Montana Dreaming

by Nadia Nichols

  “A day or two. Do you think in a day or two we might make amends?”

  Jessie wrapped the cut lengths of twine into separate balls and stuffed them in her pocket. She closed her knife, packed the spool of twine in the saddlebag and glanced in his general direction. “I don’t know,” she said. “But at least we’ll be warm and well fed while we hash things out.” She stood. “I’m leaving my rifle with you. The senator’s gun is lying right beside him. I’ll take that with me and find his campsite. Bound to be a whole lot of comfortable stuff there that we could use.”

  “Jess, we don’t need much. Stay here. As long as we have each other, we’ll be okay.”

  “We’d be a lot more okay if we had more water and a tarp. He probably has at least that much, and enough gourmet senator food to feed us for a month. I’ll be back as soon as I can. There’s plenty of wood. Keep the home fires burning.”

  “Jess?”

  She turned back. He was looking at her with an expression she had never seen and she felt a pang. She nodded. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

  HE HAD KISSED HER. Steven Brown, the Indian lawyer. The man who shared her passion for protecting the environment, who shared her vision of the future for the land she loved and who had led her safely through the hottest of fires while he himself had run to Alaska and hidden from the memory of her cruel words.

  Steven Brown had kissed her, and she had described his kiss as sweet. Sweet! How did one quantify such a description? It didn’t sound all that dangerous, but nonetheless he had kissed her and she had allowed him to kiss her, and such a thing was very threatening from his own perspective.

  Guthrie lay with his shoulders propped against the fallen log and let his thoughts wander. He felt all right, really, much stronger than he had. The soup had helped, and she had given him something for the pain, something strong enough to put a dull, fuzzy spin on things and push back the feeling that things were hopeless and dark. He felt that he might live after all, and if he and Jess were stranded out here for a couple more days, maybe it would make a difference. Maybe it would change things between them, soften the hard edges, weaken the barriers they had both built to protect themselves from hurt.

  Or maybe not. Maybe she closed her eyes and dreamed of a different man. Could he really blame her? He had been wrong to doubt her, to question her decisions at a time when she so desperately needed emotional support. She had every right to seek out the company of another, for he had offered her nothing but arguments and unasked for advice.

  Steven Brown. Guthrie felt a twist of pain deep inside himself and he wasn’t sure if it was because a horse had rolled over on top of him or because he feared losing Jessie to another man.

  THE SECONDS, the minutes, the hours passed with such agonizing slowness that Joe Nash was sure he was going to have a nervous breakdown before this day was through. McCutcheon wanted to eat lunch in the prettiest spot on the ranch. And where might that be?

  “Near the line camp on Piney Creek. It’s up in a high valley, the mountains ring it and it’s one of the prettiest spots in all of Montana,” he responded.

  So he flew McCutcheon to that pretty valley that he now owned and he set the JetRanger down gently in deference to its previous insult. They ate lunch sitting on the banks of Piney Creek, or at least McCutcheon did. Joe had no appetite. He was dwelling on bears and bodies and brush piles and was so obsessed with feelings of impending doom that he could hardly swallow two bites of the ham sandwich that McCutcheon handed him.

  “What a day,” McCutcheon rhapsodized. He raised a bottle of iced tea to wash his sandwich down. “What’s wrong? Don’t like ham?”

  “It’s fine. I’m just not hungry.”

  “You’ve been kind of quiet today,” McCutcheon observed.

  “Guess I’m not feeling up to snuff.” Joe wished the inquisition would end. There was something unnerving about McCutcheon’s questions. A sudden inspiration struck him. “And neither is the chopper.”

  “Huh?” McCutcheon lowered his sandwich and raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you felt those funny rotations during landing?”

  “No.”

  “There’s something not quite right with the tail rotor.”

  “Really?”

  “See, the tail rotor keeps the chopper from spinning in circles due to the torque of the main prop. It’s pretty important when you’re flying.”

  “And you think it might be malfunctioning?”

  Joe nodded. “It happens, sometimes with catastrophic results.”

  “Huh.” McCutcheon lifted his bottle of iced tea. “Maybe tomorrow you should have your mechanic look into it.”

  Joe glanced at the older man, perplexed. His feeling of uneasiness grew. He held the thick ham sandwich in a hand that came perilously close to shaking and stared out at a heart-clenching beauty he did not see. McCutcheon knew! He was sure of it! Somehow he knew about the senator. About the illegal hunt. About what Joe had seen. The brush pile. That big goddam pile of brush! Something inside him snapped. He had to tell what he knew. He couldn’t keep it bottled up a moment longer.

  “Look!” he blurted, and at the same time there was a loud burst of static behind them where the chopper sat. The radio crackled to life and a man’s gruff voice droned unintelligibly. Joe leaped up and brushed off his trousers with one hand, still holding the ham sandwich in the other. His entire body thrummed with tension. “That’s my boss. I better go see what he wants.”

  He trotted to the chopper, weak with relief at his reprieve until he heard what Boss was saying. He listened to another full transmission before putting on his headset and responding. He keyed the mike. “Ah, yeah, I copy that.”

  McCutcheon was approaching, but he couldn’t have heard what Boss had just said, what had just passed between them. Joe sat in absolute stillness for a few moments, immobilized by utter despair.

  “What is it?” McCutcheon asked, looking as cool and calm as a frigid nun on a Monday morning.

  Joe shrugged. “He’s wondering why I haven’t called in. He’s a little pissed off. I guess Comstock’s waiting back at the Weaver ranch for me to pick him up. Seems there’s another missing person to search for.”

  “No kidding. Did he say who?”

  Joe shook his head. He flung the ham sandwich as far as he could and then fumbled in his pocket for another stick of gum. “No,” he said, unwrapping it. “No, he didn’t. But I have a pretty good idea. Get in, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  FINDING THE SENATOR’S camping place wasn’t hard, and Jessie had been right. There was enough food and comfort to keep a man in good shape for a long time. She bundled most of it into a tarp, then twisted the tarp up and slung the heavy load over her shoulder. Going back would be slower, especially down that steep stretch of rock. Harder, too, because she would have to grip the tarp in her good hand and carry the senator’s rifle in her weak hand. If the bear showed up, she’d be at a distinct disadvantage.

  She had passed very near the kill site on her way to the senator’s camp, and she nodded when she saw that it was the black mare, Coaly, or what was left of her. Just as she had thought. So she had lost two good horses to this bear, though she could hardly blame the bear for either loss. The bear was just being a bear. Perhaps the senator was just being a man. Perhaps it was in all men to kill, not just to eat, but for sheer pleasure of it. For the ultimate and egotistical domination of another living creature.

  No, that couldn’t be. Guthrie wasn’t like that. He’d kill a bear if he had to, and he’d shoot to put meat on the table, but he would never set out to do what the senator had. Not all men killed for the blood sport of it. There were some who understood how the pieces of the puzzle fit together, how nature worked.

  Jessie paused to rest. She laid the bundle down and flexed her shoulders. Already the sun was westering. How had the day passed so quickly? And where was Joe Nash? Had Billy made it back to the ranch? He liked his oats awfully well, and
knew that they were dished out about this time of an afternoon.

  She didn’t rest long. The shadows were lengthening; the daylight hours were growing short. She hefted the awkward bundle and carefully negotiated the downward slope of rock, slipping once and landing painfully on her behind but not losing her grip on either the precious bundle or the senator’s heavy rifle.

  Past the dead senator again, her eyes carefully averted; a painful glance at Kestrel, that beautiful mare; then back into the woods, the darkness closing around her like a cloak. She caught the tang of wood smoke in the cooling air, then spotted the flickering fire, and Guthrie lying beside it, waiting for her.

  She let her burdens fall to the ground near the fire and dropped beside them with a weary moan, easing a cramp in the small of her back.

  “How’d you make out?” Guthrie said.

  “Good.” Jessie flexed her bad hand. Her arm ached abysmally. “Got a tarp, two blankets, lots of food and a gallon or so of water.”

  “So what did the senator eat?”

  Jessie glanced at him. “Strange stuff, if you ask me. Vienna sausage, franks-and-beans in tomato sauce, SpaghettiOs, Spam, canned brown bread and, thank the Lord, Colombian coffee.”

  “He must have had a cooler. Meat. Beer. Stuff like that.”

  “I didn’t see one.”

  “Did you find the tree stand?”

  “No.”

  “That’s where all the good stuff would be stashed. Up in the tree stand, where the bear couldn’t get at it,” Guthrie said.

  Jessie cradled her aching arm on her raised knee and glared at him. “Well, I didn’t find the tree stand! And you want to know something else? I didn’t look for it. If you think you could’ve done better you should’ve gone yourself. Lord knows you’re a whole lot smarter than me!”

  Guthrie gazed at her for a long moment and then he shook his head in defeat. “If I were the least bit smart I wouldn’t be lying here thinking about all the things I did wrong that hurt you. I wouldn’t be regretting all the stupid things I’ve said. If I were the least bit smart I wouldn’t have done or said any of them.” He shook his head again, wearily. “I’m not smart, Jess. I’m so dumb I keep doing the same old things over and over that get your dander up, and that just makes me not only dumb but crazy, because all I want is for us to be on good terms again, and it just seems so plain damn hopeless.”

  Jessie pushed slowly to her feet, gathered an armload of wood and laid it near the fire. She untied the tarp, unloaded its contents and then dropped it over a long pole lashed at shoulder height between two spruce. With the lengths of twine in her pocket she tied it off to form a lean-to over their campsite. She opened a tin of franks-and-beans and set it on the coals at the edge of the fire to heat, filled the billy can with water for a pot of coffee, tucked another blanket around Guthrie and then stretched next to him. “I’m tired,” she said, staring up through the spruce branches at the darkening sky and feeling as if she were floating. “I’m so tired I can’t think.”

  Guthrie shifted onto one elbow, took the blanket she’d laid over him and adjusted it as best he could over her. “Sleep, then,” he said. “I’ll let you know when the beans start to burn.”

  “Guthrie?” She pulled the wool blanket up to her chin and drew a long breath. She reached out and took his hand in hers. “I guess if you’re dumb and crazy, so am I. Because in spite of all the dumb, crazy things that have happened between us, the thing is… What I mean to say is, I still feel… I mean, I still think…” She felt him squeeze her hand reassuringly in his big grip and she squeezed back, her eyes stinging. She drew his hand to her cheek and pressed it there. “What I’m trying to say is, I guess hell will be a glacier before I ever quit you.”

  COMSTOCK WONDERED what was taking Joe Nash so long. He imagined all sorts of dark scenarios while he waited, for he hated to wait on anything, anywhere, anyhow, and time stretched itself out in a mean way when people’s lives hung in the balance. When he finally heard the chopper he was sure he’d aged another five years, and had given long and sober considerations to Ellie’s recent and compelling argument that he retire.

  He stood on the ranch-house porch and watched the chopper approach. Badger and Charlie came out to join him, along with McCutcheon’s lawyer, Steven Brown, who had arrived at the ranch shortly after lunchtime with some insurance papers for McCutcheon to review. Jessie’s cow dog whined deep in her throat as the big whirling machine set down between the pole barn and the house.

  McCutcheon levered himself awkwardly out of the JetRanger and hobbled stiffly to the base of the porch steps as Comstock descended them. “Joe told me everything about the senator and the grizzly,” he said. “The senator’s still up there. Any sign of Jessie and Guthrie?”

  “Jessie’s horse came back here an hour or so ago,” Comstock replied. “There was a note wrapped around the saddle horn. Said that Guthrie had been hurt pretty bad and that Joe would know right where they were.”

  McCutcheon leaned on his crutch, visibly shocked. “Is Jessie all right? Did she mention seeing the senator anywhere?” he said as Comstock headed for the chopper. The warden paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “The note said that the senator was dead. I’ve radioed for the state police.”

  McCutcheon’s lawyer followed on his heels and as he reached the chopper he spoke loud enough to be heard over the idling rotors. “Like some help?” he said. Comstock regarded him for a brief moment, appreciating the man’s powerful build and calm demeanor. He nodded curtly.

  “Never refused it when it was offered,” he said.

  Comstock climbed in beside Joe. “Joe Nash, Steven Brown.”

  “Young Bear,” the lawyer corrected, settling himself in the back seat. “Steven Young Bear.” Comstock glanced over his shoulder at the Indian, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “My tribal name,” he said, his dark eyes revealing nothing. Comstock nodded and faced front again.

  “Seems that lately we’ve been doing an awful lot flying together, Joe,” he said, buckling himself in.

  Joe’s mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes but couldn’t hide the haggard lines on his face. “Yeah,” he said. “We sure have.”

  “The senator’s dead, Joe. Take me to where you left him,” Comstock said. “I guess we’ll find Jessie and Guthrie right close by.”

  Joe sat for a few moments and then shifted in his seat. He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, nodded and throttled up the chopper. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess we will.”

  GUTHRIE THOUGHT that he could stay like this forever, watching Jessie sleep. She looked so peaceful, so beautiful lying next to him. So close he could hear her soft breathing. Close enough that he could reach out and brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead, adjust the blanket that covered her. They were nearer now than they’d been in many months…and yet just as far apart. She’d said she’d never quit him, but what exactly did that mean? Friends never quit each other, either, so she hadn’t been promising undying love, just the steady loyalty of a good friend. Perhaps that was all they could ever have together. Friendship. A chance meeting in the Longhorn every now and then—painful encounters that wrenched both of them and left them feeling bereft and miserable and unbearably lonely.

  Perhaps that was all the future held.

  Or maybe… Maybe she’d meant something more. Maybe she’d finally forgiven him for quitting her when she needed him the most.

  “Jess,” he said, his voice a mere whisper, scarcely louder than the crackle of the wood fire, the wind through the trees. He smoothed the hair from her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned in denial. “Jess!” he said again.

  “No, please, I’m so tired,” she murmured, not opening her eyes. “Let me sleep.”

  “The beans are burning. And I hear something. Sounds like a helicopter.”

  Her eyes shot open and she sat up so suddenly that she lost her balance and reached out for him impulsively. His hand gripped hers. “Oh, God!” she said, staring at him
wide-eyed. “I hear it, too!” She pushed the blanket back, loosed his hand and scrambled to her feet. She grabbed a big handful of evergreen boughs from the stack she’d made and tossed them on the fire. Thick smoke billowed upward. “It’s Joe!” She glanced around wildly, spotted her rifle and snatched it up. “I’ve got to make sure he doesn’t leave us here!” she said. “I have to stop him!”

  “Jess,” he said, “what the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “What if he sees the senator is dead and takes off without us!”

  “Of course he’s goin’ to see the senator’s dead. Joe Nash is about as far from blind as a man can be. What are you plannin’ to do—gun him down on general principles? Joe’ll see the smoke from our fire and he’ll come lookin’ for the senator. You stay right here with me.”

  “But what if he spooks and flies away!”

  “He won’t leave us. What the hell, Jess. He may have poor judgment in clients and lousy hunting ethics, but he won’t abandon us here. Put the rifle up.”

  Jessie turned away from him and listened to the approaching chopper. Guthrie was right. Joe Nash might be in the senator’s pocket, but when he found the senator dead and realized how badly Guthrie was hurt, he’d help them out. There was nothing else he could do.

  “C’mere, Jess. Come sit beside me. It’ll take Joe a while to park that chopper and climb down over the ledge.”

  Jessie looked back at Guthrie and felt all the adrenaline ooze out of her, leaving her weak and shaky. She stood the rifle against the trunk of a tree and went to where he lay propped against the fallen log. She sat down beside him and felt his arm encircle her shoulders and draw her against him. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes on the burn of exhaustion. Her body melted instinctively into his, absorbing the very essence of him. She needed Guthrie the way a ship needed a safe harbor in a hurricane, and she always would. He was to her very existence the way the wild places were to the soul of Montana.