by Jade Cary
Something shifted and then settled inside of me. He came out on to the porch, descended the stairs and walked with a purpose to my side of the car. He didn’t look out of place, or nervous, while I was a wreck. I was not a little girl anymore, as my tingling body reminded me. With one more deep breath, I stepped out of the car.
“Jed,” I breathed, tears stinging my eyes. “It’s so good to see you.”
Dutch
He lifted me off the ground, and I held on longer than I’d planned. “Hey, Dutch,” he said, setting me down. “Damn. Look at you.”
The old nickname tugged at my chest. It started the day I came home with the flowing mane of a Shetland pony in my fist. Her name was Jessy, and apparently we were keeping her happy in our pasture for a few days while her owner was elsewhere. I believed she was mine since she was on our land, and I felt I was entitled to such beautiful things as Shetland ponies. After my father gave me the bad news, he ordered a new hand he’d just hired to return the horse to pasture, and I screamed and cried behind the poor man until I felt Jed’s gentle hand on me. Later in the house, over milk and cookies, he told me about the great horse thief Dutch Henry, and how he felt entitled to those animals he claimed as his own, and was quite ornery about the whole thing—same as me. The name stuck. I was six.
“Not so bad yourself, Ranch Hand,” I said. The brief conversation on Tuesday did not prepare me for the face-to-face. His large frame still provided the shelter I’d sought as a child, when Dad was gone too long, or when I’d quarreled with a friend, or I’d fallen and hurt myself, or I’d roused his ire. I sought that strength now, hanging on to him like a lifeline after fifteen years of countless men and dead-end relationships, hard work and a fat bank account, all without my daddy at my side. I’d spent fifteen years being mad as hell, and I suppose I still was. Still, in all that time, Jed Brooks sat in my head like a favorite nursery rhyme or the five-times-tables. He was just there. Always.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he said, tightening his hold. “I have no words.”
My ear rested against his shoulder now, instead of the middle of his stomach. Jed was formidable, and I would always be smaller, no matter how old I was.
I pulled back, realizing my face was wet with tears. He held me at arms length and I looked away, embarrassed. “Dammit,” I whispered, wiping at tears. “I haven’t done this yet. Didn’t want it to back up on me now.”
“No rules for this, huh? Come on. I just put the coffee on.” Jed swung his arm casually around my shoulder and led me to the house. He looked back at the SUV.
“Should’ve let me pick you up.”
“And put up with ninety minutes of ‘Why haven’t we heard from you?’ No, thank you.”
He grinned. “You missed me.”
I looked up at him, feeling his heavy weight across my shoulders like a double quilt in winter—the kind you pull way up to your chin even though you’ll kick it off again moments later. It was the weight you craved, the cocooned feel, like you’re buried, like you’re the treasure.
“More than you know,” I whispered.
Jed left me for the kitchen, and I stood in the large foyer of my childhood home, demarcated by glittering flagstone in browns and amber. The furniture had been updated. New, oversized couches and club chairs replaced the worn and used-up stuff I’d left behind. Through the windows, the mountains were turning purple in the late afternoon light, and the sun glowed pink-orange as it made its way toward its crest, fighting with the thunderclouds that threatened to the northwest. It all worked. It was perfect. It was familiar.
The huge stone fireplace, rising two stories high, still dominated the main room, and I recalled the hours I spent sitting on the raised hearth with a favorite book while Maria filled the house with the aromas of childhood. Beyond the great room was Dad’s office, his massive desk dominant through the open door. The masculine scent of leather permeated the air, and prized elk and moose trophies hung on the high wall near the rafters.
Windowed doors lead out the back of the house to a large grassy area and a stand of cottonwoods that turned gold in the fall and produced white fluff that filled the air with ‘snow’ in the spring. Two en suite bedrooms occupied opposite wings of the house, with views of the pasture and the Madison River beyond. The stairs off to the right rose to the second floor where double master suites sat like bookends at each end of the house, the full, triple-paned windows receiving the morning sun. I hadn’t thought about home in a long time.
Jed called from the kitchen. I walked across the large living room, entered the kitchen area, and a loud mewl escaped before I could contain it.
“Where’s Blue Betty?” I cried. The old stove belonged to my grandmother. The delights that came out of that oven, the smells that categorized my childhood into warm and cold, strange and familiar, sad and happy, were varied and abundant. The kitchen, once warm and old-fashioned, now boasted all new, gleaming appliances and counter surfaces covered with granite and wood instead of the hand-painted Spanish tile my grandfather had brought back from Mexico and laid himself before I was born. Over the years the tile had faded into an interesting patina, yet I would not have traded it for the gloss and efficiency I saw now. “What’s happened, Jed?”
“Things change, Chan. It’s been fifteen years, honey.”
“I know,” I choked out, not wanting to cry now. “But…”
“Your dad made some changes a few years ago. Everything seemed to break down at once. You like it?”
“No,” I said on a sob, then amended, “I don’t know yet.”
“You’ve been away a long time.”
“Yes, well,” I whispered, “That wasn’t my doing.”
Jed took me by the shoulders. “Life is what you make it, kid, even if you had no say in the matter.”
I’d had no say; I knew that intellectually. Emotionally? Well, that was something else entirely. Deal with what you can, and walk away from the rest, Jed had told me growing up. I’d lived by it, and it had saved me countless hours of heartache and pondered what-ifs. I looked into his eyes, and I knew that, despite the changes, the time away, the memories that seemed to linger and pick at me when all I wanted to do was forget, I was where I needed to be.
“It’s a big house, but it feels smaller.” I took the mug of coffee he offered.
“It’s because you’re not a little girl anymore.”
“No, I suppose I’m not.” The soft ache in my gut and the tingling farther south attested to that fact. I sat at the huge boarding house table; it was the only thing in the kitchen that remained untouched. Large enough to feed twelve comfortably and sixteen with a tight squeeze, the table was always filled, twice a day, with the ranch crew when I was growing up. I loved to sit with the men and listen to stories of cattle drives, saloon fights and loose women. And when things got too risqué, it was Jed who shooed me from the room, not my father.
“The hands are spread out now. Some live in trailers down by the river, others live on or close to the other properties,” Jed said, as if reading my mind.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why don’t they live in the bunkhouse, eat here in the house?”
“Bunkhouse burned down about six months ago.”
“What happened?”
“Not sure. Anyway, the men started homesteading closer to their work, and your dad found he liked that just fine. Job’s different now, Chan. Men come and go; not like before.”
“Sad.”
“Different.”
We drank coffee and talked about old times, and before I knew it, an hour had passed and the sun was almost down behind the mountain. In that time, I studied Jed like a piece of art. He was a grown man. Fine lines surrounded his eyes and a few gray strands laced his hair at the temples. His hands were large, tanned and weathered, his stride still efficient, purposeful, confident. He smelled the same and his essence, his very being, had not changed one iota.
“Let me get your bags
, get you settled.”
“I can stay in town.”
He stared at me, eyes narrowed and reduced to slits. I’d seen that before.
“No.”
“Jed…”
“I said no.”
My stomach jigged and my face flushed. I’d heard those words countless times coming from him, in exactly that tone.
“It’s just easier, Jed.”
“For who? That’s crazy. This is your home. You are not staying in town.”
“I just…”
“No, Chandler, you’re staying. We’ll have some dinner, catch up. You’ve had a long day.” A hint of anger crossed his features and then his face softened. Too used to commanding men, he’d caught himself. “Please, sweetheart. I want you here.”
Town would have been fine. One hotel, two restaurants that were decent, three bars…I’d be more than fine, actually. But town was a long ways away. Jed was right.
“There’s my girl,” he said. I laughed at that one. “Come on. Pop the hatch on that fancy thing.”
I walked out with him and pressed a button that brought up the hatched door at the back of the SUV, but instead of following him, I walked to the small corral near the barn. A horse stood in the middle, all angst and adrenaline. The animal jerked his head around as I drew closer, agitated at my presence. His jet-black coat shone with sweat and power, the white slash running the length of his nose toning things down with a pithy elegance. He eyed me warily as I climbed to the top railing and sat, willing him to come to me and knowing he wouldn’t.
“An Azteca?”
“Yeah, and he’s a wild one,” Jed said behind me. “We’re working with him, but…I don’t know.” Finally, he said, “Hey, a skirt and sweater is not corral fence-sitting attire, lady. Get in the house and change your clothes, then I’ll show you around.” He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me down. As he set me on my feet, his hand slipped down over my backside. A jolt of electricity traveled south, and I was stunned by my body’s reaction.
“You did bring jeans, didn’t you?” Jed asked, moving his hand to the middle of my back.
“Yes. Believe it or not, I can get away with it, even in New York.”
“No doubt, sugar.” I caught him looking at my rear end as I passed. He stopped at the car and grabbed my bag, making a show of how heavy it was—it wasn’t. “Good to see the diva travels light.” His eyes twinkled. “I was expecting a few trunks.”
“There are a lot of things that will surprise you about me, Mister Brooks,” I answered in a southern drawl.
“I don’t doubt that,” he said as he walked toward the house.
I followed him up the stairs to my room on the northwest side of the house, the creek running wild out the south window. The memories came flooding back.
“Oh…” I sighed when I stepped into the room I hadn’t seen in 15 years. Jed set my bags down and stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders.
“He left it alone, for when you came home.”
The view from the windows was one I never got tired of: pastureland ahead and west that went on forever, a dirt road bisecting the range and a second fallow pasture glowed golden as the sun rested over the mountains. Wheat fields to the north, alfalfa to the south, and the grain silos gleaming silver-bright against the golden backdrop of the grass covered mountain. The wall of windows opposite the bedroom door looked down on a second corral and mountain forest as a backdrop with the creek running past. Even in New York, with the city noises in my head, I still heard that creek at night.
The windows were still covered in sheer linen, the lavender color making the sky outside appear darker, richer. Heavier blackout curtains in a deep purple were held back by a hammered piece of metal from one of the first pieces of machinery my grandfather used to build the house. My grandfather built the four-poster bed for me shortly after I was born. The head and footboards were cut from the trunk of a giant oak and the four posters were made from the stoutest of its branches. Purple sheets of contrasting shades covered the bed, along with my favorite violet down comforter. Once out of the crib, I never slept in another bed until I left for boarding school.
Black and white photographs of life on the ranch hung on the walls, all blown up and professionally framed. I’d seen a few of these pictures over the years, but not gallery-worthy, like this. I scanned the walls, overwhelmed.
Dad branding cattle; the first harvest right after I was born; horses feeding in the fields; Dad and Grandpa on horses and photographed from behind, looking over the land from the edge of the bench, taken at a time when I probably wasn’t but a dream in his head; my beautiful mother in a cowboy hat and collared shirt, head dipped and eyes down, a smile worth a million in ransom for the secrets it held, lighting her face. Then there was my favorite, which hung directly over my bed: Dad and Jed sitting high and proud on horseback, laughing at something while cows grazed in the background. Dad’s face, open and happy, his eyes crinkled in joy, Jed’s eyes dancing. His Native American features showed so prominently in the picture, like none other I’d seen, in photo or in person. He was in his early twenties at the time. I’d taken that picture myself. I was 10 years old.
Various pieces of my life sat atop a long dresser that matched the bed: A picture of my mother holding me, another of me atop Gwendolyn, my beloved horse. In the picture, I was about twelve. A crystal horseshoe trophy she and I had won at a show sat next to the picture. Next to the dresser along the wall was an antique mahogany vanity and framed mirror where, as a child, I would sit for hours and play dress-up in my mother’s old costumes and jewelry. The antique ebony hairbrush and mirror belonging to my grandmother sat alone atop the vanity table, the letter S for Sarah in raised sterling silver adorned the backs of both in curling script.
“Your dad spent a weekend going through some old boxes, found all these pictures, and, well…what do you think? Do you like them?”
“I’ll just, um…town…oh…” I covered my mouth with my hand. To be home, under these conditions, was overwhelming.
Jed turned me around and pressed my head to his chest. “Settle down, now, Dutch. I know it’s hard, but I think you need to be here. I need you here.” He tightened his hold and I sunk into the term of endearment he’d used since I was a child. “I need you with me. Settle in and let me know if you need anything. We’ll get through it together.” I nodded against his chest, relaxing into the familiar feel of him. “Want something stronger than coffee?”
“Oh, yes, I think so,” I laughed through a few remaining tears. “Scotch, please, if you have it.”
“Will whiskey do?”
“It’ll do fine, thank you.”
“Okay, take your time. Come down when you’re ready.” He kissed my forehead. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart.”
As the sound of Jed’s movements faded down the stairs, I let the tears come. Childhood memories came flooding back. The private times with girlfriends, lying across my bed on our stomachs talking about the cute boys in our homeschool co-op, or what those ‘loose’ girls who went to school in town were doing, and with whom, never imagining doing those things ourselves. The alone time I spent, planning my life before my father planned it for me—my hopes, my fears, my dreams—little-girl dreams, yes, but back then those dreams were sacred.
My mother died when I was two. Grace Tisdale was an accomplished stage actress, and her only film role brought her here to Montana, and my father. After winning a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for the role, she retired from acting and became a rancher’s wife. My father kept her alive in my mind with stories about their courtship, her career and her family. From those stories, I conjured up my own tales, fantasies in which she and I walked the land together in elaborate Western costumes. We’d allow handsome men to kiss our gloved hands and then we’d dance across the vast oak floors in the ballrooms of the fanciest homes. Old movies fueled my fantasies, and I saw my mother in every beautiful face on the screen. As the daughter of a beautiful woman and a rugged, ha
ndsome man, I knew my place in the world early on. I carried her loss for both of us; it was the least I could do.
I unpacked and slipped on a pair of old Levi’s and a cream sweater. I sat at the old vanity and stared at my reflection in the mirror and, as the years washed away, I was that little girl again; chestnut hair flying wild behind me as I ran through the fields, or rode a horse bareback, not a care in the world. One moment bled into the next back then, and I never wondered about the next day, only the day I was in. I removed my makeup and the woman I was reappeared: hair more auburn now, tamed, falling in neat waves that framed my face, hazel eyes that went green at random. Still wide-set, those eyes now held tiny wrinkles in the corners. Free and easy had been etched away, and what remained looked settled and weary. I picked up the ebony hairbrush, admiring its heft, its beauty and strength held in such an old piece. I recalled the nights when Maria stood behind me and ran the soft bristles through my hair until my head shined. I had been loved then.
I stared at the woman in the mirror, wondering where that girl went, the one who loved the land, who swore she’d never leave it…the girl without the lines around her mouth and her eyes, borne by a life of nothing special.
I made my way down the stairs, and did not miss the startled look on Jed’s face when I stepped off the landing and entered the kitchen. As looks went, I hadn’t been so thoroughly reviewed in years. Coming from him, I liked it—very much.
“This me?” I lifted the half-filled glass of brown liquid sitting on the table.
Jed nodded, unable to stop staring. “Want some ice?”
“I’ll get it.” I went to the freezer and took a handful of ice, feeling his eyes on me. He never noticed me in that way before, and I was unnerved that he was noticing me that way now—not so unnerved that I thought about asking him to stop. No. He was noticing me. Finally. I wanted to take a picture, write it down, preserve the memory. I may never get it back. All of these feelings, this run I was allowing to form in my head, felt altogether inappropriate days after my father’s passing, but I couldn’t help it. I was a live human woman, and I had been in love with Jed Brooks since I was five. I allowed myself this one small reprieve. I’d grow out of it by Sunday. I plopped three cubes into my whiskey.
