He skipped down through the remaining holiday listings and spotted a graphic for the Billings Community College. It wasn’t so much the idea of getting a degree, as taking courses in subjects of interest to him. He enjoyed the challenge of assignments and research. To his credit, he had completed a two-part course on the Civil War, the history of the Mountain Railway system with its effect on mining in Montana, as well as a few classes on local American Indian history. He pulled up the PDF brochure of the winter schedule and perused the offerings. He wasn’t much interested in the math or science courses, and he needed no class in preparing festive holiday meals. He was about to close the screen when his eye caught the title Insight Through Creative Writing. He clicked the link, which took him to a full description. His gaze narrowed as he read, considering the cost and time frame of class schedules. The soft leather chair sighed as he leaned back and studied the screen.
He’d once or twice dabbled with writing—poems and random thoughts, mostly, though hadn’t pursued it in many years. He’d never revealed it to anyone, not even Jed, believing it might be viewed as too feminine for a man to do. Comfortable now in his own skin, he figured he could add a male perspective to the class. What could be the harm? It was a bold step, something out of the ordinary for him, but he was feeling antsy. He needed something to keep his mind occupied.
Wyatt rubbed his palm over his unshaven jaw and wondered if anyone would suspect his identity in the class. Not that anyone would give a red-hot damn, he mused. If it weren’t for Rein and Dalton, he swore he sometimes felt akin to a green monster living on the mountain, a monster everyone in town thought had no heart. He stared for a full minute at the admission form, then tossed caution to the wind, filled out the boxes, and hit the Send key. Within seconds, he’d received his confirmation e-mail giving him a list of the scheduled class times. Once his fee was paid, he’d receive notification from the teacher about his first lesson.
Wyatt raked a hand through his hair, badly in need of a good trim, or so his brothers had reminded him lately. They were bound to give him a bad time about taking a poetry class, but what the hell. He needed something more than television to stimulate his mind. He sat forward, completed the financial form, and sent it off with a quiet sigh. It occurred to him as an afterthought to ask if the class was live via chat or e-mail. He wasn’t comfortable talking in large groups of strangers, unless it was on his own terms. The solution if need be would be to create a bogus e-mail address and name to maintain his anonymity. Happy that he’d thought of everything, he logged off, stretched his arms over his head, and yawned.
The sound pulled Sadie from her slumber and Wyatt chuckled at the dog’s selective hearing. “It’s only me, girl.” He switched off the old green banker’s lamp, got up, and wandered through the dining room to the kitchen. He paused, to look at the photo of Jed and the three boys holding a Fraser Fir like a trophy from the hunt. It was taken the first Christmas after Rein arrived to live with them. A few years later, in Rein’s senior year, he’d made a barn board frame in wood shop and they’d had the photo blown up to give to Jed for another Christmas. The day they’d chopped down the tree, and more importantly, the lessons they’d learned were still vivid in Wyatt’s memory.
Wyatt hadn’t wanted to go, but Jed hadn’t given him a choice, pulling the “you’re the oldest” card on him. Dalton had no desire at first to partake in the adventure, stating he had to call his latest girlfriend, but when using an ax had become part of the topic, he’d agreed without hesitation, giving Wyatt cause for concern.
Rein, steeped in a deep silence, his pain fresh from losing both parents, plodded along a few feet behind. It wasn’t a stellar day and in retrospect, Wyatt would realize Jed, as much as any of them, was keenly aware of the fact. They’d walked, it seemed, for miles, and then Jed handed the ax to Wyatt.
“Make sure no one is behind you when you swing that thing.” He started to leave and Wyatt, barely nineteen at the time, stared after him, thinking the old man had truly flipped his cookies.
“What the—” he said aloud, stymied by Jed’s departure.
Jed tossed him a precautionary look about his language. Wyatt clamped his mouth shut before he found himself in trouble. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“I forgot my coffee thermos.” Jed continued to walk away from the three, causing iridescent sprays of snow to filter through the bitter air.
Dumbfounded, Wyatt called out to the old man. “Who’s supposed to show me how to swing this thing?” His frustration rose as Jed continued his sojourn back through the path they’d just made. Wyatt cut a glance to Rein, whose hands were jammed in his pockets and his focus on his boots.
“Gimme that thing.” Dalton reached for the three-foot ax handle, and Wyatt held it from his reach.
“Rein should know how to swing an ax,” Jed called over his shoulder. “Don’t come back until you find a good tree. And be damn sure before you chop it down, nothing is still living in it.”
Wyatt looked over, meeting Rein’s steady, blue-eyed gaze. He’d never seen such sadness in the eyes of someone other than him before. “You know how to use one of these things?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged and looked away.
Though the sun was brilliant at midday, causing the powdery snow to sparkle, the temperature was well below freezing. Wyatt could barely feel the tip of his nose. He just wanted to get home and hole up in his room until this whole holiday thing was over.
“Could we get this done?” Dalton complained, clapping his gloved hands together for warmth. “I’ve got a date tonight.”
Wyatt blew out a sigh and saw his frosty breath. “Gawd almighty.” He’d been around Jed along enough in the past couple of years to know when the old man was trying to teach them a lesson. The sooner they figured it out, the faster they could get back to the ranch. He took a quick look around him, scanning the wooded area. The wind whistled through the tall pine with a lonesome sound. Not one tree was less than fifty feet tall or better. “Where the hell are we supposed to find a tree to cut down?”
“I know a place.”
Wyatt’s gaze, as did Dalton’s, swung to the new kid. It was a startling revelation to the two of them that he could speak without being prompted. Something strange shifted inside Wyatt. He saw Rein in a different light, as a real person—a teenager, who’d, had to deal with burying his parents. His circumstance was far different than being abandoned like excess baggage. “Okay then, genius.” He played the big brother role with ease. “Lead on and let’s get this done, so we can all go back to where it’s warm.”
The years reeled by in Wyatt’s memory, a blur of events and holidays thereafter. They did find the tree. Jed had planted it in honor of Rein’s birth, and on the rare occasion that Jed’s sister and brother-in-law visited for the holidays, Jed had taken his nephew out to where the tree was planted. Wyatt never knew what pleased old Jed more, the fact Rein remembered the tree, or that the three boys had somehow managed to work together to accomplish the task he’d entrusted to them. Wyatt stared for a moment more at the picture, smiling at how Jed once again had used the ordinary things in life to bond the three of them, causing them to rely on each other, instead of him. A twinge of guilt assaulted his brain. They hadn’t bothered yet with a tree, and Wyatt chalked it up to having too much work to do with the ranch. True, after Jed died, the spirit of the season seemed to die with him. The tradition dwindled to one of those last-minute decisions, sometimes made at the halftime of a Saturday afternoon football game on TV.
They’d flip a coin to see who got the honors of chopping down a medium-sized tree, one to fit in the giant old crock that Jed had always used. Once or twice, without fanfare or coin toss, Dalton would throw on his coat and disappear for a few hours, eventually dragging back a fragrant fir tree that he’d drop on the deck. Without a word, he’d toe off his boots, grab a beer, park himself in front of the game, and leave the fate of the tree to Rein and occasionally, Wyatt. This year, however, migh
t be different. If the two didn’t get back, there was certainly no reason to go to the trouble of having a tree. He’d already been entertaining thoughts on how he’d spend the holidays alone. His cooking wasn’t bad. He had his classes starting soon and while some reveled in the idea of warm family gatherings and children anxiously awaiting for Santa to arrive, he was just as happy to prop his feet up with a good book. Truth was, for a variety of reasons, he’d never been very good with Christmas—either that or he was settling comfortably into what people in town thought about him.
He sauntered back to the fireplace and stood there a moment, listening to the wind howling down the chimney flue. An occasional snap from a log would break the stony silence. His mind drifted back to his perky visitor in her pink jacket and he let himself muse over whether she wore candy-flavored lip balm on that tempting mouth. The few relationships he’d tried to forge in his younger days had ended in disaster, mostly with similar complaints about his lack of emotional involvement. The fact that this woman had reawakened a fierce need inside of him spelled major trouble, for her or him. He wasn’t sure yet how the dice would roll. With a glance at the mantle clock, he reached down to bid Sadie good night with a pat on her head. The alarm was going to come early in the morning, and the memory of the girl’s backside in those painted-on denim jeans wasn’t going to allow him a good night’s rest.
***
Aimee sat in front of her computer and stared at the Billings Community College Web site. She was still recovering from the effects of her day. The drink she’d had at the bar helped to calm the rattled nerves caused by driving the treacherous mountain pass in the blinding snow. However, a feeling of restlessness lingered when she thought of the dark-eyed Wyatt Kinnison, who’d left her unsettled for an entirely different reason. Her computer screen went black, shifting to sleep mode, jarring her from her cowboy daydream.
“Wake up, girl.” She shifted, blinked a couple of times, and refocused on the task of registering for the class before her parents’ weekly check-in call. In truth, poetry was not a subject she was terribly interested in, but because her friend Sally feared a low attendance, she’d agreed to sign up. She moved quickly through the various registration forms and was printing out her confirmation when the phone rang. She put aside her computer and reached for the receiver. Her parents had started the weekly ritual shortly after she’d taken on her position at the remote, rural elementary school. Aimee plucked the phone from its cradle.
“Hi, Dad. Is it snowing down there yet?” She walked over to the sliding glass doors of her postage-stamp-sized apartment and drew back the vertical blinds. Outside, the wind still howled, lifting the snow into sparkling swirls under the lights of the complex’s parking lot.
“Nothing here, yet. They’re calling for a bit of the white stuff come Wednesday. According to the news, it looks like you’re getting much more in your neck of the woods.”
Aimee watched a neighbor struggling between wind, briefcase, and a sack of groceries as he tried to make his way indoors. “A little bit,” she responded, reading between the lines of her father’s comment. He’d developed a keen interest in the weather after the death of her twin sister, Sarah. One of the ways he chose to keep tabs on Aimee was to watch the weather. “You know, Dad, they don’t even start thinking about measurable snow up here until after at least a foot.” I’m being careful, Dad, don’t worry. “Not to mention they have the best road crews in the nation,” she added.
“I know, I know.” There was a brief silence. “How are things going, other than the weather?”
She was glad for the shift in the conversation, and decided not to mention to him her harrowing drive earlier. She was safe now and really, that was what was most important. However, she had to admit the part about Wyatt Kinnison would please her mother to no end. She chose, instead, a safer topic. “My kids are antsy for the holiday break.” She smiled, thinking of the chaos in her classroom over the last few days. Distance had a way of giving one a clear perspective. “Tomorrow we’re going to make a paper chain to go around our tree.”
“They still allow trees in the classroom?” Surprise punctuated her father’s question.
“Unbelievable, I know, but keep it quiet. I really love it and so do the kids. There are a few stipulations, but as long as no parents have objections, and we don’t exchange presents, there just doesn’t seem to be a big deal about it.”
Her father chuckled and Aimee pictured him in his brown tweed easy chair where she and Sarah used to curl up before bedtime to listen to him read a story.
“You watching any football?” she asked.
“Yeah, the Chiefs aren’t doing too badly this season, but I can’t stand those announcers.”
Aimee chuckled.
“I remember how you girls used to love this time of year when you were little.”
The backs of her eyes stung. Tears pooled and she blinked them away, letting her father go on. It was better they remember the happy moments.
“I think you spent more time outside than you did inside. You two nearly drove your mom crazy with the worry you’d catch your death—”
She heard his breath catch and waited a heartbeat. “It’s okay, Dad.” Her heart ached anew for him, for her.
“She constantly worried that the two of you would get chilled and catch a cold.”
“I know,” Aimee reassured him, but she swallowed the lump in her throat evoked by the childhood memories. It was two years ago this month the icy winter accident had claimed the life of Sarah and her good friend. They had been on their way home from a holiday shopping trip in the city. Slick roads and blizzard-like conditions were contributing factors, according to the police report, nothing else, except perhaps poor judgment in not turning around and staying put until the storm had passed. There were moments when she missed her sister so damn much, times when she felt such anger toward her, and others when it felt she wasn’t whole without her. Her death, however, had been the catalyst needed to change the direction of Aimee’s life. Sarah was born to teach, and she wanted to go where she would make a difference—some place where economics and population did not afford the students there the same privileges as in a bigger school. She understood the pay would be low, even lower than standard for good starting teachers, and she’d have a mammoth school loan to pay on top of everything else, but it never deterred Sarah from searching for schools with the greatest need. They shared many bonds despite their differences, one being they were the daughters of committed parents who’d taught in a middle-school environment all of their lives. It was no surprise, then, when one of them chose to follow their example to teach. Aimee, on the other hand, had been the wild child, interested in more of what the social life and networking in college could do for her. By the time she was ready to graduate with a business degree, she had offers from over a dozen East Coast firms.
She used to tease Sarah as she pored over her future teaching options, that she’d wind up living in a tiny apartment in the middle of nowhere, while Aimee enjoyed a twelfth-floor condo with a skyline view. A tear rolled down her cheek and she pressed her hand against the cold sliding door. The frost framed her hand, leaving an imprint on the chilled glass.
“It’s okay to miss her, baby girl. We all do.” His voice cracked and Aimee squeezed her eyes tight, fighting the wave of sorrow washing over her, helpless to avoid it. He was right, and while she realized that the pain of loss would never fully go away, his understanding helped her to place her life in perspective. She imagined Sarah’s hand touching hers on the opposite side of the icy glass; she could almost hear her joyous laughter. “Thank you, Sarah,” she mouthed softly and lowered her hand, rubbing the moisture on her jeans. Once more, she sensed her sister’s presence and drew on the strength she offered to put her heart at ease. She let the blinds sway back into place.
“So when do you think you’ll be heading home?” her father asked.
Here it was. The conversation she’d been dreading. She hadn’t been
able to find a way yet to explain why she couldn’t come home for Christmas, and she hated the thought of leaving them alone over the holidays. “Well, Dad, it’s like this,” she stated cautiously. “The town up here has a huge celebration every year. There’s a tree lighting in the town square—that’s assuming someone will donate a tree. And they have a community-wide toy drive that’s capped off at the fire station with a giant potluck supper. The whole town gets involved and on Christmas Eve they go out in groups to deliver toys and dinners to those families struggling to make ends meet.”
“It sounds like a good project. I take it you’re involved?”
“Would you believe they made me chairman of the toy drive and organizer of deliveries?”
There was a pronounced silence. Aimee pushed her hand through her short hair, tugging at the ends—a nervous gesture she’d had since she was a little girl.
“Stop playing with your hair, baby girl.”
Aimee dropped her hand and rolled her eyes. She had two degrees, was over the age of twenty-five, and managed a class of second-grade students. Still, her father could intimidate her. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Listen here, I don’t want you to waste one precious minute worrying about us. We understand, and honey, what you’re doing up there is the best present any parent could want. Your sister would be so proud, as are we. She’s looking down on all of us, keeping us together in spirit. Your mother and I truly believe that.”
Rugged Hearts Page 4
