Tell Me When It Hurts

by Christine Whitehead

  Then Archer talked about Annie while Dolly Winslow listened.

  * * *

  The next morning, Archer woke to the sound of a milk truck pulling up to the Winslow front door.

  “Tommy, I’ll take two extra quarts today and another dozen eggs—I have a guest staying,” Dolly called out the front door, a touch of pride in her voice.

  Archer rolled over and stretched on the clean white sheets, opening her eyes. Looking up from the soft, plump pillow, she studied the yellow and purple flowers on the ceiling wallpaper, which covered her like a sheltering canopy. She turned onto her side and squinted at the clock: 8:34. With a yawn, she slipped out of bed and pulled on a flannel plaid nightshirt before walking over to the window. She pushed her long hair behind her ears and gazed out at the ranch, arms crossed, hugging herself.

  From the window, she could see that the fields were no longer green but not yet brown. In the near pasture, Allegra lay in the sun. She must be at peace, Archer thought, knowing horses were ever ready to flee on the smallest whim, and lay down only if they felt safe. Clique almost never lay down, nervous Nelly that he was, eyes darting, ears forward, tail high. He was always busy looking for the next fence to jump, the next troll to stomp. Ah, but he flew, galloping steady as the rain, pounding rhythmically, gaining pace and volume, greedily gobbling up the ground beneath them, and finally stopping in a lather, full of glee and good intentions. Clique. Truest of friends, fearless collaborator, keeper of secrets, soaring partner, his hoofbeats now silent. Rest in peace, dear one.

  Pulling herself back from her reverie, Archer showered, got dressed, and went out to the corral to saddle Allegra for her first time in over six years. Dolly had nodded and smiled when she saw Archer dressed to ride, as though it was the most normal thing in the world for someone to drive across the country with a dog and a horse, park in her yard, and then go out for a ride on the horse she had dragged along.

  Archer approached the paddock where the horse had spent the night. Allegra was alone in the field but for a lone cow, short and black, mechanically chewing its cud. At the gate, Archer stopped and watched the mare graze. Every so often, her tail would flick lazily, and, she would trot forward to a new patch of grass. For Archer, it never got old: the thrill of seeing a raised head, a flicking tail, and a horse taking off at a dead run. My addiction, she had always called it.

  After a few minutes, she approached Allegra with halter in hand. The mare raised her head as Archer got closer, but made no move to bolt. Archer stretched out her hand, and the horse took a step toward her, then another. Carefully lifting the halter up, Archer gently wrapped it around Allegra’s head, buckled it snugly, lead rope attached, and walked her to the barn.

  The mare stood in the cross ties while Archer picked out her feet. Then, selecting a coarse, stubby brush from the tack box, she loosened the dirt and grass from the horse’s coat. With short, brisk strokes, Archer whisked away dust and debris, talking softly all the while. Then she completed the grooming with a soft finish brush that made Allegra’s coat positively glow.

  Archer put her old Smith-Worthington saddle on the little mare and tightened the girth as securely as she could. She had forgotten how slim Allegra was, compared to Clique. She would need to pick up a smaller girth for future rides, she realized as she fastened the last hole in the girth’s leather strap.

  From a battered canvas bag, Archer pulled out three bits: a snaffle, a rubber pelham, and a gag. She chose the least severe, the snaffle, and hoped Allegra would respect it. If not, they were in for quite a ride.

  “Okay, we’re ready, aren’t we, Allegra? Let’s go, my movable feast,” she whispered.

  After leading the mare out to the yard, she put on her helmet and mounted her with no mounting block. Allegra moved forward, head bobbing, at a steady trot. Archer smiled unconsciously, posting easily, feeling pleasure and satisfaction.

  After about ten minutes, they slowed to a walk. Stroking Allegra’s neck frequently, Archer observed the vastness around her. Sage covered much of the landscape, and yellow and purple prairie flowers still bloomed in infrequent but merry clusters.

  After a half hour, Archer squeezed lightly, asking for a canter, and Allegra willingly obliged, her pace steady and even, feeling like a comfortable rocking horse. Speed was Archer’s own vice, and she would have loved nothing more than to tear up the hill at a full gallop on Annie’s horse. But she didn’t want to overdo it on a horse that was not fit yet. She slowed, and for the first time since Annie died, she felt something close to serenity, some vague acceptance that what was, was.

  At the top of a hill, Archer stopped and drew in a breath at the sight. She gazed at the valley below. That was it—she knew it from Connor’s description. Three Chimneys. She closed her eyes and remembered everything he had ever told her about its layout. Two thousand acres, log cabin with a big front porch facing the rising sun, a porch that wrapped around two sides. Two big barns. A pond behind the house. And sheep everywhere dotting the hills, the paddocks, the side fields. She opened her eyes, taking it all in. This was it.

  Archer strained to see if she could spot Connor. She saw no one, not even ranch hands. After a few minutes, she slowly turned Allegra back toward the Winslow place. How had she gotten herself into this ridiculous position? And what the hell was she doing in Little Tempest, Wyoming, unless it was to burst in on Connor? That was the point, wasn’t it? It was her turn to take the risk. He had done it in the Berkshires and been crushed for it.

  Still, he survived. But what if he had survived happily?

  She needed to summon up the courage to tell him she had been wrong. If he turned his back on her, well, she would just have to live with that. “The choices we make dictate the life we live”—Danny DeVito in Renaissance Man. Jesus, Loh, get a grip.

  CHAPTER 39

  Late that Sunday afternoon, Archer sat in a rocking chair in the corner of her room in the Winslow house. Hadley lapped at her water, then turned around twice and flopped onto the floor with a thud. Within a minute, she was snoring. Outside, Allegra grazed in the near pasture, against a backdrop of snow-dusted mountains.

  It had been three days since Archer arrived, and she knew that it was now time to stop being a spectator. She suspected that news of her arrival had reached Connor, yet he hadn’t shown up on her doorstep. This gave her pause.

  Twenty minutes later, she woke Hadley. She had already packed, and now she wrote a check for Dolly Winslow. “Dolly, my plans are a bit uncertain,” she said. “Can I return tonight if . . . things don’t work out?”

  “Oh, my dear, of course. You and that horse of yours and that pretty brown dog are always welcome.”

  Archer smiled. Her confidence in her reception at Three Chimneys was shaky at best. She hugged Dolly, then loaded Allegra into the trailer, put her bags in the rear of the Jeep, and cajoled Hadley into the backseat. Okay, let’s try this again. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

  At the entrance to three Chimneys, Archer pulled in, and this time she kept driving. Cresting the top of the hill, all she could see was open sky, and for a moment it seemed that she, Hadley, and Allegra were suspended, able to fly if even the slightest breeze should blow beneath them.

  Then the homestead she had seen from afar on horseback sprawled into view: log farmhouse and pretty lawns in a tidy green valley. Fluffy beige sheep were everywhere. To the rear of the house was a large pond, and to the left, a barn complex of four or five buildings.

  There were big old cottonwoods around the house, and a huge front porch that wrapped around the right side. A circular driveway drifted off to the right, leading to the front of the house. Archer followed the road to the right and parked in front. She sat still for a moment, looking around. There was no one in the yard; in fact, no one was visible at all.

  She opened the Jeep door and stepped out, still hearing nothing. Everything was so serene here. Hadley jumped out behind her, and she shut the door quietly, went back to the trailer, and opened the side
window.

  Allegra stretched her neck out the opening and inhaled the air, and Archer pulled a molasses treat from her pocket and fed it to her.

  She looked around, trying to decide what to do next. The main barn stood to the left of the house, its wide sliding doors open. She and Hadley headed toward it, Hadley ten feet ahead of her. Then she saw him. Unconsciously, she stopped, moistened her lips, and unclenched her fists. Her heart leaped.

  * * *

  Connor stood in front of alfalfa bales stacked high and deep against the back wall of the barn. He was calculating how much hay he would need for his own farm this winter and how much he could afford to sell to the neighboring cattle ranchers and “hobby” horse people. It fetched a good price in the spring, when many ranchers had run out and were more than willing to pay five or six dollars a bale.

  Connor estimated he would have at least five thousand bales to sell. He figured how many more would fit in this space before he would have to start filling the back barn. It was a big, airy structure—a good storage space as long as the hay had dried fully in the windrows before it was baled. That was the trick to producing mold-free hay—it was all in the drying weather, and this year had been good.

  Connor sighed. He was tired. The day had begun at five in the morning, and he hadn’t stopped since. After spending four hours in the hills with five of his men, checking the young sheep born in the spring, he, Felix, and a new hand had worked on loose fencing for the rest of the day while the other men worked on preparing the barns for winter.

  Connor had just put Millie away after cooling her out and brushing her down. Now he was tidying up the barn. It gave him satisfaction as one of the few things he could control. A messy, unkempt barn was a depressing sight first thing in the morning. He stopped for a minute, put his elbow up on the end of a haystack, and rested his forehead on his arm, thinking, Is this all there is?

  * * *

  His back was almost fully turned to Archer. From a distance, he looked older and bone tired. His hat was on top of the haystack, his jeans were dusty from a day’s work, and his denim shirt was soft from many washings. He had a rake leaning against the hay.

  She heard him sigh heavily as he reached for the rake and began to gather the last few bits of straw. Alice lay nearby in a sunny patch just outside the barn door.

  As Archer approached, she heard sheep mutterings from the pastures behind the barn. Through the open door in the back of the barn, she could see four enormous white dogs milling among the sheep: the City Girls.

  Hadley had less self-control. Seeing Connor, she yelped and bounded toward him. He looked up, startled. Alice raised her head, and her little stump of a tail became a propeller as she spied Archer, got up, and trotted toward her. Archer stooped and brushed the black fur back so she could see those round brown eyes.

  “You’re still so beautiful, Alice,” she murmured. “I missed you, and so did Hadley.”

  “H-Hadley?” Connor stammered. He looked up at the barn door opening. “My God, Archer? Is it really you?” he said, squinting in disbelief. “What . . . what are you doing here? I . . . I heard from at least twenty people that my ‘lady from Massachusetts’ was in town, but—I mean, I didn’t hear from you and I thought maybe you decided to move on, if it was even you to begin with. . . .”

  Connor took a step forward. He started to smile but didn’t finish. He shuffled, looked down a second, then shoved a hand into a pocket of his jeans, then took it back out. He looked at Archer hesitantly, as if he didn’t want to play the fool again by assuming she had come all this way for him.

  Archer glanced around the barn uncertainly. This wasn’t going as she had hoped. Connor wasn’t exactly jumping for joy. Then he spied the trailer and Jeep. At that moment, Allegra hung her head out the trailer window, snorted, and whinnied.

  Connor calmed. “Well, I’d know you anywhere, girl. You’re Annie’s girl. I couldn’t be more pleased to see you again.”

  Archer had lost any ability to be clever or witty. She had thought of at least three or four entrance lines. Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just powerfully glad to see me? Or Where have you been all my life, doll? Or . . . Now they all seemed trite. “I came to find you,” she said. “I hope it’s not too late.”

  Connor stared at her for a moment. The pieces were there, but they still didn’t fit. He reached down, petted Hadley gently behind her ears, then slowly straightened up and took a step back. He turned to face Archer.

  “I’m not your consolation prize, Archer,” he said, looking her in the eye.

  Her shoulders fell. Her head bowed. There was silence. Then, after another moment, she lifted her head and said defiantly, “When Harry Met Sally—Sally, to Harry, when she’s hurt and feels rejected by him.”

  Connor stared at her as if she had a second head.

  Archer stared back and then said deliberately, “Am I right?”

  Connor looked down at the toe of his boot for a moment, stuck both hands in the pockets of his jeans, and shook his head. Finally, he began to laugh.

  “Damn. I have to hand it to you, Archer. Even at the pinnacle of our own personal high drama, you are the quickest thinker I’ve ever met. Well, yeah, sure, of course that’s it. You got me. Hell, I figured I couldn’t use ‘Quite frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’ Way too obvious—and somewhat overused, in my humble opinion.”

  After a pause, Connor looked up, leaned back against the stack of bales, and said, “Arch, I’m not sure I’m ready for you. You broke my heart, Arch. I never understood what that meant when other people said it, but I sure do now.”

  Archer, who had thought Connor was in her corner when he’d laughed, wasn’t sure now. She looked at him, eyebrow raised.

  He shook his head but continued. “Do you know what that’s like? To have your heart broken? Do you really know what that feels like? Let me tell you, Arch. It’s when it actually hurts every time you take a deep breath—really, physically hurts in the very middle of your chest. It’s when . . . when every time you try to enjoy something you love—like a nice movie, good food, a walk in the woods—you ache because you remember it with her, and suddenly the enjoyment is sucked dry. It’s when, just when you think you’re over it, it comes back in this massive flood of torment, as fresh and cutting as the day it happened. But you know what’s worst of all? What’s worst of all is that everything reminds you of her. Everything. The sunrise, the weather forecast, the toaster—yeah, the damn toaster—so first you get this rush, remembering the splendor of it all, and then an even bigger wave of despair, because you’ll never have it again.

  “I know why you did it, Archer, I do, but don’t forget, I ended up on the mountain, waiting with a goddamn bottle of champagne.”

  Archer stood staring, then finally said, “I know, but I . . . I guess I just needed to sink as low as you can get—without dying—to understand.” Then she added softly, “I’ve had my heart broken, too, you know. I do know what it’s like, but I felt I had no choice.”

  “You always have a choice, Archer,” he said. “And I’m sorry. Of course you, of all people, know what it’s like to be brokenhearted.”

  In the silence she heard the echo of Peter Bennett’s voice: You always have a choice, Archer. Then she asked, “Did you see Lauren?”

  Connor smiled. “Yeah. Twice, actually, and as usual, you were right. She’s fabulous, and I’ll never not be in her life again . . . if she lets me. I don’t want to stir up old Donald, I really don’t. The last thing I want to do is cause any discord in that household, but Lauren mentioned wanting to visit me out here next summer, so we’ll see.”

  “I’m happy for you, Connor. You’ll be a wonderful friend and father to her.”

  Again they were silent for a moment.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Connor asked.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Archer realized instantly how childish it sounded. “Besides, I did call—or Sharon did. I had a close encounter with a bullet. She
wanted you to know.”

  “You tried to kill yourself?” he asked, shocked.

  “No, no. Long story, occupational hazard.”

  “Ah, right. I never got the message. I would have been there, Archer; I would have. You must know that.”

  She nodded.

  Connor lifted a hay pull from the wall and used it to pull down two bales. Archer immediately sank onto one, and Connor sat on the other. He held his head down in his hands for a moment, then looked up.

  “Shot . . . If I’d only known.” He shook his head. “Arch, I couldn’t call. I didn’t want to crowd you. I wanted you to be with me for just one reason: because it was the choice you made freely out of love—no force, no pressure, no guilt.” He paused, then smiled a crooked little smile. “Don’t laugh, but I became painfully philosophical about the whole thing. After watching The English Patient, which, by the way, definitely does not have a happy ending, I actually convinced myself that just because two people don’t end up together doesn’t mean it wasn’t still the best thing that ever happened to them. That’s how I willed myself to feel about us. That’s how I got through the day. But there wasn’t a day, Arch, that I didn’t grieve—not a day. There wasn’t a day I didn’t relive some part of our time and suffer the pain all over again.”

  Connor paused for a second, but Archer sensed he wasn’t done. She remained silent.

  “I’ve been alone my whole life,” he continued. “I’m not afraid of it. What I’m afraid of is living a life with no connections, where no one mourns my passing, because I’ve touched no one, where I’m not missed, because I wasn’t really there. I don’t want that life anymore.”

  Archer nodded and leaned forward. “I know. I don’t know if I can explain, but I want to try. . . . When I lost Annie, I lost hope. Isn’t that really what a child is? The belief that tomorrow will come and be better, that life is worth living even when it doesn’t seem like it, that we still believe spring will come even as we see deterioration and decline all around us?