mountains Move

by Julie Cantrell

  By 5:15, the biscuits are done. I ring the dinner bell, scattering bluebirds and chickadees from surrounding limbs.

  By 5:30, I ring it again to call Bump.

  By 5:45, I am hurrying to the barn, worried.

  I find Bump covered in sweat, chopping down a lodgepole pine. “Beetles,” he says. “It’s sapwood, but still. Won’t have no shortage of wood for winter, thanks to them.”

  “Bump. It’s already a quarter till.” I am not normally a complainer, but I really don’t want to be late.

  “Almost done.” He swings the ax.

  “Can’t you finish this tomorrow?”

  “Just gimme a minute.” Another swing.

  I return to the house and move the biscuits to a basket, covering them with a clean cloth with hopes they’ll stay warm. I hang my cotton apron on the hook, and freshen up before slipping into my nicest suit, one of the boutique outfits Diana bought me. Now, the tailored fabric pulls tight around my waist. I make a mental note to eat less tonight, even though we’ve skipped lunch and I’m starving.

  It’s no wonder I’ve gained weight, despite our full days of sweat and labor. What started out as a nervous nausea has turned into a consistent unsettling. At first I blamed the altitude, even thought I had caught a stomach virus or eaten bad meat. But Bump says I’ve probably worked up an ulcer. While I’m not as sick as I was, I still spend many days moving back and forth between hunger and queasiness, never quite sure if my body would be soothed by eating or avoiding food.

  By six, we are supposed to be arriving at Kat’s ranch, but I’m still waiting in the kitchen for Bump to join me. I wish I could call Kat. No phone line. I’m so eager to go, I consider writing a note to tell Bump I’ve left without him.

  I head to the porch to ring the dinner bell one last time when Bump hollers from the yard, “I’m comin’!” He runs through the front door smelling of hard work.

  “You look nice,” he says, walking past me to find what’s left of the warm water in the reservoir of the stove. He removes his shirt and hurries to wash himself right here in the kitchen. “Grab my razor?”

  I bring him his shaving kit and watch him lather up, without as much as a mirror to guide the process. It’s a rough result, patchy at best.

  The clock ticks. 6:20.

  Bump lifts the cloth from the basket of biscuits and takes one, draws a big bite. I have taken time to arrange them perfectly in the basket, purposely placing the biggest, fluffiest one on top. It’s now a crumbled mess in his mouth. I take the basket and the preserves and walk toward the door. “I’ll be waiting in the truck.” I let the door close hard behind me.

  Kat’s ranch is near ours, but it takes us ten minutes to drive there. We arrive after seven. Others might have another hour of daylight, but the sun bids farewell early here, diving down behind the mountains’ silver spine like a child being tucked between deep pillows. Diana always warned me never to arrive late to a dinner party, and my stomach remembers this lesson with a spin. I am silent during the ride, and the darkening sky brings my mood even lower.

  “You mad?” Bump asks.

  I say nothing, figure it’s obvious. It’s not like me to be so bothered, but lately, every little thing seems to upset me. I’ve never been angry with Bump for anything, and I don’t like feeling this way. I avoid looking his direction as Bump turns the truck onto a long lane and drives us through a grand entrance. Two stone columns base a high-arching wooden sign that welcomes us to F&F Ranch. The lane brings us between pastures, some with horses, others with cattle, until we reach a modest wooden home with a few vehicles parked in the drive. I’m a bundle of nerves, and I fear another attack of nausea. I don’t really understand why the worry still gets to me most days. Life is better now, much better. I only hope the ulcer heals soon.

  Bump opens my door for me and takes the jar of preserves.

  “Is it too simple? I didn’t know what else to make.”

  “They’re delicious, Millie.” He smiles. “You should be proud of what you can do with a woodstove and a sack of flour.” Bump closes my door and extends his arm. Nervously, we make our way to the house.

  I knock. Kat opens the door. Within an instant, I feel underdressed and ashamed of my homely basket of biscuits. Kat looks like a movie star, a redheaded Veronica Lake. She wears a long silver dress that flows loosely around her perfect curves. I think of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, beauty, and pleasure. A delicate loop of emeralds wraps Kat’s wrist. Not the plastic cocktail jewelry most of Diana’s friends flaunted at parties, but real stones. Just enough to show she’s got money. “I’m so glad you made it.” She welcomes us inside with a smile while I apologize for being late.

  I was wrong about the house. The moderate-sized home that didn’t seem imposing from outside opens into an expansive space once you get past the front door. What I believed to be a one-story abode is brilliantly stuffed into the mountainside, with the lower two levels exposed behind the slope. I want to whisper to Bump, “This puts Diana’s house to shame,” but I keep my thoughts to myself.

  “Everyone’s out by the pool,” Kat says.

  As we follow her through the majestic home, I mouth to Bump, “Everyone?” He holds his hat in his hands. His spurs clatter with each step, and I bet he’s wishing he would have removed them before the party. I smile to help him feel at ease.

  “Should I put these in the kitchen?” I ask Kat, hoping she’ll let me ditch the biscuits and jam before we reach the other guests.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, lifting the linen as she takes the basket and adds, “Millie, you shouldn’t have.”

  I bet she means it, because I too am wishing I hadn’t bothered with the biscuits. In fact, I’m wishing I had followed Bump’s lead, worked until sunset, and settled into a nice, comfy supper at home, just the two of us.

  “How do you get electricity out here?” I ask Kat. Her kitchen is filled with all the modern appliances. There’s no way she’s running to an outhouse each morning. Indoor plumbing, lights powered by switches instead of oil. She’s got it all.

  “Daddy had this done before Mother died,” Kat explains. “Took three years to get the lines out this way. Brought in a guy from Santa Fe to figure out the plumbing. Ended up renovating the entire house. Nearly had to start from scratch. Until then, our place wasn’t much different from yours.”

  I can’t imagine their house was ever anything like ours, but I do appreciate Kat’s attempt to make us feel more comfortable. “I’m sorry about your mother.” I don’t tell her about Mama, or how she chose morphine instead of me.

  “Thanks, Millie. We’ve had a few rough years, Daddy and me.”

  She still doesn’t mention her husband. I figure Kat’s about six or seven years older than I am, maybe in her midtwenties, closer in years to Bump than me. I’ve always felt older than people my age, and Mama used to say I had an “old soul,” but here, in this house, I feel like a child. It’s the way Kat struts in those heels, never losing her balance or missing a step. The way she smiles as she talks, drawing everyone’s attention as if nothing more important could exist in the world. The way she flips her red hair with her wrist, letting her jewels dangle delicately down her arm. She may have seemed hesitant, even weak when we were on horseback, but here, in her home, she is ten times the woman I will ever be.

  Bump seems to have noticed too, as he holds the door open for her and watches her move. I find myself wondering if maybe I really am too young to be married, as Diana warned. Maybe Bump would be better off with a woman who is sure of her own worth. Someone like Kat.

  “Daddy,” Kat says, pulling my hand to lead us to the crowd. “Meet Millie and Kenneth Anderson.”

  “Sorry we’re late, sir.” Bump extends his hand. “Started a project and the time got away from me.”

  “Now, that I can admire,” Mr. Fitch says, shaking Bump’s hand and kissing me on the ch
eek before calling the others to meet his guests of honor.

  One by one, Kat introduces us to the important people in her life, and it’s not lost on me that they are all men. No husband. First, the youngest of the group. A balding, clean-shaven minister, Reverend Baker, who hopes to have a church built soon so he can stop holding Sunday service in the diner.

  “And this is Dr. Henley,” Kat says.

  A slim man pushes his glasses up on his nose. “Call me Doc.” He has a handlebar mustache, gray and perfectly balanced.

  Next, the gruff store owner, Sheriff Halpin, who Kat claims is her uncle on her mother’s side. I see no resemblance. “I’ve met this little lady once before,” the sheriff says.

  Little lady? I try not to roll my eyes.

  Bump jumps to my defense. “Don’t underestimate her, Sheriff. Millie here can outride any man in this county. Outsmart ’em too.”

  “That so?” The doctor raises his eyebrows. “You a horse gal?”

  I nod.

  “I’ve got a set of mustangs back home,” Doc says. “Nobody can do a blasted thing with them.”

  “Bump can,” I say. “I’ve never seen a horse he couldn’t break.”

  “That right?” Doc looks doubtful.

  The sheriff jumps back in, eager to prove me wrong. “Those southern horses are easy to break. Up here, the horses have been living wild in the high country, bred to fight wolves. They’ll just as soon buck you to high heaven. And take a bite out of you on your way down.”

  “Well, then. Looks like we’ll be having us some fun,” Doc grins. “Welcome to Lewiston, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.” He raises a glass in our honor.

  The laughter stops when Henry interrupts the crowd yelling, “Mama, Mama. Look what I found!”

  “What is it, Henry?” Kat is patient as ever with her son.

  Henry hasn’t yet learned to say his r sounds, so everyone smiles when he yells, “It’s a bird! A baby bird!” He brings a tiny sparrow to Kat and sets it on the ground. “It’s hurt, Mama. It’s got a broke wing.” Each r replaced with a w.

  I look at Bump and figure he’ll know what to do. “Bump’s an animal doctor,” I explain to Henry.

  “You fix birds?” the boy asks, his red curls a mess of tangles on his head.

  “Some,” Bump answers. “Let’s have a look.”

  The baby sparrow doesn’t react in fear to Bump’s touch. Instead, it cricks its neck quickly to look up at us, then releases a squeak.

  “Looks like you’ve been very gentle with this little fellow,” Bump says. “You’d make a good veterinarian.”

  “What’s a vege … ti … narian?” Henry asks. Everyone smiles.

  “A doctor who helps animals,” Bump explains. “Like me.”

  “You feed them vegetables?” Henry senses the humor and grins too, exposing two deep dimples and some missing front teeth.

  Gently prompting the bird with his thumb, Bump says, “Let’s see what we can do.” The bird hops around, letting one wing drop lower than the other, chirping its simple squeak. “Oh, see now, you’ve already cured her.”

  Kat crosses her arms, proudly, and Henry stares as if he doesn’t believe a word Bump says.

  “You found her on the ground?” Bump asks.

  Henry nods.

  “See how she holds one wing lower than the other?”

  “It’s broke,” Henry insists.

  “No, sir,” says Bump. “It’s just weaker than the other one. She’s learnin’ to walk, and fly, and eat, and it’ll just take her a little more time to figure it all out. She’s called a fledgling.”

  Henry plays with the word in his mouth and then asks, “What can I feed her?”

  “Well, that’s somethin’ she needs to learn to do on her own,” Bump explains. “What we need to do now is get her back to the exact same spot where you found her. Then her mother can take over.”

  Bump scoops the bird from the ground and leads Henry on a mission to save the sparrow.

  Kat watches them move into the woods. Then she sighs and tells me, “Got you a good man there, Millie.”

  I nod. I know I do.

  Chapter 9

  “Dinner was delicious,” I tell Kat.

  “Just steaks.” Kat smiles. “Couldn’t mess that up if I tried.”

  “Best meal I’ve had in weeks,” Bump adds, then realizes his compliment is a direct insult to me. He’s right, though. Powdered eggs just don’t compare.

  Kat thanks Bump and slices a homemade pie. “It’s cherry. From last year’s preserves,” she says. “But fresh ones are coming soon.” She stops Henry from licking his fingers. “I always make a trip to the Western Slope to stock up. Grant used to call me crazy, but I swear the harvest is better across the Divide. I take the train there each summer and sell preserves in my uncle’s store year-round.”

  “Grant?” I seize the chance to ask the question that’s been on my mind all night.

  Kat looks surprised. “Don’t you know?”

  Bump and I exchange confused looks.

  “Grant’s my husband,” Kat explains. “He’s been overseas for more than a year. Navy. I thought I told you.”

  “Oh, Kat, I’m sorry,” I say. “I had no idea.”

  She smiles. “Nothing to worry about.” But she’s obviously worried.

  “Long time,” Bump says.

  “It sure is. I just hope he makes it home before Henry here leaves the nest.” As Kat talks, the room stands still. The men are all at her mercy, clinging to her every word. Doc Henley leans in, over the table, to decrease space between them. Her father beams around her, obviously proud of his only child. Even her uncle, the grim storekeeper who turns animals into trophies, seems tamed by Kat’s charm. There’s a power about her, and I’m beginning to think the women here are smart to keep her at a distance. But Kat’s the only friend I have, so I brush all insecurities aside.

  “So tell me, Mrs. Garner,” Bump focuses his attention on Kat. “What do we need to know about Lewiston?”

  “Oh, goodness, Kenneth. Not much to tell about this old place. And please, call me Kat.” She tells Henry to use his fork, but all I can think is how she made Bump’s name sound when she said the word Kenneth. Bump must have liked it too, because he doesn’t bother telling her to call him Bump.

  I smile at Henry, whose cheeks are now streaked with cherry pie, and he says, “See, Mama. Mrs. Anderson don’t care. She’s nice.”

  Bump laughs and asks the group, “Y’all know anything about the Fortner Place?”

  Doc begins to fill us in. “Started as a homestead. Way back.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Fitch chimes in. “Only 160 acres. Not much land for these parts.” He interrupts the story for a bite of pie.

  “But we’ve got five thousand acres there now.” I am puzzled.

  Doc takes the lead, pushing his glasses up again with fork in hand. “The Fortners lucked into prime land with all those springs along the river. Not like most homesteaders who got hoaxed into scrap. They had sense enough to make good of it too. Dug those ponds. Put in some sophisticated water systems for their day.”

  “Resourceful family,” Mr. Fitch adds. “They’d find the most interesting ways to cash in. Carted timber down to Denver. Sold it to the mining companies. Then they’d pick up a load of coal from the city and deliver it to folks all around here.”

  “He’d sell mushrooms, too. Hogs, milk. Honey. Pretty much anything you wanted. He’d find a way to get it to you for a price,” Sheriff Halpin takes a turn.

  “So they built that place up from a homestead plot?” Bump seems as impressed as I am, and I bet it’s giving him hope for his own parents back in the Delta.

  “Sure did,” Mr. Fitch picks up where the sheriff left off. “But then we got hit with a few years of drought. Just when they had built up their stock and had e
verything riding on a good sale.”

  “It didn’t help that the old man got influenza. He barely survived it. Wasn’t able to manage the ranch like before. He bottomed out,” Doc says. “But in the end, it was the drought that did them in.”

  Bump and I both give looks of disbelief. “When was that?” Bump asks.

  Mr. Fitch gives Doc a look, questioning the date, and then says, “Maybe around 1889, if I remember right.”

  “Probably,” Doc says. “Had a few bad years in a row. I was still a little thing. Always looked forward to seeing Mr. Fortner coming with his wagon or sleigh. Usually meant we’d get something good.” This comment makes the sheriff grumble.

  “They just left?” I ask, as Henry steals a bite of pie from his grandfather’s plate. No one else notices. I give him a knowing wink, and he laughs.

  “Way I remember it, they tried to get help. Just to get them through the low points, but nobody had anything to lend those years,” Mr. Fitch explains. “We were all in trouble.”

  “From what I’ve heard, the bankers got greedy,” Reverend Baker pipes in. “Pinched everybody too hard.” He’s likely the only one of these men who is too young to know for sure.

  “You can say that again. Fortners had no choice but to turn the place back over to the bank.” Kat’s father strokes his mustache as he talks. He’s a handsome man, stately and composed. It’s easy to picture him making political decisions with senators and the like.

  “Unfortunately, they were one of many,” the sheriff adds. He shoves a final bite of pie into his mouth, by far the roughest of the men here.

  “I was there when they left,” Mr. Fitch pipes in. “Sad day. Mighty sad day. Mr. Fortner wasn’t in his right mind by that point. His health had been bad, affected his mental state, but the bankruptcy drove him mad.”