Crow Mountain

by Lucy Inglis

  ‘Yes. Like the Hart in the book. Dan’s father?’

  ‘Yes. They have a daughter, Carrie, too.’

  Hope said nothing.

  ‘So, anyway. She was sweet on me, always, since we were little kids. Year younger. And the chief’s a real piece of work inside the home, if you get my meaning. Carrie’s mom’s one of those women who walks into a lot of doors. And everyone knows, and no one says anything. And so he just gets away with it. That police officer, the one at the store. She does a lot up on the rez – she’s big on issues like men beating up on women, and tried to speak to Carrie once, but even she can’t do anything about it. I mean, who’s going to prosecute a police chief for domestic violence in a place like this?’ He struggled to speak through his teeth, then went on, ‘Anyway, she – Carrie . . . well it got a little crazy.’ He pushed a hand through his untidy hair. ‘We started seeing each other, after Tyler died. Mom and Dad knew, sort of. They didn’t know we were seeing so much of each other. I don’t even know why I was doing it really. To make a point?’ He took a deep breath. ‘So, a friend of Matty’s has this great cabin upcounty. There’s two of them on the edge of a trout lake. I told my parents I was going to stay over with Matty. But Carrie and I drove to the cabin. It was a Saturday.’ He hesitated. ‘Then there was a banging on the door and Dan and Steve were there. They’d followed us, seeing as how my rig isn’t exactly the least distinctive vehicle around, and they’d been drinking. Anyway, due to the situation being as it was, they got a drop on me, and I got pretty broken up. Carrie’s screaming at them. And then her father arrives, with what feels like half the county police.’

  His face was unreadable. There was a pause before he went on.

  ‘Carrie had chickened out of telling her parents she was spending the night away. Her dad’s real strict and she just hadn’t . . . so they were looking for her. She’d never even mentioned she was going anywhere. I mean, you can understand how they were worried. And when we’d arrived . . . I . . . I threw her over my shoulder and carried her into the cabin and she was shouting and beating me on the ass. This woman, she was staying at the other cabin and she’d seen that, and at the time she thought it was just in fun, which it was, but when the police arrived she must’ve kinda got caught up in the story. And she told them that, and made it sound bad. They thought I’d . . . made her go there.’ He breathed out in a rush, shaking his head at the memory. ‘Carrie was always so scared of him and when they came through the door yelling and hollering at me to get down on my knees and put my hands behind my head and all that stuff, she started to cry and . . . let them believe that it was true—’

  ‘She did what?’ Hope whispered.

  He waited for a second, trying to stem the tide of words threatening to flow out of him. ‘Yeah, I know. And I kinda understand why she did it, but—’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘They broke my face some more and a few ribs, my throwing arm. Hauled me into the station. And over the coals.’

  Hope stared at him.

  He shrugged in answer to her silent questions. ‘No, it wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then my dad came and they talked and Carrie’s dad said he was going to prosecute me for rape.’ He dropped his head. ‘And then Carrie begged him not to, told them she couldn’t stand it if people knew what had happened to her. That this was a small community and that everyone knew our families. But of course, Fort Shaw is a small town, so the whole place knew within twenty-four hours. It was in every local paper, my name. Our name. Then the chief put word out he was dropping charges for Carrie’s sake.’ His voice was bitter. ‘I still have a criminal record.’

  ‘But if you didn’t do it and the charges were dropped, how—’

  ‘Sex crime arrests aren’t expunged. Even if the charges are dropped.’

  Hope rubbed her face. ‘Oh God. Is she still here?’

  ‘Yeah. They live just outside Fort Shaw.’

  ‘Do you see her around?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t want to see her. She tries to call me sometimes, usually late at night, but I just let it ring out. Look, I just needed to tell you. When we get back. Back from here. Well, I didn’t want anyone telling you anything that might freak you out . . . I thought I should just tell you my version of the story. And now Chief Hart’s made it his business to persecute my family. Even the people who work for us end up getting a parking ticket every time they go into town.’

  Hope folded her arms across her chest. ‘Can’t you complain to someone? He can’t harass your family like that.’

  He shook his head. ‘The police are like God around here, Hope. Dad went to Helena to lodge a formal complaint but he was pretty much told I’d brought it on myself. And who could possibly want a relationship with someone when there’s that hanging over them?’

  ‘Maybe you should give someone the chance to decide.’

  ‘You look at me as if I can fix everything. Just by existing.’ He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. ‘But I can’t. The only place I’ll ever get a job is here at home. Imagine everyone in your hometown either looking at you with pity, or like the worst kind of scum.’ He buried his head in his hands.

  Cautiously Hope put her hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s . . . not your fault.’

  Taking her hand, curling her fingers closed and pushing it away, he shook his head. ‘It is my fault though, isn’t it? Tyler, Carrie, us lost out here? Buddy? Jesus Christ, Buddy. All of it is because of my bad decisions.’ Then, suddenly, anger overcame the sadness. ‘I’ve ruined everything,’ he exploded, pushing to his feet. He walked into the dusk, shoulders hunched.

  Hope sat on the porch as the dusk came down. She kept the fires going and wrapped herself in the blanket. The ragged old plaid shirt beneath it was warm. She lapped the blanket over her toes and watched the bats swoop around the cabin. Beyond the forest, the water glowed silver in the moonlight. The light from the fire spilt orange through the open cabin door.

  Finally, when the air began to chill, Hope saw a figure walking up the meadow. Cal’s pale shirt took shape as he got closer. Hope got to her feet and let the blanket drop. He halted a little way away, watching her. She took a step forward. Then another. Stepping on to the bottom step of the porch, she waited. For a long time they just looked at each other.

  Cal closed the distance between them and shoved a hand through his hair, gnawing his lip. ‘I yelled and I shouldn’t have. Crow temper.’ A rueful laugh escaped him. ‘My temper. Forgive me?’

  She took his fingers and placed them over the button of the shirt, near her heart, which she was pretty sure he must be able to feel beating hard enough to break out of her chest. Reaching up, she hesitated, then touched her lips to his.

  By the time they made it to the buffalo hide they were breathless and half-naked, helping each other to struggle out of their things. Cal lay on her, his weight strange and reassuring at the same time. He kissed down her neck.

  ‘Say stop and we’ll stop,’ he said against her skin.

  She arched her back and gasped. ‘Don’t stop doing that, please.’

  ‘But you’d better stop doing that,’ he said, taking her hand as she tugged the buttons of his jeans. ‘I didn’t exactly come prepared.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ She felt herself redden. ‘But there’s other stuff, isn’t there? I mean . . .’

  He laughed, threaded his fingers through hers and kissed her again. ‘Oh yeah, there’s other stuff.’

  Hope was worried she’d get it wrong or do something stupid, but there wasn’t really time for that. Not that it was over quickly, it was just that one thing led to another and there was no room for thinking. Cal was every bit as good to touch as he was to look at, and Hope had no intention of stopping. And then it was too late to stop anyway and all the good, sensible choices Hope had been taught to make got lost.

  Afterwards, when the only sounds were their breathing and the distant white noise of t
he wind over the lake, Hope lay cuddled against Cal’s chest, their skin sticking. He kissed her hair and trailed his fingers down her shoulder blade.

  ‘How you doing there?’

  Hope nodded, tucking her cheekbone against his flat chest, shy again.

  He hesitated before speaking. ‘So, that got . . . out of hand.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Hope said instantly, starting to move away from him.

  ‘Hey! That’s not what I meant.’ He hauled her back. ‘I’m not sorry at all, as long as you’re not.’ Night had come in and his eyes were dark in the light from the fire, examining hers.

  Hope shook her head.

  His arms tightened and he kissed her forehead. ‘We took a risk. It’ll be fine, I promise. Whatever happens, I’m not sorry. I am sorry I hurt you though.’

  ‘It wasn’t as bad as people make out.’

  ‘Right.’ He sounded deflated.

  ‘But I was wondering . . .’ Hope bit her lip.

  ‘. . . About?’

  She hid a smile at the anxiety in his voice. Full of mischief, she traced the vein that stood up slightly on the inside of his arm with a careful fingertip. ‘Are you this good at everything you do?’

  He let her go, looking shocked. ‘Good, Cooper? Good?’

  Hope burst out laughing and he grinned, shaking his head as he pulled her into his arms again.

  ‘Oh, of course!’ she said, between kisses. ‘I meant awesome, incred—’

  The next seven weeks on our mountain were blissful. Our life settled into a rhythm of chores, horses, talking and not talking. You taught me to shoot, and the basics of hunting, skinning and preparing what we caught. And swimming, at which I am a natural! I learnt the basics of your Indian language, and some of their plant remedies. We talked and laughed and loved each other with an intense curiosity. I adored the way your hair fell across your face as we walked home with stained hands and a dish of berries; how you checked your pockets for your knife as we were talking. I had so much to discover about you; the things I had associated with love – loyalty, duty and family – were discarded as I learnt to love you with everything I was.

  Often, you stood by the corral and watched the white horse with Tara. They too remained obsessed with each other and their behaviour made you smile. But as time went on, you became increasingly interested in the stallion, who remained, so patiently, corralled on our mountain. Inside the rails, you spoke to him, roped him, even slapped him down gently with a blanket and put it over his back. To all of this he looked vaguely bemused but stood, quiet. I watched you pull his ears in fun, then clap his neck in friendship.

  ‘I don’t understand him,’ you said one evening as we sat with plates in our laps and talked about the horses. ‘I’d be expecting him to be restless, but he’s like a kitten. Ain’t right. Horses like that ain’t walkovers. But it’s like he knows what I’m thinking. Like he and I have always been meant.’

  ‘Perhaps you can work with him then,’ I offered, spooning up my stew. It had been a long day and I was keen to take the edge from my hunger.

  ‘Maybe. Still ain’t sure I want to keep him. And he ain’t no horse to be sold, ever. Not sure if it weren’t just the challenge of bringing him in that had me so wrapped up.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll feel like that about me soon,’ I teased, sure of myself.

  ‘Yeah, maybe I will,’ you said.

  I took a breath and pouted. You laughed and leant across and kissed my neck before straightening up. ‘But most likely my love for you will be in this wind when I’m dust. And probably long after that.’ You put down your spoon and took my hand. ‘Come on, I want to try something.’

  I let you lead me to the corral. As you began to take out one of the rails from the gateway, I frowned. ‘You’re setting him free?’

  You grunted a laugh. ‘No chance, yet. Can you get through there?’

  I looked at the gap, and the white horse and Tara grazing. Slipping through, I stood up.

  ‘Go see him. He ain’t no good if only I can work him. So just walk right up nice and easy. And the second he backs off, or you’re scared, just turn around and put your back to him. Don’t need to touch him, just get near him. One day at a time.’

  I walked up slowly to the white horse. He lifted his head and watched me. I came closer; we looked at each other and his weight shifted away from me. I turned my back. That way, I was facing you, and I saw you watching, bad foot on the bottom rail, wrists crossed over each other on an upper rail. As ever, I couldn’t read your eyes. Then I felt a nudge and the white horse’s nose appeared over my shoulder. I daren’t move and we stood like that, together, watching you. I turned my head and kissed his face, lifting my left hand to his sharply pricked ear and stroking its soft back. He blew at me, like your huffing laugh. I smiled. You shook your head and turned from the corral, dismissing us with a wave.

  ‘You got a real future as a horsewoman, English,’ you called as you walked back up to the cabin. ‘With that and the saloon piano I’ll soon be a tycoon.’

  A few days later, you decided to back the white horse. You were still adamant he wasn’t a riding animal, but such was your friendship with him, you thought it was possible.

  ‘Emily, we know he seems real placid but he may kick me to hell and gone. And on the ground I’m not real fast, so . . .’

  ‘Then don’t do it,’ I said, alarmed.

  ‘Life ain’t nothing without a risk, and it’ll be worth it. Even if I only get to sit up there once in this lifetime.’

  I pulled a face.

  You kissed me. ‘Don’t sulk. If I ain’t here, you and Tara’re more than capable of getting yourselves out of trouble now. Get down on to the plain, head south and find my family’s people, like I told you.’

  I frowned, unsettled that you were even talking about it. ‘Are we really going to them for the winter?’

  ‘Yep. You’re not cut out for the snow up here, let alone—’ You broke off and shook your head. ‘You’ll want more company than me by then.’

  ‘I won’t. I—’ My protest was cut short as you put your fingers to my lips.

  ‘Trust me. And I can’t take him to them without at least putting a few manners on him, can I? What would they think of me? Besides,’ you grinned, ‘I want to do it.’

  Your reasoning got the better of me every time. ‘Fine. But don’t get yourself killed.’

  You grinned. ‘Got no intention. Too much other stuff going on I want to be a part of.’

  We spent a couple of days accustoming the white horse to a rope bridle. He didn’t like it much, but his expression was more one of disdain than outright objection.

  The morning you finally backed him was sullen and over-cast. I was tired, and you made the tea as I lazed in our bed and you fussed over me. You had done the same the previous morning; not like you at all.

  But you were intent on your purpose and went down to the corral as soon as I was drinking from my cup, knees drawn up beneath the coverlet, cheek branded with your kiss. After that I dozed for what I thought was a few more minutes, and woke suddenly on my stomach, cup on the floor and my fingers on the floorboards. I sat up, momentarily confused about where I was.

  ‘Emily?’ you called from somewhere.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Come outside?’

  ‘Coming.’ I pushed the covers aside and stumbled out on to the porch in my inherited nightgown, rubbing my eyes as it billowed around me in the breeze. There you sat, on the back of the white horse, one hand holding a section of his mane. The corral gate-rails were down and the rope bridle still hung from the post. Both of you were looking at me: the muscular white stallion with his big, crested neck arched, and you, completely at ease on his back. The white horse pawed the ground as if impatient for my praise.

  ‘You did it!’

  You grinned. ‘Weren’t nothing to it. Maybe I was wrong when I said he ain’t a riding animal. Maybe someone already broke him. Can’t work out how else he’d be this calm.’ You ease
d him into a walk, circling him in front of the cabin. I came down to you. He stopped in front of me and I stroked his face.

  ‘You didn’t use the bridle?’

  You shrugged. ‘Nah.’

  ‘Can I try?’ I asked, studying the horse’s level glass-eyed gaze.

  ‘Nope,’ you said with certainty.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I protested. ‘You can’t just keep him to yourself. You said that before.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I can. Ain’t interested in you taking a fall for the sake of it.’

  ‘You didn’t care when I was learning.’

  You pulled a face at me. ‘I care now. No.’

  The white horse nudged me in the middle, as if agreeing with you. I stroked his nose. ‘I think both of you are most uncharitable,’ I told him in a half-hearted scold.

  Moving off, back towards the corral, you laughed. ‘Then I’d better return him to Tara, before I try his charity any more.’

  After that we spent a lot of time with the horses – Tara, the stallion and Red, who was turning into such a good riding animal you said you ‘would be sorry to sell him’. We never ventured far, for everything we needed was in the cabin, or to be found on the mountain. Except perhaps a pair of shoes, but it had been a long time since I had missed them.

  One night, I woke in the dark, finding myself alone. I got up and went to the porch. You were sitting against the cabin wall, shrouded by a blanket, watching reds, yellows and greens streak across the star-splattered sky. I stared at the heavens, astonished.

  You held out a wool-draped arm like a wing and I hunkered down against you. ‘They call it the Northern Lights.’ You wrapped us up. ‘Closest I’ve ever come to God.’

  We made tea and watched for hours, waking on the porch the following morning in a tumble of tin cups and blankets, the horses staring at us from the corral like disapproving Latin masters.

  The days were warm, and sometimes I wandered the mountain only in Clear Water’s chest band and the deerskin leggings, my feet now immune to the ground beneath them. I had become a wild thing, as interested in the plants and animals of our home as I once had been in Milton and Dryden. My shoulders and stomach soon tanned and my contrasting pale skin fascinated you.