Argosy Junction

by Chautona Havig

  Matt winked at Martha and said, “I would imagine he’s in the barn taking care of any injured lambs as any self-respecting sheep rancher should.”

  Lane did an about-face, threw Matt a scathing look, grabbed a large plastic tumbler from the cupboard, filled it with cold water from the fridge, tested it, and then added a few ice cubes. “There. Let’s go.”

  Just outside the barn, Lane pushed Matt out of the shaft of light streaming through the doors. “Careful. They’ll see your shadow,” she whispered. “Go around to the side, see where Tad is, and then come tell me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Matt inched along the side of the barn in an exaggerated way that drove Lane absolutely crazy. Seconds later, though it felt like several long minutes, he returned. “Okay, two guys are working with a lamb in the right corner stall. There are two boys around ten to fifteen years old hanging over a stall. I think Tad is holding the lamb’s head. Someone with similar boots and a hat like the one he was wearing is sitting there, but I couldn’t see his face and one of the men was blocking him.”

  “That should be Tad. He usually holds the lambs. He’s really good with them. Are there any other sheep around?”

  “Not that I saw, why?”

  “Don’t want to get tripped up. The boys won’t mess me up, so I’m good to go if I can get in without anyone looking at the door.”

  He watched from the other window, fascinated as she slipped through the door, went circuitously around the barn to behind the two boys hanging over the stall. One looked down and then commented casually, “Looks like we’re getting mice in here again.”

  Tad mentioned something about poison. Matt’s eyes grew wide. That voice was not coming from the guy holding the lamb. He gestured wildly at the boys, trying to warn her, but wicked grins covered their faces. Tad turned and shook his head saying, “It’s amazing how bold these mice keep getting.”

  Lane dumped. A head shot up to her gloating face. Her look of triumph turned into dismay and then guilt. “Um sorry, Dad. I—”

  “Towel,” grumbled the voice, and to Matt’s amazement, Warren Argosy used the towel to wipe the lamb dry.

  Lane began apologizing again, but a coughing fit stopped her. Warren threw her an irritated look. “Get out of here before you need more medical attention than this little fellow.”

  With a backward glance that told Tad and Matt both that she wouldn’t forget it, Lane shuffled to the barn door, hands in pockets and looking like a kid sent out of the way. Matt hurried to meet her at the door and try to explain. He found her leaning against the side of the barn wheezing and fumbling with an inhaler.

  “Can I help—”

  Lane waved him off and inhaled a deep breath of Albuterol. “I’m fi—” she coughed. “Fine. I’ll be okay. Let’s go saddle you a horse, and we can take a ride. I want to show you something.”

  To Matt, the next scene was ripped from the pages of his boyhood westerns and old movies. He watched fascinated, as she pulled tack from a wall, bridled the horses, saddled them, and led them to a nearby corral fence. “Climb up on that second rail. I’ll bring her to you and you can slide on.”

  “Her?” Matt climbed the fence, balancing carefully on the rail. As Lane helped him slide onto the saddle and fit his feet in the stirrups, she explained how to ride.

  “Her name is Cardiff.” Lane mounted her horse and turned him around. “Stay beside me until you get the hang of it.”

  They circled the barns twice before they wandered down the driveway. Halfway to the road, Matt suddenly felt uneasy. Their comfortable companionable silence was gone, and in its place came an awkwardness that he scrambled to remove. “So what is your horse’s name?”

  “Talgarth.”

  Still grasping at straws as he pondered the sudden change in the air around them, he grabbed for the first thing that came to mind. “Interesting names you have for your horses.”

  “We name all our horses after towns and cities in the British Isles. Cardiff and Talgarth are both Welsh names.” She gave him a pointed look. “Want to see the whole ranch? It’s mostly uphill to see it and really it’s kind of hard for a beginning rider, but it’s a gorgeous view.” The change of subject made things more comfortable.

  It was a slow ride, one he suspected that Lane usually made in a fraction of the time, but they both enjoyed seeing the Montana mountainside as their horses made the slow steady climb up winding paths that crisscrossed the terrain. At the top, the view was breathtaking.

  “Wow. I can’t believe I just rode to the top of a mountain!”

  “Well, this is really a hill compared to the rest of them around here, but we’re on a nice ridge anyway. If you follow the ridge northeast, it takes you to that peak there.” Lane pointed at a high peak that seemed to loom over them.

  From this vantage point, he could grasp what no author had ever been able to define clearly on paper. Space—it was incredible. “Okay, so what all is your land?” Matt had never understood the deep need that some people have for owning hundreds or thousands of acres of land.

  Lane pointed out the town, where the highway met the dirt road, and spread her hands, gesturing to a river to the east and a mountain ridge to the northwest. A fence, looking very much like a dirty thread across the green spring grasses of their ranch, showed the boundary of the property, and it was immense. Matt tried to guess the number of acres and failed miserably. To him, one hundred acres sounded like an obscene amount of land, but the small pasture from the day before was probably more than a mere hundred acres.

  “How many acres do you own?” He hated himself for asking, feeling immediately as though he was fawning.

  “About thirty-thousand. Give or take. I’ve never asked, but I’ve heard them talk about how it’s divided into thirds.” She gestured showing the natural break of land. “I overheard Dad say once that the center there was about ten thousand acres so…”

  Matt, though like most men and not usually intuitive, sensed a shift in her comfort level and decided to jump in with both feet. “So you promised to tell me why the granddaughter of someone from sometime past who probably founded this area is now the town pariah. Does your family share your exalted status, or do you hold that honor alone?”

  The invisible barrier that she’d been building seemed to crumble. “Well, it’s a weird story. Did you see the woman cleaning the cabins this morning?”

  “Carrie? Yeah. She came to mine, but I told her just to replace towels every day, and I’d be fine. I couldn’t stand the sight of her scrubbing and stuff with that big—wait. She’s related to you, isn’t she? That hair and her height and voice—”

  “Carrie is my sister. She married Peter Gideon four years ago. A year after we were dis-fellowshipped from the Brethren.”

  “The Brethren?” Just the sound of it sent warning bells screaming through Matt’s head. The name alone sounded like a cult.

  Lane described a group of like-minded men who had, over twenty years ago, tried to establish a church in Argosy Junction that operated as close to what they could find in the Bible as possible. There were denominations who claimed to do so, but it was easy to find modern trappings in them that, while not wrong, could take away from the simplicity of primitive church worship. Warren Argosy had been one of the founding members.

  “We were like one big family. Picture an Amish style of living, but with modern conveniences and costumes from the set of Little House on the Prairie.”

  Matt nodded. “Sounds like some people’s idea of Utopia.”

  “In many ways it is—well, was. Over time, it changed a bit. Instead of the men being only involved in the inner workings of the church as a collective whole, it became intrusive into our lives, but we didn’t realize it. When I am willing to be honest with myself—which is rare, if you want the truth—I have to admit we were all just as guilty as the next person.”

  Not sure what to think, Matt nodded for her to continue. Lane voiced appreciation for his lack of judgment. “It was little thin
gs. I guess you could say peer pressure. My father loved long hair on his daughters and taught us that scripture says it is our glory. Other fathers learned of it and required longer hair for their daughters. After about ten years or so, only the youngest girls had hair shorter than their shoulders, and most of us had hair at least to the middle of our backs.

  “But if it was just peer pressure—”

  Lane shook her head. “That’s the sad part. It was. It was just peer pressure—at first. Over time though, the men started teaching from scripture about the shame of men’s hair being too long and the glory of a woman’s hair. They’d ‘speak the Word’ in our meetings, condemning the denominations for allowing the abomination of women with hair above their shoulders.”

  Interrupting, Matt asked, “Why the shoulders? Why not below the shoulder blades, to the waist, to the ankles—why that particular length? It’s not all that long.”

  Her explanation was surprisingly logical. “Because some people cannot grow their hair longer than that but most grows that long.”

  Matt studied Lane’s braid protruding from beneath her ever-present ball cap. “Your hair looks long enough to me.”

  “Oh no, that’s just an example of what happened to the group. It then went to clothes, entertainment, gender roles, and eventually it splintered into every direction imaginable.” She could see he didn’t understand. “If you’re not a Christian, it won’t make sense, but serious Christians are all about the Bible. Do what it says, live what it says, be who it says to be. The Bible is the I Ching for Christianity.”

  “Okkaaayy.” Matt didn’t know what to say to that. “So what does this have to do with— Oh, is it because you’re in jeans? That waitress and the cook—both Prairie Muffins. I get it.”

  Lane removed her cap and tugged on her braid, muttering something about how the Albuterol always gave her a headache and the braid made it worse. With a sigh, she pulled the hair band from her braid and untwisted it until it hung freely down her back. Matt had never seen hair like it outside a shampoo commercial. It slipped through her hands and down her back as though liquid. She used her fingernails to massage the scalp before she adjusted her hatband to its largest setting, scooped up the silky strands, and stuffed them under her hat as she shoved it back on her head.

  He swallowed hard and tried to listen as she continued. “It’s not that really, but it is what began it all. About five and a half years ago, we lost the lambs and half the sheep to illness. It was a bad year financially, so we rented out some of the outbuildings to hunters, and it was my job to lead them where they wanted to hunt.”

  “Why was it your job? I would have thought that the whole gender role—”

  She nodded. “Exactly. But Dad needed the boys, Mom needed Carrie, and Patience was too young so there was just me. I can’t work the sheep, but I can lead men to good hunting areas.”

  “Why not the sheep? I’d think it’d be—”

  Lane cut him off. “I’m allergic to them.”

  “To sheep?” He looked at her in amazement. “No way!”

  “Yep. Ironic isn’t it? The daughter of the biggest sheep ranch in the United States and the largest Scottish Blackface Sheep ranch in the world is allergic to sheep. I can’t even wear or knit a wool sweater.”

  To Matt’s credit, he did try not to laugh. It really wasn’t funny to the woman who had to live with such an inconvenient allergy, but seriously, who wouldn’t laugh? He stifled a chortle and apologized. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be. Sheep are stupid animals. I prefer horses anyway.

  “So, riding around the ranch in a dress with bike shorts underneath isn’t really that big of a deal, but Dad decided it made more sense for me to wear jeans as the ranch guide.”

  “Smart man.” Matt felt obligated to say something. The whole thing sounded like a country-western version of the Stepford Wives.

  “I think he knew what he was doing. I’d seen him hide irritation or annoyance at some of the self-righteous attitudes. And then someone saw me in my jeans.”

  “Horrors!” Matt fanned himself as though he’d had the vapors. “Sinner.”

  A pained expression on Lane’s face made him regret it immediately. “That’s the sad part. They did think those things, and it wasn’t in jest. Josiah Gideon drove out here to see for himself—”

  “I’ll bet he did.”

  Blushing, Lane continued. “Anyway, when he saw me in jeans, helping an old guy get up on a horse, he lost it. Read me the riot act. I couldn’t figure out what the deal was. Even with all the pressure and the conformity, no one overrode another husband or father’s authority. Everyone was under authority. The Brethren are big on authority. But Josiah acted like someone had usurped his authority over me!”

  Her pause was telling. Matt knew instinctively that Josiah had intended to marry Lane and took the sight of her in jeans as a personal affront. The idea, to his mind however, was preposterous. Lane couldn’t have been more than a young teen at the time and the only jeans he’d seen that he considered objectionable were of the low slung, showing hips and belly variety—oddly shaped things that were so tight the woman’s backside looked like a misshapen loaf of bread.

  Lane continued telling her story of the kangaroo court-like hearing that her father endured for her sake at the hands of their old church. She explained that Josiah had asked for permission to marry Lane when she turned sixteen. Warren had said no. Lane was too young even to consider it, and he’d never answer for his daughter. She was the one who had to live with her husband so when the time was right, she would decide. What Warren didn’t tell Josiah, was that he didn’t trust Josiah Gideon. Anger seemed to boil under the surface and Warren was sure the young man’s wife would eventually endure the worst of that anger. Warren didn’t want it to be his daughter.

  “My mom wept for weeks. The boys and I lost all of our friends; things got worse and worse until finally, Dad made a decision. I still remember his face when he sat down at the table after dinner one night and told us he was never going back to church.”

  “I can’t say as I blame him.” Matt wondered what took the man so long.

  “I immediately said I wasn’t going back either. That raised a ruckus.”

  Matt’s questioning look sent Lane down a rabbit trail. “Women of the Brethren don’t make decisions like that for themselves. We do as we’re told. Well, they do. I’m no longer a Christian, and we’re apostate, so now I’m allowed to decide if I want to take a trip to Spokane or order a new saddle with my own money. I’m even allowed to have money now. What a concept.”

  Bitterness tinged every word. Matt steered the conversation into what he hoped was safer ground. “But Carrie married—”

  “Josiah’s brother, Peter. She continued to attend the meetings. We encouraged her to make her own decision, but we didn’t get the appeal. Not until she came home, packed her bags, and drove off with Peter Gideon to become his wife. We weren’t invited to the wedding. It was for ‘Christians only.’”

  “Why stop going to church altogether?” Matt wasn’t sure why he asked. “Why not just go to another church. I don’t understand why you had to turn your back on everything because one group—”

  Lane’s defeated look vanished. In its place was a hard mask of resolute conviction. “I refuse to be a part of any religion that bears the name of Christian. It’s evil. It’s just a list of rules and requirements that denies any hint of individuality or preference. I can’t deny the existence of a God, but I deny that a loving Jesus ever lived and walked this earth. If Jesus did live, He lived to torment us with more platitudes and rules. I want nothing to do with Him or God. They made me. Fine. They don’t like who I am? Fine. Burn me in their everlasting fire. At least I had some peace on earth.”

  Matt nodded, trying to show sympathy. “I can understand that. So now you’re just outcasts in the town?”

  “Only half of the town is connected with the Brethren. The rest are as cordial as ever, but no one will
risk losing business with such an influential group just to show support, and we’ve pretty much told everyone not to.”

  “Why do you stay?” The question was out before Matt could stop himself. This was really none of his business.

  “This is our land. My great, great, grandfather settled here when there was no one else around for hundreds of miles. He’d been to Aberdeenshire in Scotland and fell in love with the sheep. So he ordered a few dams and sires to be sent every year for ten years from several different farms over there. Everyone back in Ohio where he was from thought he was crazy to go to Montana. That was where savage Indians roamed the plains and scalped white men for sport! Jim Bridger still scouted the territory back then.”

  She gave Matt a long searching look. Would he understand? Somehow, she didn’t think so. “How can I leave a heritage like that?”

  Lane was right. Matt didn’t understand. He grew up in a Rockland west-side tenement district. There were dozens of tall apartment buildings crammed together created from old office buildings, warehouses, and a few old hotels. The small yards around each building were pitiful and generally unsafe, but the kids played there, and the parents weighed the safety of the neighborhood against the need for air and exercise. In the end, most let their children play in the streets, on rickety swing sets, and along crowded sidewalks.

  “I don’t know. I can’t say I understand, but it does sound wonderful. Where I live, people consider it a good thing if their children move away.”

  Eying him curiously, Lane gestured for him to continue. “Tell me about it. Where are you from? What do you do? Tell me about your family.”

  “I’m from Rockland—”

  “Oh… the Rockland Arts Center. My dad’s been there a few times. He says it is the most beautiful place he’s ever seen. Says it beats out the New York Metropolitan. Any day.”

  Her eagerness gave Matt the encouragement to continue. He’d assumed she was merely being polite, but her eyes sparkled with interest as she waited to hear about his life. “Well Rockland isn’t anything like Argosy Junction—or Spokane for that matter. We don’t have wide-open places like this. I’d never seen anything like it. I’ve never been more than a hundred miles from the city in any direction until I came here.”