Montana Dreaming

by Nadia Nichols

  “What if he doesn’t find us?” she murmured, eyes closing.

  “What if the sun doesn’t rise tomorrow?”

  “But what if…”

  “Then we’ll just camp out here until someone comes. We have enough food to patch hell forty miles, and we have each other—”

  “Jessie!” The deep powerful shout carried easily over the sough of wind through the spruce and fir. “Jessie Weaver!”

  Jessie stiffened in shock. “That’s not Joe!” she said, pushing to her feet. “That’s Steven!” And then she shouted back from the depths of her own lungs. “Down here! We’re down here!” She whirled to look at Guthrie, relief surging through her, erasing the fatigue and the worry and the stress of the past few days. “It’s Steven! He found us!”

  “The Indian lawyer,” Guthrie said. He tipped his head back and groaned. “My lucky day.”

  She ignored his wry comment and raced out of their camp, approached the brush pile and dodged around it, ran past the dead senator, began scrabbling up the steep rounded ledge toward a man who was already descending it. They met somewhere in the middle, his arm reaching to steady her on the steep rock face as she struggled to catch her breath. She tried to speak but couldn’t. She looked up into his calm strong face, caught his dark gaze, and her throat tightened up. “It’s all right,” he said, his hand squeezing her shoulder reassuringly. “Comstock’s here, too. Are you okay?”

  “The senator’s dead and Guthrie’s hurt bad,” she managed past the lump in her throat.

  “We know. We got your note. We brought medical supplies. Joe Nash has an elk carrier stashed in the chopper. He and Comstock are bringing it down. We’ll use it as a litter to carry Guthrie.”

  “Oh, Steven. Thank you for coming!”

  “You can thank your bear for that,” he said. “Last night he ran through my dreams, so today I came to your mountain.”

  “Last night that same bear ran through our camp,” Jessie said, “and killed the senator.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TWO WEEKS SPENT in a hospital bed was two weeks longer than any cowboy born Montana tough should ever have to tolerate. The first week was just a dull fog, hardly remembered. There’d been several surgeries, and the medications they’d administered had looped him. But the second week, time dug in hard and dragged its heels.

  His sister, Bernie, arrived without fail at 10:00 a.m. each morning, between breakfast and lunch hours at the café. McCutcheon visited daily in the early afternoon. But it was Jessie who was there when he opened his eyes upon the day, and when they gave him the nighttime meds that knocked him out after supper it was Jessie who was sitting beside his bed. She came in the morning before breakfast, left when Bernie arrived, and returned after doing evening chores.

  She sat beside his bed and read aloud to him from different books she borrowed from the hospital library. She told him stories about what was going on at the ranch and how McCutcheon was settling in. “His wife is flying out to visit,” she announced one evening. “He told me when he bought the place that she never would, but curiosity must be getting the best of her.”

  “She’s probably jealous as hell, knowing that you’re living at the ranch with him,” Guthrie said.

  Jessie shook her head. “Doubtful. From what McCutcheon says, they see each other three or four times a year and are comfortable with that.”

  “Mighty peculiar behavior for a married couple, if you ask me.”

  “I think all those wild stories she’s been hearin’ about senators and grizzly bears and wild horses have her all stirred up. She probably just wants to see what really goes on in the last great place.”

  Guthrie grinned. “Maybe she’s afraid he’s gone over the edge, spinnin’ such tall tales as that.”

  “Maybe he has. He’s been a little distracted lately. We take our supper together up at the main ranch house, and of late he seems…”

  “You’re eating together?” Guthrie said.

  “Yes. It only makes sense. I cooked the first few times, and then he kind of stepped in and took over, in his own self-defense. He’s a good cook, lots better than me. Almost as good as you. But lately…”

  Guthrie stared, his heart plummeting. “Okay, Jess. Break it to me gently. Does the Indian lawyer eat with you, too?”

  Jessie scowled. “I wish you’d quit about that!” She jumped up out of the plastic chair and paced the hospital room, still holding the book she’d been reading aloud from. “There’s nothing between Steven and me but friendship, and if he hadn’t been there to help get you to the chopper…”

  “Lord A’mighty, I’ll be hearin’ about how grateful I should be to that man till the day I die.”

  “Well, if he hadn’t…”

  “If he hadn’t, I’d have had to work a little harder, that’s all.”

  Jessie’s eyes sparked with anger. “What a ridiculous thing to say! If Steven hadn’t been there, you might be dead. You were unconscious for most of the trip. You barely made it to the hospital, Guthrie. It’s only been one week. One week! Are you so quick to forget how those three men helped save your life?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t guess I’ll forget that humiliation as long as I live.”

  “Humiliation? What are you talking about? We owe that man a great debt!”

  “Did you call your professor, Jess?”

  “Yes, I called my professor,” she retorted. “He said I’d get notification in the mail about when I would be returning to school. He thought it would probably be spring semester.”

  Guthrie tried to study her face, tried to read the truth in her eyes, but he felt himself drifting away. It was like that. One moment things were crystal clear, rock hard and real, and the next, he felt as if a thick bank of fog had rolled in and dulled the very thoughts in his head, numbed every nerve center in his body. The fog was bad, but the pain was worse. And so they medicated him to keep the pain at bay, and he drifted in and out of the fog and gave up trying to fight it because he never won.

  That was day eight.

  JESSIE HATED this hospital. She despised the smells, the sounds that echoed within its halls, the fluorescent lights, the frighteningly high-tech equipment that reduced mere mortals to the cellular level. She hated how her father had died here. She hated her feeling of helplessness when she sat at Guthrie’s side, watching the nurses come in, the doctors, different shifts, different faces, everything shifting all the time, until the only constants were seeing Bernie at 10:00 a.m. and knowing that she could leave to go do her chores at the ranch because Bernie would be sitting with him, watching over him, making sure the hospital staff knew that this man was loved, cared for, wanted, needed and very important to a whole bunch of people.

  Making sure that Guthrie didn’t die.

  Day twelve.

  Bernie arrived at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Guthrie was asleep. Had been for an hour. “He’s feeling a whole lot better,” Jessie said as she gathered her things. “The doctor told me this morning that Guthrie might be able to come home this weekend.”

  Bernie’s face lit up. “That’s great news. Terrific news! He must be pretty excited. I’ve got the spare bedroom all ready….”

  Jessie shook his head. “He wants to go home, Bernie. I offered to take him to the ranch, but he just wants to go home.”

  Bernie gazed for a long silent moment at her brother, who for the past four days had been blessedly free of the monitors and the oxygen and the surgical drainage tubes, and reluctantly nodded. “Okay. If that’s what he wants, but…”

  “Bernie…” Jessie looked at Guthrie’s sister and her eyes blurred with tears. “I don’t know if we can work it out, Guthrie and me. But whatever happens between us, whatever the future holds for us, I love you like a sister and I always will.”

  They hugged fiercely, clinging to each other in their anguish. “Me, too,” Bernie whispered. “No matter what.”

  Jessie walked down the hospital corridor in a fog not unlike the ones Guthrie got lost in.
She hardly remembered how she came to be standing in the frigid air outside the hospital entrance. She had no idea how long she had been standing there. She heard her name spoken but couldn’t respond. A hand touched her shoulder. “Jessie?” She shook her head to clear it.

  “Steven,” she said.

  He looked at her for a brief moment and then said, “Come with me.”

  With his hand firm upon her arm, he led her to his Jeep Wagoneer and settled her securely in the passenger seat. She was shivering, though the vehicle was warm. He drove through the Bozeman traffic, took her away from the hospital, away from Guthrie; took her to a place she’d never been before, a little cedar-clad post-and-beam house at the end of a long winding driveway near Gallatin Gateway. He led her inside the warm dwelling and guided her to the sofa. “I thought you were going to faint on me back there,” he said. “When was the last time you ate anything?”

  And then he repaired immediately to the kitchen, making noises, domestic sounds. If she craned her neck she would probably see him, for the house had an open floor plan, but she was too exhausted to move. She focused on the immediate surroundings. The brick fireplace, where embers from the previous night’s blaze still glowed; the bookcases flanking both sides of it, filled with leather-bound legal volumes, timeless classics and environmental treatises. The simple western furniture, the hardwood floor covered with beautifully woven wool rugs, the Ansel Adams prints on the whitewashed walls, the big wooden beams spanning the ceiling. The feeling of simplicity, of safety, of peace.

  Steven returned, carrying two mugs of something hot. “To hold you over,” he said, handing her one.

  She took a sip. Swallowed. Her eyes watered and a comforting heat settled in her stomach. “What is it?”

  “Guaranteed jump starter,” he said. “Coffee. Really strong. Mixed with hot cocoa mix. Really strong. Big dollop of real vanilla extract. Really strong.” He took a taste from his own mug. “Strong stuff, huh?” he said.

  “Strong stuff,” Jessie agreed, taking another swallow.

  “It’s got all the makings,” he said, dropping onto the couch. “Caffeine, sugar, a little alcohol in the vanilla extract….”

  “Give me a few more minutes,” Jessie said, “and I’ll be dancing.”

  “If you just stop looking like you’re about to faint, I’ll be happy,” Steven said. “I’m heating up some leftovers.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “After you eat, you should have a nap.” He stood up and went back into the kitchen. More domestic noises were forthcoming. Jessie relaxed on the sofa, cradling the mug of hot elixir, breathing the steam, taking a small sip, then another. Already her head felt clearer.

  At length Steven reappeared, carrying a deep earthenware bowl with a spoon in it. He set it in front of her. “Beef stew. Last night’s supper.” He returned to the kitchen and in a few moments Jessie heard him speaking on the phone. She drank more of the hot liquid that seemed to be infusing her with strength. Five more minutes passed.

  Steven came back into the living room carrying a thick slab of warm corn bread on a plate. “I called the Longhorn,” he said, setting the corn bread in front of her. “Badger and Charlie will do your chores tonight. Badger says he still remembers how to feed a bunch of worthless old hay burners. So you eat, and then you take a nap. You’ve been living on the edge for too long.”

  She obediently picked up the spoon. “Tell me about your dream,” she said. “The dream you had about the bear. The dream that brought you to the mountain.”

  While she ate, Steven told her about the bear that had run through his dreams. “When I woke, I thought for a long time about the dream and then I went to your ranch and met the game warden there, and the rest you know.

  “My grandfather once said that when an animal runs through your dreams, it is a powerful vision. He said we must pay attention to what the animal is trying to teach us. He said that we walk in the shadow of our dreams, and that our dreams guide us and help make us who we are. That bear brought you and Guthrie back together, and it brought me to your valley, to your mountains, and reconnected me to my roots. It has a powerful spirit, that bear.”

  “Maybe it’s a bear walker,” Jessie said. “My grandmother told me about them. Their spirits walk around the edges of the camp, just outside the light of the fire.”

  Steven nodded. “A bear walker. Maybe.”

  “I have to go to the courthouse the first Tuesday in December, to give my statement in a closed hearing. I don’t know why. I’ve already answered all the questions they could possibly ask, and so has Guthrie. What else do they want to know?”

  “When an investigation involves a senator, they make a bigger fuss. What time?”

  “At 2:00 p.m.”

  Steven nodded. He rose, picking up the empty bowl and plate. “The guest room is through that door,” he said. “In two hours, I’ll drive you back to the hospital.”

  Jessie couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a nap, but she knew that she would never forget Steven’s kindness.

  FRIDAY. Day fourteen. Any one of them would have driven Guthrie home after the hospital’s discharge papers were signed, but McCutcheon did the honors. Guthrie planned it that way. He told Jessie and Bernie that he was being released on Saturday, then asked McCutcheon if he could pick him up at 1:00 p.m. Friday. McCutcheon agreed, though his confusion was evident when he arrived.

  “Why all the secrecy?” he asked when they were headed back toward Katy Junction.

  “I hate fuss,” Guthrie said. “Bernie would fuss. She’d want me to come home with her. Jessie would feel she had to be nice to me even if she didn’t want to be. Hell, she’s been behaving like that for the past two weeks, and she’s still workin’ on a big mad.”

  “She’s not mad. Maybe if the senator were still alive she would be, but there’s no satisfaction in being pissed off at a dead man.”

  “Oh, she’s mad—make no mistake. Got every right to be. I killed her best horse. Kestrel was the finest Spanish mustang she ever raised.”

  “Like hell you killed that mare!”

  “And then there’s that Indian lawyer.”

  “Steven Brown’s not even in the picture.”

  Guthrie slumped in the soft leather seat of the silver Mercedes. “Oh, hell, every time I open my eyes, he’s in the picture.” He gazed out at the wall of rugged mountains. “Anyhow, I don’t want to bother her. She needs a break from sittin’ at my bedside. She needs about a week of bed rest. She’s nothin’ but skin and bones and permanent scowl, and that girl’s way too young to have a permanent scowl. I feel I’m the cause of it. I don’t guess I’ll ever figure it out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What it will take to make her smile again. Speaking of which, she told me your wife was coming to visit.”

  McCutcheon drove silently for a few beats, then drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She’s come and gone. Only spent the one night.”

  “Too rustic,” Guthrie guessed, sympathizing.

  “She asked me for a divorce. Said it was something she couldn’t do over the phone or through the mail after twenty years of marriage. Told me she had to do it face-to-face.”

  Guthrie stared out the side window. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. I guess it’s been coming for a long time. She’s a great lady and no doubt she’ll be a whole lot better off without an aging has-been baseball pitcher trying to play cowboy. But for some reason that doesn’t make me feel any better right now.”

  McCutcheon drove his low-slung Mercedes cautiously up the old dirt road that led to Guthrie’s cabin on the banks of Bear Creek. He was the first to spot the familiar truck parked in the cabin yard, though Guthrie’s soft curse followed close behind his own.

  Jessie was standing on the cabin porch, broom in hand, watching their approach. Blue was there, too, and while the little cow dog trotted down the steps to greet the two men with much enthusiasm, Jessie remained on th
e porch, as Guthrie struggled to extricate himself from the deep bucket seat and McCutcheon awkwardly hobbled around the vehicle on his walking cast to assist him. She said nothing at all and made no move to help. Just leaned on the broom, her expression ominously blank.

  By the time he made it to the bottom of the porch steps Guthrie was weak in the knees and sweating from the effort of it, but he shrugged off McCutcheon’s assistance and stood in what he hoped was a strong and reasonably upright position. “Hello, Jess,” he said.

  She straightened, holding the broom in both hands as if it were a rifle resting with its butt between her feet. “You told me just this morning that you were being discharged tomorrow,” she said in a calm, even voice, “so I came over here this afternoon to tidy things up and get the woodstove going. Takes a long time to heat up cabin logs, and this place has been dead cold for two weeks.” She laid the broom against the cabin wall to the right of the door. “Won’t warm up proper until tomorrow, I don’t doubt,” she said, ducking back inside briefly to grab her parka.

  “Thanks,” Guthrie said when she reappeared. “I appreciate you coming over here. I didn’t want to trouble you.”

  She descended the porch steps and paused in front of him, her face impassive but her dark eyes conveying all the hurt she felt. “It was no trouble,” she said, then marched past McCutcheon without so much as a sidelong glance, chin high and eyes straight ahead, whistled Blue into her truck and departed for the ranch.

  Guthrie climbed the porch steps one at a time, using the pain to drive away the image of Jessie’s eyes, and the dark emotions he had read in them. Using the pain to punish himself for his own shortsighted stupidity. He had thought to spare Jessie the trouble of driving him home. The bother of fussing over him. He had thought she’d be relieved to be rid of the bedside vigil, but once again he’d been wrong, and in his supreme ignorance he had only made things much, much worse. When he reached the top step he turned and looked back at McCutcheon. “Thanks for the ride home,” he said.