When Mountains Move

by Julie Cantrell

  “Fortner?”

  Kat nods. “He’ll have what you want, or he’ll know where to get it.”

  I’ve heard whispered stories of back-alley abortions back home. And once, when Mr. Sutton’s farmhand was delivering Mama’s brown paper bag of morphine, I overheard them talking about one of the young daughters of another hand. The man told Mama he had “fixed it.” Mama asked him how, and he said, “There’s a plant for everything.” It wasn’t until recently that I realized what he meant.

  “Ready, Mama?” Henry asks.

  “Sure am, baby.” Kat looks me in the eye and says, “Millie?”

  I can’t hold eye contact. I’m too ashamed.

  “Think it through,” she tells me. “You can’t change your mind once it’s done.”

  Chapter 13

  I’ve got no direct reason to fear Fortner, but he’s been linked to two suspicious deaths, and one of them happened right here, on this ranch, to a woman like me. While Bump sings his praises every night, chatting about how grateful he is for the help, I’ve barely said two words to the strange visitor since he started working with Bump. I’ve purposely kept my distance, refusing to let any man other than Bump get too close, especially someone with such a violent reputation. I don’t trust him, and I have no way of knowing if he’ll help me. This entire idea seems crazy, but I have no other options. And I don’t have time to spare. I have to risk it.

  I find Bump and Fortner patching feed bins in the pasture, the hot summer sun burning the back of Bump’s neck. When I brush Bump’s shoulder with my fingertips, he turns, dripping with sweat, to greet me. “Think I could borrow Fortner for a minute?” I ask. “I need help lifting a crate out of the root cellar.”

  “I’ll help,” Bump says, giving me a salty kiss.

  “It’s okay. I thought Fortner could give me some tips on compost.”

  Bump senses I’m up to something. He knows how resistant I’ve been to giving Fortner a chance.

  I tinker with the stall door to avoid Bump’s eyes. “I’ll bring him right back. Promise.”

  Fortner sets his hammer down on the bin and moves to follow me. He seems curious too.

  I’m a bundle of nerves as Fortner walks with me to the root cellar. He doesn’t wear boots, like most of the men around here. Instead, his steps are soft, nearly silent, in his moccasins. They extend almost to his knees, where a bulge appears beneath his pants. He must be hot, but he doesn’t sweat nearly as much as Bump. It’s hard for me not to stare, as I walk beside him and struggle to find a way to start the conversation.

  “Here’s the crate.” I move down into the cellar and point to the bin of old jars. “I figure we might just dump the old food into a compost pile. What do you think?”

  “That much scrap? Probably just attract rodents. I’d save it. Use it for roughage. Chickens will like it.”

  I look at the shelves I’ve just emptied, frustrated that I’ve wasted all this time removing preserves I should have saved. Fortner senses my disappointment.

  “How about I push it over here in the corner? That way it won’t get mixed in with the new jars.”

  I’m relieved he’s willing to help. I want so badly to do things right around here. Fortner eyes the pile of broken jars and spilled food. “I’m a bit clumsy.” I laugh, but really I’m embarrassed.

  Fortner sets the crate in the back corner and looks around for something to hold the broken glass. He settles for a sheet of milled wood, which he begins to use as sort of a dustpan, moving shards onto the rough plane.

  I bend to help him. “Kat said you’ve been trading with the Ute for years.”

  “That’s what Kat says?” He neither confirms nor denies the gossip.

  “Says you know all there is to know about herbs and plants. Even medicine.”

  He looks at me now as if he suspects I’ve got bigger intentions than starting a compost pile.

  “You sick?” he asks, looking at me with eyes the color of glass. They remind me too much of mirrors, revealing all my shame. I look away.

  “Not sick, necessarily. Just … well … I need your help.” My voice drops to a whisper.

  He bends to move the smaller shards, working his way around the slimy food. “I’ll do what I can, but first you have to tell me what it is you need.”

  “I need …” I can’t say it. How can I tell this man I want to end the life of my own child?

  Fortner looks at me. Waits.

  “I need to put an end to something.”

  The teeth around his neck clank together against his chest as he stands. “You in a fix?” He looks at my stomach. Kat says I’m not showing nearly as much as I should be at this point, but it’s only a matter of time before I can no longer conceal the swell behind loose shirts.

  “I’m afraid I might be.”

  “And you aren’t comfortable with that?”

  “I don’t think Bump should have to handle this right now,” I say. “He’s under a lot of pressure. Everything is riding on making this a profitable ranch.”

  Fortner crosses his arms and listens intently.

  “A baby will get in the way,” I continue. “It’s not time. Not yet. I’m just trying to help my husband.” I can’t tell him the real reason I don’t want this baby.

  The silence between us feels thick. “I’ve never been comfortable with that sort of medicine,” Fortner says.

  “Kat said you’d know what to do. Pennyroyal maybe? Blue cohosh?” My speech spews fast, as if my whole life is riding on this moment. “She said nothing grows around here but that you could get it. You might already have it.”

  He ignores me.

  “Fortner, help me? Please?” I reach out in desperation. “Help me.”

  He takes a step back and puts his hand on his hip. His thumb rests next to one of his pistols as he leans against the framed entrance. Even at his age, he is a striking man, rugged and worn in a way that brings out the strength of his spirit. He doesn’t smile when he gives his answer. “I probably have what you want. And Kat’s right, I could tell you what you need to know. But if helping you is what you want, then I have to tell you no. It wouldn’t help anybody for me to end that baby’s life. And believe me, if this ranch fails to turn a profit, it won’t be that child’s fault.”

  I turn my back to him. How can I convince him this is best for everyone? So many lies.

  “How far along are you?” he asks.

  I can barely say it. “Four months.”

  “It’s too late. You’ll risk your own life. Or deliver an unhealthy baby. Nothing I can do.”

  “That can’t be true.” I face him again.

  “I won’t be responsible for your life. Understand?”

  “No, Fortner. I don’t understand anything.” My voice tightens as I fight tears, try harder to maintain control.

  “What’s there to understand?” Bump peeks around Fortner and looks into the cellar. “Everything okay?”

  Fortner steps to the side to let Bump enter. “Wow, Millie. The cellar looks great.”

  I manage a nervous grin. “All ready for new preserves,” I say. “Fortner says we should save this for roughage.” I point to the crate of the old canning jars.

  “Good idea,” Bump says. “Need anything else?” He gives me a strange look, still trying to figure what I’m up to.

  “Nope. Almost done.” I add extra pep to my voice and hope Fortner doesn’t tell Bump what we’ve really been talking about.

  “Have you been crying?”

  “No, no,” I say. “I’m just tired. That’s all.” I look at Fortner for a clue about what he’s thinking, but I can’t read his expression. Please, please don’t tell him!

  Bump pauses before turning to Fortner. “Well, then. You ready to move to the back spring? Need to install a pump and a trough.”

  Fortner says nothin
g as he steps back out into the sunlight. He walks away without looking back. Not even once.

  The men have spent the morning chopping wood while the goats have kept me focused on work. Every time I drift, one of the babies jumps on me, or a doe gives me a nudge with her strong, bony head. I’ve trimmed the hooves and practiced milking, a process that seems much easier and faster than with the dairy cows I’ve milked in the past. Now I find Bump and Fortner bent over a scattered collection of metal parts, trying to fix the old windmill.

  “Thirsty?”

  Bump nods and Fortner looks at me as if I’ve just offered him a block of gold. It’s been two days since I asked him for help, and still, no herbs. No sign he’s changed his mind about helping me. I’m getting desperate.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say. Bump smiles, and Fortner gives me the eye.

  An ice-cold spring bubbles clear in the backyard keeping fresh water at the ready. We’ve rigged porcelain pipes to an underground cistern “so it won’t freeze come winter,” as Bump explained. For now, we’re still in the full sweat of summer and the thought of anything frozen sounds good. As I bend to fill glasses, I can no longer ignore my bulging belly, and I’m certain Bump has noticed it too. Fortner’s right. I’ve let this go on too long. Too long. I am such a fool for not realizing my situation sooner.

  I’m four months into this journey, and I have found no way out. I have been tempted to drink the fermented contents from the root cellar. I’ve considered a brew of poisoned berries or a tumble down the stairs. Awful thoughts have rattled my brain, as though the Devil himself were braiding his way into my being. Yet here I am, moving from one day to the next with my belly blooming, ribs expanding, and womb swelling. Tiny bones form, new blood pumps, and a fragile soul sprouts within me.

  It’s nearly too late now to fix this, and yet it’s all I think about.

  The cold water runs through my fingers as I fill three glasses. An orange tabby cat greets me, one of several strays that have claimed the barn as their own. When I lean to pet her, my eye catches movement nearby. A branch bends. A twig snaps. Some leaves rustle. There’s no doubt. Something is moving within the underbrush on the other side of the river.

  Sloth trained me not to make a movement or a sound when trying to spot something. Now, I am crouched low, curious, with all my weight on the balls of my feet. I can stay balanced only a short time before my toes go numb, but I hold the stance, challenging myself the way I would when I was a child. Looking for furred and feathered friends in the forest. I expect to spot a chipmunk. Maybe a shrew. I’m sure it’s nothing big, like a bear, even though many of the trees around here are marked by claws, and we’ve spotted them foraging in the forests not far from the house.

  The tabby cat purrs louder now as she rubs my legs, stepping on my boot and nudging me with the top of her head. She tells me I belong to her, marking me with her scent to warn other hungry cats away from this woman who shares scraps.

  I scan the wood line, looking for contrast, for movement, for anything. But I see nothing. Hear nothing. “So much for new friends,” I tell the cat. She meows, and that’s when the leaves move again near the water’s edge.

  I look up just in time to catch the white tufted ears of a much larger cat, twitching. Not just a cat. A lion. A mountain lion, just like the one I saw displayed in the general store. I have no gun, no knife, no way to defend myself. So I sit still and stay silent. And I pray.

  Please, God. Keep us safe.

  The lion stares at me with her yellow eyes. Every part of my body fills with alarm.

  Please protect Bump. And Fortner.

  I pray in silence, hoping God can really hear my thoughts, the way Mama always promised.

  Make this lion go away.

  I remember Mama’s story about Daniel in the lions’ den. How his faith kept him safe.

  Dear God, please. Please protect this baby.

  As the words form silently in my head, I realize I have just asked God to keep this life inside me from harm. After begging Him to rid me of this baby, to give me a fair chance in this world before I become a mother, I am suddenly praying for this soul to be safe. Is it imaginable that I can love this child?

  Focus, Millie. I can’t think about that right now. I keep my eyes on the lion, repeating my prayer over and over again in my head, trying to keep the tabby cat from drawing the predator to us. There’s no doubt, the lion’s patience will outlast mine. My legs begin to cramp. A rise of needles spreads up my calves. I can’t stay in this position any longer.

  I have to make a move. Either I stand and face this lion, holding my ground, or I make a run for it. There’s no question who would win that chase. So I stand tall, waving my arms and yelling as loudly as I can, hoping to intimidate the feral beast. I throw each of the three glasses at her, one at a time, and they shatter against two separate trees. It’s nothing short of a miracle that together, the smashed glass, my loud threats, and the splashing water form enough of a warning to convince the lion I am not worth her time. She turns and takes three graceful leaps until she’s out of sight, leaving me only with the sight of her long curled tail slipping back into wilderness.

  I stay in place long after she’s gone, too afraid the slightest movement may draw her back to attack. Even the tabby cat gets bored and leaves to nap in the sun. Finally, I move with slow, cautious steps, hoping to reach the safety of the barn.

  I’m within ten feet of the broad opening when the lion screams the loudest, fiercest sound I’ve ever heard. She sounds like a woman being murdered. It’s a haunting, evil wail, one that draws Bump and Fortner running, but the lion runs too—full speed from out of the woods, straight toward me, faster than anything I’ve ever seen. Her tan coat a blur against the browns of the mountains, her padded feet pounding the ground with each rapid thrust. I make it into the barn just as Fortner draws his pistol and fires. I dart behind Bump, latching my nails into him so fiercely, I’ve likely drawn blood. Fortner fires again, and the ear-piercing echo slams against the hollow chambers of the barn. The whole world shakes.

  Bump grabs me. I’m out of breath and trembling. “It’s okay,” he says, pulling me against him. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” He brushes his fingers through my hair and holds my head firmly in his palm, trying to steady me.

  “She’s gone,” Fortner says, holding his pistol out for another shot, just in case he’s wrong.

  “Gone or dead?” I ask.

  “Gone,” Fortner says, keeping his eyes on the woods. “For now.”

  My shock wears off slowly, as I retrace the events for Bump. I have just gone head to head with a mountain lion. A lion! “I was terrified.”

  “Thank goodness Fortner’s quick with a gun,” Bump says.

  Fortner’s eyes are set in a pensive gaze. I wonder how many times he’s used that gun to kill something. Or someone. With his buckskin pants and strand full of teeth, he’s clearly an excellent hunter. Did he miss that lion on purpose? The thought terrifies me.

  I want to know more about Fortner and the stories he has buried here. He’s been living on our property, cleaning his guns mere feet from where I sleep, and I’ve never dared ask him anything about his past. “Kat says you left this ranch when you were a kid.”

  “Kat says a lot of things,” Fortner answers. He paces the large opening in the barn and watches the woods.

  I choose my words carefully, not wanting to sound like a gossip. I also don’t want to make Fortner feel threatened. If I anger him, he could tell Bump about the baby. I can’t let that be the way my husband finds out. “I don’t mean to pry.” I frame my words carefully. “But I need to know if lions are always a problem here or if this was just a once-in-a-lifetime scare.”

  Fortner walks out of the barn a few feet, still within view. He stares up at the house but says nothing. Bump and I stand in the barn, where we feel safer, and watch Fortner pace back and forth, g
un still in hand. “I hated to see them lose this place.” His soft voice is carried away by the wind.

  Bump asks, “Your parents?”

  Fortner nods. “I grew up here. Learned to swim right there in the river.”

  “I can’t picture you as a child.” I smile, trying to ease the awkwardness between us.

  Fortner turns to look at me. He pulls his cowboy hat from his head. “Years can do a lot to a man.” He returns the smile, a glint of boyish charm in his eyes. “Right here’s where I learned to ride. Fish. Hunt. About killed me when they lost this place.”

  “What happened?” I ask, softly.

  Bump gives me a look as if I’ve crossed the line, but Fortner doesn’t seem to mind my asking. “Bad luck, I guess.”

  “Was it the drought?”

  Fortner seems surprised I know so much, arching his brows in a quick peak. “That and a few other things.”

  Bump turns to pull a pistol from the shelf and says to me, “Keep this on you. Scares me to think what might’ve happened.”

  Fortner eyes me taking the pistol. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you think.”

  Bump and I both wait for more, ready to hear the whole story from this man Sheriff Halpin warned us about. The one who just saved me from a mountain lion and who has spent every day helping us build this ranch back from disaster. The one who has kept my secret, although he still hasn’t given me a way out.

  Fortner comes closer and leans against the wall, his long legs crossed one in front of the other. His pistol still shines in his hand, the worn metal grip fitting tight against his dirty palm. I clutch my own gun, just in case. “I didn’t kill her,” he repeats. I don’t know if he means Ingrid or the woman who lived here before us. But Fortner gives us nothing more.

  After waiting through an uncomfortable silence, Bump finally breaks the tension and says, “How ’bout we get back to work.”