by Lucy Inglis
After a painful effort, I was dry and cocooned in the largest of the towels, covering me almost to my feet. The mountain breeze blew across my bare shoulders as I squeezed the water from my hair as best I could with the square of threadbare cotton. My arms were wretchedly painful and I began to cry. You came back and sat next to me. Then took the towel from my lap.
When you finished rubbing my head you slung the towel over your shoulder and began to comb my hair. ‘Well, look at this, I’m finding a use for all these things I have around the place and didn’t know why. This comb, for instance. Ain’t never had use for one a-them my whole life.’
Your clipped tenor is hard to capture on paper. You rarely finished your words – talkin’, laughin’ – and you placed odd stresses on some of them – a-gane, no-body, sol-jers. Sometimes you used French phrases arcane by the standards of even my aged tutor.
I cleared my throat. ‘How did you find me?’
‘Heard you hollering and saw the coach at the bottom of the river bed.’ Silence. ‘Were they family?’
I shook my head.
‘A girl like you wasn’t travelling that trail by herself, surely?’
‘No. The tall man and the woman, they were travelling with me.’
You waited.
‘They were taking me to my parents. In Oregon.’
‘London England to Oregon, that’s aways.’
I looked over my shoulder, biting my lip at my sore neck. ‘How did you know I was from London?’
‘Asked the barkeep at the hotel. In Helena.’
My breath caught, fear tightening my chest. ‘Were you following us?’
There was a long, judgemental pause. ‘No. Was minding my own business when your team decided to risk that bridge. It’s been shaky for a year now. Weren’t close enough to stop them.’ You finished combing my hair. ‘All done.’
‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
‘Come on inside. No point letting you die of pneumonia now, is there?’
Inside the house I looked around, now that my vision had steadied and my feet were a little surer. They looked small and pale on the floorboards, leaving damp toe prints. The house was made up of two rooms. A massive stone fireplace and chimney sat back to back in the centre, the one fire heating both chambers. This room, the kitchen, was sparsely furnished with a big black stove sitting in one corner. There was a scrubbed table with just one chair. And a large, worn armchair by the hearth. Near it was a stool. Besides a few pegs on the wall, holding a rifle hanging by a strap, that was it. You went into the bedroom, which was only partially separated from the other room by the fireplace and chimney – no walls.
From a rough pine cupboard you pulled a shirt. ‘Afraid I don’t have much in the way of ladywear, and your dress is probably a bit . . . unnecessary here.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Drying out back.’ You held up a pair of trousers. ‘I suppose, if we roll these up real good and belt them . . . what do you think?’
No one had ever asked me what I wanted to wear before. My clothes were chosen for me by Mama and planned a week in advance, more for special occasions. And now I stood wrapped in only a towel as a strange man offered me clothes I would expect to see on a London beggar. A man whose intentions weren’t clear at all.
‘I ain’t gonna hurt you,’ you said, reading my thoughts. In the clear light, your eyes were icy: dark blue circles ringing Arctic irises. You held the shirt and trousers out, pulling off your belt. The leather was warm from your body. ‘Here. It’s not pretty, but it’ll do.’
I dressed in the bedroom after you left, sitting on the edge of the mattress to pull the trousers on, legs still untrustworthy. The bed had been remade and the oilcloth removed. You’d guessed it would happen . . . Tears prickled behind my eyes. My new clothes smelt of outdoors and soap, drowning me. I belted the trousers by tying the leather back on itself through the buckle as there was no hole far enough in, and bent to roll the legs up several times. Three of me would have fitted inside the shirt; the top button was missing when my cold fingers fumbled for it. I looked like a pauper. I walked to the cabin door, hand hesitant on the brass door knob. Outside, over a small campfire, you had made not the compulsory foul coffee, but tea.
You held out a tin cup. ‘Found a box of it that had busted off the coach before the water got to it. Thought you might like it, being English.’
‘Thank you.’
We sat on the bench, but not too close. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Emily. Forsythe.’
You offered your hand. ‘Nate.’
I took it but ducked my head, shy of you and your wildness. A thick lock of hair slid in front of my face. You reached over with your other hand and smoothed it back. ‘How are you feeling?’
Unsteady from your touch I shrugged; an indelicate gesture.
‘Can’t work out a thing from that now, can I?’
I took a breath. ‘My head aches and everything is humming. I feel like I can’t see as well as I should.’
You tipped my chin up on your rough hand, examining my eyes. ‘Follow my finger.’
Instead, my gaze settled on tanned cheekbones and sleek, straight eyebrows. ‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Nope.’
‘Then how do you know what to do?’
‘Nothing like a war to teach you about what a body will stand.’ You let me go.
The American Civil War. I had never met anyone except Papa who had been to war. No one young.
You looked out at the landscape. ‘Your parents settling in Oregon?’
‘They’re arranging my wedding.’
Another silence. ‘What’s he like?’
‘I . . . haven’t met him. Yet.’
Standing, you slung your tea into the dirt. ‘Sounds just perfect.’ You dropped on to the steps, bad leg first. It was a sleight: a trick that allowed you to seem almost sound. I would come to know them. You gestured over your shoulder. ‘Make yourself at home, English.’
I returned to the bed and slept almost immediately, despite my anxiety. When I woke, twilight was coming in through the open door and window. I sat up, hair matted from sleeping with it damp, arms and legs cramping.
You were leaning against the stones of the chimney stack, arms folded. ‘Want something to eat?’
My stomach growled in response. You stooped to lift me.
‘Please don’t, I can walk!’ I pushed myself up the bed, away from you. Mama had rules about touching. ‘Thank you, but I can.’
You straightened up. ‘Come on then.’
When I made it outside, stiff and sore, you indicated to the bench and dragged over a small table I’d seen inside earlier. You put down a pot of something brown and meaty with gravy. Then a tin plate of bread and a dish of what looked like yellow, leafy wild flowers. ‘I apologize in advance for the cuisine in this establishment.’
‘It can’t be worse than hotel food,’ I said beneath my breath, picking up the spoon.
You laughed. ‘Reserve your judgement, Em.’
Em? No one had ever called me Em. The mixture was tasty but my stomach rebelled and I hiccupped, hiding my mouth and looking down the mountain. It was covered with blossom, some like the peppery yellow flowers we were eating, and harebells too. There was a small, high-railed corral – as Mr Goldsmith had called them – with a wide stream, gushing with meltwater. The brown and white mare grazed, free to roam.
‘Your horse won’t run away?’
You shook your head. ‘She stays where I am.’ Fetching two tin cups, you filled them with water from the spigot and held one out. ‘Morphine powder fair dries a body up.’
I took it. ‘Morphine powder?’
‘Mixed it with water. I’d preferred you to take it outta my hand, but you weren’t in no state to.’
‘Your . . . hand?’
You lifted your palm to your face. ‘Yeah, you know, lick it. It works quick, but it don’t hit you so hard and it lasts longer.’
Lick it out
of your hand? The idea was not only incredible, but unacceptable. Mama took laudanum for her headaches, in a crystal glass of cordial. She had given it to me too, the first time my pains had come. I hadn’t liked it: the strangeness that weighed so heavily, so I had tipped it away every time since.
I took another draught of the water. The lake glittered in the sunset. Birds settled into the upper branches of the trees, silhouetted black against the bright water. More crows. I shuddered.
‘Try some more.’
I ate another spoonful. My stomach whizzed and creaked.
‘So, this man you were set to marry? Who is he?’
I bit my lips together, unwilling to say something that might provoke you again. Time passed.
‘Rich?’
I said nothing.
‘Because no first-water diamond like you is travelling halfway across the world for an ordinary Joe.’ You carried on eating, gripping the spoon with weathered fingers. Your manners were better than ninety per cent of Fort Shaw, but Mama would still have been appalled. ‘So, I reckon he’s rich.’
‘My parents love me!’ The words came from nowhere: I was not given to rash outbursts.
You snorted. ‘Sure they do.’
‘They’ll pay to get me back.’
Your eyes were suddenly as cold as they were pale. ‘You think that’s what I want? Money?’ Your voice was flat and hard.
I retreated like a tiny creature into a shell. ‘I’m sorry.’
Putting down your spoon you sat back, arms folded, shoulders bumping against the planks of the cabin. You rubbed a hand over your face as if you were fatigued. ‘No matter. We’ll shake down, get to know each other.’
Of course, I knew it was going to take days for anyone to find me, or for you to get me to a trading post. I pushed the spoon into my stew.
‘How’s the food?’ you asked on a grunt, setting to eating again.
‘It is very nice,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
When night fell, bats slipped through the air, ticking as they flitted past the cabin. I looked into the distance, watching for lights, signs of other people. But there were none. No lights, no smoke, nothing. Only countless swathes of stars. Nearby there was a crunching sound. I started as a pale shape loomed out of the darkness. It was the horse. The crunching was it tearing at the grass. You clicked softly and it raised its head, looking at you.
‘That’s Tara.’
‘It’s pretty.’
‘Tara. She. Coloured plains horse. The coloureds got the finest temperaments of any horse you’ll ever place a saddle on. And Tara is the best of the best. Inch over fifteen hands. Built like a steam locomotive with the heart to match.’
It was the longest speech I had heard you utter so far.
‘You look tired. Want to sleep?’
‘I . . . I need—’
‘Ah, right. OK.’ You stood and went inside, returning after a moment with a lantern. You led me off the porch, walking confidently away from the house, slightly downhill, towards the edge of the forest. There was the fast-flowing stream, rushing over rocks. It chattered noisily. Suspended out over it was a small outhouse. You passed me the lantern.
‘Can you make it back on your own?’
I nodded quickly and tried to think of Mr Goldsmith’s kind words when I had had to request a break on the road: ‘Miss Forsythe, ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. No matter how high, or how low, when you gotta take your leave, you gotta take it.’
Two minutes later, I was making my way back up to the cabin, my bare feet on the cool grass. Moths battered against the lantern. Inside, you were clearing up the dinner things; you looked up as I came in and smiled. Your face was shadowed in the light from the lantern as I placed it on the table.
‘Should I sleep in these things?’
‘Unless you want to go naked.’ I stepped back in alarm and you put out a hand. ‘Just messin’ with you.’
‘Goodnight then,’ I whispered.
You just watched me.
Climbing into bed, I lay down, listening to the clatter as you washed the dishes. Closing my eyes, I fell into the blackness of sleep, tumbling off a cliff edge, shattered.
Hope woke to the light streaming through the open doors on to the balcony. Someone was trying the door handle.
‘Hope?’ Meredith asked quietly.
Hope curled up in the cool sheet and turned on her side, back to the door.
The handle clicked again. ‘I thought we agreed we’d never lock our doors. Never shut each other out.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ll be back later, and we can talk then, before dinner.’
Can’t wait.
As her mother’s footsteps retreated, Hope rolled over, then groaned at the memory of the previous evening, of coming round on the sofa and being forced to drink sweet tea while Meredith fussed and the Crows stood around awkwardly. Of stubbornly saying nothing and, as soon as she could manage the stairs, going to bed without looking at any of them. She checked her watch. Just before seven.
Climbing out of bed, she padded down the stairs and went into the kitchen. She put the kettle on the stove, trying to work out how to get the gas lit.
‘Hey.’ Cal came through the glass doors, looking fresh and smelling of the outdoors.
Hope concentrated on the stove. ‘How do I—?’
He clicked a button and a ring of blue flame appeared beneath the kettle. Hope put the heels of her hands on the edge of the counter, then realized she was only wearing her sloppy sleep vest and thin cotton shorts, and quickly folded her arms. ‘I’m really sorry about last night. You must wonder what you’ve lumbered yourself with.’
‘It’s just jet lag. And you should see my mom in a temper. Hurricane Elizabeth. Dad hides in the storm shelter.’
Hope managed a weak smile. ‘Storm shelter? Want a tenant for the next month?’
‘You shouldn’t let them put you between them.’
She looked away. ‘Easy for you.’
‘That was a stupid thing to say. Sorry.’ He opened a cupboard. ‘What do you want to eat?’ Taking out a box of cereal, he put it down near her. ‘You eat cereal?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t . . . like raisins, sorry.’
‘We have types without raisins,’ he said, opening the cupboard wider to show off a row of boxes. ‘Or . . .’ He picked up a frying pan, spinning it in his hand, then pointing it at her. ‘There could be raisin-free blueberry pancakes. But only if you’re good.’
Hope smiled at his teasing. ‘I’m always good,’ she said primly, lifting her chin.
‘OK.’ He passed her a box of tea bags. ‘Make the tea, then sit there.’ He pointed at the stools beneath the island.
‘Tea! Oh, fantastic. We forgot ours.’
‘I guessed you might want some, so I looked online, then got Matty to order it into the store.’
‘Thanks.’ Then she made tea and watched, fascinated, as Cal made American pancakes from scratch, adding frozen blueberries into the batter. ‘Who taught you to do this?’
‘Mom. She’s a great cook. You’ll meet her soon. She’s due home sometime this week or next – we have a barbecue planned for next weekend and she won’t want to miss that. Dad’s sister married a rancher near Kalispell and took a fall from a horse last week. So Mom’s staying there at the moment. Helping out. There’s some strawberries in the fridge. Could you chop them?’ He cooked the pancakes and bacon as Hope chopped. Then he served it up and they sat next to each other. The bacon was in a crisp pile on his pancakes, along with the fruit.
Hope stole a piece and bit into it as he poured maple syrup. He stared at her.
‘But you’re a vegetarian, right?’
‘Kind of part-time.’ Hope covered her mouth as she spoke. ‘After I discovered bacon. Please don’t tell Mum.’
He laughed, shaking his head.
After the first mouthful of pancake, she put her fork down.
He eyed her. ‘You don’t like them?’
She put her fingers to her mout
h. ‘Bit sick, that’s all.’
He bit the inside of his cheek. ‘How long since you ate?’
‘Last night.’
‘You ate last night? I didn’t notice. Before then.’
‘At home.’
‘You got problems with food?’
Hope looked at him, startled. No one had ever asked her that outright. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I . . . can’t eat when I’m stressed. I feel like I’m tied in knots in my middle.’
‘Yeah, well, you need to get a hold on that.’ He stood and fetched a carton of milk from the fridge and two glasses, pouring it out and pushing one towards her. ‘Easy on the stomach.’
Hope took a sip.
He carried on eating. ‘So, your mom is taking one of the rigs and heading up into the hills today. What are you going to do?’
‘Think about the unbelievable lecture I’m going to get later?’
He smiled. ‘Through there,’ he pointed, ‘there’s a games room and the library.’
‘Library?’
‘Yeah, you know,’ he teased, ‘books. All the classics. Like the Redneck Bible and 1001 Ways with Raccoon.’
Hope was laughing now.
‘And you know about the TV and there’s the internet.’
‘Thanks. I found a notebook, in a box of the stuff from the attic. It looks like a diary. An old one.’
He paused in pouring out more tea. ‘Please tell me it’s not my mom’s.’
She smiled, shy. ‘No, I mean old old. It belonged to an English girl, in Montana in 1867.’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘The state was really young then, only three years old. I wonder where it came from, how it got in with our stuff.’
‘It was inside a writing box, in one of the crates. The girl, she’s my age, well almost, and she’s on her way to get married. They’ve just arrived at a hotel in Helena. I thought I’d read it, if that’s OK.’
‘Sure.’
They talked as they ate. Hope noticed Cal brought the conversation back to her every time. She wasn’t used to talking about herself and his focus was unnerving. They finished eating and cleared away together.
