by Lucy Inglis
You watched me. Sometimes I caught you staring, a strange expression on your face as you sat smoking your rare cigarettes on the porch.
I asked you, once, if other people felt as we did.
You were slow to answer. ‘I guess they do. Guess that’s why there’s so much fuss talked about love.’
I twined my wrists around your neck. ‘I hope they do. I hope everyone gets to feel this way, with someone.’
‘As long as they don’t get to feel it with you, I don’t care,’ you laughed.
‘When did you know?’
‘In Helena.’
‘Oh, but I loved you for a long time before you went to see Mr Meard, even if I didn’t know how to show you!’ I said indignantly. ‘I tried, the night you left but it didn’t work.’
You talked over me. ‘Helena the first time.’
‘Oh!’ That revelation took a few moments to sink in.
Almost reluctantly, you went on. ‘Asked the barkeep about the beautiful girl in the dark dress, upstairs.’ You took a breath. ‘Thought maybe . . .’
I stared at you. ‘What?’
You shrugged. ‘Thought maybe if there was a chance I could get to talk to you, maybe . . . the way you looked at me . . . then he told me you were some rich English thing with a full Chicago team and that was that, I thought. Might as well have told me you were a fairy princess in a golden chariot. Sold my horse, sat on the stoop outside with a half pint of whiskey and felt sorry for myself. A dirt-poor, half-wild, crippled deserter.’
It took a few moments for that to sink in. ‘You’re not so wild,’ I said softly, shy again.
You laughed beneath your breath, just as shy in your own way. ‘Tamed by a creature that ain’t nothing but a handful of thistledown.’
‘A creature you saved from a wreck.’
‘Yeah, well. Maybe there is a God. But I am sorry I’ll never be able to give you fine things.’
I pulled you down for a quick kiss, then gestured out to the mountain. ‘But look at all the fine things you’ve given me.’
‘There’s another I’ve a mind to give you, right now.’ You hauled me up against your hips.
‘You have no calling as a diplomat,’ I laughed.
You teased me like that, often, and sometimes you said things in the darkness that bring colour to my face even now: an ambush of memory. Shocking me amused you, and I soon learnt not to rise to the bait. Sometimes I indulged in my own teasings, with pleasingly predictable results.
My growing confidence and the clear satisfaction you took in it made me realize how unremittingly patient you had been, both before and after your return. We were sitting inside because it was raining. You were lounging in the armchair and I was sitting at your feet, watching the fire spit and hiss as the raindrops came down the chimney. The door was open and the three horses stood stoic in the rain, resting a rear hoof, drenched. White-tailed deer browsed along the edge of the forest.
I looked at our entwined fingers resting on my shoulder, and kissed the hollow dip of the tendon at the base of your thumb. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
I shrugged. ‘For everything.’
You huffed a laugh. ‘Ain’t no one ever thanked me for that before.’
Rolling my eyes, I said, ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant for being so kind to me.’
With a slight tut, you brushed your thumb against my chin. ‘What else was I going to do with you? I ain’t an animal.’
‘That’s not what I meant either.’
‘So what did you mean?’
I gathered my courage and explained, falteringly, about the pamphlet. About its advice. About ‘tolerance’.
You watched me, expressionless, until I finished speaking. After a few moments your chest rose on a deep breath. ‘Sorry state of affairs.’ You blew out slowly.
I nodded, touching my cheek to our woven fingers. ‘And that was why I . . . the night of the storm. I thought it was the right thing to do.’
You were thinking, stroking the edge of my jaw.
‘And I’m so sorry,’ I finished.
‘Nothing for you to be sorry for.’
I looked up at you. ‘You were hurt. I hated it.’
‘Can’t say as I enjoyed it neither.’ But there was a hint of amusement in your voice.
I rose from the floor and knelt across your lap. One knee, and then the other. Your hands rested on my waist and you smiled at my silly swagger. I leant forward and whispered in your ear. Laughter hummed in your chest, your arms closing around me as the rain fell outside.
Looking back it had to end, I suppose. Perhaps the universe has a system of checks and balances that prevent such extraordinary joy from destroying the order of the world.
We were at the cabin, early one morning. You were cleaning your rifle and I was putting wood into the stove. I was wearing my deerskin leggings and a shirt. My hair was braided and tied off with the lace.
Dismantling the gun, you laid out all the pieces with care, in an orderly pattern. Then you handed me your pistol and pointed to the other end of the table. ‘Might as well learn. Now you know how to shoot, gotta know how to take care a-your weapon. And this one here, she’s easy.’ You released the action and pointed. ‘That’s it. Lift the chamber out and set it down on the table.’ Within a minute, I had the revolver stripped on the rough wooden surface.
‘Now—’ you began.
‘Wait.’ I tugged the diary from my pocket and opened it, pointing. ‘What’s this letter?’
You glanced at it. ‘It’s an “e”, as in Emily.’ Leaning down, you went to take your usual reward. The reward that stopped your lessons progressing perhaps faster than they may have otherwise.
I turned my cheek and held up the diary. ‘This one?’
Straightening up, you raised an eyebrow. ‘A “t” . . . as in tease.’
Laughing, I pointed at another letter.
You smiled. ‘“K” as in kiss.’
I held my face up. You obliged. Then you pulled away, frowned and turned, going to the door of the cabin and looking down the meadow.
‘What is it?’
‘We got guests.’
I put the diary back into my pocket and came to you, looking out of the door. Before my eyes, and I couldn’t quite believe it, were six men on horseback. One of them was Hart, wearing the same filthy getup but now also sporting a dull sheriff’s badge. He was clearly very much alive. One sleeve of his coat was empty, his arm in a sling inside it. Another of the men was Papa. And, unmistakably, with him was the Anthony Howard Stanton I remembered from the photographs.
Papa and I stared at each other.
After a long moment, he said, ‘Emily?’ almost as if he doubted the tanned, barefoot creature before him could be his daughter.
You put your hand on my shoulder.
‘Get away from her, you murdering piece of shit,’ Hart said.
‘Why couldn’t you just stay dead?’ you responded with venom.
I moved in front of you, instinctively. Papa got down from his horse. ‘Come here, Emily.’
I shook my head.
‘Emily,’ he said, ‘come here. Sheriff Hart has told us what happened, with the coach. How this man arranged for his Indian family to ambush it and dispose of it. Everything will be fine, darling. But you must come to me now.’
‘No, Papa,’ I insisted. ‘That’s not what happened. It’s not what happened at all. The bridge broke. He saved me. I would have died.’
‘And he just happened to be there to save you?’ It was Mr Stanton who spoke. ‘A man with desertion and murder in his past.’
We stood side by side, my feet braced on the boards. ‘He only deserted to save his leg and he isn’t a murderer. Mr Hart paid that man to—’
‘Sheriff Hart now, lady.’ Hart spat in the dirt.
Papa looked at him, uncertainty in his face for the first time.
You shook your head. ‘He was nothing but some young idiot needing – what? What did
you pay him? Fifty dollars to run his mouth at me until he got his brains spread over the chapel wall in Fort Shaw?’
‘Shame he can’t talk about that now, ain’t it?’ Hart spat in the dirt again.
I narrowed my eyes, wishing I had the rifle from the table so I could shoot him with it. The thought must have gone through your head too, as you glanced over your shoulder through the cabin door.
Anthony Stanton cleared his throat, raising his voice slightly. ‘At what point was he going to go through with his plan and hold you to ransom, I wonder?’
‘Ransom?’ You turned on Hart. ‘This is you, you lying scumbag. This must be your dream come true.’
Hart said nothing, just looked faintly smug.
I shook my head furiously, taking your hand. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘Emily, come to me now, or the sheriff’s men will have to intervene,’ Papa beckoned.
Your pale eyes were tight, but your expression was impassive, as if you didn’t care at all.
I was convinced that only I could save you, for you were too proud to save yourself. I rounded on them. ‘I won’t let you hurt him.’
‘Emily! Come here, darling,’ Papa beckoned. ‘Now!’
‘No,’ I cried. ‘You’re going to hurt him, I know you are!’
There was a deafening bang.
Hart’s buffalo gun smoked, supported by the hand in the sling. And you dropped like a stone on to the porch, slamming back against the wall as the massive bullet ripped through you, red blooming across your chest.
I fell to my knees, clutching your shoulders. ‘Please, Nate! No!’
Papa was climbing the steps of the porch. I crouched over you like an animal. ‘You stay away, just stay away from us,’ I warned him, palm out.
He offered his hand cautiously. ‘Emily—’
I touched your chest, helpless, as the dark pool spread around us, soaking my leggings, smearing my hands. So I held your face and spoke to you, a stricken babble of how much I loved you.
You spoke with huge effort. Your teeth were bloody. It was everywhere. I was covered in it. ‘Guess this is my time.’
‘No!’
You managed to touch my cheek. ‘Em, hush. No tears. You know I can’t stand it when you cry.’ Your laugh was a choking cough. Struggling, you tried to focus off the porch, eyes searching. ‘Stanton?’
Anthony Stanton was down from his horse. He stepped forward, his handsome face pale as he pulled his hat from his head. ‘Yes.’
‘You take care a-her, or I’ll be seeing you.’
It took Mr Stanton a few moments to speak. He nodded, face set. ‘I give you my word.’
‘No!’ I sobbed brokenly.
You hushed me again. ‘Go now. Be happy. For me.’
‘But how can I . . . without you?’ I held your fingers to my tear-streaked face.
You pulled me down for our last kiss. ‘I’ll be with you. Always.’
And you died.
It was a few hours after dawn. Hope lay on the buffalo hide by the fireplace, watching the sunshine spilling into the cabin, over discarded clothing, blankets, the diary. Cal’s back was tense as he sat, elbows on his bent knees, looking out of the open door at the smoke drifting from the campfire. The birdsong was loud outside.
‘People are going to think I took advantage,’ he said, not looking at her.
She sat up. ‘You didn’t.’
He didn’t say anything for a while. Then, ‘Jesus Christ, Cooper. This is crazy.’
Hope blinked back a tear, glad he was looking away from her. ‘I understand, and I don’t expect any—’
Shoving his hair back, he set his shoulders and blew out. ‘Come back for the summer.’ He looked at her over his shoulder.
Wait, what? ‘You . . . you might have had enough of me being around by then,’ she said uncertainly.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, somehow I doubt that. Seeing as how I haven’t been able to get enough of you being around since the airport.’
She blushed. ‘Really?’
He shrugged and looked towards the open door again. ‘Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.’
Hope’s heart soared. She wrapped her arms around his chest and kissed his cheek, hugging his warm back. Yet she couldn’t stop her doubts surfacing. ‘But will it be OK with your parents?’
‘Well, seeing as how you’ve got my dad wound round your pinky finger in two days flat, and Mom would go crazy for a girl around the place, I think they’ll be fine. Your mom might not be so keen though. Let alone when she finds out about . . .’
Hope wrinkled her nose. ‘No.’
‘Can she stop you?’
‘I don’t think so, now I’m sixteen. Dad’s lawyer wrote a letter saying she couldn’t stop me seeing him if I wanted to, so I guess it’s the same. But I’m not sure I have enough money.’
He shrugged. ‘I can pay.’
‘No. I have to pay for stuff I want,’ Hope said proudly. ‘Rules.’
‘Yeah, well, I think we’ve broken a few in the last few days. And some really big ones in the last few hours. I’ll pay.’
‘You mean it?’
‘I have to bribe you, obviously. So, will you come back for summer if I promise I will teach you to ride, drive, and maybe . . . swim a little better?’
A grin of uncontained joy replaced Hope’s shy smile. She kissed him, laughing at his teasing. ‘Yes. Yes! Please. If you’re sure.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Your swimming needs work.’
Hope pushed him.
He grinned and then was serious. ‘One condition.’
‘What?’ She hesitated.
‘When we get out of here, you call your dad.’
‘But . . .’
‘He’s your father. You should know each other.’
Hope thought about it. ‘OK, deal.’
He leant across the boards, picked up the diary and handed it to her. ‘So, Cooper, what happens next?’
The brief account of Nate’s death left them both in silence, just as the dull thud of a helicopter reached their ears.
‘Quick, up!’ Cal urged.
Hope scrambled to her feet, pulling on her clothes. ‘I just want to get out of here.’
He kissed her forehead in a quick bump. ‘Yeah, me too. We’ll be home soon. Everything will be OK, I promise.’
Pushing the diary into her pocket, Hope ran to the door of the cabin and hurtled into the meadow. A rescue helicopter was cutting over the lake, straight towards the cabin and the still-smoking campfire. She jumped up and down and waved, flinging her arms in wide movements. The helicopter raced in, then slowed above her, hovering.
A movement at the edge of the trees across the stream caught her eye –
And the bear broke cover, charging into the water.
Cal was coming out on to the porch, hauling his shirt on, still buttoned.
Hope screamed his name, pointing towards the bear.
He grabbed the rifle and raised it, yelling something at her she couldn’t hear over the sound of the helicopter. He raised the rifle as the bear emerged from the stream, water running from its shaggy coat. It looked disoriented, chest stained dark and matted with blood, but was heading straight for Hope. The helicopter was deafening, hovering only ten metres above the ground, the downdraught blowing her clothes and hair flat against her. Then she saw, in the side door of the aircraft, a man with a rifle.
Hart. He raised the gun and took aim.
But not at the bear.
Hope flung both her arms out, shaking her head and screaming at the police chief not to shoot, as the bear bore down on her.
Cal pulled the trigger.
And at the same time another rifle shot rang out. From the helicopter.
Cal hit the porch as the bear fell into the meadow, three metres away from Hope.
Already running, Hope hurled herself up the porch steps, seeing the huge red stain across Cal’s shirt.
‘NO!’ Not like Nate, please, not l
ike Nate.
Hope dropped to her knees beside Cal, as the helicopter landed behind them. Out of it spilled Chief Hart, Officer Jones, and the mountain rescue team. Hope shoved open Cal’s shirt. His hands lifted, uncertain.
‘I’m OK. Really, I—’
She bit down on her reply, placing both hands over the wound in his chest, blood spilling between her fingers as she pressed down.
He flinched, cried out and coughed all at once, blood flecking his chin. ‘This is really getting to know each other, huh?’
‘Don’t joke,’ Hope said, ‘Just—’ The noise from the helicopter was deafening.
Cal coughed again, his blue eyes losing their clarity. ‘Maybe this was meant to happen . . .’
She shook her head, pressing on his chest, but realized the pool was already spreading beneath him, from his back; she was kneeling in it. Trying to get her hair out of the way she streaked it, and her face and neck, with red.
‘Help us!’ she yelled over her shoulder, and when she looked back, Cal was no longer conscious.
The mountain rescue team were already racing up with a stretcher, taking over, pushing her out of the way. Behind them came the police.
Hope got to her feet and turned on the police chief. Fury such as she’d never felt before boiled through her: fury that someone would hurt Cal. ‘You SHOT HIM.’
Chief Hart stood, looking down at Cal’s body, no expression on his face. He took his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. Hope launched herself at him. Officer Jones pushed her back, restraining her, arm hooked around her waist like a field tackle. ‘We thought he was aiming at you, miss.’
‘Me?!’ Hope stepped back, holding up her bloody hands for him not to touch her. ‘Why would he shoot me?’
‘Miss Cooper, look at you. You’re hurt and in distress. He was aiming a gun at you.’
‘But he wasn’t! He shot the bear!’ She pointed down the mountain, at the huge, still carcass.
Chief Hart squared his shoulders. ‘The boy has a history of offending—’
Hope held up a finger. ‘One. And I know exactly what—’
The slap caught her hard across the face and stunned her, knocking her against the side of the cabin, banging her head and opening up the cut on her cheek. She sat into a defensive crouch then straightened up slowly, hand to her face, staring up at Chief Hart. The paramedics stopped talking amongst themselves, latex-gloved hands tapping Cal’s jaw, trying to get a response.
