by Tanya Hanson
“How far?” Dutton said into the crisp air.
His question brought her firmly back to the present. “About four miles to Shadow Ridge. We’ll eat there. After lunch, we’ll head to Hawk Meadow for the night.” Wishful dreaming that she’d likely regret later on had him sitting next to her by the campfire tonight, sipping a tin cup of hot cider while she talked about those native plants. Singing along while her brother Bragg played his harmonica, or listening to her brother Kenn, the American Lit teacher, recite favorites from Mark Twain.
In a perfect world, Dutton would hang around for optional evening devotions after the campfire. Her spirits fell and she grumbled. Not Dutton. He’d been happy to keep God a stranger.
His words jumped into her thoughts. “Your sister Kelley? She the chuck cook still?” His voice bore the sweetness of reminiscence. Did he ever recall that day of her garden sketches? In England, throughout Europe, she’d talked endlessly about her siblings and Hearts Crossing Ranch when homesickness assailed her. And she’d felt guilty, him with his broken family. Then, she wondered at the question. If he checked the website often, as he’d said, he should have known about Kelley already. Was he merely uncomfortable in the silence between them? The possibility saddened her, and she had no idea why.
Chelsea shook her head. “She’s too busy with her little café in town, her husband, and their two kids. Twins. Her mother-in-law has become our resident chuck cook. She’s a hoot. She follows Kelley’s recipes to a T, though. Even a lot of vegetarian fare. Today, though, it’s burgers and beans.”
“Good. I’m starving.”
The horses’ hooves clip-clopping over the road settled comfort and contentment around Chelsea’s shoulders. Still, it was time to finish growing up, to be on her own, even if it took her from Hearts Crossing. There were always the emotional elastic cords here, too, keeping her attached. Peeking over at Dutton, she wanted to read a similar calm on his own face, but her heart panged at the tense lines between his brows. No more carefree surfer dude. Financially broke. Failed businessman. Dead father, addict mother. But he had a piece of land. That had to mean something. Land meant home.
“I hope I can meet your whole family while I’m here,” he said into the breeze. “You always had such tales of their antics.”
“And we’re still having them.” She laughed, but couldn’t promise. Meeting her family was so...serious.
“I watch that reality show,” Dutton said. “The Last Real Rancher. The head guy marrying your mom and all. I always look for you, every episode.”
His words started her heart thrumming, but she didn’t look at him. “We’re all thrilled Ma married Doyle, but it was up to each of us kids whether we wanted on TV. My answer was a firm no.”
“Your mother seems very happy.”
“Oh, she is. She and our pa, well, it truly was a real love match and a strong, happy marriage. But I’m so glad she found someone else. We all are. Doyle’s a wonderful man.”
“Still find it hard to believe, you know. Strong happy marriages, that is.”
“I remember.” Chelsea stretched far to the right to touch his shoulder. His father had died early, but the marriage had known only greed and warfare. “But love can happen.”
“And your mom gets it twice. Good for her.” Dutton sighed, doffed his hat as if rubbing sweat from his brow. “I, um, I know you’re a believer in all that stuff. Is there…is there somebody in your life, Chelsea?”
Of course she believed all that “stuff,” she’d believed then and still did. But she had to be honest. They might have three days ahead and glorious memories to relive, but she had to remind him, to reinforce that those three days were all they’d have. Aha, John Baxter. “There’s a wrangler I see from time to time. My high school boyfriend. I can’t say it’s serious, but he is someone who shares my values, my experiences. My faith. A decent man.”
“Oh.” Dutton sounded so tragic she had to reiterate. Visions of a campfire with him at her side were too nice not to make real.
“But he’s not really my boyfriend.”
“Chelsea.” This time, Dutton reached over for her, touched her hand that rested on the horn. “I tried. I tried faith. I remembered you saying how God always helped you find your way. I wanted Him to. When I didn’t know where to turn next. You know, my business. Ponzi. My mom. The explosion. But He never did.”
He nudged the horse and tore off ahead of her, leaving behind a dust cloud full of despair.
She let him go. No way he’d get lost finding the stopover camp with its picnic tables and the chuck wagon. His last desolate words stabbed at her heart. Somehow she had to let him know he was wrong and God never was. Yeah, God sometimes said no, or not right now, but that didn’t mean He’d left you all alone. He helped you get through everything, the disappointments, and “no’s.” Even the “not-evers.” He was always at your side, if you reached out far enough to hold His almighty hand.
3
Dutton raced away from her because nobody had ever seen him tear up. Not when Dad died. At six, he had been old enough to know grief. Not when Mom stuck his seven-year-old self on a plane to New Hampshire. Not when Gramps called Mom names and raged war for custody. Not when Dutton’s financial world had tumbled down.
Not even Chelsea herself when they’d parted, and she’d taken the best piece of him—.
Her family, her ranch, her God. Oh, Dutton should have run after her then, like he was trying now. Should have written, called, emailed, texted, whatever, these past three years. Years both tumultuous and empty at the same time.
Oh, well. The morning had warmed enough to calm him. At least they had three days together. Close quarters even with the wide sky overhead. She’d said it herself.
Beneath him, the sturdy paint Amigo trotted so easily they might have been friends for years. Above him, a blue he’d never seen in the atmosphere before almost had his eyes ache. Giant clumps of white clouds moved so fast and so close he could almost touch them when he reached up.
Next to him, the meadow bisected by a creek was crammed full of every petal and color, stuffed with native grass and tall green spiky plants. Here and there a tree. No doubt Chelsea knew the name and genus of every single one. He recognized a cottonwood. Unbidden, a memory flashed, a memory of him pretending to sleep in a Sussex garden while she drew flowers. His slitted lids letting in visions of her long, red, unruly curls flowing down her back, her deft hands showing hard work, talent and femininity all at once. Now, like then, he raised his hand to touch that hair, meeting only air. He shook away the memory and nudged Amigo faster, forcing his eyes to the green hills dashed with tan that ran up the mountainsides.
The mountains, though, they were high and cold. A place where Chelsea’s God must live. She’d said something once or twice about the Ten Commandments on Mount Something or other, and the ark full of animals that got stuck on another mountain. So Dutton felt sure God didn’t live among regular folks in the down-below. He’d taken her advice, reached out, and found nothing. And he sure had arms long enough. He’d burrowed his surf board out of enough thirty foot waves to know for sure.
He slowed Amigo, knowing the horse respected him as much as he did the paint gelding. Oh, he’d ridden waves most of his life, but today, he felt the bond with Amigo. The special rapport when a horse trusts his rider, the harmony built from that instinctual trust—even a trail horse raised and trained for the most hapless, novice tourist.
Dutton might be good at riding waves and horses, but he was hapless in love, a novice in family. Coming here, seeing Chelsea again, might have been a mistake except that he wasn’t ready for another cold, lonely summer. And he wasn’t about live a cold, lonely life. He’d long felt an invisible bond with her that stretched and pulled and never came apart. Deep down he longed for her and whatever she had.
Ahead of him, Shadow Ridge. Ah. Pictures from the Hearts Crossing website and brochures morphed to life in front of his eyes. He couldn’t help a sigh at the welcome sudden
ly surrounding him. Maybe he was right to come. Across the bluff, ponderosa pines trees spired upward, alder and aspen trees, thirty, forty feet tall all but pounded the clouds. He grinned, recalling the website also had a page that identified native trees and local wildlife. Chelsea’s idea no doubt. Maybe he ought to do some homework and impress her. Birdsong merged with the whispers of the stream tumbling next to the trail.
Water. White noise. Not quite the ocean, but comforting enough.
Not far ahead, he saw a group of big boulders on the edge of a clearing set with rustic picnic tables and benches, and some portable furniture as well. A middle-aged woman, her long flowing skirt woven from a hundred shades of blue, dug around the chuck wagon.
“Need some help?” he called out.
“Welcome, rider.” The wind tossed the woman’s long, pewter-colored hair across her face, and she brushed it away with bare, un-manicured nails. “If you’re a fire starter, you can get the coals going.” She pointed to an ancient grill, and her big bright smile drew him in. “I’m Snowy September, at your service.”
“Dutton Morse, at your service.” He laughed out loud as he dismounted. “You sound like a weather condition.”
“Long story best saved for another day.” She chuckled. “Suffice it to say our son had the good sense to marry a daughter of Hearts Crossing, so here I am in my golden years, finally settled down. And what a place to settle.” She waved her arms wide. “Grandkids to boot.”
“You’re very lucky,” Dutton said softly, knowing he’d blown it before and, for some reason, had been given a second chance. His gaze ran up and down the mountains.
Regret prickled his spine as he tethered Amigo at a nearby hitching post. He’d blown it before he started, felt it deep in his bones. Revealing to Chelsea his further loss of God couldn’t have happened at a worse time. How in the world had he ever imagined a girl like Chelsea taking him on? Taking him back?
He shook his head. The odd-named woman pointed with enthusiasm, brought him back to where he wanted to be—near Chelsea.
“You get the coals going and then help me slice tomatoes,” she ordered, and he grinned. Her weathered face couldn’t have been more different from his tightly wound mother who once kept her plastic surgeon on speed dial. His heart tugged, hoping she was doing well. Snowy gave him a hug to send him along, and he almost melted.
“Your first wagon train?” she asked over the breeze, drawing a long thin knife to split hamburger buns. “We do have repeat visitors, and I don’t recognize you as a Hearts Crossing hand. Although….” She gave him a motherly once-over. “You could be.”
“Yeah. I’m...an old friend of Chelsea’s. I remember her talking about these adventures. I’m in the area on business and…” He shrugged.
“An old friend?” Snowy pursed her lips over the word and held the knife up like an exclamation point. “Your cheeks are red beneath that tan, young man. More than this breeze would do. I’ll bet you and she are something more. Bet you had a spat a while back, and you ran off.”
“Aw, you’re right, Snowy. We had a…thing once. I’m not sure she likes me showing up here.”
“Aha. A thing. So you came to get her back.”
“I don’t know.”
Suddenly, it all made sense. Of course he had. He’d even told Chelsea so. He did have Gramps’s business, but as Dutton squirted more lighter fluid over the coals, he reminded himself the land was his and his alone. He should do what he wanted with it. Saying he’d tied in the wagon train trip because he was in Colorado anyway hadn’t been the truth. The interview had been the excuse for something he should have done a long time ago. Come to Hearts Crossing for Chelsea.
Except, he reminded himself, Chelsea hadn’t wanted him in her life. He groaned, pretended he’d burned his finger. Snowy looked up, but he didn’t meet her gaze. He’d ruined it for good, reminding Chelsea again of his lack of faith. The loss swamped his shoulders, the aloneness that always seemed a part of him.
The loss of love, faith, and family.
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Snowy said as she piled slices of onion and beefsteak onto a burlwood platter. “Sometimes, you just can’t convince it otherwise.”
She came over to put her arm around his shoulder. The gesture was nothing he’d ever gotten from his own mother. Just like he had sensed with Amigo, he knew he could trust this woman. “Tell me.”
“We were in love with each other. When Chelsea studied in England. I know we could have had something together. She…” As he hesitated, Snowy plunked him down on a bench. “She comes from all this, though.” Dutton waved his hand over the landscape, the singing meadow. The rising mountains, and humming creek. “I…got sent across the country every couple of months. My dad died young, and his father—Gramps—and my mother battled for custody of me. Gramps had a lot of money and clout, likes to get his way and doesn’t like her. A real bulldog. Gramps lives on the beach in California; she had a penthouse in New York City.”
“Must have been wretched, darlin’.” Her fingers warmed his. “But scars can strengthen and thicken skin.”
Dutton shrugged. “I guess. When I took up competitive surfing, Mom finally let Gramps have me most of the time. That was almost worse. Lots of travel and never four real walls. You know?” He looked into sweet, understanding eyes.
“Matter of fact, I do know, Dutton. But the heart makes its own home. I followed my man all over the world. He didn’t want walls. Until now. Finally, the past caught up, and we decided we wanted a better future. We built a house, took vows. We hadn’t been fair to our son, either. There’s still time.”
He shook his head. “My dad’s been gone for a long time. Mom’s in...has health issues. And I was mostly a pawn, you know. With her and Gramps.”
Snowy gathered him close. “My condolences, darlin’. But I meant with Chelsea. Don’t ever give up on love.”
Dutton swallowed hard. “It’s not that easy. Me and God. It just doesn’t work. And her faith is part of her.”
“Ah. I understand. All of us Easterdays, despite our name, well, we followed whatever religious drummer we heard. Until we got to Hearts Crossing. God and His Son Jesus wiggled into our lives and souls almost without us knowing. Give Him a chance, too.”
Dutton wanted to protest because he had already tried, but past a screen of aspen, he could see a rider coming up. Black Stetson and flying red hair. His heart both sank and swelled. Chelsea.
Snowy got to her feet. “Welcome, rider,” she yelled.
“Hello, camp.” The voice sweetest to Dutton’s ears floated across the late morning sunshine.
In a quick motherly way, Snowy wrapped her arms around him again. “Don’t give up. And if I might be so bold, say your prayers.”
Dutton might have tried prayer, one more time, except his gaze landed on Chelsea, hair ablaze atop that matching red horse. His mind emptied of almost everything but her as Snowy’s words played a silent refrain in his head.
Don’t give up on love. Give Him a chance, too.
4
Whew. Chelsea’s breath hitched, and it had nothing to do with the brisk ride. What a sight, Dutton backdropped by the curving mountains. Dark Stetson, well-loved jeans, green shirt matching the trees. He looked like he belonged here, but he didn’t, not really. But could he?
No. And why was he here? Not a word in three years, and the silence had broken her heart further. She had to admit it, no matter how doomed their relationship. No matter the breakup had been wholly her idea. He hadn’t tried once to find her or change her mind. So why now?
But seeing Snowy give Dutton a hug touched her heart. From what she’d gleaned about him in England, his mother hadn’t had a loving presence in his life. Contentious, yes. Possessive, yes. But loving, no. Her own mother came to mind. No matter Ma lived at her second husband’s ranch an hour away, she scheduled equal, ample time for them both at her ancestral ranch. And Chelsea, during her internship, came home to both ranches whenever she coul
d free up a couple of days.
However, Dutton hadn’t had a modicum of family life, divided between his mother and rancorous grandfather in bicoastal luxury homes, then scattered here and there and every which way for surfing competitions. No wonder he hadn’t quite found God. He’d never been in a stable place, physically or mentally, long enough to calm his rootlessness and find peace. Her heart slapped against her ribs just watching him.
Reining in Copper next to Amigo under a shady oak, Chelsea dismounted, conscious of Dutton’s gaze on her. He had started a fire both in that well-used grill as well as her heart. And she didn’t want to douse it, not yet. Even if she knew better.
“Hey, Dutton. Hi Snowy,” she said, holding down the shakes in her voice as well as she could. Snowy was wise, though, and winked at her. Chelsea rolled her eyes in response.
“What can I do?” She tried for normality. “Hooper sent me on ahead to help with lunch. We’ve got thirty-two this time.” That was a nice, big bunch. It was an unwritten rule to learn guests’ names, and quick. Chelsea would make good use of the noon stopover to get her homework done.
“Got more folding chairs in the wagon,” Snowy said. “Folks can eat in the Conestogas as well, if they want.”
“Okey doke.” Chelsea rubbed the horses’ noses, promising them carrots soon as she could.
“Here you go.” Dutton handed her a rattletrap folding chair as easily as a paperback book, then picked up three of his own. Watching his arm muscles move beneath the green shirt pleased her so much she had to change her train of thoughts, quick. His back pocket stuffed with a smart phone was the perfect switch.
“No electronics allowed,” she told him with a quick smile as they headed to the picnic area to unload and unfold.
“What?” Dutton stopped mid-chair, eyes half-closing as an overhead shaft of sun sneaked beneath his brim. “No what?”
“You’re in the wilderness, city dude. You have to live the entire experience. Didn’t you read the brochure when you signed up? We do have rules beyond close-toed shoes and sunscreen. No electronics. No ear buds. No phones, smart or otherwise.”
