***
Forty minutes later and I’m exhausted. My feet hurt, I’m desperate for a drink, and my anger still hasn’t subsided. Not even the lulling trickle of the flowing river eases my mind. In fact, I think I’m even more angry now than I was.
Tripp’s words continue to replay over and over in my head like a broken record. My past is no joking matter. I know what I did. The whole damn town knows what I did. I don’t need him reminding me of just how badly I messed everything up.
He’s such a dick. He hasn’t always been, though. Tripp and I used to be so close. We weren’t just brother and sister; we were best friends. Twins. The same damn person. I used to tell Tripp everything. I’d confide in him. Hell, he was the one I told when I first got my period. He had no idea what to do, of course, but he gave me his flannel shirt to tie around my waist when it had unfortunately made its appearance while I was at school wearing a white jean skirt. He accompanied me to the school nurse. He even went in and bought my first box of Tampax from Gordon’s Grocery after school that day because I was too embarrassed, and I was terrified Mrs. Gordon was going to make a big deal out of it in front of the entire store.
Once upon a time, mine and Tripp’s bond was unbreakable. But then a boy with green eyes and dimples inadvertently came between us. After Colt, our relationship changed. And, ever since, Tripp and I have never been the same.
I huff an exasperated sigh, stopping for a breather and looking out over the river, to the thick forest of trees on the other side, the snow-capped mountains looming high up into the clouded sky in the distance. I take a seat, pulling at a long weed, smiling fondly as I remember back to when we were kids, when we used to swim in this very river when the summer sun perched itself high up in the hazy August sky. Just Cash, Tripp, and me. Before our mother’s sadness. Before Colt became a permanent fixture in all of our lives. Before the ranch started to take over the boys’ lives. Before dreams of a whole other life started to take over mine. Those were the days. God, I miss them.
I’m pulled abruptly from the fondness of my reverie by the sound of rustling leaves coming from the bushes on the other side of the water, and when I hear the distinct sound of a growl, my heart leaps up into the back of my throat when I realize I’m suddenly no longer alone.
I stay as still as I can, despite my fight-or-flight responses battling deep down inside of me. My mind tells me to calm down, that it’s probably just a curious raccoon, but my gut tells me to get the hell out of here, and that that curious raccoon is more likely to be a damn grizzly bear, hungry for lunch.
When I hear another growl, and the sound of a twig snapping followed by more rustling, I make my way to my feet, my trembling hands brushing down the back of my jeans. My eyes flit from side to side, searching the darkness of the forest. And then I see it. Or, them, rather. One wiry gray wolf, followed by another, their steely eyes glaring at me from across the river, each of them baring their teeth with a threatening snarl.
Shit.
I take one careful step back, praying I don’t trip on a rock, not once breaking eye contact. But then, to my left, another wolf, black as night with flaming amber eyes, comes from out of nowhere, braving the shallows of the water and edging closer and closer, snapping its jaw violently as one of the grays lets out an almighty howl that rings through the air.
Growing up on the ranch I’ve encountered a plethora of dangerous animals in my time. Rattlers, cougars, bears, even wolves. But never on my own. And never so unprepared. I don’t even have my pepper spray. It’s in my handbag, in Cash’s truck. And I suddenly blame Tripp. I’m going to die. And it’ll be all his fault.
The two grays have followed the leader of their pack, and are now on my side of the river. A little more hesitant than the black dog, but still taunting me, intimidating me with the occasional glimpse of their sharp teeth. I keep a steady gaze on all three of them as they edge closer and closer. If I stay, I’ll be mauled to death. If I turn and run, the wolves can run faster. I’m as good as dead.
In the flash of an instant, my life doesn’t fly before my eyes like they say it does. In fact, my mind is blank, eerily so. It’s a strange feeling. Blank, nothingness, accompanied by the deafening sound of my heartbeat whooshing in my ears. But just as I’m about ready to admit defeat, my father’s voice comes into the nothingness in my head, and he reminds me of who I am. A Wagner. Relentless. Stubborn. And strong-willed. And I know at that moment that I have to fight, that, in some weird way, maybe he’s here with me, ready to go into battle with me. So, with everything I have, I have to fight if it’s the last thing I do.
I take a deep, heaving breath. It rattles through me. I glance from one wolf to the others, mentally psyching myself up, preparing myself for what? I don’t even know. My left leg shakes as I silently count one, two, three, and with another deep breath on the fourth count, I let out the most feral, ferocious, intimidating sound that I can muster from deep down in the pit of my belly, turning on the ball of my foot before taking off as fast as I can.
But then, suddenly everything falls silent in the wake of the sound of a gunshot erupting throughout the stillness of the valley like an almighty explosion.
I stop.
The wolves stop.
Everything stops.
Chapter 7
Am I dead?
Is this what death feels like?
I gasp for a breath, feeling the air fill my lungs.
I’m not dead.
I turn quickly, frantically searching for the wolves, but with a few yelps and howls, I see the hint of a bushy black tail disappearing into the shadows of the thicket of trees across the river. I clutch at my thundering chest, looking out at the fields, searching, which is when I see a horse galloping furiously toward me from the distance, a familiar figure mounted upon its back, rifle in hand, propped in the air, the barrel still smoking.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Colt yells, his voice booming.
He doesn’t even wait for an answer before jumping down from the saddle, stalking past me to check the coast is clear of the dogs. Without warning, he lets off another shot, and I cower, covering my ears with my trembling hands as the eruption ricochets through the air.
“You can’t be out here, Quinn!” He comes rushing back to me, his eyes full of concern as they study me, looking closely for any sign of injury, and something about his concern comforts me. He still cares about me. At least enough not to want to see me eaten by wolves.
A big, strong hand grasps my shoulder. “You all right?”
Through gasping breath I manage a nod, although my heart screams no. No, I’m not all right. I almost died!
Colt exhales a ragged breath, taking another careful look around, his hand still resting upon my shoulder. But just as I’m thinking about how warm and contradicting his gentle touch is, it’s as if he’s realized too. He removes his hand quickly and obviously, stepping away from me as silence settles heavy and thick between us.
I take the chance to look at him. Really look at him. From head to toe. Scuffed riding boots. Jeans that look as if they were made to fit only him, pulling perfectly in all the right areas. A flannel shirt that skims his strong upper body and tightens ever so slightly over his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Huh. Tattoos. Covering the majority of both arms. He was never one for tattoos before. I can’t help but wonder what changed over the years.
He removes his Stetson, wiping at his sweat-beaded brow with his shirtsleeve, before replacing the hat again, dipping it low to shield his gaze from the muted light of the afternoon.
“What?” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, his jaw clenching momentarily.
I avert my gaze. “You keep saving me.”
“Well, stop getting your stupid ass into shitty situations and you won’t need no damn saving,” he says matter-of-factly, his voice deep and gruff and brutally honest.
Touché.
He turns to me, clearing his throa
t. “C’mon. I’ll walk you the rest of the way back to the house.”
I follow him to his horse. Instead of pulling himself up into the saddle, he grabs the reins and begins to walk the buckskin, glancing over his shoulder at me to check I’m following. And I do. I don’t need a repeat of last night. I’m not drunk. And I also don’t want to see what happens if those wolves come back.
We walk in silence for a while. Neither of us speaking. And it’s an uncomfortable silence, awkward and thick with an obvious tension that makes me nervously crack my knuckles. I stare intently at the ground, but every so often I see him glancing at me in my periphery, although he pretends to be looking out over the paddocks, to the fields in the distance, I can feel his eyes on me; his gaze penetrating and palpable, and so familiar.
“I’m sorry about Royal …”
I snap my head up then, finding him staring straight ahead into the distance, sincerity in his eyes.
I swallow the sudden emotion balling at the back of my throat, considering my response, but what am I supposed to say to that? Thanks? Me too? It all seems so pointless. Pointless words void of any true meaning, just spoken for the sake of it.
“You okay?” he asks.
I think for a moment, before answering, “No. Not really.”
I stare out at the mountains as memories of my father come flooding back to me, all the times he took me out on his horse, showing me every last corner of this land, telling me that one day it would all be mine and my brothers’. And now it is. But I’d give it up in a heartbeat if I could just have him back.
I sigh in resignation, forcing myself back to the now. “I’m sorry you had to see it.”
Colt shrugs a shoulder as if it’s no big deal, but it is a big deal. It’s a huge deal. He was the last person to see my father alive. He heard his last words. Witnessed his final breath. As terrifying as that moment would have been, I’ve never been more envious of someone before. But I don’t press him, and he says nothing more as we continue ahead, consumed by that same overwrought silence.
“So you’re still here working at the ranch, huh?” I ask with a small smile, in the hope of lightening the heavy air between us.
“Yep,” is all I receive in response.
I press my lips together, considering another approach. “Do you still ride?”
“Not after the accident.” He’s just as short this time, but only now there’s a sadness in his eyes and I really wish I hadn’t brought it up.
Of course he isn’t competing in rodeos anymore, you idiot. He’s lucky to be alive. I mentally facepalm.
“How are you?” I ask after a few beats, as soft as I can. “After … the accident, I mean.”
Colt just shakes his head, his jaw clenching to the point of painful. “Ain’t none of your concern no more, Quinny.”
I look down to the ground, raking my teeth over my bottom lip. I guess I deserve his hostility after what I did. This man loved me with all he had, and I broke his heart. But his obvious disdain toward me hurts more than I think I could have ever been prepared for.
My memory wanders back to that night, a few months after the wedding. I was up late, or early, studying for an economics final. It was after two in the morning when I got the phone call from my father telling me that Colt had wrapped his truck around the trunk of a fir out off Old Prairie Road. I remember sitting in my dorm in a heap on the floor, staring at the study notes I’d pinned to my wall, tears streaming down my face. It felt as if someone had literally ripped my heart right out of my chest while it was still beating, showing it to me while violently squeezing the life out of it. I was empty and void, and devastated because I’d lost the love of my life before I had the chance to go home to tell him that I’d made a mistake, that I loved him, that New York wasn’t my dream, and that a happy-ever-after with him was. But I was too late.
I release a trembling sigh at that memory, watching as Colt leads the way. I study the way his strong shoulders look as if they have so much resting upon them. The way he drags his feet a little, his limp painful and obvious, a constant reminder of everything he lost. The way his head seems to be forever bowed, tilted downward, like he can’t be bothered keeping his chin held high like he used to. He just seems so defeated. It’s a heartbreaking sight to see; a stark contrast to the confident, slightly cocky young cowboy I remember him to be.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask despite my reluctance.
He scoffs, shaking his head. “What do you wanna ask me, Quinn?” He releases a frustrated sigh, and when he steadies me with a hard gaze, I find his eyes are dark and cold, nothing like how I remember them. “What?” he continues. “You wanna know how I’ve been doing? What I’ve been up to? What my life’s been like for the last ten years? You wanna catch up on old times?” His tone is mocking, and I avert my eyes, looking down at my hands.
And I know I should just keep my mouth shut, but I can’t help myself. My voice seems to have a mind of its own. “Do you ever wonder how different things would be right now if I … if I never left?”
“Nope.” His answer is curt and definitive. And it hurts. A crease pulls between his brows. I know he could say a lot more. But he doesn’t.
“I do …” I admit quietly under my breath in the hope he doesn’t hear me.
Colt stops suddenly.
Oh, he heard me all right. In fact my words affect him so much that he stumbles ever so slightly, but he tries to cover his misstep with taking a better hold of the mare, as if it were her fault, smoothing his hand down over her nose. And, although his face remains impassive, his jaw tight, it’s his eyes that give him away, blazing beneath the muted light of the afternoon sun hidden behind thick, gray clouds.
“God damn you, Quinny,” he hisses through a tightly gritted jaw.
I gape at his words.
Cursing under his breath, Colt pulls himself up onto the horse, shaking his head and muttering a string of curse words under his breath.
Panic begins to settle low in my belly. “W-what … Where are you going?” I stammer.
“You can make it the rest of the way.” He grabs the reins, and without so much as a fleeting glance in my general direction, he presses the heels of his boots into the sides of his horse, forcing her to pick up to a slow trot.
I furtively look around at the wide-open field around me. I’m still at least a good mile from the house. I’m a sitting duck. “B-but … what if the wolves come back?”
“They ain’t comin’ back.”
“What if they do?” I cry out to Colt as the horse picks up speed.
“Run!” he yells over his shoulder, before hissing loudly, the mare tearing off into the distance, leaving me all alone with nothing but the memory of my past regrets, and the fear of wild dogs eating me alive, to keep me company.
***
By the time I make it back to the house I’m a dirty, breathless mess.
Shelby is standing next to a proper-looking lady, holding a big vase of orchids, and she does an almost comical double take of me, her eyes widening as she stares down at the big mud stain covering the front of my sweater.
She gasps. “What on earth happened to you?”
“Don’t ask,” I mutter through gritted teeth, continuing to the front steps.
“Quinn, this is Julie.” Shelby stops me, gently tugging on my sleeve. I turn to see the proper-looking woman holding out a perfectly manicured hand. “Julie works with Mr. Jenson at the funeral home. She’s here setting up … for tomorrow.”
At the mention of tomorrow, my shoulders fall and a knot tightens in my belly. But I quickly close the gap, shaking Julie’s proffered hand.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” Julie bows her head, and I can tell she’s well versed in what to say and how to act in such a situation.
“Thank you.” I manage a small smile at the woman.
“I’ll be upstairs, cleaning myself up,” I say to Shelby. And with a polite nod to Julie, I turn and continue up the stairs and into
the house, which is when I’m hit by the overpowering fragrance of the fresh flowers that appear to be placed all through the downstairs living area.
I stop, looking out over the sprawling great room as sadness consumes me. The place looks like a damn botanical garden, and I can’t help but shake my head. My father wouldn’t want pretty flowers and a woman like Julie organizing fancy hors d’oeuvres and black-tie servers. He’d want a bottle of whiskey, and some football game playing on a muted television, to the tune of Bob Dylan’s greatest hits. But, who am I to have a say?
I sigh in resignation, turning and heading for the stairs.
When I get to my bedroom, I take a breath for what feels like the first time in forever. Resting my head back against the closed door, I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, collecting myself. I’m still shaken by the disdain in Colt’s eyes, the way he looked at me before riding off on his horse, leaving me all alone, literally thrown to the wolves. It hurts to see him the way that he is now. He’s changed so much from the cocky go-getter he was when we were kids, to the brooding, sullen shell of the man he is now. It breaks my heart. Am I to blame for the demise of Colt Henry, or is there more to his change than just me?
Pushing my hair back from my face, I continue through to my bathroom, stopping on my way to kick off my ruined Gucci sneakers. Tripp can replace them. And my cashmere sweater. Dick.
I spend at least twenty minutes in the hot, steaming shower, trying so hard to scrub the guilt and the shame off my skin. But it’s no use. It doesn’t budge. All I keep thinking about is Colt. The sadness in his eyes that were once so vibrant and full of determination. He’s half the man I remember him to be, and I hate that I played a part in beating him down to what he is now. I know what I did was inexplicably wrong. I wish I could take it back. With everything I have, I wish I could go back and change it all. But it’s been ten years. So much can change in ten years. I’m a different person.
Sweet Home Montana Page 7
