When Mountains Move

by Julie Cantrell

  Doc returns just after lunch, as the hens are all stirring up dust. Oka and I greet him with hopeful hearts. “Good news,” Doc says, easing our worries right from the start. “They broke the rules.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” I release a deep breath and kiss Isabel on the forehead. We all move into the house.

  “She’ll be a test case,” Doc explains. “They want to see if it works on children this young. Are you comfortable with that?”

  I feel Isabel’s skin, burning hot with fever. “What choice do we have?”

  Doc nods. “Think you can give me a hand with this?” He clears a spot on the bed to work and immediately begins trying to insert an IV into Isabel’s tiny arm. She’s so dehydrated, it’s tough to find the vein, and by the fifth stick I am nauseated from watching her cry out against the needle’s sting. I hold her still as she screams. Finally, the vein gives, and a backflash of blood spills out. Doc shows me how to keep air from getting into the line and how to manage the flow, keeping the bottle hanging high from her crib.

  Isabel pulls at the site, and I struggle to keep her contained. Soon, her eyelids begin to droop again and she nods off. “We included something to help her sleep,” Doc explains. “And extra fluids to help with the dehydration.”

  “Is that safe?”

  Doc nods. “You might need to keep her restrained for a day or two.” He hands me a set of white cotton straps, but I set them on the bed. I hope it doesn’t come to that. “Think you can monitor this drip without me? Four times a day.”

  The medicine falls, one slow droplet at a time from the glass bottle into the line. “Should be fine.” I try not to sound as nervous as I feel.

  “If this works as well as they say, we should see improvements within the next twenty-four hours. Two days at most.”

  “That quick?” I look at Isabel lying listless on the bed and hope the doctor’s right.

  “That’s what the research shows. This is being called a miracle drug, Millie. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but if anything can help … this is it.”

  There are no words to express how grateful I am for Doc’s help. “Stay for supper?”

  “I’d love to, Millie, but I must get home to the horses. I’ll check back tomorrow,” he says. “They want me to publish this. I’ll be expecting a positive report.”

  Oka smiles and says, “Good doctor.” She’s obviously had a change of heart. It’s clear she trusts him now. We both wave good-bye to this kind man, and I whisper another prayer to the heavens. Thank You. And Please.

  In the evening, Oka joins Isabel and me on the porch. I hold the bottle of fluids that slowly drip into Isabel’s weak body. We watch the sun set behind the mountains, bright orange and red stripes that make me think of blood, and blisters, and the burn of a feverish child. Horses gather for their evening circle, and I try to soothe Isabel with a cold damp cloth. She’s had half a day of the medication, and I keep waiting for signs of improvement.

  The minutes tick away, and the flaming sky cools, turning dark with a million speckled balls of light peeking out from the great beyond. “It’s something to see, isn’t it? How beautiful the night sky is behind the mountains.” I wonder if somewhere out there, a mother sits like me, holding her child, hoping, praying for a miracle.

  “My mother say …” Oka turns to me. “She say, the stars always there. Always shine. But you not see the light until it get dark.”

  Isabel’s tiny face shines up at me with clearer eyes and I am reminded of her birth, how she arrived on the longest night of the year … a bright light to end the longest dark. Oka’s story soothes us, the stars shine beyond the mountains, and Isabel comes out of her feverish haze.

  Chapter 25

  Isabel sits in her crib, giggling and playing with her blanket, pulling it over her face and then off, again and again, laughing at the contrast between light and dark, not bothered a bit by the line of medicine attached to her arm. The morning sun paints the room with a bright, clear grace, as if to say, “Good morning. Welcome to a brand-new day.” It makes me feel as if maybe God has given us a new beginning. A fresh start. A chance to make things right. With the sun’s rise, we have risen too, from the dark death of sleep to discover we are not simply alive, but in a sense, reborn.

  I bring Isabel to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee, breakfast. Just as I sit to feed Isabel, Oka joins us. “You should have stayed in bed,” I tell her. “She’s all better now. You can catch up on your sleep.”

  “You the one who need to sleep.” Oka kisses Isabel’s head. Then mine.

  “I couldn’t sleep if I tried. Payback for months of bed rest.”

  Oka laughs. I hand her a cup of coffee and motion for her to sit. I serve her warm cinnamon-sprinkled oatmeal and two scrambled eggs. We eat together, both too tired to talk. Outside, the horses gather around the haystack, and I can’t put off morning chores much longer. The draft horse will be hungry, and her wounds will need tending.

  Isabel babbles from my lap, grabbing the spoon from my hands each time I reach for a new scoop of breakfast. After days of avoiding food, she now tries to satisfy her ravenous appetite. I feed her two scrambled eggs and half a bowl of oatmeal before she slows, more food than she’s had in an entire week. I help her sip Doc’s orange juice and laugh as her mouth purses at the harsh taste. Finally, her hunger wanes. I remove her IV and pass her to Oka. Once I’ve cleaned the dishes, I look down and say, “Okay, little Isabel. Ready to go outside?”

  She reaches for me to lift her, and we head out for the day. The sick draft horse is still separated from the herd, stalled in the barn where she can’t contaminate the others. Her abscesses look worse today, large, oozing open holes beneath her jawline. The pain must be immense. I put Isabel in her barn crib and fasten the strap, but she’s having none of it today. Eager to move, she wrestles the restraints. “Well, that’s not going to work, is it?” I laugh at my daughter, so grateful to see her well again. I’ve been thanking God ever since her fever broke, my life a continuous prayer.

  She hasn’t cried once today. Not when she woke, not when she ate, not even now, as she struggles to escape her crib. It’s as if she, too, is thankful just to be here. I lift her from the box and move back to the house to find Oka.

  Just as we reach the porch, the steady sound of hooves rises up from the valley below. A wave of brown cattle swells against the new green grass. I stand, holding Isabel on my hip, and wait for the sea of livestock to reach us. Isabel squeals and kicks, pointing to the approaching herd.

  As the cattle draw near, I’m relieved to see a healthy, hearty batch of strong black Angus. The trail boss rides ahead and greets me. He’s a solid, muscular middle-aged man wearing the typical rancher’s work rag and hat. “Mrs. Anderson?” he asks from his saddle.

  “Millie,” I say. “You must be with MacMillan?” I remember Bump telling me the plan for MacMillan to drive his cattle here in spring, back down to his lower fields come winter, but I certainly didn’t expect them to arrive while Bump was on the western slope.

  “Call me Dutch. Where you want these cattle, ma’am?”

  I look out into the pastures. The dividing gates have been left open for the last few weeks, so the horses could have access to all four sections of fresh grass. There’s no empty section for the cattle.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you,” I tell Dutch. “Can you give me time to clear the southern pasture? We’ll put the cattle in there.”

  Dutch looks out to the section I’ve indicated. The part we see has at least sixty horses scattered as far back as the property stretches, but that seems to be fewer than the other pastures. The trail boss nods. “I’ll stall the cattle and get some help.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Let me get my daughter settled. I’ll be right back.”

  Oka takes Isabel off my hands without complaint, and I rush to prep Firefly. She’s never been tr
ained to do real ranch work, but she’s so conditioned to follow my commands, she does as I ask. The problem isn’t Firefly. It’s me. Since getting kicked by the roan during my pregnancy, I am hesitant to pin myself into a pasture with a moving herd. So I opt to do it on horseback. The thing is, I’ve never had to move a herd through a small gate by myself, especially not in a hurry with others watching me work. I assess the situation and try to figure how to do this without making a fool of myself.

  The trail boss hollers at his men, directing them to hold the cattle. I can’t mess this up. We are relying on this contract to turn a profit this year. I may not have been a rancher my whole life, but I do know two things about the horses. Their natural inclination is to follow their leader, and they will usually come to food. So I fill a bucket with oats and pull myself into Firefly’s saddle, struggling not to drop the heavy pail.

  I lead Firefly to the southern pasture where I call out to the horses, shaking the bucket to let them all know I have what they want. The oats are a nice treat compared to the grass and hay they eat every day. The lead horse heads my way, aggressively nudging Firefly, trying to come to terms with the fact that Firefly is in charge of the food despite her lower rank in the pecking order. I lead Firefly ahead, and the dominant horse doesn’t like it. The others gather, and tensions build. I try not to think about the last time I was cornered by the herd, the night the roan kicked me into the fence. I continue shaking the bucket, leading Firefly out through the open gate into the adjoining pasture where other horses join the commotion. I hold the food high, out of reach of the determined animals, but the bucket is heavy, and my arm shakes from bearing the weight too long.

  If I can just reach the trough, I can spread the feed and let the horses work it out on their own. Stay calm, Millie. They won’t hurt you. Just as my arm is about to fail me, Dutch rides out to join me. “Well, that’s one way to do it, I guess.”

  I smile and pour the oats into the trough. The horses circle and devour the feed. “Grab that gate?”

  “Sure thing,” Dutch says. And just like that, we’ve cleared the southern pasture. Firefly and me.

  With the crew of cowboys, it doesn’t take long to move the herd of Angus into the field. They’ve got plenty of green grass, several big haystacks, and fresh water. They are a docile bunch of cattle, happy and well-fed, and they quickly settle into their new home.

  When the work is done, the trail boss huddles his crew of hands together and offers congratulatory pats on their backs. Then he gives me a flirtatious smile and says, “I assumed your husband would be here. You out here all alone?”

  The last thing I want to tell this group of strange men is that my husband is across the Divide. That Oka, Isabel, and I are the only ones here, and that there is no help anywhere in reach if they decide to test us. I adjust my stance and move my hand to my hip. I make sure they all see my pistol at the ready, the one I’ve carried with me since the lion attacked. I refuse to feel threatened in my own home. With that one strong gesture, the men understand I’m not one they want to challenge.

  “We aren’t set up for guests,” I say matter-of-factly. “You’re welcome to use the well, and I can give you some dried fruits to take with you.”

  Dutch eyes me. Then looks back at his men. Then looks at me again. He’s brought eight hands, each with their green-broke broncs along for training. The boss rides a strong, young circle horse and seems at ease in his saddle.

  “If you head out now, you can make it to Lewiston in plenty of time to find rooms,” I add. “You could probably make it all the way back to Estes if you hurry.”

  “All right then,” Dutch says, smiling. “Boys, fill your canteens.” He rolls his arm to direct his crew to the water pump. A couple move their saddles to the greener mounts.

  “I’ll get the fruit,” I say, turning for the house. When I return, I hand Dutch a stack of fruit leather and let him divide it among his crew.

  “Mrs. Anderson?” The trail boss sits on his horse with great confidence. He’s got a strong jaw, deep-set eyes, and just the right amount of roughness to convince me he could handle anything the mountain throws his way, while at the same time, releasing a smile that lets a woman know he can be tender when it counts. I stare at him and wait for him to continue. “We’ll be back before winter to move them down. Hope you’ll have a place for us to stay by then. I do look forward to seeing you again.” He holds eye contact a little too long, and I look away, embarrassed. Other than my husband, I haven’t had a man flirt with me since River, and Dutch is certainly doing his best. “Until then,” he says, tipping his hat and leading his men back down the mountain.

  I round back through the gates, making sure they’re all firmly fastened. It might take me a few days to forget the way Dutch looked at me, and I’m hoping Bump is home the next time those men arrive. The crew has just moved out of sight when Kat surprises me with a visit. I fill her in on the adventurous day, skipping the part about the handsome cowboy. I almost laugh to myself imagining the sparks that could fly if Kat and Dutch ever got together. What a pair that would be.

  “I’m just dropping in to say good-bye,” Kat says.

  “Good-bye?” Typical of Kat’s conversations, I have no clue what we’re discussing.

  “I’m leaving. In the morning. Heading out for the western slope,” Kat explains, following me to the barn where I continue to care for the sick draft horse. Her fever is dropping, but she’s got a long road before she’s completely healed. “I’ll be there for the summer,” Kat adds. “Daddy plans to keep Henry, and I’m going to work at the orchard. Teach some classes on baking, making preserves, general things like that.”

  “You’re leaving Henry for the entire summer?” I can’t imagine anything taking me away from Isabel that long.

  “Don’t judge me, Millie.” Kat says this with a snap in her voice. It’s obvious I’ve offended her.

  “Oh, Kat. I’m sorry it sounded that way. I’m just surprised, is all. Tell me more.”

  “It’s a wonderful opportunity for me,” she says, smiling. “I’ll be staying at the orchard, in the main house, and teaching on site.”

  “Will you be back before fall?”

  “Yes. Early August at the latest.”

  I guard my reaction, trying not to seem critical. “We’ll all miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too, Millie. Check in on Daddy, will you? I don’t want Henry to be too much for him. I’ll be going to the hot springs a few times, no doubt. Sure wish you’d join me.”

  I laugh. “Sounds wonderful.” I’ll miss Kat’s frequent visits, but I’m half hoping she falls in love with some orchard worker and returns home with a husband of her own.

  I send Kat away with a stash of dried fruit, just like the drovers, and she waves out of her window, yelling, “See you when the leaves turn gold!”

  Chapter 26

  In the garden, Oka and I work at weeding and watering our transplants. It’s been almost four weeks since Bump set out with Fortner to buy the stallion. I have bitten my nails to the quick. No matter how I try to shake it, I keep hearing Bump’s complaints play again and again in my head: “I feel all alone in this, Millie.” I hope I’ve loved him enough, given him reason to come home.

  I try to put it all in perspective and not waste my energy worrying about the what ifs and I wonders. The important thing is our prayers have been answered. Isabel is better, eating again and regaining strength. That’s all that matters.

  Isabel is the first to hear the hooves, and my, how she squeals.

  “Oka! Oka, they’re home!” I pull Isabel into my arms and run to greet my husband.

  Bump jumps from Scout’s saddle and hugs Isabel and me in one giant grab. He’s smiling so big, my emotions overtake me. He’s safe. He’s come back to us. He is home.

  Bump and Fortner work together to move the stallion into the side pen, separated from the rest
of the herd. Standing at nearly sixteen hands with a tight, muscular tone, he is a chesnut quarter horse of stellar proportions. “Now I see why Mr. Tucker wanted this one,” I say, moving closer so Isabel can get a look at him. I don’t get too close though. He is agitated, storming back and forth against the fence line, calling out to the mares in heat. He doesn’t need to bother putting on such a show. They’ve already noticed him, as they begin to answer his calls and move toward his pen.

  Bump watches, impressed. “He’s already hooked the ladies,” he teases. “But he’s got good cowsense, too, Millie. It’s as if he knows what the cattle are gonna do before they do it. And he can turn on a dime. Never seen a stallion so workable.” I almost point out that Firefly is surely smarter, but I let Bump soak in the glory, unchallenged.

  “How’d he do on the trip?” I switch hips. Isabel’s nearly six months old now, and she’s eager to crawl. Holding her is more of a struggle than it used to be, and my arm muscles show the proof.

  “Never spooked, Millie. Not even once.” Bump leans against the fence and points to the stallion with pride. “I’m tellin’ you, this is one good horse.”

  I’m so happy Bump’s home, I can’t stop smiling. “Have you sent word that he’s here? The stallion?”

  “Not yet.” Bump removes his hat and wipes sweat with his shirtsleeve. “Figure I’ll get him settled before I start celebratin’. You should see him run, Millie. Fastest horse I’ve ever seen.”

  I laugh. “I’ve never seen you so excited. You must have had a really good trip.”

  “Hard work, but worth it, don’t ya think?” Bump grins at the new horse. Then he closes the gate and removes his gloves. He has accomplished what very few men have: transferred a herd of mares across the Great Divide and returned with a feisty stallion. “Wait till you see what he produces. I can’t wait to start breeding.”