by BJ James
Beneath a sky that never seemed to end, in this day wrapped in its gown of virginal white, there was stillness as peaceful as a great cathedral, silence as glorious as music. In this great open space, there was no room for lies. “I trust you, O’Hara.” Her lashes swept her cheeks, then lifted to reveal her steady golden-brown gaze. “With my life.”
Tynan’s breath shuddered from him, the breath he hadn’t known he held. With the back of his hand he stroked the slope of her cheek, his knuckles tarrying at the corner of her mouth.
In the meadow beneath their perch, the bull snorted and huffed, catching a drift of their scent. One wrong move and the herd would run. Slowly, though the creature couldn’t see, yet careful to make no sudden or disturbing gesture, Ty dropped his hand away.
A half grown calf bawled. His mother answered. The bull lowered his head again to snuffle at the snow and lumbered a little distance away. The herd was quiet again. The moment passed.
“We’d better go,” Ty said hoarsely, his look still lingering on her face. She’d never been lovelier than with the bright flush drawn to her cheeks by the cold, sharp air; the steady, gold spangled gaze, its sparkle of excitement and delight darkened with desire; her mouth soft and tempting.
It seemed natural that he kiss her. Here in the still, quiet place. A simple brush of his lips against hers. A promise made.
Lifting his head, he found himself drowning in the dark well of her eyes. With a knuckle he followed the path his lips had taken. A memory to keep.
“We’d better go,” he heard himself repeating.
Merrill glanced away, a token distancing from a flame that burned too fiercely. “To the Carlsens’.”
With a nod, he took up his skis and hers, leading her from the maze of stone that had been their hiding place and into the open field of snow. Kneeling there he strapped on her skis and his. When he straightened, as he towered over her, he knew she had, indeed, trusted him with her life. From the first day to this.
Adjusting his backpack comfortably over his shoulders and laying a gloved hand on her shoulder, he asked softly, “Ready?”
“Will we see the buffalo again?”
“They’ll be around.”
“then. I’m ready.”
Ty blazed the way over the last and most difficult part of the trail. He didn’t need to look back to know that she followed, believing he would keep her safe. Trusting that he would bring her no harm.
“Well now, if you aren’t a sight to gladden my heart, I don’t know what is!” She was a big woman. Tall and rangy, and made to seem even bigger by the thick, down coat she wore. Buckets of grain lay scattered where she dropped them as she enveloped Ty in the next best thing to a bear hug. “What brings you here?” She asked in one breath, and in the next turned to Merrill. A work worn hand drawing the smaller woman close. “And who might this pretty little thing be?”
Eyes as green as new grass in spring and dancing with laughter peered from a weathered face wrapped in a scarf topped by a Stetson. “Not one of your sisters, that’s for sure. No black Irish in her with eyes like that.”
“Don’t be disingenuous, Catherine.” Ty draped an arm over Merrill’s shoulder.
“Disingenuous?” The woman snorted. “The word isn’t in my vocabulary, so how could I be.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he drawled. “While you were back East living the life of the rich and famous, it was a word and a condition that completely escaped you. Just as the gossip that Fini Terre had a winter lodger escaped you.”
Her skiing apparatus left in the barn, Merrill stood between them, a sapling among tall timber. Her head turned back and forth in wonder and amusement at the affectionate badinage. That they were fond of each other was evident. That one would best the other at every opportunity was equally as evident.
“Gossip?” The calloused palm and long elegant fingers closed tighter over Merrill’s. “How in the name of Hades would I hear gossip out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Had your telephone taken out, did you?” Ty shot back. “Suzy Overmyer didn’t see Merrill pass by coming in and never going out? You know, Suzy who sits there practically in the road. Suzy who sees all, hears all, tells all?”
Searching her memory, Merrill remembered a small house separated from the road by a small picket fence. A picturesque setting, with laundry drying in the sun, and a plump, elderly woman sitting in a rocker on the porch. But that was heaven only knew how many miles ago. Another example, as she was discovering today, that in Montana distances were irrelevant.
“Merrill.” The striking gaze turned again to her. “An interesting name. I don’t suppose anyone has ever called you Merry.”
Taken by surprise by what was more astute observation than question, Merrill responded faintly, “Never anyone who knew me.”
“Didn’t think so.” A curt nod tipped the brim of the Stetson. “Despite your tiny size, and as pretty as you are, you don’t seem the type for cute names.”
Ty laughed and drew Merrill closer to his side. “So speaks Cat Carlsen, the wisest lady I know.” Then more formally he said, “Merrill Santiago, meet Catherine C. Carlsen of The Triple C. Cat meet Merrill. Sometimes known as Short Bear, but never, ever Merry.”
A twinkle appeared in the cool green eyes. A wide, strong mouth stretched into a stunning grin as both Cat Carlsen’s hands enfolded Merrill’s briefly, then moved away. “Well, well, he finally remembered his manners. And he’s kinda pretty too, isn’t he?”
Cat Carlsen didn’t wait for an answer, nor did she worry about the spilled grain as she herded them across the yard toward the old, rambling house. “Come in. You must be cold and tired. As I was leaving the house for the feed shed, Carl was putting together a pot of mulled cider. With a splash of brandy it should warm you up nicely.”
The woman was a whirlwind, giving neither of them time to accept or decline as she led the way up the steps to the porch. “Carl sprained an ankle a few days ago. Since then, he’s tended the house and Casey, while I see to the stock.”
“How is Casey?” Ty’s hand on Cat’s shoulder stopped her before she could open the door.
“Better.” The answer came quickly, without reservation. “Much better.” For Merrill’s benefit she explained, “Casey is our son. He was injured six months ago in a rodeo. He doesn’t speak, but he hears and understands.” A smile eased the flicker of strain the mention of her son had caused. “He loves company.” Patting Merrill’s cheek, her smile grew brighter. “Especially the pretty ones.”
The door swung wide. A man filled the space as solidly as the door itself. He was tall, taller even than Catherine in his stocking feet. The term bull shouldered came to Merrill’s mind, and fit as if it were coined especially for him. The rest of him was lean and spare, a body honed of any excess. His hair was long, black as a starless night. Sharply planed cheek- bones would have given his face a cruel cast, were it not for the kindest, soft brown eyes Merrill had ever seen.
This was Carl Carlsen, it had to be, for there was love in the look that lingered on Catherine before it turned to Merrill, then Ty. “Company!” His voice was as soft and kind as his eyes. “What a relief. I heard Cat jabbering out here and was afraid the lonelies had finally gotten to her.”
Pointed fingers drilled into his chest, then danced upward to tug his ear. “How can I be lonely with you underfoot all day?” In an aside she said, “Merrill, in case you haven’t figured it out, this big galoot is my husband.”
For the second time, Merrill’s hand was engulfed by a hard, workworn grip. Carl Carlsen held her fingers gently, as his look skimmed over her from top to toe. There was Indian blood flowing strongly in him. She knew from books she’d found in Tynan’s library there were eleven tribes in Montana. Ranging from the Blackfeet with its many thousands, to the Cree with less than one. From the local and the look of him, and for no other reason, she would have judged Carl Carlsen to be of the Blackfeet. A nation among the most formidable horsemen of the Northwes
t Plains.
“Merrill.” He bowed formally over her hand, before turning to Ty. Grasping his elbow as Ty did the same, his greeting was deep and pleasant, “It’s good to see you again. It’s been too long. Casey has missed you. We all have.”
He stepped back from the door. Another graceful, gallant bow gestured them inside. “Come in, shed your coats and warm yourselves by the fire.”
When Merrill would have shrugged out of the heavy jacket, Carl was there first, sliding it from her and hanging it by the door. “The cider’s warm and spicy, but if you’d prefer something else?”
“The cider, please,” Merrill was quick to respond. Since coming to Montana she always seemed to have a drink of some sort in her hand. Coffee, tea, wine, now cider. Though she knew it was in part natural hospitality, she knew as well, it was a necessity. A guard against the effects of the cold. “How could I refuse? If it tastes only a tenth as wonderful as it smells, it should be heaven.”
Carl limped away, while Cat led them to the fire. The room was spartan, the furnishings minimal and functional. Yet in the clean, spare lines, there was a sophisticated sense of style and comfort. There were paintings on the walls, landscapes and ranch scenes and portraits, in watercolors and oils. And wood carvings scattered about on shelves and tabletops, of waterfowl, wild animals, and horses. Some were crudely done and barely recognizable. Some were perfection in miniature and one almost waited for the blink of an eye or the swish of a tail. The progressive work of one person? Merrill wondered. Or simply a collection of many?
Seeing the direction of her interest, Cat paused in the act of removing her own winter apparel. Tossing the jacket and the Stetson carelessly toward their respective pegs, she came to Merrill’s side. “Casey did all of these, the painting and the carvings.” With one hand touching an eagle that needed only the flutter of a wing to seem real, with the other she tugged the scarf from her hair. “This was the last one.”
“He’s amazing.” Stopping short, Merrill tried not to stare. As Cat had drawn the scarf away, the most magnificent mane of silver and gold tumbled to her waist. It caught the light in a dazzling display and made a lovely woman all the more breathtaking and oddly familiar. Struggling to regain her train of thought, she stroked a faultless wing. “I’ve seen them like this, down by the river, catching salmon. Casey’s quite talented.”
“Yes, he is.” Cat moved on, by unspoken, mutual consent taking Merrill on a guided tour. “He was riding before he could walk, and whittling as soon as Carl would trust him with a knife. The painting came next.” She paused before the rendering of a moose. Gangling, ugly. Splendid. “I’d hoped he would study for a while, then return to the ranch. Maybe build a studio down by the river.”
Merrill said nothing. Intuition telling her that this was a mother who seldom had the opportunity to speak candidly of her son.
“There was a scholarship to a prominent art institute, awarded by the National Association of Indian Artists. He was eligible because of Carl’s tribal ancestry. But it was Casey’s talent that won it.”
“When would he have gone.” Bits and pieces of masculine voiced conversation drifted to them, as Carl and Ty settled down to catch up on the latest happenings on each ranch. Merrill strolled on, listening to the indistinct hum, thinking, as time spun out, that Cat Carlsen wouldn’t or couldn’t answer.
“September,” she spoke only a little above a whisper. “He would have gone in September.”
“But the rodeo came first.”
Cat nodded, looking at neither Merrill nor the carvings. “He wanted to prove himself first. He wanted his dad to see that he could be a champion cowboy as well. Carl didn’t think he should. Tried to convince him it wasn’t necessary. Because it meant so much to Casey, and because I wanted him to be all that he could be, I disagreed.”
And the path of Casey Carlsen’s life changed forever. “Carl doesn’t blame you.”
“No, he doesn’t. As he sees it, there is no blame.” Their journey had come full circle to a cluster of chairs gathered before the fire. “Neither do L All the factors were weighed, a vote taken and as the majority ruled a decision was made. Casey rode, and he rode well. Then he was injured.” A shrug of pain barely moved her shoulders. “But who’s to say that if he hadn’t ridden, the outcome wouldn’t have been worse.”
“So now you deal with what you have, with the best that you have in you.”
“Yes.” Cat’s smile was in place once more. “We cope, we work, we pray, and each day brings its own rewards.”
In a word and a phrase, Catherine Carlsen spoke volumes of strength, of wisdom. Merrill wondered if she could ever be as strong. Ever as accepting and wise.
“So,” Carl had risen, as had Ty, waiting to seat them. “You’ve had the guided tour.”
“Casey’s work is marvelous. I’ve seen pieces with the mark of his style at Ty’s.”
“The wolf and the dove,” Ty named a most unusual work. “And the white buffalo. Casey gave them to me. He always said that when the time came, it would be commissioned work that would carry a price tag.” A look scanned the whole of the room in general, and each piece specifically. “These come from his heart, and his heart isn’t for sale.”
“When the time comes,” Merrill said softly, sadly.
“It will.” Carl’s tone was not adamant, only resolute, with no need for the excesses of adamancy. “But enough of that. Come sit close to the fire. I noticed when you came in that you wore no gloves.” He cast an accusing glance at Ty. “Your hands must be frozen.”
“Not at all.” Merrill rushed to Ty’s defense as she took the offered chair. “I’d taken them off just after we skied in.”
“Speaking of skiing,” Ty interjected. “We need to be going soon.”
“Please don’t.” Catherine turned her cat’s eyes to him. “You’ve just arrived and you haven’t seen Casey. He’d be disappointed if he missed you.” To Merrill she explained, “Ty is his most favorite human being in all the world.”
“Next to his parents,” Ty qualified.
“Maybe,” Cat agreed. “But he looks on you as the brother he would have chosen, if there were such choices.”
“He’ll be awake soon.” Carl stood by the fire, a tall silhouette against the dancing flame. “Stay for supper. There’s spaghetti on the stove and plenty of it. Make an evening of it, later I’ll break out the Sno-Cat. The ride back to Fini Terre will give Merrill a chance to see the wonder of a snowy night in Montana moonlight.”
“Merrill?” Ty came to stand behind her, his hand rested lightly on her shoulder.
She was dubious, having seen the Sno-Cat in the barn. A heavy machine, like Ty’s, that appeared to be the offspring of the mating of a snowmobile and a Caterpillar. A most difficult machine to drive. “What about your ankle?”
Carl looked down at the wrapped and swollen appendage. “No problem. I’ve been faking so Cat here would have to brave the snow while I lazed around inside.”
“Listen to the man,” Cat crowed. “He hates being cooped up inside.” Turning to Merrill, in a laughing stage whisper she said, “It would be worth a little ache or pain to get him out of the house for a bit. He’s been like a moose with a sore dewlap lately.”
“You’re sure?” Merrill addressed Carl, as he lounged against the mantel.
“I’m sure.”
“Then I’d like to stay. I’d like to meet Casey.”
“Then it’s settled. Now for your long delayed cup of cider.” Carl hobbled to a tray on a sideboard, waving away any offers of help as he filled two more heavy mugs. Proving his agility under duress, he made it back to them, with none of the pungent liquid spilled. “A toast,” he said as he took up his position by the fire once more. “To a happy evening, and many more.”
“To happy evenings,” the others murmured in unison.
Setting his mug down with a thud, Ty moved toward the door and his jacket. “Since we’re going to stay, I’ll see to the animals.”
C
at lurched from her chair. “I had forgotten. Ty, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself. I can do it.”
“I know there’s no need, I know you can do it, but it’s also no trouble.” Ty had already shrugged into his jacket and his cap. “Stay, keep Merrill company. Discover what things you have in common.” Giving Cat no more opportunity to argue, he stepped through the door and tramped across the porch.
“I’ll see about Casey,” Carl announced. As quickly as that, the women were alone, with only the crackle of the fire and the slide and thud of Carl’s footsteps down the hall.
The sound faded into silence before Cat turned her gaze from the fire to Merrill. “You’ve figured it out. There was a moment when I took off the scarf when you felt the familiarity. Now you know.”
“I think so.”
“You don’t think, you know who I am.”
Merrill didn’t dissemble or pretend. “Cat Carlucci, model, jet-setter. Granddaughter of a Mafia Don, the Godfather. One of the beautiful people. Whose wonderful, glorious golden hair was her trademark.”
Cat’s gaze returned to the fire. “Some called me whore.”
“Yes.”
“Some, murderess.”
Merrill only nodded.
Six
“It must be strange finding someone like me in Montana. Someone like I used to be,” Cat amended quietly. “As strange as it is to have someone recognize me.”
“It was a long time ago,” Merrill reminded.
Cat studied the younger, smaller woman critically. “You would have been a very young girl when the scandal hit the papers.”
“I was twelve, and anxious to be thirteen. My father was a career soldier stationed in the States for the first time in more than three years,” Merrill explained “I loved being back home, I wanted to immerse myself in my own culture. Be a part of it, not an outsider.” The dismissing lifl of a shoulder, the tightening grip on the arm of her chair betrayed another unhappy part of her childhood. “I was a misfit, struggling not to be.”
