Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  Meg showed no embarrassment talking about marriage—or about Win. He curbed his desire to lay her down right there in the barn. Instead, he motioned for her to sit down next to him. “My folks started calling me Jed because they’d named me after my father, and two Johns got confusing—something to keep in mind, I reckon.” Meg smiled. Jeb cleared his throat and continued. “Ma didn’t like ‘John Junior’ or ‘Johnny,’ so they agreed to use my initials. Win lived on the farm next to ours and before his ma died, she’d come over to visit. Win and I played together, and he just started calling me Jeb. Maybe it was easier for a little kid to say, I’m not sure. Ma liked it and started calling me Jeb, too, and it just stuck. If you ask Win, he’ll take full credit.”

  “He would; I’m sure of it,” Meg said, laughing. “I always thought it was short for Jebediah.”

  “Most people do.” He moved close to Meg and put his arms around her.

  “This is nice.” She put her head on his shoulder. “You need some time to get used to the idea of being married?”

  “I’ve given the idea considerable thought. We could go to the county courthouse in Piedmont this Friday, if you’re ready.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Jeb laughed out loud, delighted with her candor. He promised to see that she never regretted her answer. Meg smiled, shook her head, and replied that she hoped he’d never regret asking.

  Jeb thought that was unlikely as he imagined making love to her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: MEG

  Dawson ranch, April 1869

  “This is the most perfect and lovely porch I’ve ever seen,” Meg said. “It’s exactly right.”

  Meg walked back and forth across the solid flooring. The only part of their new home that she’d asked for specifically was a porch. She left the rest of the design to Jeb.

  He displayed extraordinary craftsmanship and ingenuity building their home in the high meadow. The footings and load-bearing walls of stone gave strength to the core foundation upon which the rest of the structure sat. Pilings were sunk deep, extra thick planks were used for the puncheon floor and structural supports, and the roof was shingled with good cedar, laid in a pattern that ensured years of protection from leaks.

  Their friends from Paradise and the hidden Arapaho village helped with construction. Blackie hewed logs for them again, stacking them like firewood for when they were ready to build the barn. Running Elk visited one day and asked Jeb to show him how to use some of the building tools. He came frequently after that and learned to lay brick straight and true, cutting the time required to build the main house in half. One by one, other members of Gray Wolf’s tribe showed up to help. One Who Waits and Mick built a fine stone fireplace with good draw. When it was finished, their home was as solid as a structure could be.

  Meg fell more deeply in love with her new husband every day. She loved his steady manner, and he and Gus worked well together. Jeb was strong, capable, and dependable. She trusted the man in whose arms she lay every night. From their wedding night on, he’d been more tender than she’d thought possible. She felt a burst of butterflies in her stomach at the thought of their lovemaking. And then she felt a new sensation—one Georgia had told her to expect. Quickening, she had called it. Meg was four months pregnant.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: WIN

  Green River City

  May 25, 1869

  Dear Jeb, Gus, and lovely Meg,

  Yesterday, Wesley Powell and his expedition left to voyage down the Green River. I was among the well-wishers gathered at the shore as three impressive oak vessels launched behind one swift, pine boat, carrying Powell himself. Supplies and surveyor instruments had been divided between the crafts so that if one should be lost, the expedition could continue. They have provisions for ten months; the amount will be cut by a third each time one of their boats succumbs to the rapids, if such a tragedy occurs.

  Major Powell has an interesting crew: his brother accompanies him, along with another set of brothers, the Howlands, a few mountain men, and an Englishman. I never learned his purpose for going along, but never asked, either, for, as Clint used to say, “If you have to ask why a man does what he does, you won’t understand the answer.” I think I feel most akin to a young fellow named Andy Hall. At 19 years, he is quite an oarsman—a skill that will prove vital, I am certain.

  I am impressed with Wesley Powell. He has a keen scientific mind; I daresay his mind stays on task with little distraction over what most men favor, namely, fighting, drinking, and women. I do not doubt the Powell expedition will make history, should they survive, and you may wonder, since I was so driven to journey down the mighty Colorado, why I am not among those brave souls.

  While wintering at the banks of the Green River, I became acquainted with a French mountain man by the name of Gabriel Bouchard. Bouchard has a Crow wife, whose name I can neither pronounce nor spell, but that means “Birds Protect Her.” Bouchard calls her “Birdy.” He speaks enough Crow to get by and Birdy understands French, but there is no word in any language for the anguish in her eyes when Bouchard translated the news from the telegraph office that the Union Pacific and Central Pacific Railroads had linked at Promontory Summit. As the only other soul in town who did not whoop with joy and who despaired that a transcontinental railroad would trigger a flood of humanity pouring into the remaining open spaces, Bouchard invited me to join them traveling into Crow country. Birdy seeks the comfort of her family and Bouchard, though outwardly rough and burly, is smitten and seeks to please Birdy.

  Allowing Fate to steer my ship, my course has been changed toward an adventure I believe holds greater interest for me. We are heading to the Yellowstone River valley. Bouchard told me there is nothing on Earth so beautiful, so it is obvious that he has never been to Paradise when the evening sun casts a glow of golden light on Meggie’s hair, but I have decided to judge that for myself. If it is as grand as he claims, I would like to see Yellowstone Falls myself before someone tries to mine the gold from it—or charge admission, like I have heard they do at Niagara. Bouchard believes that as the gold dries up in Montana, it is only a matter of time before prospectors head south, and, once discovered, that will be the end of the Yellowstone.

  If you think of me, know that I heeded Gray Wolf’s warning and declined a spot on Powell’s ambitious quest. Without Jeb and his trusty rope to pull me from certain death, I felt it was best to avoid water travel. Instead, I post this letter and, with a Frenchman and a Crow, head north on Hippocrates, with whom I could not have parted in any case.

  It is my sincere wish that you—Jeb, Meg, and Gus—are well and happy. I think of you daily.

  Win

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: JEB

  Dawson ranch, July 1869

  From the barn, Jeb watched Meg pull onions from her garden with an introspective composure Jeb had not seen in her before. Perhaps she had come to terms with the events of the last week.

  A week ago, Jeb had been walking on clouds. He was proud of how well the main house had turned out. No temporary dwelling, this sturdy brick structure would stand the test of time and see many generations raised in it. Meg was handling the pregnancy well. She glowed with good health and happiness. And, lastly, they’d acquired stud service from a fine stallion in Cheyenne. Two mares would foal in the spring. Meg declared that she had never been so content.

  Their idyllic life turned dark, however.

  One morning, Gus discovered Biscuit was gone from the corral. She hadn’t gone far, straying to a spot under a single piñon tree on a hill not far from the meadow. They found her at the piñon tree again a few days later. This time, Jeb walked up to get her. Meg insisted on coming along. The view was spectacular.

  “Well, Biscuit girl, I can see why you like it up here. It’s a beautiful spot.” Meg patted her neck. Biscuit tossed her head as if to agree. A breeze swirled around them, carrying a subtle scent of pine. Meg breathed deeply. The slope just above them was covered in alpine wildflowers. “I know how much you
like to run, my precious Biscuit, but you know I can’t ride you in my condition, don’t you? Running Elk likes to ride you, though.”

  “He says he’s never ridden a smoother animal.” Jeb stroked her nose.

  “Aw, you hear that, Biscuit? Running Elk loves you, too. Come on, girl, let’s go get some breakfast,” Meg said. They walked back to the ranch together.

  A day later, Biscuit lay in her stall, and, despite their efforts, was either unable or unwilling to get up. Meg sat down with her, resting Biscuit’s head on her lap. She stayed with her all day, stroking her neck. Gus and Jeb let them be, as there was no point in trying to separate the two.

  In the late afternoon, when the sun’s blaze colored the air golden, Biscuit suddenly stirred. Teetering a bit, but steady enough to walk, she began to scale the hill to the lone piñon tree. Meg followed her, letting Biscuit lead. At the piñon tree, as Meg caressed her neck, Biscuit collapsed and died. In grief, Meg dropped to the ground next to her. She cradled Biscuit’s head in her arms, rocking back and forth, sobbing until Jeb spotted her and ran up the hill. Gus and several Arapaho gathered around Biscuit and Meg.

  The Arapaho began to chant prayers. Running Elk told Jeb that chanting creates a bridge between this world and the next. Later, when the news of Biscuit’s death reached the village, Jeb heard the sound of drums.

  “The drum is like a heartbeat, connecting creatures to their Creator,” Running Elk had said. “It helps the departed pass into the spirit world. Those who have been loved on Earth have strong spirits. They can be heard in the wind as long as they are felt in our hearts.”

  The Arapaho death chant moved Jeb in a way he had never anticipated. He had to admit there was something comforting about it—something he couldn’t find words to explain. He and Gus dug a grave for Biscuit under the piñon tree at Meg’s request.

  “What do you think about what Running Elk said . . . about the spirits in the wind and all that?” Jeb asked Gus as he drove the spade into the ground.

  “I think Running Elk was able to comfort Meggie. That’s all that matters.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “I’ve seen some strange things in my day; today was one of the strangest. It isn’t for me to say what is and what isn’t. Frankly, it brings me comfort, too, to imagine that Biscuit might have a spirit and still be with us somehow. Damn hard to say good-bye.” Gus choked on his tears. He had cared for Meg’s horse for years, and he undoubtedly felt the loss as much as she. Jeb gently squeezed the old man’s shoulder.

  Biscuit’s death rubbed away some of Meg’s sparkle, as Gus called it, but she said she heard the thunder of hooves in the wind, a declaration made as a matter of fact. Neither surprised nor afraid, she conceded that Gray Wolf and Running Elk opened her mind to the idea that the spirits of loved ones never leave.

  Now, as Jeb watched Meg move from harvesting onions in the garden to pulling a few weeds, he wondered if marriage, pregnancy, horse ranching, or Biscuit’s spirit should be given credit for the quietude in her expression.

  Gus drove the buckboard wagon into the yard and straight to the barn. He pulled an envelope from his back pocket after Jeb took hold of the reins. “A letter from Win,” Gus said, with the same tempered enthusiasm that Jeb felt. The supplies in the back were forgotten.

  “Read it to us, will you, Jeb?” Meg said when she saw Jeb open it. She sat down on one of the porch chairs as if to make an occasion of it—as though a friend had come by to visit.

  Gus joined them on the porch. Jeb lifted himself on to the porch railing and unfolded the letter. “It’s two months old,” Jeb said, “from May 25th.” He began reading the letter.

  Jeb read about Powell and his crew launching their boats, the crowd cheering and waving good-bye. Meg sighed with relief when he read that Win had decided to venture on horseback into the mountains instead of navigating the boiling river rapids. When Jeb read Win’s reported description of the Yellowstone, however, he was taken aback.

  “. . . it is obvious that he has never been to Paradise when the evening sun casts a glow of golden light on Meggie’s hair . . .”

  Jeb paused and cast a glance at Meg. She seemed to read his mind and had no patience for it.

  “You are my husband, Jeb. If you think Win’s flattery is going to turn my head and make me change my mind about you, you don’t know me very well. If there’s anyone who should be worried, it should be me. It sounds like he’s having quite an adventure. Maybe you’ll just up and leave me in this condition and go off to the Yellowstone.” With an indignant huff, she folded her arms over her enlarged belly.

  Jeb turned to Gus for support. Gus raised his hand in a gesture that indicated it was their argument, and to keep him out of it. Without looking at Meg, Jeb continued reading.

  When he finished, they all sat in silence.

  Finally, Gus slapped his hand on his thigh and stood up. “I’m glad he wrote. Good to know he didn’t go down that damn fool river.” He ambled off to the barn.

  Meg said it was nice to hear from Win and tried to stand up, but her center of gravity had shifted and she struggled to get out of her chair. Jeb jumped down and helped her up. Once on her feet, Meg disappeared into the house without another word.

  Win’s letter didn’t cheer up Meg as much as Jeb thought it would, and she didn’t bring it up in conversation. A few weeks later, when he was working on a cradle in the barn, he broached the subject with Gus. “Meg seems a bit out of sorts.” Jeb focused his attention on the detailed design he was carving on the headboard.

  “That she does.”

  “I had hoped the baby might help ease her loss.”

  Without the use of both hands, woodworking had never been something Gus enjoyed, he’d told Jeb. Still, he pinned one of the cradle pieces on his lap with his stub and sanded it with care. “Meggie was always protective and nurturing with Biscuit. It’s in her nature to be a good ma.”

  “Biscuit gave her freedom, though. She might be feeling a bit tethered right now.”

  Gus nodded. “It’s gotta be something, carrying life inside you like that. Bound to give any intelligent creature pause. It’s something to watch, a woman’s belly growin’ to such unnatural proportions. I imagine it feels mighty peculiar, too.”

  “Maybe Win’s letter made her feel even more weighed down.”

  “I wondered if that was the thorn in your side.” Gus put his work down. “You might be interested to know that I was privy to a conversation Meggie had with Georgia last week. They were sittin’ on the porch; Georgia was trying to show Meg how to knit. It didn’t come easily for Meg, as you might expect. She dropped her hands to her lap in exasperation and told Georgia she felt clumsy and impatient. She said she couldn’t knit, could barely cook, and didn’t know a thing about babies. Georgia said some reassuring words to her, but then Meg started bawling and said something about you wanting to go off with Win because his life sounded so exciting . . .”

  “I’ve never given her cause to think that.”

  “I figured so, but it’s not my business what you two fight about. Georgia defended you, and said Meggie hadn’t been paying attention if she thought you felt stuck. Georgia said you were a family man, not a wanderer.” Gus shifted in his seat. “Meggie may not be feeling confident about her mothering skills, and she may wish she could be delivered from the load she’s carrying, but that don’t mean she isn’t happy to be married and having your baby. She’s fiercely loyal and protective, a mama bear if there ever was one. She’s that kind of horse owner, that kind of friend, and that kind of wife.”

  Gus knew how to reassure without being condescending, and Jeb was grateful. “I guess we’re all a bit nervous. I hope childbearing comes easy for her. It isn’t always.”

  “It’s unsettling to watch, that’s a fact. Mares get kind of a wild look in their eye. You ever see a woman give birth? With your pa, maybe?”

  Jeb shook his head. “Sometimes Pa took me on house calls. I helped him set a broken leg a
nd watched him stitch up plenty of wounds, but when it came to delivering babies, a wide-eyed boy wasn’t welcome in the birthing room.”

  Gus chuckled softly. “No, I don’t reckon so.” He blew away the dust from the piece he was sanding and ran his hand along the smooth edge. “I’ve helped plenty of mares foal, but can’t say that’s a comforting thought for Meg. Damn glad Georgia’s around.”

  “Amen to that.”

  The days passed. Late one September evening, Jeb came into the house from the barn, stamping his feet dry; the autumn rains soaked everything. Gus had gone to bed. Meg sat staring into the fire, deep in thought, a book resting on her enormous belly. Jeb noted how pretty she looked. The baby would come soon. Jeb didn’t see how she could get much bigger. The thought was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

  “You look far away, Meggie.”

  “Come sit with me.” She extended her hand out to him. He took it as he pulled up a chair and waited for her to speak. “I have a confession,” she said.

  Jeb hoped she wasn’t about to confess something about Win. He didn’t want to know if something had gone on between them. He braced himself.

  “I don’t think I loved you as much as I should have when we got married. I didn’t love you nearly as much as I do now. Does that hurt your feelings? I don’t mean it to. I’m trying to say that I feel much closer to you now.”

  Jeb took her hand and kissed it. “I’ve had those same thoughts. I look back and marvel at the leap of faith we took. It’s been working out, though. I think attachment is supposed to grow over time. It’s hard to imagine loving you even more than I do right now, but I think I will.”

  Meg brought his hand to her cheek, holding it in her two hands. He leaned over and kissed her temple. She didn’t let go of his hand, and he sensed she had more to say. “If something goes wrong when I have the baby . . . I want to be buried up on the hill under the piñon tree where we buried Biscuit.” She looked at him with so much disquiet, he felt a little guilty for feeling relieved to hear she was worried about dying and not confessing secrets. He’d rather soothe her fears than listen to her clear her conscience about Win.