by Lexi Whitlow
I’m sorry I hit your friend. It was a dick move. I have no excuse except to say that I was jealous, and he showed up at exactly the wrong time. Any other day I probably would have invited him in for a drink, but yesterday was a rotten day.
It was rotten because I had to sit in a courtroom and listen to you say under sworn oath that you don’t believe I love you. That you don’t love me. That you’re leaving in August. And that what we have is just a ‘casual’ thing.
At first, I didn’t want to believe any of those things, but now I’m starting to think you were telling the truth. I’ve never known you to lie. I’ve known you to say as little as possible, but when you do speak up, you’re honest.
And that’s killing me. Because I really do love you. This might be a casual affair to you. It’s more than that to me.
Please come home so we can talk about this.
If you can’t come home tonight, please at least let me know you’re safe.
I love you,
-- Camden
I hit send, then get up and pour myself a drink.
While I sit sipping whiskey, staring at my computer screen, hoping for a response that never comes, I ponder on all the reasons why Grace would need to think some things through.
I start with the basics; like the fact that I’m her boss, she’s my employee, and right out of the gates, this whole thing started with her on her heels, put off-balance by the wildly inappropriate pass I threw at her just a few weeks after she got here. What was she supposed to do with that? Turn me down and risk her job?
She’s a fresh out of school kid without many resources to fall back on, and I’m a thirty-two-year-old, self-employed rancher who owns forty thousand acres of prime Montana pastureland and timber, plus thirty-odd pedigree horses. I have no idea what my net worth is. It doesn’t matter to me, but it’s a whole lot more than Grace has. She owns ten boxes of books and a thirty-year-old Honda.
Just for shits and grins, let’s consider the whole Big Sky weekend. I put her in a room filled with my people, paraded her around on my arm acting like a big shot, then basically just ignored the way some people reacted to her, laughing it off. I bet she felt small and vulnerable in that room. That’s why she lost her shit at the bar with the girl hitting on me. She felt then like I felt yesterday with that little bearded douche and his tiny green car in my driveway.
And then we have the whole thing with Bev’s folks showing up. Horrible people, and I threw her to them like sending a lamb into the lion’s den. On top of that, I told her to take care of Emma while she was fending them off. All I was thinking about was how pissed off I was. I wasn’t thinking of her at all.
Then my confession of everything that went down with Beverly. If all the other things piled on weren’t bad enough, hearing that must have sent her reeling.
It doesn’t matter that she came back and we made love all night long. Maybe she was trying to convince herself of something, grasping at straws. Maybe over the last few days she figured out that I’m a loose cannon. If she was vacillating on that question, then she probably settled on a decision about the time I put her boyfriend on the ground.
If I’m ever going to deserve the company of a smart, beautiful woman like Grace, I’m going to have to find a way to become a better man. The thing is, I think Grace was helping me become that. Without her, I may be a lost cause.
Chapter 24
Grace
Tracey Carter and I go back all the way to high-school and j-school together. We grew up together, and on more than one occasion before college, when things were bad at my house, I crashed at Tracey’s. She’s a good friend, like Kara, but my own age. She’s known me longer. Tracey moved to Portland right after she graduated, and she said anytime I wanted to come out, I had a free place to stay until I got on my feet.
Tonight, I took her up on that offer. She said my timing couldn’t be better. Her roommate is getting married in a month and moving out. We can be housemates, splitting everything fifty-fifty. I’ve got close to thirteen grand in the bank. I’ll get a job in Portland and I’ll be just fine. I can do my blog and writing at night and on weekends like everyone else does with their hobby. The truth is that no one is ever going to pay me to write or take photos of pretty landscapes. That isn’t how the world works.
So that’s settled.
I need to get my books and I’ll go to Beck’s tomorrow on the way out of town to tell Emma goodbye. She’ll be upset, but she’s a resilient little girl. She’ll forget about me in no time at all. Soon, she’ll have a better nanny than I ever was.
I send Kara a note, updating her on my plans, telling her I’ll call her from Portland as soon as I get there. There’s no one else to tell. My mother and I have spoken exactly twice since I’ve been here. She’s never so much as asked the address or Camden’s last name. I could disappear from the face of the Earth and I doubt it would blip her radar. I’ll let mother know where I am if she calls me, whenever that may be.
Camden will be angry, but he’s gotten accustomed to unreliable nannies who quit with no notice. Next time around I hope he finds a nice girl who’s as good with horses as she is with his daughter.
I’ll miss this place and everyone here, probably more than I even know now. It will go on without me, just like everything else always has. They don’t really need me. This was always just going to be one stopover on my journey. Now it’s time to journey on to whatever is next.
It’s morning and I want coffee more than anything else in the world. Sadly, the coffee is in the motel lobby, not my room. After making the trip to retrieve a Styrofoam cup filled with thin brown liquid that’s a criminal impersonation of coffee, I fire up my laptop to check on the state of affairs in the world.
Finding it still as confounded as it was yesterday, I move over to email to see what the spam filter has deemed suitable for my reading pleasure.
There are two notes from Cam.
Should I read them, or just let them sit there until I’m in Portland?
I decide to read the first one, sent last night.
He’s contrite, sincere. Even concerned for my well-being.
Okay. At least he’s not flipping out.
The second note was sent in the wee hours of the morning. Its subject line asks, ‘Where the hell are you?’
It reads,
Grace,
What the fuck? Can you not even tell me if you’re okay? What kind of game is this? I know I’m an asshole, but you’re being deliberately cruel. Are you punishing me for hitting your boyfriend? Giving me the silent treatment because I assumed you’d love me and was pissed when I realized you didn’t?
I can’t get out of going to Idaho City this weekend. I’m going to assume one of two things is happening next. Either you’ll be home on Sunday when I get back and we can talk through all this like rational adults, or you’re running away.
If you’re running, just fucking ignore this note. I don’t want your excuses. I understand everything.
* * *
If I have to make a wager, I’ll bet that the third note I get from him is going to be loaded with vile insults and recriminations, just like the words Mark hurled at me along with his cheese fries. That’s how this works. I’ve seen it all before.
I’m following Cam’s instructions, choosing not to reply. I have a lot to do today, and sitting around in a motel room diddling on carefully worded explanations and apologies isn’t how I need to spend my time.
I have books to pack.
Driving back to the ranch I’m surprised by the scent of fire and how clouded the sky is with smoke. The fires are still east of us on the other side of the Mission Mountain peaks, but they’re now big enough and close enough that the smoke is backfilling west, settling into our little valley. To the east, the smoke is a dense curtain of gray, hanging like a shroud from the heavens.
Passing near the reservoir on the way to Kicking Horse, I’m shocked to see helicopters flying in low, filling water baskets suspended on
tethers from their frames. They dip down, filling the basket, then pull up and fly off to the east on the other side of the Mission peaks.
The fire must be very close.
Once at the house I start packing up, using the boxes I saved from when I came out in November. They’ve been stashed, stacked flat under my bed, waiting for this inevitable day. There’s one thing I know from years of living with books and working in a bookshop, and that’s how to pack books efficiently and tightly so they won’t be damaged in transit. My books are precious to me. They’re the only thing I own that I’d lay down my life for. Some of these books have been with me since I was a child. They’re the only things I’m sentimental about.
I load my books into my car first. It’s a tight fit, but it works. Next, I figure out what else should come with me. The fancy clothes that Cam bought for the RMBA gala should stay. The nice boots, as much as I hate to lose them, should stay also. My everyday boots and winter coat I decide to take, as they’re worn from use and have become essential parts of my wardrobe. I pack those and the rest of the clothes I came here with in the same plastic bin I brought them in.
What else? I’ve taken so many photographs since I’ve been here, and quite a few have made it into frames on the wall. I select one. It’s of Emma and Cam, him kneeling in front of her with Stoney behind them on a lead. Emma is smiling at her father in glowing admiration, but Cam has a serious expression on his face, with his left hand reaching out to touch Stoney’s knee. It’s a candid shot I caught out in the yard, just as they were about to go for an afternoon ride. He’s always so sweet and gentle with Emma and his horses. The photograph captures their relationship perfectly.
Everything else stays.
I’ll carry my memories of this house and the warmth I felt here. I’ll carry all the might-have-beens that I allowed myself to imagine when I wasn’t being realistic. I’ll carry the very genuine love I have for Emma and her father. What I’ll leave behind is the pain we would have all eventually brought to one another had this reckless experiment gone on any longer.
I load everything that’s going into my car, taking a last lingering look around for good measure. I try hard to fix the memory in my mind. This place my home for eight wonderful months; I don’t want to forget what it looks like.
The air is warm and dry, dense with smoke, with a gentle breeze blowing in out of the north. Out in the pastures I see a couple of men on horseback beginning the evening work of rounding up the horses to return them to their stalls for feeding and rest. Those men will work until past sundown, then they’ll go home to their own families. For the first time in what I suspect is many years, there will be no one on the ranch overnight. The men will return at dawn to turn the horses out and resume their work until Cam and Tyler return.
By then I’ll be a state away from here, well on my way to Portland and the next stopover in my journey to whatever is next.
My watch says it’s a quarter ‘til five. I need to go see Emma before I leave town.
Beck’s house is a small one near the center of Ronan. As I approach her front door, I’m apprehensive. I’m not going to be able to avoid telling Beck I’m leaving. I have no idea how she’ll react. She’s been so kind, and the idea of making her angry hurts me. That said, I know what I must do.
I knock.
To my surprise, Emma answers, and then she throws herself into my arms.
Her reaction causes a knot to form in my throat. I slip my arms around her, squeezing her tight. I can’t help it. I start crying before I can even get a word out. I stroke her hair, filling my lungs with her baby scent. I want to hold onto her forever.
“Good lord, girl, what’s wrong?”
I look up and Beck is standing in the foyer, her expression drawn with concern.
“I need to talk to Emma,” I try to say between tears and caught breaths. “Can I?”
“Well of course,” Beck says, stepping toward me. “Grace, what’s going on?
I tell Emma everything. I tell her how much I’ve loved being her nanny. How many smiles she’s given me, and how proud I am of her. I tell her I’ll never forget her, and always cherish her, and when she starts to cry and ask me what’s wrong, I tell her that her daddy is a beautiful man who loves her more than anything, but that he and I just can’t get along.
“Grace, please tell me what’s happened?” Beck begs, her eyes sad, her face sullen. “Please don’t do this. Emma loves you so much and so does Cam.”
I hug Emma tight. “I love you more than anything, baby girl,” I whisper into her ear. “Whatever else you hear, remember that I love you.”
“Grace—”
I leave them. I leave Beck calling behind me, with Emma in tears on the threshold. I don’t look back. I get in my old Honda, loaded down with books and essentials. I put it in gear and I head out of town, driving southwest toward Dixon which will carry me into the western mountains toward Highway 90 and on to Oregon.
Before I’m through the tiny community of Perma, my phone starts ringing. I have a look, and see that it’s Cam. I let it ring. Three minutes later it rings again. It’s his mom. I let that one ring on as well. Five minutes later my phone rings for a third time. This time it’s Amanda. Unexpected. Cam has called out the cavalry. A few seconds later my phone begins dinging with text messages. I reach, powering it down, silencing the menace.
I turn the car radio on, tuned to the public radio station in Missoula, hoping the signal holds strong for a while before it’s lost in the narrow mountain passes I’ll cross headed west.
Passing through St. Regis, the radio signal begins wavering. I slow down, stopping at an intersection just before getting on the highway. The radio signal strengthens slightly just as an emergency broadcast beacon sounds. I pause at the stop sign to listen.
“…wildfires on the eastern heights of the Mission Mountain range have crossed the ridgeline, spreading to the western slopes between Post Creek and North Crow Road… winds coming from the northeast are pushing fires into the central Mission Valley region… residents in the area are advised to immediately evacuate…”
The rest of the transmission is garbled in static. It’s followed up by a live news report out of Missoula saying that the fire is visible from Ronan, Charlo, and Post Creek, and is being pushed down the mountains by the wind, which has shifted directions and picked up dramatically.
Shit.
Oh. God. The horses.
They’re all in the stable. They’re locked up in their stalls and there’s no one there to let them out.
Cam’s horses. The ranch. They’re all right in the path of the fire.
I do a tight U-turn in the middle of the intersection while lifting my phone to power it up.
I drive fast. Faster than my little car wants to go. Faster than is safe on these narrow, winding river valley roads. When the phone is powered up I scroll for the last number that called me; Amanda.
She answers in a breathless huff. I hear Jacob in the background, whaling.
“Where are you?” she asks, skipping the formalities. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. What’s happening?”
“The sheriff’s department came. They’re making us go. Are you at the ranch? If you’re at the ranch, you have to get out. Now.”
“Okay,” I say. “Are you and Jacob okay?”
“Yeah. We’re going to my mother’s house. I turned the horses out and put the lawn sprinklers on. The horses ran off toward the river. We’ll sort them out later. Get out of there Grace. This isn’t something to mess with. Go to Beck’s. Or come with me—”
The call drops before we can finish. She thinks I’m still at the Kicking Horse. All those calls I got, they weren’t about me leaving or trying to make me change my mind.
They were about the fire.
Once I round past the tiny town of Moiese and am in the Valley, I see the fire on the high slopes to the north east. It’s a ball of red against a black sky, high above the horizon line. As I drive to
ward it, the ball of red spreads wide, dipping lower and lower toward the valley floor.
My Honda’s engine screams as I race toward the building inferno.
At Charlo I encounter heavy traffic heading away from the area. I pass a convoy of pick-ups with all manner of haphazardly stacked household debris packed tight in the beds, hauling horse trailers occupied by frightened animals. When I turn off Highway 93 onto Molmann Pass Trail, the entire left side of my view is filled with towering, blazing fire less than a half mile from me. I feel its heat. The wind throws hot embers across the windscreen. The air is acrid with choking smoke.
By the time I make the ranch, a blaze so intense that it spirals to the sky, roaring like a hurricane, nicks, peeling up the trees, exploding in the brush a hundred yards from the outbuildings. I pull my car right up to the stables and rushing out, I hear the animals inside screaming, beating their hooves against bolted stall doors.
I make quick work of it. Opening the west-facing, sliding stable door wide, I move from stall to stall, swinging each gate open one-by-one, as quickly as I can. The animals bolt, one-by-one, in a terrified rage, screaming, galloping out of their prisons, headed toward the open door. I count thirty-two empty stalls before I’m done, then double back, checking. Mirabel, Jack, and Stoney all ran with the rest. Even the little goat that keeps Osage company runs for all his might toward the wide valley and safety, his stunted tail flipping white with fright.
I step outside the stables and am astonished with what I see. The fire is on me. It’s here. The flames crawl up the outer walls of the stable, touching the roof, igniting beams and posts. The barn, fifty yards north, is in a full blaze. The heat is overpowering. My lungs seize with smoke. The sound around me is terrible. Cracking, sucking, breaking. The oxygen in the air is consumed along with everything else.
I look down at my feet. The ground is on fire beneath me.
The house… The house is next.
I run. With the flames chasing me, I run.
The house is already filled with smoke. Inside the air is hot, ready to ignite.
