Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

Montana fired.

  "Goddammit to hell, ya shot my last cigar!"

  Smiling, Montana set the gun down and crawled back into bed. They lay there a few moments, waiting.

  "Come on, Will, uncover yer dadblamed, drunken head and get up off the ground. We'll leave them there ingrates alone. Shootin' my last gul-darn cigar when all's we was a-tryin' ta do was bring 'em some good luck!" There were two more hiccups and then the barn door slammed shut.

  Montana's arm clamped around her waist, pulling her closer, and with a smile in his voice he asked, "Feeling lucky?"

  "Sure." She laughed, holding her left hand up so she could admire the wedding band. She held it up in his face and added, "Now whenever I touch my toad of a husband, I'll be able to cure my warts." She laughed until his mouth shut her up.

  Chapter 21

  The nasal, high-pitched cry of a black hawk pealed above the chicken yard. Addie tossed another handful of chicken feed and wadded the corners of her seed-filled apron into one fist, then she brought up a hand to shield the sun as she looked up. A barn swallow, blue-black with its chestnut-red head, chased a soaring hawk, pecking at its fanned tail, fluttering and then jabbing fearlessly at the bigger bird. It was a common sight, the persistent small bird, harassing the hawk for coming too near its nest in the barn eaves. But the sight always made Addie smile. When she and Montana had first seen the birds, he'd said the swallow was a feisty little thing, like her, pestering the heck out of that poor beleaguered hawk.

  She tossed off the last of her chicken feed and dusted off her apron and hands. Then she looked at the south field, where only a few days before, golden wheat had rattled like dry grass in the soft westerly wind. Now the field was harvested, leaving it a sea of dirt and buckskin-colored stubble.

  A distant shout, the clatter of the wooden machinery, and the rumble of thirty-three mules pulling the combined harvester clamored from the north field. Addie left the chicken yard and stood watching the harvest crew maneuver the Best Company combine over the last of their wheat crop. Montana had said that today they'd finish up the harvest and the crew would leave, moving on to the Latimers' place to work for another few weeks.

  The crew, most of them members of the Blue family, arrived two weeks ago, a dusty parade of vehicles and livestock lumbering down the road from the Johnson place. It had been some sight. The harvest workers were in two freight wagons, followed by the cook wagon—a long rectangular wooden box atop a wagon bed. It looked something like a train car, except gray canvas covered the windows and a black stovepipe stuck up from the rounded roof. Behind it was a wide water wagon and three more supply wagons, filled with food for both the crew and the livestock. Bringing up the rear was the combined harvester, nicknamed Blue's Big Boy, and it was the biggest jumble of wood, metal, pulleys, and wheels that she'd ever laid eyes on. But when Montana had brought her out to watch the harvest, she'd been amazed.

  Over thirty mules were lined up to pull the Big Boy, and he'd told her that sometimes the machine used as many as forty. She had watched the driver, an old mule skinner named George, who could outswear and outlie Custus, climb up to a seat perched on a ladder that slanted out over the mule team. It looked as if he were riding the prow of a ship. With only two sets of reins for guides, he led the team down the field, a sea of ripened wheat, and the huge spindly, wooden combine blade cut a thirty-foot-wide swath clear through it. The wheat was cut and threshed in one operation, and the grain poured from a chute into a bulk wagon that Custus, Will, or Montana drove alongside.

  A job that used to take over thirty days to cut and thresh could now be done in half the time. When she'd spoken to Mrs. Blue one day, the woman had told her how they used to hire over forty men to cut and thresh, but now, with the newer combined harvesters, the family could handle the operation with only two or three of the local boys as hired hands. From what Addie could tell, the invention of the combine had made life easier for the women of the Blue family. Cooking and washing for a crew of forty men working a filthy job had to be endless. Addie couldn't have done it.

  She'd been washing Custus, Will, and Montana's work-clothes for only two weeks, and she felt as if she never had a chance to breathe. They'd come in covered in a shroud of dark dust and chaff. Even after washing at the pump, they'd squirmed and scratched when the chaff crept inside their clothes. She had scratched herself silly just carrying the itchy, chaff-crusted laundry to the washbasin, then had to practically beat the black dust out of their clothes. She couldn't imagine doing that, plus cooking, for over forty men.

  Of course if Montana'd asked her to, she probably would have slaved for a hundred such men. The past months together had been so special, and he'd made Addie feel special too. The smile she'd once longed for was something she now saw often. She'd be standing on a stool and he'd sneak up and lift her high in the air, tossing her and swinging her until she'd forfeit a kiss. Many was the time that the kiss led to more. He'd taught her body to sing, over and over, whether they were in the bedroom, up against a pantry wall, or even once, underneath that giant, crawling oak tree. They would touch, and passion burned between them, hotter and more intense than a prairie fire.

  She'd learned so much, more than just the secrets of her body and his. She'd learned about men and women. Men didn't see things in quite the same light as did women, which made for some lively discussions. Sometimes it amazed her that they could match so well in bed since everything else they did seemed to be contrary. Montana was a morning person, up at the crack of dawn, hungry and ready to go, while Addie would burrow under the pillows and moan and groan until he would finally threaten to whack her on the backside if she didn't get up.

  Addie tended to leave her clothes where they fell, figuring she'd pick them up later, but Montana hung everything up, except his boots, which he always managed to leave where she'd trip over them. Just yesterday she'd threatened to cook them and serve them for supper if he didn't keep them out of the doorways. He brushed his teeth with baking soda while she used peppermint tooth powder. His beard grew in a matter of hours, and there were times when he'd shave twice in one day, but if Addie took the scissors to her hair, he'd wince and groan, scared to death she'd cut too much off. And she knew why. He'd use her hair when he made love to her, wrapping it around them, around his hands to hold her where he wanted her for the longest time. There were times he'd walk up behind her when she brushed it, burying his head against it, and telling her he loved the way it smelled like lemon pie.

  And he'd kept his word. At the Widermann wedding he'd danced with Addie the whole time, never once dancing with another woman, not even Rebecca Latimer. He'd done the same thing at the Fourth of July picnic, whirling her around the floor of the Johnson's barn, whistling in her ear and making her remember a moonlit dirt road on a warm May night.

  Her memories were suddenly distracted by the rumble of a huge, laborious bulk wagon coming down the road. It turned on the drive and moved toward the space near the barn where the other wagons stood filled, tarped, and ready to transport to the grain elevator in Stockton. Montana jumped down from the seat, his face a grimy black mask and chaff clinging to his clothes and hair. He grinned at her, and his teeth shone bright white against his dirty face. "What are my chances of getting a kiss, Mrs. Creed?"

  '' 'Bout the same likelihood of Custus giving up swear words."

  "That bad, huh?" He looked down at his dirty clothing and took a step toward her. "Guess I'll just have to steal one, then."

  His arms shot out and Addie shrieked, dodging him and running like a weevil toward the tree. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder and saw he was closing in, a white grin on his grubby face.

  "Montana, don't you dare!" she threatened over her shoulder as she ran to the oak tree, her hands gripping its sides while she poked her head around the side of the trunk.

  He stopped at the other side, laughing. "You move pretty fast for an old married lady… with short legs."

  "I don't want that itchy stuff all over me! And
I have long legs for my height." Her voice was indignant, but not too much so because she had to watch him, knowing he was going to try to jump her any minute.

  "But you promised to obey me, remember?"

  "You promised first, and I didn't make any vows about kissing you when you're filthy."

  He straightened and said, "You're right."

  He just turned and walked away, and Addie couldn't believe it. She moved out from the tree. "Where are you going?"

  "Back to work." He waved good-bye as he headed toward the wagon.

  She stood there for a moment, a little hurt that he'd dropped the chase so fast. She shrugged and walked toward the front porch, her shoulders down just a bit.

  He tackled her from behind, rolling onto his back when they hit the dirt and absorbing the jolt. He held her firmly against him and grinned up at her.

  "You toad!" she groused, having trouble hiding her smile. "Let me up." She pushed against his chest.

  "It'll cost you."

  Addie stared down at him. She loved him, dirty, grimy face and all. "Okay," she told him, then she gave him a quick peck on the chin. "There's your kiss. Now let me up." She laughed.

  "Again."

  She stopped laughing. The word was a trigger, and they both knew it. Montana pulled a hand from her back, stroked the hair out of her face and looked at her as if he were looking for something. He lifted his other hand so both hands cupped her small face, then kissed her gently, with only his dry lips. He whispered against hers, "Later."

  Addie sighed, and suddenly he chuckled, pulled her face against his and rubbed the dust and chaff and dirt all over her clean face while she called him every name of any lowlife animal she could think of.

  He finally stopped but still held her head while he scrutinized her face. "There, now you look like the wife of a wheat farmer." He sat up with her, ignoring the fist she jabbed in his ribs, then he stood and set her on her feet. With the afternoon sun glaring over his shoulder, she had to crane up to look at him. "The harvest is over, Addie, and we've grown the best damn wheat I've ever seen. Top grade. Let's celebrate tonight."

  "How?"

  "Pack a dinner for us and I'll take you someplace special." Excited and proud, he looked like a little boy who'd just won a fistful of firecrackers in a Fourth of July race. Just knowing he wanted to share his success with her made Addie feel light as goose feathers, and when he swatted her on the fanny and left to get back to the field, she floated inside.

  The clink of gold coins tapped on the kitchen table. Addie stood back by the pantry, watching Montana pay the Blues for the harvest crew. He had pulled out a small sack of gold coins and now he counted them into stacks on the table. They had never talked about money. He always brought out his sack and paid in coin, gold or silver, never with silver certificates—paper bills. She'd thought of bringing up the money issue, of sharing their finances, but he'd always pull out the sack before she could ever reach into her bag. She wondered how long and hard he'd had to work for that money, and doing what. She wanted to ask him what he did before they met, but was still tentative about probing into his past when he was so private about it. He was still a mystery to her in so many ways, and it bothered her sometimes.

  She had told Montana of her family, her college experiences, and her childhood. They'd even laughed about Hilary. There were times when they were with the Latimers that they'd all talked about her aunt and the uncle Addie'd never known. After those times she felt a bit closer to her dead aunt and uncle. Montana had always been a part of those conversations, but he never voluntarily talked about his past. She had asked him a few questions, but he'd always given her an evasive answer; even though he was aware that she knew about his mother's death, he still never spoke of it. When she'd try to bring it up, he'd change the subject.

  There were times when he seemed preoccupied, and when the weather was hot, he was often moody and quick to anger. She wondered if he just didn't like the heat. After all, he'd nearly bitten her head off the first time she'd spoken to him. It'd been hot that day and so had his temper.

  The one thing she knew always set him off was the subject of the railroad. Montana seethed whenever the S.P. was brought up, just like that first time when he'd burned himself with the hot coffee. He would just close up.

  One time she came into the barn and heard Will and Montana talking about some incident when they were boys. They'd mentioned the S.P., but she'd only caught the end of their conversation before Montana had spotted her and changed the subject. It was natural to be curious, especially when he was so uncommunicative. They were so relaxed together in so many ways. And it bothered her that talking to him about himself was, as Custus once put it, "like trying to find hair on a frog."

  Her parents had had such an open, loving relationship. She could remember them talking about so many things together. They'd had a very honest, open family life. There was nothing that she couldn't talk to her father about, nothing. If he were alive, she knew she could talk to him about Montana. But he wasn't alive, and neither was her mother. Yet she knew Montana cared for her. He was so good to her and he teased her, and when he made love to her, it wasn't an easy, calm thing. It was driven, and hot, and so consuming that she couldn't believe that his heart wasn't involved.

  Maybe it was. Maybe he did care more than he knew, but she also knew that until he could trust her with everything, open up to her, really tell her of his hurts and fears and doubts as well as his dreams, until then they didn't have love.

  "Well, that's taken care of," Montana said, slipping his arm around her. "Have you got that supper packed?" He craned his head over to try to see the basket she'd set down.

  "Yes, and it'll be a surprise too."

  He smiled. "Burnt roast and lead biscuits?"

  "Nope." She shook her head. "Dry ham and raw mashed potatoes, with chili peppers."

  He grabbed the basket and tried to peek inside, but she slipped her arm through it and tucked the cloth tightly around the rim. She slipped her other arm through his, tapping her foot impatiently, and asked, "Are we going to stand here all evening or are we going for a drive?"

  "Don't get all snippy, Mrs. Creed. I'll have you know that after I sell this wheat, you'll be married to a very prosperous farmer."

  "And I'll have you remember that half that wheat is mine." Her nose shot up.

  He rolled his eyes. "How could I forget? No one ever lets me forget about that ruling or our contract, and exactly how much money they won or lost because of me. And Custus is the worst." He led her outside and helped her into the wagon, then jumped up onto the seat. "But since half the wheat is yours, that just means I'm married to a prosperous lady farmer." He winked at her and off they went, rumbling down the dirt road and heading toward the western foothills.

  Two hours later, after they'd eaten the cold fried chicken and all the fixings, Addie wiggled her shoulders against the white, mottled trunk of a giant sycamore. Montana opened one eye and stared up at her. "Back itch?"

  She nodded, but continued to rub his temples as he lay with his head in her lap.

  He closed his eye. "Must be the chaff," he mumbled with a smile.

  "Lord, I hope not. I hope that's the last of that horrid stuff I see for a long time." She grimaced.

  "At least till next year," Montana reminded her, then he groaned when she must have rubbed a good spot. "That feels great."

  "Umm," she answered offhandedly, enjoying the beauty of the country hills.

  The sun was just falling behind the hills and the air temperature had cooled. Spread before them like candy gum-drops was a field of wildflowers, pink bleeding hearts, yellow mule's ear, lavender foxglove, and purple monkey-flower. A nearby morning glory had wilted into limp, blue funnels that wouldn't open until the morning sun and dew awakened them. Bright pink bell-shaped blossoms on a vine of twinflowers crept around a crepe myrtle bush, and the sweet, honeysuckle fragrance filled the cool evening air. She took a deep breath. It was like breathing dessert.


  The arroyo de Laguna trickled just a scant hundred feet away, and a few giant valley oaks clawed across the gentle, golden rise above them. Over the rise a group of black hawks floated and dipped near the trees, circling and searching for their night's food, and a small, buzzing swarm of mosquitoes and gnats hovered over the field of flowers.

  Two mule deer loped up from the arroyo, and Addie caught her breath. The larger one, a light buckskin-colored doe, stopped. Her dark brown ears perked and her head tilted so her light gray nose was up to read the danger. With innocent, apprehensive black eyes she looked right at Addie and Montana, while the smaller deer nibbled on the flowers. Suddenly the doe barked a sharp baa, then twitched her tail, and both deer were gone so fast Addie wondered if she'd really seen them.

  "They're beautiful animals," Montana said, staring at the spot where they'd stood.

  She was quiet for a minute, then blurted out, "I love California."

  He laughed.

  "Were you born here?" she asked quietly, holding her breath to see if he'd answer.

  His eyes were closed again and she continued to rub his temples. Maybe she could rub the information out of him.

  "No," he finally answered.

  "Where were you born?"

  "Iowa."

  Addie smiled. One-word answers, but at least they were answers. She waited a minute before she tried again.

  "Have you always farmed?"

  "Nope."

  "What did you do before you came here?"

  Silence. Then he said, "A little of this and a little of that." He raised his hand up and opened his eyes. He drew a finger lightly over her lips, rubbing back and forth, making her forget the next question. His finger traced a path from her lips, up her cheek, down her jaw, and his hand snaked around her neck and he pulled her down to kiss her.

  A few minutes later she lay on her back, her dress unbuttoned, her breasts pushed out of her corset, her husband loving her right through the slit in her drawers. As always, her blood heated and her body dewed and suddenly she shuddered, clutching around him, holding him tightly as he found the same tide of release.