How To Catch A Cowboy: A Small Town Montana Romance

by Joanna Bell

  "Did you?" I asked, curious. Blackjack was always so good at keeping everyone fooled.

  "Yeah. So don't think this about the McMurtry-worship this town seems to feel the need to periodically indulge in. It's mostly just about you. You were always kind to me, always solid. And I guess I just want you to know that I'm here for you."

  I leaned back onto the hay bales as an awful sense of calm descended over me. It was happening. I was losing the ranch. The only thing to do was to keep my dignity now.

  "I guess the first thing I need is the number of a good tax lawyer, then," I said. "Hopefully one who doesn't need to be paid right away."

  DeeDee told me she thought she had a friend whose father was a lawyer in Billings, and that she would call her friend to ask for a recommendation.

  We hung up and I lay on the hay bale for a little while, listening to the cattle noisily eating their dinner. How many more times would I get to hear that? How many McMurtrys had done what I was doing at that moment, in that barn – taking a moment to listen to the cattle?

  But, as ever, there was no time to dilly-dallying. Even less time than usual. I went back to the house, took a couple of ibuprofen and grabbed a garbage bag to fill with all the empties in the kitchen.

  The last thing I wanted was to end up like Blackjack, or my dad, or any number of ancestors who had found solace in the bottle. But the truth was that without Sweetgrass Ranch, I didn't know who I was. What was I going to do? Get a job in an office and stop at Starbucks every morning on the way in to work? Get a condo? With what money? I was 28 years old. Not old, but not so young that I could waste time or mess around the way you can when you're 20.

  I guess whatever's going to happen is going to happen, I said to myself. You'll either get to keep a small piece of the Ranch or you won't, you'll get to keep Daisy and her calf or you won't, and the rest of the cattle will go to market. But the sun is still going to rise in the east and set in the west, and you still have your health and youth.

  The next morning, I saddled up at dawn and rode out into the foothills to check on the free-ranging cattle. It was a dying practice anyway, with more and more family farmers selling up and moving out. I was just another cog in that machine, a minor plot point in a story much bigger than me or my life.

  It was a beautiful day, the sky streaked with the rosy hues of morning and the mist rising off the tall grass. I found the herd out near the river that ran through the valley behind Sweetgrass Ranch. They were lined up side by side, drinking and snorting at each other. They barely took any notice of me weaving in and out of them, checking for signs of injury or sickness, because they knew who I was. Where would they end up, these russet-colored beasts who'd only ever known life on the open range of Montana? They weren't big enough to go to slaughter yet, they still needed to put on weight.

  I thought maybe I could sell them to the only other ranching family in Little Falls, the Hardings. But the Hardings were getting out of the business and even at a discount, I doubted they'd be interested. So a feedlot it would be. Concrete and shit and a cocktail of drugs to keep all that concrete and shit from doing what it normally does to living things – make them sick. One of the steers lifted his head and let me scratch one of his enormous, fluffy ears. I turned away a second later, almost overcome with emotion.

  And then she was there, all of a sudden, in my mind's eye. That woman from the IRS. Blaze Wilson. What exactly was it about her? Was it the flood incident? Was my mind trying to find some connection where there really wasn't one, because of the extremity of that experience?

  It's not like I never considered leaving Little Falls, or Sweetgrass Ranch. All of my siblings did, as did most of my dad's nine brothers and sisters. It's not like I was unaware that a lot of McMurtrys seemed to have a mostly unhappy time growing up on the Ranch. My own childhood was by no means perfect, but I was Grandma Dottie's favorite, and that mattered. It meant I had someone to shield me, to distract Blackjack when he came home in a foul temper at the end of the day, just looking to hand out a beating for some mostly made-up reason.

  But it never seriously occurred to me to leave, not like it obviously did to Bill, Connor, Jake and Emily. For some reason, Blaze Wilson seemed to give me a glimpse of another, unlived life. A life in the city, not the country. Growing up, everyone around me was quick to remind all of us kids how awful it was living in the city, away from the grounding realities of land and livestock, chasing dollars because your head was empty of any real knowledge or desire – as was your heart. And I always bought it. Those poor, lonely people in the city with their meaningless lives and their expensive gym memberships.

  Except Blaze Wilson didn't seem empty-headed or empty-hearted, not when I was honest with myself. She was just doing her job. And she was one of those people who just gave off a vibe of competence. I'm one of those people, too, but only in the context of Sweetgrass Ranch. Blaze appeared to be one of those people who, dropped into the middle of an Antarctic snowstorm, would somehow know just what to do.

  I shook my head and chuckled at myself, perfectly aware of the fact that I was probably conjuring this idea of what Blaze Wilson was like out of thin air. How could I know? I'd barely spent more than a few brief hours with her.

  When I got back to the house I dug up my brother Connor's number and called him before I could think too much and chicken out. I would do what I could to save the Ranch – not because I actually thought any of it would work, but because it would mean I could live with myself in the future. No matter where I ended up, I would at least have the reassurance of knowing I tried everything.

  "McMurtry Residence."

  A little girl's voice – my niece. A niece I would probably never meet. I asked her if her Daddy was home and she told me to wait while she went to check. Very polite. After a few minutes and a lot of commotion on the other end, Connor finally took the phone.

  "Yes? Is dad dead?"

  That was his greeting. He knew it was me, because the Sweetgrass Ranch name would have showed up on their phone, and that was his greeting.

  "No," I responded. "Dad's not dead."

  "Too bad. What can I help you with, Jack?"

  What I wanted to say was that he could help by not talking to me with the polite detachment one usually reserves for service staff and other strangers. But I didn't say that, because Connor is touchy – always has been.

  "We're losing the Ranch, Connor. Blackjack owed a couple million in back taxes and the IRS came calling. I don't have it. I already have a pretty good idea of what you're going to say but I figured I'd try to contact everyone anyway, just to let you all know. Just in case you do want to help, or try to come up with some kind of plan."

  There was a pause on the other end of the phone – my brother had not been expecting that call, and he didn't immediately know what to say.

  "What makes you think I'd want to lift a goddamned finger trying to save that place?"

  "Nothing," I admitted. "I just wanted to give you the chance. You've got a family now, I wasn't sure if you ever wanted to bring them out here or anything like that. You know, give them a taste of how you grew up, of life in the country."

  "Why would I want to do that?"

  I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, almost laughing at how little Connor had changed from the arrogant, know-it-all teenage boy I knew as a child.

  "I have no idea. It looks like you don't. That's fine – as I said, I was just letting you know. You're not under any obligation to –"

  "Oh I know I'm not under any obligation!" He cut in. "Believe me, if there's one thing I know it's that I do not owe Sweetgrass Ranch or anyone who lives there a goddamned thing."

  "OK then," I said. "That's great. I'd ask you how your family is but I get the feeling you're not interested in telling me. So before I go I'll just tell you this, Connor: I'm not dad. I'm not Blackjack. I was a fucking kid when you left, I never did anything to you."

  My oldest brother wasn't used to me talkin
g back. I didn't do it as a kid, because I was too scared of him to do so. He didn't quite seem to know how to respond. I thought for a second he was just going to hang up on me, but he didn't.

  "You're right, you never did anything to me. You also never made an effort to understand how bad it was for me, either. You –"

  "I was six when you left!" I yelled. "Six!"

  "Yeah, but, uh," Connor began, tripping over his words a little. "I mean since then. Since then, Jack, you haven't ever tried."

  I was getting angry. I could feel my shoulders tensing up. "Since then? Since then, Connor? I never even see you – except at funerals."

  My brother laughed an unhappy sounding laugh. "That's true. Jesus, the McMurtrys are fucked up. We only get together when someone croaks – and even then, most of us skip it. It's fitting, in a way."

  "That was your daughter that answered the phone, wasn't it?" I asked, not really eager to get into one of those 'our family is so awful' discussions, which I think is where Connor was going. "How old is she now? Doesn't it bother you at all that there's a whole side of her family that she doesn't know?"

  "Nope," Connor shot back. "Not at all. The more distance there is between my kids and my extended family the better, as far as I'm concerned."

  I sighed. Why was I even bothering? "Well she sounds sweet – really well-mannered, too. I'd love to get to know her. But I hear what you're saying and I accept it. I was just calling to let you know about the Ranch, anyway."

  "Well, thanks for that, but I'm not going to stand in the way of the IRS on this one, Jack."

  "OK," I said flatly, "well I guess that's that, then."

  "Yeah, I guess it is."

  We hung up and for the first time I experienced a tiny inkling of it maybe, maybe being a good thing that Sweetgrass Ranch was going to be taken away. Connor was right, the McMurtrys were fucked up. The funny part was he seemed to think he was the exception – that somehow he had escaped the years and years and generations of people who never really did learn how to love each other in the way happy families do. He hadn't escaped. Those chickens were going to come home to roost one day, simply because chickens always come home to roost – it's what they do. And no one goes through life without sending a few chickens out into the world, as Grandma Dottie used to say.

  Next, I called Emily – or, I tried her last known cell phone number, anyway. It was disconnected, as I expected. No time to wallow, though, there were other siblings to get rejected by. Jake's number was also disconnected. I wondered if he ever married that high-maintenance girlfriend of his.

  Last was Bill. I knew Bill lived in Virginia and owned his own accountancy firm, so instead of calling the number I had for him I just Googled the firm and e-mailed him. About half an hour later I got a shock in the form of an actual response. It was brief, a phone number and short message informing me that he had no interest (surprise, surprise) in saving Sweetgrass Ranch, but that it was nothing personal and that I should call if I needed to talk to him about anything.

  An ambiguous word, 'anything.' I was never close to Bill. We weren't at each other's throats the way I sometimes was with Jake and even Emily, but I'd always put it down to there being a ten year age gap between us and Bill himself just being a quiet, solitary sort of person. He spent most of the time we both lived at the Ranch in his room – even our father seemed to mostly leave him alone, from what little I could remember. But it was an open door, and from a family member, and that was something. Especially for the McMurtrys.

  I knew if I let myself think on it I might come up with some excuse as to why calling him was a bad idea, so I didn't think on it, I just called the number right away. A few seconds later, a slightly suspicious-sounding voice came down the line.

  "Jack?"

  "Bill," I replied, suddenly realizing I hadn't actually thought of anything to say to my brother. "Uh, hey. How are you?"

  "I'm well," he replied, in the same slightly awkward but hopeful tone I was using. "I didn't – um, I didn't really expect you to call. Not so quickly, anyway."

  I chuckled. "Neither did I. That's probably why I called so soon – so I wouldn't talk myself out of it. Jesus, that's kind of messed up, isn't it?"

  "It's a little messed up, Jackie-boy, but I figure out of all of us, you're probably the most normal."

  Jackie-boy. Damn, it had been years since I heard that hated nickname. And I found I didn't hate it quite so much now, spoken in haltingly affectionate tones by the brother I'd spoken to maybe twice in the past decade.

  "I don't know about that," I said curtly, never comfortable with compliments. "So you got my message, then? About the ranch?"

  "Yup," Bill said, hesitating. "I did."

  "Don't worry," I reassured him, "I'm not calling to beg for money. I already spoke to Connor – he's not interested, and I couldn't reach Emily or Jake. It was a long-shot anyway. I just wanted to be able to say to myself that I tried, you know? It's not going to work, but at least I tried."

  There was a brief pause before Bill asked me a simple question. "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why are you even trying to save that place?"

  "Well, I, uh," I stuttered, put on the spot. "Because this is our land, I suppose. This is McMurtry land, this is where our ancestors are buried. It doesn't seem right to sell it."

  "Sounds pretty vague to me," Bill said, in a tone that suggested he believed what he was saying, but he wanted to say it without hurting anyone. "I mean, sure, it's a legacy of sorts. It's our family history. But what kind of legacy, Jack? What kind of history? A hopeful one, a story you'd like to tell your children? Or a desperately unhappy one, filled with bitter people who never did learn how to get over not having the things that weren't meant for them?"

  "Wow," I laughed nervously. "I was not expecting deep thoughts this early in the morning, man. I'm not smart like you. Maybe you know this already, I can't remember, but I never did go to college. So I don't really know what you're getting –"

  "This isn't about smart," Bill said firmly. "And you're plenty smart, Jack, but it's not about that. It's not about intelligence. If anything, it's about character. Don't you think the McMurtrys have a collective kind of character? Haven't you ever noticed that? You didn't ever wonder why, exactly, Old Blackjack was so bitter when by almost any measure he had it pretty good? Great wife, successful cattle ranch, lots of kids and grandkids? What specifically did he have to be so angry about all the time? Same with dad – same with most of us, sad to say."

  I opened my mouth to say something and then snapped it shut again. Bill was right. He sounded right, anyway. So what was it? What was it that turned so many of us into runaways or addicts or plain old bad people?

  "It's character," Bill continued. We've got bad character in this family line. It doesn't hit all of us and I'm not saying it can't be overcome, but it certainly can't be overcome by convincing yourself it's everyone and everything around you, rather than, you know, you."

  "You're right," I said, a little dazed. "Damn, Bill, you're still the smartest one. But you're right. When I spoke to Connor about an hour ago I actually had kind of the same thought. He's keeping his family from us – and now some of that I can understand – I wouldn't want my kids around Blackjack, either, if he was still alive. But he's keeping them from all of us, all the McMurtrys. He thinks he's saving them by doing that, he thinks he can keep them safe from turning out badly, but –"

  "But he's actually just doing the same thing Blackjack did, and dad did, and probably every goddamned McMurtry going back a thousand years. He's blaming his bitterness on others. Now, again, some people deserve it. But you? Me? How is he helping those kids by disallowing them from knowing their own family?"

  It was a heavy conversation to dive into right away, and I think we both felt it at that moment. Bill took a breath. "So, Jackie-boy, what's happening? Other than losing Sweetgrass Ranch, I mean? And I don't mean to sound flippant but I think you'll find that might be better for you than yo
u assume it will. You got someone right now? You with anyone? How about that Kayla Landers, she was always so sweet on you. All the girls were sweet on you, Jack."

  I laughed self-consciously. "Were they?"

  "Oh come on. By the time you were 8 years old you had the little girls showing up at the front door, asking Grandma Dottie if Jack could come out to play and is Jack home and oh, my mom made cookies and I brought one for Jack. I bet life's hard when you're born handsome and charming."

  I probably shouldn't have been so surprised to hear Bill's thoughts, because he'd never said much to me when we were kids, but I nonetheless was.

  "Handsome and charming?" I asked, embarrassed.

  "Yes, you idiot," Bill responded. "Are you trying to tell me you're unaware of that? Why do you think Grandma Dottie made you her little favorite? I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you looked like a dimple-cheeked little angel when you were little. Not that it matters now. What matters now is what I asked – are you seeing anyone?"

  I made the mistake of pausing, just briefly, before replying. "No."

  "No? No one? Why do you sound so furtive then?"

  "Bill?" I asked.

  "Yeah?"

  "Can I ask you a question and you promise not to get mad?"

  "Well I can't promise anything but I'll try not to."

  "Are you high or something? This is awesome, don't get me wrong, but I don't think you've ever said this many words to me in my entire life. If I'm acting strange it's just because I'm not used to it. Have you met someone? Is that why you're in such a good mood?"

  Bill made a dismissive noise, but didn't actually respond.

  "Bill?"

  "What?"

  "Well? Are you going to answer my questions? We've barely spoken two words to each for ten years and now you're asking me about my love life? What's going on?"

  There were a few more moments of silence, but then my brother spoke up again. He sounded suddenly very serious. "Do you really want to know?"