Steven threw the paper aside and pushed out of his chair with a surge of anger. “God, Molly, what have they done to you?” He took another handful of aspirin and a long hot shower, dressed in blue jeans and a red-and- black plaid flannel shirt, and padded barefoot into the living room with the newspaper to read the article yet again. By the time Molly arrived in her fancy red Mercedes he had practically memorized every infuriating word. He met her at the door and stared for a moment, the newspaper headline momentarily forgotten. “You look great,” he said.
She was wearing a black flared skirt with silver conchas, a white pleated blouse with an embroidered vest of a dark brown-and-green tapestry, and a pair of expensive hand-tooled cowboy boots. Her hair was pulled back into a French braid and she looked like a very beautiful red-haired cowgirl standing before him. She stared up at him, eyes wide and face pale enough to show all her freckles. She said nothing, just stood there until he reached a hand and drew her inside. He could feel her hand trembling in his as he guided her into the living room. Her eyes fell on the newspaper and then lifted to his face. “Please, Steven, let’s not talk about it,” she said.
He remained silent for a few moments longer, then nodded. “Have you had any lunch?”
She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’d better work up some kind of appetite by the time we get to the Bow and Arrow,” Steven warned with a faint smile. “There’s a woman who lives there, a fat old Mexican woman named Ramalda who cooks and cleans and grumbles a lot in Spanish. She gets really upset if people don’t eat her cooking. She thinks they must be sick, so she tries to make them better by cooking more and more things for them. You’re so thin to begin with that if you don’t eat everything she puts in front of you, she might bundle you off to bed and keep you there until spring, which probably wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened to you.”
Molly gazed at him as if he’d just related the saddest story she’d ever heard, and then she dropped her face into her hands and burst into tears. After a shocked pause Steven reached for her and pulled her into his embrace.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed while his arms tightened around her protectively.
“Don’t be sorry. It’ll be all right,” he soothed.
“No, it won’t. It’ll never be all right again. Oh, Steven.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath and leaned her forehead against his chest. Drew another breath, turned her head and rested her wet cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt, eyes closed, lashes dark against pale cheeks. She was still shaking like an aspen leaf in a steady breeze. Steven stroked the back of her head. They stood like that long enough for him to reflect that being so close to a woman had never felt so right as it did with Molly. In spite of the fact that she was so distraught, he was sublimely happy to be holding her in his arms. Finally her trembling subsided, and she pushed away from him, raised her eyes to his and gave him the sweetest little beginnings of a smile. “Thank you,” she said.
He kissed her then. It would have been impossible for him not to. He lowered his head and kissed her very gently, very tenderly. Her lips parted beneath his, and she opened herself to him and kissed him back. He was unprepared for the response, unprepared for the transition from sweet to questing, from needing to demanding. Unprepared for the fire that swept through him, ignited by the heat of her kiss and the feel of her body moving against his. He was totally and completely unprepared for the way he lost all control in the presence of this extraordinary woman.
When at last they broke apart, it was a move initiated by him, because to have gone any further would have been to go way beyond the point of safe return, and he knew what Molly needed now was safety more than anything else he could offer her. She was too vulnerable right now, too much a hostage of her turbulent emotions. He kissed her forehead, ran his thumb along her lower lip, and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“We’d better go,” he said.
“I know.”
“Because if we stay here any longer, we might not go at all.”
“I know,” she repeated.
“But we can come back.”
“Yes,” she breathed, reaching on tiptoe to kiss him again. Her hazel eyes brimmed with tears. “Thank you so much for being here for me.”
He closed his hand around hers and brought it against his chest. “What they did to you yesterday was unforgivable,” he said, and then, reading the unspoken rebuke mingling with the fierce hurt, he kissed her one final time. “I’ll speak no more about it, I promise. But it was unforgivable.”
STEVEN DROVE HIS JEEP toward the Bow and Arrow, cruising the quiet roadways in the bright blue and gold of a fine September afternoon. Molly sat quietly in the passenger seat, eyes drowsy with fatigue, looking like she hadn’t gotten much sleep in the past few nights. Even his stolen glances were enough to kick his heart into high gear, remembering what had almost happened between them just a short time ago. Her kisses had been a mingling of honey and habanero chili peppers. Like icy spring water in the midst of a desert, and like the scorching desert itself. Her kisses had brought something long dormant within his heart to life, reawakened him to the universe, connected him once again to all living things.
He was so lost in his silent reverie that he nearly forgot his promise to Pony to stop at Luther Makes Elk’s shack in the foothills and get a definite answer from the old man about his sister’s upcoming wedding ceremony. Steven glanced at Molly. Her eyes were completely closed now, head back against the rest. He cleared his throat and spoke softly. “Sleeping?”
“Dreaming,” she replied, eyes still closed.
“Good dream?”
“Wonderful,” she murmured. “We’re climbing a mountain together, the same mountain you climbed on your vision quest. Brave Heart. You’re holding my hand, helping me up a steep section of the trail.”
He was startled that she remembered the mountain’s name. “Are we near the top?”
Her lips curved in that small sweet smile. “I think so,” she said. “I think we’re almost there. I see an owl sitting in a tree, watching us. It must be night.”
Steven’s eyes narrowed on the road. “You see an owl in your dream?”
She tilted her head to look at him. “It’s not a real dream. It’s just a wishful dream, and the owl just flew away.”
“How do you know wishful dreams aren’t real?” He had to ask because, after all, an owl flying through one’s consciousness was an omen of death.
She sighed. “I think they can become real. I mean, when I was young I dreamt about becoming a lawyer, and those were wishful, waking dreams. I wanted to change the world for the better. I wanted to influence the universe. I wanted to make my parents proud of me.” Her laugh was small, bitter. “And look at me now. I’ve made the front page of a newspaper I can only hope to God my parents never see.”
“Go back to the mountain,” Steven said. “Cante Tinza. Where are we now?”
“Brave Heart,” she echoed softly, her thick eyelashes brushing her cheeks. “All right. We’re almost to the top….” Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze was beseeching. “Can we go there, Steven? Just the two of us? Can we climb it together?”
He glanced at her and then back at the winding road. “When?”
“Soon. Maybe we could camp there, make a little fire, count the stars in the sky while we wait for the dawn. Maybe the spirits will come and speak to both of us and tell us all the secrets of the universe.”
He drew a deep breath, his heart thundering in his chest like a war drum. They were approaching the turnoff to the reservation. “You tell me when you want to go, I’ll have everything packed and ready,” he said, slowing for the turn.
“Are we almost there?” she asked, confused.
“Not really,” he said. “I have to make a brief stop at my grandfather’s place to ask him if he’ll marry my sister.”
Molly sat up straighter and looked at him. “Is he a priest?”
“A holy man
, the Indian equivalent. Pony wants to do the seven sacred steps for her wedding, but Luther Makes Elk, my adopted grandfather, has never wed a full-blood to a white man. I’m not sure he will.”
“What if he says no?”
Steven’s laugh surprised them both. “Then we’ll have to climb Cante Tinza tonight and hope for a good vision, because if Luther Makes Elk says no, I don’t dare go to Pony’s barbecue.”
THE OLD MAN WAS SITTING OUT in the sunlight outside the door of his shack. He had a blanket draped over his legs and was bundled in a faded wool peacoat to turn the crisp autumn wind. A black wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over his brow.
“Good to see you,” Luther said as Steven and Molly approached. He studied Steven’s battered face and then nodded to indicate Molly. “I guess you didn’t go on that vision quest, but red was the right color.”
“Grandfather, this is Molly Ferguson, a friend of mine. We’re on our way to Pony’s for a barbecue. Pony wanted you to come with us.”
Luther shook his head. “I just ate, and my bones are tired. I think I’ll have a nap, maybe. Maybe you should, too. The world you live in moves too fast. Keep the sacred bundle I gave you, and go on your vision quest soon, before it’s too late.”
“Pony’s wedding ceremony is in two weeks, the first Saturday in October.”
“I know,” Luther said. A rusty pickup drove past, lifting a cloud of dust. “I made some food, a pretty good stew. This time, I know what’s in it. The pot’s on the stove. It would probably be better if it had more time to age. A stew always tastes better the second or third day. Some stews need a week. You should eat some of that stew. It’s powerful medicine and you could use some.” Luther reached into the pocket of his coat and drew forth several feathers bound in a strip of rawhide. “I saved some of the owl’s feathers for you,” he said, extending the offering toward Steven. “The feathers are blessed, but I didn’t bless the stew. I wasn’t sure if it was going to be good or not.” He paused and looked up at Steven. “You sure you don’t want some?”
“Grandfather, we should be going. About Pony’s wedding…”
“Wait. Before you go, I better give you something.” Luther pushed off the bench and in his bent, shuffling gait he entered his little shack. He switched on the single bulb that hung from the ceiling and rummaged among a pile of clothing heaped on his narrow bed. He pulled out a long object wrapped in oiled canvas and laid it upon the battered metal table in the center of the room as Molly and Steven watched.
“This rifle is older than me, even,” he said as he unrolled the object from the protective cover. “It was at the battle of Little Big Horn. My great-grandfather was a scout for one of the bluecoats. He gave it to my grandfather, who used it to prop open the cabin door on hot days, because back then, there was nothing left on the rez to shoot.” He held the heavy rifle out to Steven. “Take it.”
Steven took a step backward and shook his head. “I don’t need a gun.”
“Not today, maybe. But sometimes, a gun comes in handy. I kept it clean. Look, no mouse nests in the barrel.”
“There’s been enough violence.”
Luther Makes Elk nodded his agreement. “That’s so. Now take Red Hair and go, so I can have my nap.” He gestured with the rifle, and Steven took it from him reluctantly. The heaviness of the old weapon surprised him. The cold steel carried the weight of deaths that spanned three centuries. “Take this, too,” Luther said, handing him a small pouch tied with a leather thong. “There’s a bullet for the rifle, and some big medicine. Better keep it close to you.” He gestured again. “Now go,” Luther said, “and tell your sister I’ll marry her to that white man, but only because his heart is good. Otherwise, I would never do such a thing.”
Steven began walking to the Jeep but Molly paused behind him and he heard her say, very gravely, “Goodbye, Luther Makes Elk. It was a great honor to meet you.”
FOR A WHILE AFTER THEY LEFT Luther’s shack they drove in silence, long enough to restore the timeline and reaffirm contact with their modern lives. When they reached the main road Molly swiveled in her seat, drew her knees up, and said, “Wow. He’s your grandfather?”
“I got him out of jail once, and he adopted me,” Steven explained, eyes on the road. “We’re not blood relatives. Most white people think Luther’s just a crazy old man.”
Molly studied his profile and thought that she could look at Steven like this forever, in quiet contemplation of a man she truly believed she couldn’t live without, yet didn’t begin to understand. “Well, I think he’s wonderful,” she said.
Steven glanced at her briefly but made no reply. His silence got her dander up.
“He’s going to marry your sister to a white man,” Molly said, “in spite of the fact that it goes against everything he believes in. And he gave you that old rifle he obviously holds so dear, and he made a stew for you out of an owl, which must have powerful medicine to protect you. I think he’s wonderful, and I think you should have eaten some of the stew.”
“You’ve never tasted his cooking.”
Molly sighed. “Steven, it was rude not to have eaten any. You should have at least taken one spoonful.”
Steven cast her an unfathomable look. “Luther’s owl flew through your dream.”
“Yes,” she said impatiently. “Don’t you see? That’s precisely why you should’ve eaten the stew.”
“You’re Catholic, aren’t you?”
Molly sighed. “My father’s Catholic, my mother’s Protestant, and I don’t know what that makes me. Right now, I’m confused about life in general and my job in particular, but if you’re asking what religion I subscribe to, the jury’s still out.”
“Maybe that’s why Luther liked you,” Steven said.
Molly brightened. “He did? How could you tell?”
“If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t have acknowledged your presence. He called you Red Hair, which means you have a place.”
“A place where?” Molly asked, awed because the old holy man had both intimidated and intrigued her.
Steven’s somber countenance never changed. “That remains to be seen,” he said.
Molly sighed. “Along with a whole bunch of other things,” she said. “Tell me about the Bow and Arrow, and the school you helped Pony start.”
“The Bow and Arrow was settled back in the mid-1800s by a man by the name of John Weaver, who drove a herd of longhorns up from Texas,” Steven began.
“Steven?” Molly interrupted, sitting up straight, a lurch of adrenaline souring her stomach as the guilt she’d been suppressing flooded back into her consciousness. “I was supposed to try and persuade you to drop the fight against the New Millennium mine.”
The Jeep’s wheels whined on the asphalt and Steven kept his eyes to the front. Several minutes passed before he continued in the same deep, calm voice. “John Weaver was Jessie Weaver’s great-grandfather. He married a Crow Indian woman who was given to him in thanks for giving the tribe some of his beef cows to help them through a bad winter.” He paused for a moment before glancing at her. “So, are you going to try to make me see that the mine will be a good thing?”
She shook her head. “No. I said that I had no intentions of asking you to.” She gazed out at the flanks of the mountains, bright gold with the color of fall aspen, and felt her cheeks burn with shame that she hadn’t told him this as soon as she’d arrived at his house. “Brad said the fight could get really nasty. He said more people could be hurt.”
“And a giant meteor could collide with the earth next week and wipe out all of civilization. Should we stop living because that might happen? Molly, the law is the law, and most people abide by it. What I’m doing needs to be done. If the mining companies won’t follow due process, someone needs to be watching them.”
“But it doesn’t have to be you,” Molly said passionately, turning in her seat to face him. “You shouldn’t be the one getting beaten up for being the watchdog. The mine is in a national forest, and
that makes policing it the federal government’s job. It’s not up to you to enforce the laws.”
“In a perfect world I might see things your way.”
“Okay then, what about Gregory Dehaviland. He’s only been CEO of Condor International for less than a year, and I think there’s potential for great things to come from his leadership. He talked to us both to get the real scoop as to what happened on the access road. You have to admit, that’s an extraordinary thing for a man in his position to do.”
“Yes,” Steven said.
“He has the power to change things for the better. I believe he wants to do the right thing, and I also believe he’s going to make sure his subsidiaries are toeing all the proper lines.”
“I hope you’re right,” Steven said, “but either way, I’m not going to back down. Establishing an open pit mine in the middle of a national forest that borders on the Yellowstone ecosystem is wrong, and the laws need to be changed to prohibit all mining claims on federal lands. Those laws were created in 1872 to promote westward expansion. We no longer have to offer land giveaways in order to settle the West. The West is settled, Molly, and has been for well over a hundred years. The savage Indians have been subdued and put on reservations. We need to protect what little wilderness remains, not continue to exploit it.”
Silence filled the Jeep. Molly could think of no good reply, so she folded her hands together in her lap and gazed out at the high beauty that surrounded them. “I still think you should’ve had some of your grandfather’s owl stew,” she said.
CHAPTER NINE
THEY ARRIVED at the Bow and Arrow just shy of three, and Steven was surprised that there seemed to be no one around. He narrated their approach to Molly as they drew near. “That cabin on the bend of the creek to your right is the original homestead, built by John Weaver in the mid-1800s. Caleb and Pony live there now. They prefer it to the main house. The ranch house was built above the cabin on the knoll just ahead. That’s where the boys and Ramalda live. They’re planning a new, separate building for the school itself, but construction of that won’t begin until spring, and it will be where the original bunkhouse used to be, on that flat piece of land between the ranch house and the pole barn.”
Montana Standoff Page 14
