Montana Rhapsody

by Susanna Solomon

  “Goin’ somewhere, Dad?” Francine peered into his lunch bag.

  “I’ve had . . .” Campbell caught himself before saying anything more. They’re guests, he reminded himself, paying guests.

  “This trip sucks,” Nia said. “When are we going to have some fun?”

  “Do you mind?” He closed his lunch bag and shoved it under his elbow.

  “Alone? You going alone, Dad?” Francine asked, her face clouded.

  “I’ll be fine, kiddo,” he replied, doling out more bacon.

  “Have anything else to eat?” Jane asked.

  “Oh shut—up!” Campbell snapped. They all stared at him, mouths open. He grabbed his bag and ran.

  He pushed the canoe into the water and was about to jump in when he heard footsteps. He turned and saw Francine. “What is it?”

  “Paddling alone. Dad? Again? Not the best idea you’ve had today—or yesterday, as I recall.”

  “Can’t talk now. I’ll be back in an hour, tops. You’re in charge.”

  “But hey, wait a sec . . .”

  “Gotta go.” And without another word he shot into the river and was gone before she could answer.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Monday, 9:00 a.m.

  Slaughter River Campground

  FRANCINE AND NIA

  “Dad! You’re making a big mistake, no, no, Dad, wait!”

  But his canoe shot around the bend. Cursing him, Francine kept an eye on her watch, on the river, and felt like an asshole. At the hospital, no more than six months ago, his face had been pale, his skin cold and clammy, heart monitors tracking his pulse. Now he thought he could do this alone? She waited fifteen long minutes until she couldn’t stand it any longer, threw a water bottle into her canoe, and hunted for a branch to pole upriver. She had to keep an eye on him.

  Cursing herself for wasting time, she dove under a tree. Twigs and puny branches pulled at her hair. Something scrabbled through the underbrush. Possums would run, so would raccoons, maybe. She remembered the snake.

  Startled, she backed up, ready to do battle. But instead of a set of small beady eyes, she saw skinny legs in need of a shave.

  “What are you doing under there?” Nia asked.

  “I’ve got to go find my dad,” Francine said, gritting her teeth.

  “Well, he’s not under there,” Nia giggled.

  “Duh,” Francine replied. Maybe later she’d try not to be a jerk. She bent down, and crawled in farther. There, in the dark, was a perfect branch, long and straight, attached to a big limb. She pulled out her Wenger Swiss Army pocket knife, extracted the serrated saw blade, and made a narrow cut, feeling the reassuring grip of metal teeth on soft wood. She pressed harder.

  “If you’re going paddling, can I go too?”

  “Not this time, Nia. Go find something else to do.”

  Pulling too hard, Francine beaned herself on a low branch, swore, and set the blade in for a deeper cut. She took a deep breath. “Do you mind?” She backed out, the branch in her hand. A little crooked, a bunch of tiny branches, but it would do. She hacked off most of the bark.

  “Oh, that’s great. We’ll fly a flag and signal to them.” Nia grinned. “I’ll tell the others.”

  “Don’t. Please don’t,” Francine added. “This is for poling, where I swing the pole over my head, flick, flick, flick stab it into the river bottom, and swing it up again. If you’re in my boat, I’ll probably hurt you.”

  “Oh,” Nia said.

  “Can’t help it. It’s the nature of the beast.”

  “Rescue for whom? Your Dad? Those other guys? Do you think they drowned?”

  Francine looked at Nia’s soft, clouded face. “Tell you what, you can help me load up, and when we come back, I’ll teach you how to pole. It’s twice as fast as paddling. All right with you?”

  “I think I can do that flick, flick now,” Nia said, imitating Francine. “I’ll get my own branch.”

  Francine looked at the sky. Clear, but the wind was rising, making for a nasty afternoon if she didn’t get a move on. She headed to the boats, reviewing her technique. Nia skipped along behind.

  “What are you following me for?” Francine turned and stopped.

  “Nothing,” Nia said, kicking at sand.

  Francine tested her own long branch, set it on top of the seat, dug out her red life jacket and her paddle and a first aid kit, and slipped the canoe into the water. Nia’s was better. Shit.

  Nia tossed her life jacket into Francine’s boat.

  “Not today, like I said, Nia.”

  “I can duck out of the way of the pole. I can paddle. I’ll be a big help,” Nia grabbed the gunwale. “And when you get tired, I can pole too.”

  “Ever done it before?” Francine asked, holding the bobbing canoe with one foot.

  “Flick, flick,” Nia grinned. “Watch me.” She swung her own branch over her head and stabbed the water.

  “One problem,” Francine said. This stupid girl was grating. “Practice, go ahead and do it here, where it’s safe. Out on the river, you’ll fall in.”

  “Oh, c’mon. I’m a good swimmer.”

  “My dad’s out there and he has a weakened heart. Let go, and get your stupid crap out of my canoe.”

  “Then what’s he doing out here?” Nia scratched a mosquito bite on her knee. “He should be at a rest home or something.”

  “I don’t care, Nia. Go away.”

  “You don’t care about your dad or you don’t care about me?” Nia asked. “The other girls and I . . . we think you’re mean. I don’t much mind, but your dad is . . . don’t you, you know, feel a little guilty? You shouldn’t have let him go alone.”

  “Nia. Let go of the goddamn painter.”

  “Everybody is deserting us. What if some wolf or bear comes into camp? What are we supposed to use for defense? Our paddles? What if someone gets hurt? We need guns. Got one?”

  “I don’t fucking care!” Francine climbed in and pushed off.

  “Hey! Wait! Francine! No!” Nia ran into the water after the canoe. “You can’t leave us alone here!”

  “Wanna bet?” Francine turned away. Someday, somehow, she’d learn social skills, but not today.

  Shoving her stick into the bottom of the river, she pushed off and slowly and carefully stood up. Taking a wide stance, she braced each foot against the gunwales, pivoted the branch over her head, and sunk the other end into the bottom and pushed off again. She shot forward ten feet. Focusing on her balance and keeping her movements precise, she moved upriver and past the first bend. Fast and slick as snot. Neat.

  The bottom was a little muddier than she was used to, but there was firmness there, if she placed the pole just right. The canoe just seemed to fly. Swift and fast and true, the way she liked it. No wonder Lewis and Clark made miles.

  There was no place she’d rather be than on the water.

  With one eye on the river and another on the canoe, she scanned the shore for the blue of Dad’s shirt. Finally she was doing something real, something important. She powered up the river, feeling useful for the first time in years.

  She moved past the second bend and into a long stretch where the wind was starting to whip down the river channel, following the river no matter where it went. Carefully she passed a long line of white cliffs and remembered passing them the day before. Swallows took off in a swoosh as she went by.

  An hour and a half later she was running out of steam. She’d never poled more than thirty minutes. Every stroke threatened to knock her over. She’d fallen down three times onto the seat, and almost fell into the water twice, twisting her shoulder and barely staying upright. The current was moving, maybe three knots downriver, while wind kicked up one-foot-tall waves at the bow. If she sat down, she’d have to paddle and move half as fast. She leaned into the pole, holding steady with legs that started to feel trembly, and whirled the pole overhead, and dug in again. Dad would be fighting harder with his paddle.

  Shoving down panic, she pi
voted the pole over her head, and eased past the third bend, hoping he hadn’t gone around the other side of an island, as she tried not to think about what might have happened to him. Who would she have to argue with if she lost him? He’d gone so far.

  Foop. A gaggle of white pelicans took off right in front of her. Startled, Francine lost her balance, dropped into the boat, and bruised her arm. Balancing carefully, she got back on her feet, shoved the pole into the bottom, and noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Looked again. A green canoe bobbed in a marsh, ten feet from shore. Was it Dad’s? Had he collapsed inside? She shot over to it, hit a clump of marsh grass with a clunk, grabbed the other canoe’s painter, and tied it to her thwart. Dad’s Oakland A’s cap was in the bilge but no Dad.

  “Dad?” His life jacket was piled in a heap on the bottom of the canoe. Had he drowned? “Dad? Where are you?” Oh God, please no. She scanned the stony beach. If only he was on land. She pulled both canoes up on shore.

  Pacing up and down the beach, she dug through broken marsh grass and found footprints heading off toward some shrubs. She followed them, breathless, her heart fluttering. They led up the sandy shore in a zigzag pattern and onto some grass. He had to be all right, oh, please, please be all right.

  “Dad! Where are you?” She ran to a rise. She raised her voice again. “Dad!”

  “Lewis? Is that you?” His voice was weak and raggedy. But it was him!

  Lewis? What the hell? Buoyed by hope, she crashed through low scrub bushes. She found him sitting in a shallow area, leaning against a log, his head in his hands.

  She slammed to a halt. She reached one hand out to touch his shoulder. It was cold and clammy. “You all right?”

  He didn’t hear her. She bent down, her stomach in flutters. Was she too late to get his nitro? “Dad?” Lifting his hands from his face, she felt warmth on his cheeks.

  His eyes flickered.

  She sat back and took one of his soft hands in hers.

  “You’re lucky I found you,” she said, and stroked the back of his hand. “You okay?”

  “I found a patch of sun,” he said, rolling up one mudsplattered sleeve. “It’s warm. I’m just fine.” He hesitated. “What are you doing here?”

  He had a scrape on his chin and a streak of mud on his face.

  “Did you see them?” Francine asked.

  “I t-t-told you not to c-c-come,” he stuttered. “You were supposed to s-s-stay.”

  “Never mind that.” Francine sucked in her breath. “You feeling all right?” He looked so pale.

  “Have you noticed how the clouds just kind of hang up there and don’t move at all?” He sighed. “I’ve been watching them for hours.”

  Francine saw he’d made a cushion of sorts out of dried grass, sticks, and logs. He tipped over a little.

  “Here, let me help you.” She peeled off his soaking wet shirt. Goose bumps covered his chest.

  He sat up straighter, like a soldier. “Lewis said I should wait for him here.” He noticed her long face. “Came up here on your own. Really?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lewis?” he asked.

  “Dad. I’m not Private Lewis.”

  “It’s Cap’n Lewis. Honestly, Francine, I wonder whether you ever learned anything at that school.” He frowned. “I’ve been reading Undaunted Courage.”

  “C’mon, let’s head back.” Francine hoped like hell he could make it.

  “E.B. and Laura have got to be around the next bend.” He struggled to stand. A dribble of spit edged his lips. He raised himself onto one knee, wobbly as hell. “I don’t want Meriwether to know I haven’t found them. Don’t tell, okay?” He grabbed Francine’s arm.

  “Dad, want some water? Gatorade?” She masked her worry with a smile. She held out the bottle.

  He studied it. “Lewis never drank anything green. You sure?”

  Francine nodded.

  Campbell took a sip, paused, then drank as if he hadn’t had any water in a week. He drained most of it and handed it back. A little slop of green swung in the bottom.

  “You’ll need to rest,” he said. “You must be tired, honey.”

  Honey? He hadn’t called her honey since she was five. “Had a bit of a busy morning then?” she said, hoping the sound of her voice would bring him back.

  “It took me no time to get here, kiddo.” He staggered back to the river, wading in. Francine ran beside him, trying to keep him from falling in the water.

  “I can’t see Lewis from here,” Campbell said. “Cap’n Lewis! Cap’n Lewis! He was right here, Francine, just a second ago.”

  “Take my hand,” Francine said, in a low calm voice. “Sit here next to me, okay, Dad?”

  “I searched for them up and down the river, Captain, and didn’t see a sign of them.”

  “You did a good job, sir,” she said.

  He grinned.

  “I’m all right,” he said a minute later. “Feel much better now. What’s in that drink, kiddo?”

  “Sugar, mostly,” she said, uneasy. “Electrolytes, stuff like that.”

  “Man, I feel great now. I’m the bionic man!” Campbell wobbled toward the canoes. “On a mission to Mars. Keep the stars on your right and head off until morning.”

  He was unsteady like a colt, all legs and no direction. He wove around the beach and tried to push his own canoe into the water. Luckily it was tied to her canoe and didn’t go far. He lunged after it and slipped into the water up to his knees.

  Francine splashed after him and maneuvered him into her canoe. “Don’t get in that one, sir. Meriwether wants you to go with me.” He fell into the center with a thunk.

  “Come on in, old girl, time’s a wasting,” he mumbled, climbing up onto the bow seat, churning his paddle up front, and splashing water all over.

  She retied the bow of his canoe to the stern of hers and paddled hard, doing her best to keep her weight low to compensate for his weaving around. “Quit wobbling all over. You’ll swamp us. Sit still. Paddle slower. Pay attention, or I’ll tell the Captain.”

  “We have hours to go before daylight,” he said, “and miles to go before we sleep.”

  Oh Jesus, Francine thought, and prayed she’d get him back to camp in time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Monday, early morning land

  LAURA AND E.B.

  The sun caught Laura’s face, half-hidden under the tarp, the top of Tucker’s sleeping bag nestled under her chin. She sighed, satisfied, dreaming she was still with Mitch, his arm over her, the two of them cuddled up close under the goose-down duvet at her place in Brentwood, the sound of the city far away.

  She turned over and felt something odd, something hard, something cold.

  She patted around. This was no Dux mattress under her shoulder. This was cold, hard ground. Then she remembered. This was camping. Lumps of leaves and strewn clothing were bunched up around her body. Twigs were stuck in her hair, and a stone dug into the small of her back.

  She opened her eyes into a blue-lit world. A tarp hung over her head, casting bluish light over her and a man sleeping beside her. Oh, E.B. His shirt fluttered in a slight breeze.

  She sat up with a start. She rubbed her back, dislodging the sleeping bag. She covered him with it. Let him be warm for a change.

  E.B. was different. And strange. And new.

  She backed out of the shelter, careful not to dislodge the tarp. Her arms were sore and her back ached. Stretching, she felt like she was a hundred years old. Bruises blossomed on her legs from her fight with Tucker. She hoped the bastard was dead.

  Coming back and watching E.B. sleep, she relaxed with the sound of his even breathing and wished she could tuck close into the warmth of him. He seemed so solid, so caring, not like any other man she’d ever known. She reached out to stroke his cheek with one slender finger. His eyes flickered open, settling on her face. She pulled her hand back, embarrassed.

  He opened his eyes wider, and smiled at her. He worked his hand free
of the sleeping bag, extended it in greeting, like halfway between shaking her hand and an embrace. “Good morning.”

  “Have you always liked the river?” she asked, trying to ease the tension. Birdcalls echoed from the cliffs on the opposite shore. The sun was warm. Overhead crows crisscrossed a clear blue sky.

  E.B. sat up. “Were you cold last night?”

  “Not a bit,” she said. “Thank you for everything.” She wrapped her arms over Tucker’s stinky flannel shirt and blue jeans that bagged at her knees. She couldn’t remember a man ever being like E.B.. If only it were possible. But how long would it last? Until he found out what she did for a living? Of course. Stella was right about so many things.

  “I’ll make coffee,” he said suddenly, flushed with heat, thinking of her beside him. And he hadn’t even touched her. Good thing, too. She was so beautiful, her hair across her eyes, looking cute as hell in Tucker’s clothes. He knew, if he made even one move, it’d be over. She’d never go for someone as humble as a hick farmer from Montana.

  He hoped the coffee was good; it smelled okay. He had pulled two logs nearer the little camp stove to make a bench for him and for her. His hip ached from the fight and he limped a little. Later, he’d face the music, waking up with the sore hip for weeks, but for now, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered as long as he was with Laura. He tried not to think about what Tucker had done or had wanted to do to her.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” She handed him back his warm and half-full coffee cup.

  E.B., stymied, couldn’t remember her asking him anything. Trying not to be rude, he hunted around in his mind for some kind of clue. Farming? His tractor? Her legs?

  “The river,” she prompted him. He looked as starstruck as some of the guys in the front row.

  “You mean, liking it and all?” He felt like an idiot. “Well, yeah, now I do . . .” he faltered. He used to hate the damn river. “It splits my ranch in two, kind of a pain, going around, using the cable ferry, that is, when it’s working.” Before Berniece left, the river had been in his way. Now it comforted him.