by Lexi Whitlow
“When can I leave this place?” I whisper in his ear. “I want to go home.”
Just as I say it, I realize there is no home to go to. It’s all gone.
Cam kisses my cheek, then gives me a sad smile. “You’ll get out tomorrow. Right now, I’m staying with my mom. I’m trying to find us a place. It’s slim pickings. A lot of people are in the same boat we’re in.”
I nod. I understand. “We’ll pitch a tent and that’ll be fine with me. As long as I’m with you and Emma.”
Cam grins. “It won’t come to that. I promise.” He squeezes my hand. “How do you feel about a double-wide, just ‘til we get re-built?”
I laugh again, despite the pain in my chest. “No objections,” I croak, giggling. “Just no shag carpet or heart-shaped bathtubs.”
“Alright,” Cam croons, laughing with me. “I think I can accommodate that.”
* * *
Camden and I got married in late July, in a smallish, cowboy-formal affair at the Buffett Glenn Lodge at Big Sky. A Justice of the Peace read the ceremony, while Amanda held my flowers, with Kara and Tracey standing beside me, grinning like girls in their western style bridesmaid’s dresses. Tyler was Cam’s best man, with Jim Burke standing as a second groomsman. Jacob pulled duty as the cutest little silver-spur wearing ring-bearer anyone’s ever seen.
Emma glowed as our flower girl, dressed in blue silk ruffles and lace with matching cowboy boots. She littered the big Persian rug in front of the hearth with sweet-scented rose petals, before taking her place beside me. As Cam and I spoke our vows, she stole the show, making eyes at Jacob the whole time, teasing him.
My mother couldn’t make it to Montana for the wedding. She had a previous engagement that week, something about a beach house. Apparently she couldn’t get out of it. But she wished us well. Cam’s mom stepped up and helped me with all the mother of the bride sort of things, like finding a dress, and planning the details of the event. She told me the night before the wedding that I’d made her the happiest woman in the world.
She said that she felt like she wasn’t losing a son, but gaining a daughter, and she knew how precious that was. She kissed my cheek, hugging me tight, showing me affection that I never got from my own mother. Beck Davis is a wonderful mother to her son, and a perfect grandmother to Emma. She’s become a dear friend; I cherish her as the mother I never really had.
On the whole, the day was as perfect as a wedding day should be.
Instead of doing a contrived reception after the ceremony, we all changed into casual clothes and went out for steaks. We ate, drank, laughed, and enjoyed one another’s company until we were sated, tired, and wanted to put up our feet.
When Cam and I were tucked into our little honeymoon suite, with a view of the moon and mountains from the hot tub, he slipped his arm around me, pulling me onto him.
“Well, wife, now that we’re married, what should I call you?” he whispered in my ear. “Is it Mrs. Davis? Or Mizz Bradley? Or is it something else?”
I lean back into his chest, laying my head against a shoulder, smiling up into his eyes.
“On Tuesdays, I think you should call me Precious,” I say, teasing. “And on Fridays… My Love. But on Sunday mornings… on Sunday mornings you have to call me Goddess Divine.”
Cam smirks, sipping his whiskey. “Alright, Goddess Divine. What will you call me?”
I reach up, running my finger along the shadowed surface of his jaw, stroking his lines with my fingertips. “That’s easy,” I say. “I’ll always call you The Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me.”
I kiss him, turning in the steaming water to face him, making certain with my lips and the rest of my body, that he knows I mean every word with all my heart.
Epilogue
Camden
It’s surprising the things that life brings to you on the heels of what seems like bad fortune, loss, and catastrophe.
When I lost my father more than fifteen years ago, I thought it was the end of the world, but thanks to everything he taught me, I managed to build on his legacy, establishing one of the most successful ranches in the state, boasting the best working-horse bloodlines in the country.
When Emma was sick I was so full of grief I could barely function. But today she’s the light of my life. She’s thirteen years-old now, and as strong and smart as any kid ever could be. She’s a skilled rider and a more confident horseman than I was at her age, and she’s got the champion buckles to prove it. She won her age-group at the state competitions in three different events this year. Even more than her ribbons and trophies, she’s become a real hand on the ranch, training young horses and nurturing them so they’ll grow up to be champion’s too.
I thought when Beverly died any hope for a normal family life went with her. Then Grace came into my world. She challenged me, making a better man of me. Every single day is a surprise with her. I’ve never known a woman who could juggle so many different responsibilities at once, and do them all well.
She’s become a real mother to Emma. They adore one another, but more than that, there’s mutual respect. Emma sees Grace’s strength, sensible intelligence, and curiosity, and she emulates it. Grace, in turn, recognizes that Emma enjoys natural, spontaneous joy at the simplest things, and finds her greatest pleasure in reveling in the rush of experience. Following Emma’s lead, Grace has become a skilled horseman in her own right. When she realized it wasn’t her job to control her horse, but to bring him along on the thrill of the ride, she found her mount much more responsive in her hands. Since then, she’s discovered the pleasure of riding, rather than viewing it as an obligation.
Mirabel appreciates this alteration in her perspective. They’ve become fast friends.
That’s just one way that Grace has demonstrated her capacity for finding new ways to make life worthwhile.
Not long after we were married she began transcribing the journals left by my fifth great-grandfather, Camden Spencer Davis. She spent close to two years researching every detail, name, event, and date, contained within the writings. Last year she submitted her manuscript to the University of Montana Press, with little hope that they would take it on for publication. A few months back Grace learned that her manuscript made it through the rigorous peer review process, and will be published later next year.
So, my wife is going to be a published author with the epic saga of my family’s history. It’s the tale of a man who shares my name, the son of a Welsh cattle drover who arrived in America with little except a knowledge of managing livestock, living frugally, and breeding horses for the hard work of the range. He crossed an entire continent with his best horses pulling a wagon and his family over the Rocky Mountains, finally deciding to settle on the western valley slopes of the Mission Range. The blood of those magnificent animals who brought him here run in the pedigree of every animal this ranch has produced since.
Grace has accomplished telling that story, on top of writing for various magazines and web sites, contributing her view of the ranching lifestyle, as well as some general history for tourists and locals alike.
The fact is that I have the smartest, highest-profile ranch wife in Montana. Her name is better known than mine in some circles, and that makes me proud.
We rebuilt the Kicking Horse ranch from the ground up. We upgraded the stables substantially, crafting luxury accommodations for our stock. We put in a state-of-the-art fire suppression system that should protect the stables and stock if another wildfire makes its way down the mountain in our direction. The new stables include an apartment for live-in groom staff. Hence forth, the horses will never be alone in the event of an emergency. We’ll never rely on blind luck for their well-being.
We rebuilt the house and barn too.
I thought that Grace would want something contemporary with exposed beams and tall glass windows, but as soon as we started talking to the architect, she said she preferred the traditional Montana ranch style home of the late 19th or early 20th century.
/> We made a few adjustments to the old house style to add extra private baths and higher ceilings, but in the end, we wound up building a home that resembled, in most respects, the century-old house built on the same spot by my ancestors. We used salvaged materials where we could to give the place an authentic feel, and put a metal roof on instead of shingles, to reduce the threat of fire from blowing embers. When it rains the roof sounds like a symphony playing above our heads. It took me awhile to get used to it, but now, lying in bed, wrapped up in Grace, listening to the music of spring rain, it’s comforting.
Grace’s favorite room of the house is, of course, the library. It’s taken her years to rebuild her collection of books, and she’s still working on it. We have plenty of shelves to fill. She adds to them every week.
Not long after we finished rebuilding, Grace turned up pregnant. We didn’t plan that or even expect it, but it was a welcome surprise to us both—and to Emma. We have twins now; a matched set of sturdy little boys who are almost six years old. We named them after my fifth great-grandfather Camden Spencer Davis, and his brother Dylan Rhys Davis, who laid the foundations of this ranch more than a century ago. I have an idea that they’re going to grow up to know a thing or two about horses and ranching. It’s just a hunch, but I’m putting money on it.
Tyler’s dad Jim passed away a few years back. His loss was keenly felt by all of us, but especially his only son. I figured that Tyler would go back across the valley and take over Heartland, but he surprised me by proposing an idea I wish I had the imagination to come up with first.
Heartland and Kicking Horse were separated by two linear miles of pasture, bisected by the Flathead River. Tyler proposed that we try to acquire the parcels of land between the two spreads, join them up, and form a partnership. It took the better part of a year to convince the property owners between our places to let us buy them out. As soon as it was done we started laying fences and finalizing the legal paperwork to create the Davis-Burke Mission Valley Partnership, Inc.
Today the corporation is among the largest privately held ranches in the state, with more than sixty thousand acres of pasture and range land under our stewardship. Our breeding program is nationally recognized. Last year Tyler and I won the RMBA Breeder of the Year Award, for the third year running. Next year we’re going to pull our ranch out of the competition to give someone else a chance. That only seems fair.
Sometimes, things turn out well. Looking back at all that went wrong and what it took to make things right, I’m feeling blessed with the simplest things life has brought. At the end of the day, I’m more in love with Grace than I was when I first declared myself to her. She still takes my breath away. She still makes me ache for her in the night, when we’re alone and the kids are asleep.
I still make her laugh and roll her eyes at me. I still make her tremble just like the first time we touched.
A man can’t ask for much more than that in life. I’m pretty sure I’m the luckiest hack cowboy in the world.
Winner Takes All
Prologue
Logan
Let me tell you a little something about me. If I had the cash to buy a Porsche 911 Turbo, I’d spend fifty lousy bucks every few months to change the oil.
These rich assholes don’t even know that much—a Porsche needs an oil change or the damn thing won’t drive right.
That’s asking way too much of the people who can afford a ride like that. They can’t be bothered to bring the thing in for regular maintenance. It’s baffling. Why would you lay out a hundred-fifty grand on a car, then destroy it with neglect? But hey, that’s the world we live in.
The bastards keep me employed.
At the end of every day I wash my hands, scrubbing soap into them with a heavy-bristled brush, trying to dissolve the black grease under my fingernails. No matter how hard I scrub, they always look like I haven’t washed in a year. My nails have a gray tinge, permanently dyed-in. There’s no way to wash away the imprint of my lot in life. People look at my hands, and they know I work with them, not with my brain. And then people, being people, behave accordingly.
Like I’m an idiot, in short.
Today is no different, or at least, it started that way.
Joe, my boss, hands me my check after I clock-out as I’m ducking toward the door. I don’t know why, but I always look at the number in the little box labeled ‘Amount.’ I’m an optimistic person, I guess. I keep hoping the number will change. It never does. Not in three years. It’s a pathetically low wage for the hours, sweat, and bullshit I put up with at Precision Auto. Joe treats us like we should pay him for the privilege of working on rich people’s cars. He’s the stingiest shop owner in the city.
If I could find a better gig I’d pop him the bird on my way out, but there aren’t many opportunities for a grease monkey with no other skills.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
At fifteen years-old and just a sophomore in high school, I was starting quarterback for a four-times in ten-years, state championship team. I was fast, graceful on my feet, with good hands, and a head for the game. By my junior year, college scouts were sniffing around, watching me do my thing. By homecoming of my senior year, I was signed with Ohio State; a full athletic scholarship and a dance card onto the field my freshman year. I was a smart player with my sights set on the NFL, the guarantee of millions in the bank, and a bright future.
And I wasn’t an idiot.
My last year of college eligibility, I led the Buckeyes to a National Championship and the Cotton Bowl. A team of scouts from the Redskins were parked in a box overlooking the forty-yard line on the north side of the stadium, a team from the Cowboys peered down from the south side, and a team from the Carolina Panthers was camped in VIP seats behind the Buckeyes’ benches. All of them had eyes on me.
No pressure or anything.
All I remember is, “Hike, hike, hike...” I caught the snap, looked for my receiver. And then I heard it, the sound that changed my life forever. I actually heard it before I felt it. People don’t believe that, but it’s true.
The sharp crack of bone and the tearing of muscle.
After that, everything is a blur. But that first crack—I’ll remember that on my death bed.
All my plans changed.
College didn’t want me after that, not without the money to pay. And I was too bullheaded to figure out a way to pay for the rest of it, opting instead for a steady job in my home town. It was supposed to be a pit stop on the way to a real career.
Instead, it turned into Plan B. And here I am, years later, living out that plan. I keep meaning to take a couple of classes at community college. Or sign up for a course in management to run my own place.
But life is life, and I have Drake to take care of.
Instead of advancing, I paddle in place just to keep my head above water.
Every Friday night after work, I observe the same ritual. First, I make it to the bank before six to deposit my paycheck. Next, I stop by the 7-Eleven on Peace Street to buy a six-pack of beer, a strawberry flavored milk for my brother, Drake, and two lottery tickets. After that I drop in at Hungry Howey’s and get a ten-dollar pizza for dinner.
Tonight, I’m changing things up. Just a little bit.
There’s a Triple Mega-Powerball lottery with the biggest jackpot in history. I’m putting my pizza money into it. Drake and I can eat bologna sandwiches tonight.
I’m living on the edge.
The lottery is the only dream I’ve got right now, and I’m going to hang onto it.
For me, for Drake. For the hope of a mechanic shop to call my own, and maybe a chance at a few of those dreams I never made come true.
Pathetic, I know.
I lay a fifty on the counter alongside my six-pack and Drake’s strawberry milk.
“Four on the Powerball,” I tell the Afghan guy behind the cash register.
He smiles. “Improving your odds tonight, ah?” he asks. He knows my routine.
I nod. “Why not?”
The machine spits out the tickets. He hands them to me, taking my money, returning my change. “Good luck for you,” he says, almost as if he feels sorry for me. I see him glance down at my dark hands, black rings of grease lining my cuticles.
“Hey, Chandler! Lookit you!” I hear a loud voice behind me. I glance back. It’s Charles Pearson.
Charles was a senior in high school when I was a sophomore. He also played varsity football, also as quarterback. He was slower than me, clumsier than me, and took fewer risks. Because of all that, he spent way more time on the bench than he spent in the game. He never much liked me. The feeling was mutual then. And it still is now.
