Susanne glanced into the backyard to check on Perry. He was lying on his back in the snow, waving his arms and legs. The goofball. She hadn’t seen Trish since Ben had left and wondered what she was up to. Best leave her be for now. Susanne predicted a long and serious mope over Ben’s departure.
Dian stood. “I guess I should be getting on the road.”
Susanne said, “But you just got here. Besides, what will you do in Billings for four days?”
“I have some good books with me. I know how to fill alone time.”
Esme cut a miniscule bite of pancake and dabbed it in the syrup. “What are we going to do here while the boys are up in the mountains?”
Good question. “There are some nice museums. And the scenery is beautiful. We could take a drive. Or, I don’t know, what do you like to do, Esme?”
“How is the shopping?”
Susanne put a hand to her mouth, glad her mirth was hidden behind the lower cabinets as she leaned down to put a plate in the dishwasher. “Limited. Buffalo is a very small town.”
“Denver is only a day away,” Esme said.
Footsteps in the kitchen drew Susanne’s attention. It was Trish, looking rough, her red eyes circled in black.
“It took me eight hours to drive up from there yesterday, with the storm,” Dian said. “But it’s a nice city. I’ve spent many nights and some weekends there between flights. Wonderful shopping and restaurants. And the views of the mountains are spectacular.”
“Like our views here.” Susanne felt a little defensive of her home.
“But with shopping and restaurants,” Esme said.
Trish grabbed a plate out of the cabinet. “Shopping?” She took a few pancakes off the stack that Susanne had accumulated with the last of the batter. Had she not eaten with Ben? “I need clothes.”
Esme brightened. “We should go to Denver for the weekend. Book a nice hotel with a pool and a spa. Eat good food. Shop. With the boys on this stag party, we could have ourselves a hen party.”
Susanne almost argued with Esme’s characterization. The weekend getaway wasn’t a bachelor party for Barry. It was men enjoying the winter wilderness. But it wasn’t worth the verbal jousting.
Trish sat next to her soon-to-be aunt. “Sounds good to me. What do you think, Mom?”
Susanne’s mind whirred with objections. “What would we do with Ferdie?”
“Marcy can keep him. I kept her pugs last time she went out of town. Can we go, please, Mom?”
As long as it’s not a hen party. She barely knew Esme. But it had been ages since she’d done something as self-indulgent as a whole weekend away with other women. She rarely spent time just with a group of them, other than once a year with Dian and her other high school friends. Which brought her up short.
She clutched the counter. “I’m supposed to be at a women’s club luncheon in an hour!”
Dian laughed. “You don’t do things like women’s club.”
Esme carried her plate to the sink. “While you’re gone, I can call and get us some hotel rooms and make a late dinner reservation in Denver.”
Susanne felt things rushing out of control. “I—”
“Are you coming, too, Dian?” Trish said.
Susanne was aghast for a moment. Barry’s ex-fiancée on a girls’ weekend with his new fiancée? What was Trish thinking? But then she remembered it was Perry she had told about Dian and Barry, not Trish. She winced, ready to step in.
But to her surprise, Esme echoed Trish. “Yes, Dian, won’t you come, too? You don’t have to be in Billings until Sunday night. We could leave for Denver early this afternoon, spend Friday and Saturday there, and drive back on Sunday morning. That would leave you time to get there, wouldn’t it?”
Dian shot Susanne a questioning glance. Susanne shrugged. If Esme wanted Dian there, and if Dian wanted to come, who was she to say it was a bad idea?
Dian winked. “I lied about bringing books. Billings will be a drag. Count me in for the hen party, girls.”
Trish whooped, seeming to forget about her broken heart. Susanne decided to put away her doubts. It would probably be just fine.
Chapter Ten: Pump
Buffalo, Wyoming
Thursday, December 29, 1977, 2:45 p.m.
George
George pocketed his change from the attendant at the gas station, but instead of leaving, he leaned one hip against the counter. The store was old and drafty, with sparse offerings on the shelves and only two things hanging on the walls, a poster featuring the iconic Wyoming bucking horse, Steamboat, and a neon Coca-Cola sign. The place had a funny smell to it, too. Molasses, like they’d been selling livestock feed, although he didn’t see any sign of it.
The cashier peered up at him from under long lashes, a splotchy blush creeping up her neck. She was freckled, with curly brown hair. And curvy. Very curvy. She couldn’t have looked more different than Lisa, but he didn’t discriminate. He liked all women.
“Did you need something else?” she asked.
“I was just wondering why I hadn’t met you before. I’d remember it if I did. My name’s George. George Nichols.”
The blush exploded across her cheeks, then faded away. “I’m Gina. Nice to meet you. I just moved here from Hulett.”
“Under the shadow of Devil’s Tower?”
“You know where it is?”
“Sure, I do. How do you like it here?”
“It’s nice, so far, but I don’t know very many people yet.”
George fished a pen out of a cup. “Well, you know one now. I live just north of here in Big Horn. Close enough to take the new girl in Buffalo for coffee at the Busy Bee, if she’ll give me her number.”
Gina looked up. She didn’t move for a few long seconds. Then she squeaked. “Me?”
He laughed. “If you don’t mind.” For a moment, doubt flickered. He’d been seeing Lisa. But it wasn’t like they were engaged. He’d just get Gina’s number, and, if things with Lisa didn’t work out, he’d give this cutie a call.
Two men walked in the store. He ignored them and kept his attention lasered on Gina.
“I—I’d like that.” She licked her lips.
“I need to write it down.” He waggled the pen.
“Right.” She printed out a blank section of cash register receipt and handed it to him.
“Ready when you are.”
She recited seven digits to him.
He wrote them down with her name and tucked the piece of paper in his wallet. Then he clicked the pen shut and returned it to the cup. “I’m heading up to Clear Creek Resort for a few days with my buddy to guide some snowmobile trips. When I get back to civilization, you just might hear from me.” He grinned at her.
Her face reddened like a traffic light. The girl wasn’t a poker player, that was for sure. “Have a good trip.” She hesitated, then added in a shy voice, “George.”
“And you have a nice weekend, Gina.” He made a motion like tipping a cowboy hat at her, even though he wasn’t wearing one, and he wasn’t a cowboy.
He opened the door, setting off a cluster of bear bells tied to it and whistling as he walked back to the truck. When he reached it, he unscrewed the gas cap and started the pump. A familiar truck pulled up at one of the other three pumps, kitty-corner across from him.
Dr. Flint and his son Perry hopped out and headed toward the store. Nice people. He’d done electrical work on their house last year. And he’d also gotten Perry and his sister off the mountain when Perry’s friend John had been killed up near Highland Park. George had brought the body down on his horse, Yeti, and delivered Trish and Perry to their mother while Patrick had gone back up the mountain to search for survivors from a plane crash.
He waved, but father and son were deep in conversation and didn’t notice George.
Abraham rapped his knuckles on the window.
George walked over to him. “What’s up?”
“We need to make haste.”
Abraham had a
funny way of expressing himself. Like he needed some air let out of his tires. “What?” George asked.
“My relations with someone in the station are not the best. I would like to leave before I am seen. If I haven’t been already.”
“I hear ya, buddy. Gina?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” He put the nozzle up and glanced in the store. Dr. Flint and Perry were at the counter. The two men who’d walked in when he was talking to Gina were still in there, too. He wondered which one Abraham had gotten sideways with and whether it was over a woman. With George, it was always about a woman. The thought made him chuckle. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
He hopped in his truck and pointed it toward Highway 16 and the mountains.
Chapter Eleven: Belong
Buffalo, Wyoming
Thursday, December 29, 1977, 3:00 p.m.
Perry
Perry squared his shoulders and stretched upward. Standing beside his dad, he felt like his head reached higher up his dad’s body lately. Almost to his shoulder. He knew he’d been growing because his jeans were getting too short. The spurt couldn’t come a minute too soon, either. He’d been second string wide receiver on the football team last season. His hands were plenty good enough to start next year. What he needed before then was height. Height, plus a better vertical jump. At least his size didn’t affect his skiing. The slopes at Meadowlark Ski Lodge had just opened for the winter, and his dad had promised they would go next weekend.
This weekend was all about hanging out with the guys and doing cool things, so Perry didn’t mind.
“Ten dollars of regular on pump one, please.” His dad handed the woman behind the counter a twenty-dollar bill.
The woman nodded, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. She was watching someone or something outside the store. Perry followed her gaze and saw George Nichols pumping gas. He almost snickered. George was popular with the ladies, from what he could tell. His white-blond hair curled just a little over his ears and at his neck and he had blue eyes like a Siberian husky. Perry had blond hair and blue eyes, like George. Maybe when he grew a few inches he’d be a lady killer, too. George leaned into his truck and said a few words to someone, then got in, shut the door, and drove away, pulling a trailer with two snowmobiles behind him.
Perry’s eyes wandered back into the store. Two dark haired, bearded men were standing in the rear of it beside a carousel of maps, looking at one they’d spread out and were balancing in the air between them. Something about them seemed unusual. Perry watched them, trying to figure out what it was, probably a little longer than was polite. It wasn’t like he never saw people with dark hair and beards around Buffalo. Beards were practically required in the winter. It was the way these two were dressed that made them different. Bell bottom jeans with rectangular denim patches, shiny shirts with big lapels, and corduroy jackets. They were stylish. Trish’s old boyfriend Brandon dressed like that, but nobody else around here did.
One of the men stabbed at the map with his middle finger, the impolite one. He said something, but Perry couldn’t understand him, either because his voice was too low, or maybe because he wasn’t speaking English. Maybe both—Perry couldn’t be sure.
The man glanced up and caught Perry staring. He whispered to the other guy, who glared at Perry. Perry turned his head away quickly and pretended to be interested in a display of chewing gum by the cash register.
The woman was still fumbling with the cash drawer. How long did it take to put up a twenty and take out a ten anyway?
Suddenly, one of the men stepped between Perry and his dad. “How do you get to Clear Creek Resort?” he asked the cashier. He definitely had some kind of foreign accent.
Her eyes made big Os. “Um, I don’t know. I’m new in town.”
Perry’s dad said, “Straight west on Highway 16. It’s right off the road about ten miles from town. You can’t miss it. In fact, that’s where we’re headed. Are you part of Dr. John’s group?”
The man shook his head. “No.” He backed away and rejoined his friend without so much as a thank you.
Rude.
“Here’s your change, sir,” the cashier said.
Finally.
“Much appreciated.” His dad took a used paperback from a trucker book exchange on the counter. Centennial by James Michener. He was always carrying a book around, but Perry never saw him reading one.
His dad smiled down at him, and together they walked back to the pumps.
“Where do you think that guy was from?” Perry asked.
“In the station? I don’t know, son.” His dad started the pump, took off the gas cap, and put the nozzle into the tank. Perry could smell the slightly sweet odor of the gasoline. “Maybe he was Basque?”
Perry remembered Rosa Mendoza from the O Bar M saying, “Bai” instead of yes. “I don’t think so. I heard him talking to his friend. Not in English.”
“Spanish?”
Perry mulled the idea over. The guys could have been Mexican. But he’d heard lots of Spanish in Texas. That wasn’t Spanish. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s a big world, buddy. Lots of countries, lots of languages. And people like to come here. Especially to see Yellowstone and the Old Faithful geyser.”
“But it’s winter.”
“Plenty to do and see in the winter, too.”
Perry thought about that for a second. He’d only ever been in the United States. People spoke English here, mostly. But he was okay with that. The United States was great, and Wyoming was the coolest place on Earth. People traveled from all over the world to see it. And it was fun in the winter. If he didn’t already live here, and he got a chance to come in the winter, he’d take it. Which made him think about everything they were going to do this weekend.
“Can I drive my own snowmobile, Dad?”
Patrick laughed. “Would you like that?”
“Would I ever!”
“We’ll see. Is that what you’re most excited about?”
Perry gave the question serious consideration. He was most excited about being one of the guys. But he’d sound like a dork if he said that. “Yeah, probably so.”
Uncle Barry rolled down his window. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a ride to Clear Creek Resort around here? I’m ready to get to this stag party.”
The expression didn’t make sense to Perry. “We’re not going hunting.”
His dad laughed. “A stag party is a bachelor party. For a man who’s getting married.”
“I thought a stag was a buck.”
“It is. Although, technically, stag is usually the name for the biggest buck with the largest antlers in a group of bucks.”
“Is that the oldest buck? Like the one with the most points?” Perry had seen bucks with everything from one thin antler on each side of its head—called a “spike”—to five points on each side of a rack that was an inch around.
“Well, the size of antlers is partially a function of age. They grow bigger every year until a buck gets old and then they start to lose their size. But mostly size and number of points are about diet and heredity.”
Uncle Barry gave a crooked grin. “Exactly. Good breeding. We’re a group of bucks, and I have the biggest antlers.”
His dad harrumphed, but in a joking way. “I guess we’ll see who proves that by the end of the weekend.”
“Sounds like you have a contest in mind?”
Perry loved contests. “I want to play.”
The gas pump turned itself off at ten dollars, and his dad put the nozzle up. Perry screwed the gas cap back on. The stylish, dark-haired men walked out of the gas station toward the other side of the pump.
His dad grabbed a paper towel from a dispenser and wiped his hands. “Bucks often fight to the death, you know.”
Uncle Barry said, “I was thinking of something a little less permanent.”
“We’ll know when we know.”
Uncle Barry shook his head. “Perry, have
I told you before that your father is a quack?” Perry laughed. He liked it when Uncle Barry and his dad joked around. “Seriously, Patrick, do you know whether they have beer up there?”
Beer. Never mind that he was too young to drink it. Perry was going on a guys’ trip. And there’d be a contest for biggest buck in the group. With beer. It sounded awesome. Then he noticed the man who had glared at him in the store. This time he was glaring at Uncle Barry as he climbed into his car. Not a truck, Perry noticed. But a green car. A sedan as fancy as their clothes.
His dad frowned. “I hadn’t even thought about it. Want to stop at the liquor store on the way out of town, just in case?”
“Do bears sh- I mean poop in the woods?”
The sedan engine started, its engine revved, and its tires squealed as it pulled out of the station.
Perry chortled. This was going to be the best weekend ever.
Chapter Twelve: Ready
Clear Creek Resort, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Thursday, December 29, 1977, 3:30 p.m.
George
“We’re expecting a full house this weekend. And your group will be pretty big.” Debbie Murray scooped another shovel load of snow. The owner of Clear Creek Resort, she was a brunette in her forties with big dimples in both cheeks, and not one to shy away from work. “Dr. John hosts this party every year.” Another shovelful. “People from all over the world, important people. Ones he met at Yale, in the Navy, in medical school, and, of course, around here. Most of these folks are used to the very best of everything.” Another shovelful. “And this is our first year with the snow machines.” She paused to catch her breath. “We’re counting on you to give them the experience of a lifetime, safely.”
Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 7
