I’ll watch for the manuscript, Amy. If there are any problems, give me a call here or in my California office, where I’ll be for the next two or three weeks.
Very best regards,
The agent’s signature was an indecipherable scrawl under the closing. Amy looked at it longer than she needed to. Then, she turned back to her house. It seemed like a long walk.
Amy was going stir-crazy. Her home had somehow become smaller, and her pacing somehow reduced it in size even more. Her laptop seemed to goad her from its spot on the kitchen table when she wasn’t sitting at it with her fingers poised over the keyboard. The problem was, she was spending long and arduous hours on her novel with little production to show for her time. She was confused. Her editing work had never come to such an impasse, been so acutely frustrating. And Lloyd Sturgiss’s words seemed to hang over the back of her neck like a blade. His politely phrased, nonconfrontational letter said more between the lines than it did in its actual text, the message being: get in gear or you’ll blow this contract, lady.
The sharp ringing of steel-shod hooves in her driveway drew Amy to her front window. Wes was just swinging down from his horse, a rangy chestnut with a pure white stripe along its muzzle. Amy hurried through the process of grinding a handful of beans, started the Mr. Coffee, and went out the front door. Wes had ground-tied his mount and walked out onto Amy’s lawn. He saw Amy and called, “It’s lookin’ good, Miss Amy.”
“It sure is,” Amy agreed as she watched Wes walk back to the driveway. He had the stride of many of the men she saw in Coldwater—bowlegged, slow, and kind of rolling, as if he was uncomfortable being off his horse. “Coffee, Wes?” she called to him.
“You betcha,” he said with a grin. “’Specially when you make such a nice, strong cup. Some of this coffee ’round here—it’s got no more kick to it than a cup of dishwater.”
“No danger of that with my brew,” Amy responded as she headed for the house. Within a couple of minutes she returned to the driveway, a steaming mug in each hand. Wes accepted his, thanked her, and took a long, satisfying series of gulps. Amy cringed. The coffee was barely a minute from the pot.
Wes noticed the look on Amy’s face. “You’re wonderin’ why I go after my coffee like that,” he said. “It’s an old habit. A man learns to drink coffee like that when he works with cattle or horses. There’s always somethin’ that needs to be done right this very second on a spread, and if a guy can’t slug down his java, he’s probably not going to get much of it.”
“I learn something new about the West every day,” Amy said. And about sweet old cowboys with very good manners too.
Wes’s eyes seemed to sparkle a bit as he said, “Seems like you learned Jake makes the best hamburgers in Montana. An’ it looks like he kinda likes havin’ you around, Miss Amy.”
“I enjoy Jake’s company. He’s an interesting guy.”
There seemed to be more on Wes’s mind. Amy decided to wait him out, so she just sipped at her coffee.
He cleared his throat. “He is that,” he said. “You been with him, what... three times, now? An’ one of those times was goin’ ridin’. See, Jake isn’t much on going out. Dating and so forth. I suspect he likes you well enough. That’d be my guess.”
Amy had no idea where this was going, but Wes’s discomfort was becoming more obvious to her. She didn’t speak, not knowing how to respond and not understanding the cowboy’s point.
The old fellow blushed—the color was apparent even under his decades-old tan. “I like you, Miss Amy. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have said what I jus’ did about Jake.”
“Well, anything you say to me stays with me.”
“There’s somethin’ else I gotta say. This ain’t my business, but I need to say it. You watch out for Mallory Powers. She’s had her eye on Jake for a few years now, and she ain’t one to take no for an answer, no matter what Jake wants.”
Amy thought maybe Wes was exaggerating. “But Jake invited her here to work for him, didn’t he? She didn’t just roll in and set up her trailer on her own. So...”
Wes waved a hand, chasing the subject away in the same manner he’d chase a pesky horsefly. “We’ll talk on her another time,” he mumbled as he fit a boot into a stirrup.
Amy nodded. Well, OK.
From his seat in his saddle, Wes said, “I see you got that little lawn chair out in back of your garage. You’d best bring it inside before tomorrow, or it’ll get blown all the way to Missoula.”
Amy scanned the sky. It was a peaceful delft blue from horizon to horizon, without any sort of cloud cover. The sun beat down with its summer strength, and the air was dead calm. “A storm coming? What makes you think that?”
“Yup, there’s a storm comin’, and she’ll be more’n what we saw a couple weeks ago. That was just rain. This one will have some teeth in it.” He pointed toward the pasture, where several horses grazed placidly. “See how them mares are kinda sticking closer than they usually do to one another? That’s the herd instinct showing itself—gathering up when they’re threatened. It means something’s comin’. Plus, my knee is aching pretty good, and that’s a sure sign of weather on its way.” He looked up at the sky for a long moment. “One other way too,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. The Montana Weather Service has an advisory out for our parts. Those boys aren’t often wrong.”
Amy laughed. “I’d hoped this good weather would never end.”
“It’ll be back,” Wes promised. He tipped his Stetson, turned his horse, and headed down the driveway to the road. Amy watched him, smiling. What a sweetheart he is.
She started toward her porch and then stopped and detoured to her backyard. There, she folded her lawn chair and tucked it away inside the garage. She’d barely entered her home through the garage when the front doorbell rang. A UPS driver smiled at her when she opened the door. She signed his invoice and accepted the package.
It contained four books. She took them from the cardboard box and placed them on her couch. Amy didn’t recognize the titles or the authors of any of them, but the logo of Meadowdale Publishing Group was prominent on the accompanying short letter. Like all other publishers, Meadowdale liked to keep its writers apprised of what was being published by them in the writers’ genre or specialty area. She looked at the titles and skimmed the blurbs on the back cover of each book. They were historic novels, set in various periods of time, each with a female protagonist, much like Amy’s The Longest Years.
All writers read voraciously, she knew. At a mystery conference she’d once heard Sara Paretsky say about her own reading habits, “In a sense, it’s almost like low-key plagiarism. I pick up a little twist of language, a tiny bit of description, and then build on them in my own mind until they come out in new forms in my writing. And if that doesn’t happen, but I enjoy the book, I’m way ahead of the game—I’ve escaped into a good story.”
Amy chose one of the four novels at random, settled into the love seat adjacent to the fireplace, and immersed herself in its pages. It was a strong and compelling story with believable characters and lots of action, and she was unaware of the time passing until she found herself rubbing at her eyes and squinting at the pages of the book. Much of the afternoon had passed as she read, and it was now dusk. She set the novel aside, stood, and stretched to chase the stiffness from her back.
Nutsy, awakened from a nap by Amy’s moving around, rubbed against her ankles, purring. When she took a step toward the kitchen, the cat charged ahead of her, anticipating the possibility of a treat. He guessed right. Amy tossed a couple of Whisker Lickin’s nuggets—Nutsy’s all-time favorite snack—on the floor near his dishes. For herself she made a thick tuna fish sandwich and poured a glass of iced tea. She sat at the kitchen table at her laptop and clicked it on. She reviewed some of the scenes and dialogue she’d written at her last session as she ate her sandwich and sipped at her tea.
Some of the material was at least passable, but much of it simply was
n’t. After a few minutes she clicked off the computer and carried her plate and glass to the sink, rinsed them, and put them on her drainer. She looked out the window over the sink without really seeing much of anything, deep in thought about her novel. Then, the strange quality of the light, and the dark, subdued hues at the western horizon caught her attention. The sunsets were always beautiful and frequently spectacular in Montana, Amy had discovered. She’d never seen one quite like tonight’s, though. It was as if the vibrant colors had been drained from the sky and replaced with somber shades of gray. The light, too, was different. It was a clear night, yet somehow the light had an indistinct quality to it, as if she was seeing everything through light gauze. Amy left the kitchen and turned on the overhead light as she entered the living room. She situated herself in the love seat once again and opened the book to the scrap of paper she’d used as a bookmark.
The unmistakable ratcheting sound of Nutsy vomiting pulled Amy from the book. Just another hairball? Or did he get into something he shouldn’t have and he’s really sick? She found him huddled in the corner of the kitchen, his notquite-adult cat body pressed into the small space between the end of a cabinet and the wall.
“Nutsy? You OK, honey?” she said softly. “What’s the problem?”
Usually after eliminating a hairball—a quite natural occurrence for a cat—Nutsy would play on her sympathy and seek a treat. This time he jerked back from Amy’s fingers, eyes wide, his posture almost defensive.
“Nutsy? What’s—”
The kitten bolted past the surprised Amy, ignoring her outstretched hand. He raced to his sanctuary under the couch. When Amy crouched down to try to lure him out, she noticed that his body was trembling. She tried to get a hand to him to soothe him. Nutsy backed farther under the couch. She’d never seen her pet act like this. He was, if anything, overly gregarious, a lover of people, and totally devoted to her. Something’s wrong here, she thought.
She dashed to the telephone in the kitchen, checked Julie’s card on her corkboard, and dialed Danny Pulver’s clinic number. The vet’s recorded voice told her the clinic was closed, gave her the regular hours, and recited a number to call if there was an emergency. Amy scratched the number down on the pad she kept on the counter near the telephone and compared it with Julie’s home phone written on the back of the News-Express card. The numbers were the same. She dialed quickly, tapping her foot as the phone rang three times before it was answered.
“Dr. Pulver. How can I help you?”
“Doctor, this is Amy Hawkins. I didn’t want to bother you at home, but I’m really concerned about my cat.”
“Have I seen the cat previously, Amy?” the vet asked.
“No, he’s never been sick, and he’s only about five months old. He’s never acted like this before.”
“Tell me what he’s doing. And calm down—we’ll take care of him. You sound a bit frantic.”
“I am. I’ve never had a cat before and... well...”
“Sure. I understand. Now, tell me what he’s doing.”
Amy ran through Nutsy’s actions since she’d heard him throwing up, describing his aversion to being touched and the look of panic in his eyes. “His whole body is trembling,” she finished.
Dr. Pulver’s voice was calm and reassuring. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your kitten, Amy, except for the fact that we’re due for some severe weather soon. The swing in the atmospheric pressure affects lots of animals. It frightens them, disorients them. Horses are particularly susceptible, and so are dogs and cats. It’s completely natural. It’s his instinct telling him to hide, to find a safe place. And he’s plain scared. When he’s ready to be sociable again, he will be. Until then, I’d leave him alone.”
“Are you sure? We’ve had rain before, and he never had a problem with it.”
“There’s more than just rain coming. Believe me, your cat’s fine. I’ve had several calls just like yours, and I’ve told the others just what I’m telling you. Of course, I’ll see your cat if you want to meet me at my clinic, but I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Amy calmed a bit. “If you’re that certain, Dr. Pulver...”
“I am,” he assured her. He laughed. “Right at this moment I have eighty pounds of mature collie trying to climb into my lap. My dog, Sunday, isn’t afraid of much of anything—except what his instinct tells him to be frightened of.”
Amy released a long breath. “Thanks so much, Dr. Pulver. I really do appreciate your time.”
“Sure,” he said. “That’s what I’m here for. Hey, Julie told me she met you the other day. I’m looking forward to doing the same. Please stop by sometime, with or without your cat.”
“I’ll do that, Dr. Pulver. Please say hi to Julie for me.”
“It’s Danny, Amy—and I’ll tell Julie I talked with you and that you sent your regards.”
After thanking the vet again, Julie hung up, feeling inf initely better about what was going on with Nutsy. Danny’s words, “When he’s ready to be sociable again, he will be,” repeated in her mind. The vet’s voice and his unhurried, logical, no-nonsense approach to her problem calmed Amy. Nutsy now has a doctor, she thought as she returned to her love seat and book. And I need to get together with Julie—and Maggie too—soon. I don’t want our friendships to fade before they have a chance to really get started.
The book didn’t hold Amy’s attention this time. After a half hour of struggling with it—reading the same paragraph over two and three times—she gave up. Nutsy was still under the couch, and she suspected he was going to be there for a while. She dropped the book at her side and stared across the room through the picture window at the darkness outside. Everything was silent; the night birds she’d gotten used to hearing weren’t out tonight, and there was no shushing of the occasional breeze that generally visited on and off at night. The air, Amy noticed, seemed heavy, thicker somehow than normal, although not terribly humid and not at all hot. She was suddenly quite tired, although she’d spent the majority of the day doing nothing more strenuous than reading.
Even though it was barely 9:30, Amy decided to go to bed. She left a lamp near the couch on and stood at it for a few moments, hoping Nutsy would come out to her. He didn’t. She sighed and went up the stairs to her room, missing her feline companion already.
It started as rain in the very small hours of the night, when the darkness was the deepest. At first there was no wind behind the rain; it fell straight down from the sky, its liquid, roof-tapping sound barely audible. Amy turned restlessly in her sleep and awakened enough to realize that it was raining. She reached for Nutsy, found his place on her pillow vacant, and pictured the kitten cowering under the couch. Dan Pulver’s words returned to her, and she slept again.
By the time the dreary and drenched first light appeared, the wind had started. At first it was light and undecided as to direction. That changed rapidly. By the time Amy got out of bed, the wind was from the west and moving strongly, with gusts that were powerful enough to drive the rain into almost horizontal sheets.
Amy made coffee in her kitchen and stood looking out the window toward the back of her property. Although it was almost 7:00 a.m., there was a late-evening texture to the light. Amy had turned on the overhead and a lamp in the living room as she checked on her cat under the couch. His eyes remained wide, and he ignored her crooning to him and her outstretched finger. She left those lights burning and put both lights on in the kitchen. Still, the darkness was pervasive.
The day was going backward—it should have been becoming lighter, and instead, it was getting progressively darker. The wind whined outside. The rain was more forceful, rattling against her windows and against the siding of her home, like pebbles thrown from spinning tires.
Amy switched on the radio in her living room. The local Coldwater station—the one that offered weather reports every fifteen minutes, along with a female host who was so indomitably perky that she made Amy grind her teeth—was saying, “And
no road travel, at least for a few hours. A listener reported a funnel just outside Porterville, but we don’t have verification of that as yet. Porterville is, of course, less than sixty miles from Coldwater. Again, people—please don’t attempt any sort of travel. Stay inside, and if you have a storm cellar, now is the time to use it. Any livestock that can be gotten safely into a barn or behind a good windbreak should be moved there as soon as possible. But if you have stock in far-flung pastures that’ll take some time to get to, leave them be. That’s my best advice, folks. All meteorological indications are that this storm is a major weather event. Stay inside and stay safe.” There was a moment of static. “I’ll keep you up to the minute as to what’s happening. Keep your dial right here at...”
Amy’s house shook for a moment, as if a gigantic hand had struck it. Then the lights went out, the radio died, and the wind escalated to a shrieking howl. She dashed to the kitchen and yanked open a drawer. The flashlight she’d purchased the week she moved into her new home and hadn’t yet used cast a bright cone of light through the darkness. Again the entire house seemed to tremble as a massive gust assaulted it. A metal-against-metal screech was even louder than the roar of the wind. The bathroom door upstairs slammed closed, and the impact sounded like a gunshot.
Amy ran up the stairs and pushed open the door. She was struck with a burst of cold, wet air that brought a gasp from her throat. The bathroom window—a casement unit that Amy had left partially cranked open—had been wrenched out of the wall and hurled off into the storm. She looked for a moment at the gaping hole where the window had once been, feeling almost physical pain at the damage to her home. Then, she stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door, feeling the pressure of the wind against it as she did so.
The basement. I need to get to the basement. The house shivered again, trembling like a creature in pain, as Amy dashed downstairs and into the kitchen. She flicked the beam of her flashlight to the couch: there was no sign of Nutsy. He’s safe enough under there, she thought. He’ll be fine unless the roof... She stopped the thought, refused to view the image that flashed in her mind.
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