by Joanna Bell
The big old house was quiet inside, and emptier than I remembered it. Jack must have sold or moved a lot of the furniture out already. I sat in the front room and watched as motes of dust spiraled through the sunbeams coming in through the window. It really was a beautiful setting. Jack's grandfather must have been some kind of total asshole to let the debts pile up the way he had – he must have known it would be Jack who would eventually end up on the hook for it all.
It was as I sat there silently cursing a man I'd never met that Jack himself strolled in, covered in dust and slightly out of breath. I stood up and took a step towards him and we both hesitated for a second, not sure how to greet each other, before hugging.
It started out a bit awkward, that hug. A bit stiff. But Jack was a big man, with one of those chests you just want to nestle into, and something about being in his arms calmed my nerves. It felt good there. It felt right. When I finally let go and pulled away, he was looking down at me, like he might be about to say something. But he didn't say anything and neither did I and I thought maybe, maybe he was going to kiss me.
But he didn't kiss me. He smiled. Had I noticed that white-toothed, movie-star smile before? I knew Jack was attractive, because I have eyes. But some men have something more than the way they look, and that smile made me instantly aware that Jack was one of them. It was one of those smiles. Wide, dimpled, cockily good-natured and prone to making women from their teens to their nineties giggle like little girls. I managed, with some difficulty, to control the urge to do just that.
"You're here," he said, surprised. "I didn't think you'd really come."
"Didn't you?" I asked, tilting my head to the side and only stopping myself from biting my lip at the last minute. God, what was I doing?
He looked good, though. He smelled good, too. Of hay and sunshine and outdoors. My hands itched to reach out for him, to take his hand or play with the cuff of his sleeve.
"Well, I wasn't sure. You don't seem like the kind of woman who does impulsive things."
I laughed. "Yeah. I guess I'm not that kind of woman. I never do things like this – not that I expect you to believe me."
"Listen," Jack said. "I should take a shower – I'm filthy and I've got straw in my hair. Are you hungry? Tired?"
I shrugged. "Not really. I don't care what we do. Maybe you can show me some more of the property, it's a beautiful afternoon."
"Well, give me fifteen minutes, OK? You're welcome to grab anything you want from the fridge."
When he was gone I wandered into the kitchen, still not quite believing I was actually at Sweetgrass Ranch. The fridge was as empty as the rest of the house – hot mustard, a dozen eggs, a bag of lettuce that looked like it had seen better days and a jar of mayo. Somehow, though, the random groceries in the fridge were imbued with a kind of meaning. That wasn't just a bag of lettuce in the fridge, it was Jack's bag of lettuce. That he had chosen, out of all the other bags of lettuce.
I sat down at the kitchen table, chuckling at my own teenage girl-ish thoughts and trying to keep my mind off the fact that Jack was in the shower. That Jack was naked in the shower. I felt my cheeks redden at the thought.
A few minutes later he walked in, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and instructed me to look under the table.
"What?"
"Look under the table. Not at the floor, at the underside of the table itself. Right there, where you are."
I pushed my chair back and ducked my head under the edge of the table. Carved into the wood were the letters 'J' and 'E' and, just underneath them, 'September 1995.'
"You're the J, right?" I asked.
Jack nodded. "Yeah. The E is my sister, Emily. She's the closest to me in age, and she spent most of our childhoods getting me into trouble. Thankfully my Grandma Dottie never actually noticed that little piece of vandalism."
"Emily? Where is she now?"
Jack ran one hand through his wet hair and opened the fridge before immediately slamming it again. "Huh. Nothing to eat. We should go to the store. And I have no idea where my sister is – somewhere in California, I suspect."
"How many siblings do you have?" I asked, conscious that I might be in sensitive territory.
"Four. Three brothers and one sister – I'm the youngest. Do you mind if we go to the store? It won't take long, but I'm starving and I'm going to start chewing the linoleum if I don't get something to eat soon."
I got up. "No, I don't mind at all."
In the truck on the way to the grocery store in Little Falls, and as he drove with one hand clasped around the top of the wheel, using the heel of that same hand to turn it when necessary, Jack brought up his siblings again. "Emily left home as soon as she could. That was 2003, I think. She kept in touch with me for awhile, but then she fell in with the wrong crowd and the calls petered out until they eventually only came once or twice a year – and only then to ask me for money. I think about her a lot – especially lately. This whole deal with losing Sweetgrass Ranch is stirring up all these memories, you know? All these regrets. What might have been, what could have been – compared to what was, and is. Ha, I'm sorry, I'm rambling!"
The rolling hills of Montana were golden in the light of the setting sun. I looked at them through the window, trying to picture a young Jack and his siblings growing up in that landscape. "You're not rambling," I told him. "And if you are, it's OK. I want to hear about your family."
"Do you?" Jack asked, glancing at me briefly. "Why?"
The question was serious, so I gave it some thought before answering. Why did I want to hear about Jack's family? "I know what you're probably thinking," I told him. "You're probably thinking I'm here to work out my own guilt, right?"
"The thought had crossed my mind," he responded. "But I'm open to being convinced otherwise."
"Alright," I said, having been mildly called out. "Sure, yeah, I feel guilty. Of course I do. I'm human, you know. But I didn't take the first two sick days of my career and fly halfway across the country to spend a couple of days with a stranger just because I feel guilty. I mean, come on, Jack..."
He looked right at me, and it felt like those piercing blue eyes of his could see right through me. "Come on, what?" He asked. "What else was it? Why did you fly halfway across the country?"
"Oh God," I muttered, turning my head to look out the window again because I didn't want Jack to see the embarrassed look on my face.
"What?" He asked again, refusing to drop it. "If it's not just guilt, you better tell me what else it is, woman."
I giggled at Jack's use of the word 'woman.' He was joking, obviously. But I had to laugh, because if I didn't laugh then he might see it on my face how much I liked it. I kept my gaze fixed pointedly on the scenery whizzing by the window, and not on Jack. "Well what do you think it was?!" I asked. "Do you suppose I'm here talking to you about your family because I think you're terrible and I'm not interested in anything you say?"
Jack laughed out loud at that. "You're very good at not saying things and seeming like you are, Blaze Wilson. Do you know that?"
"I don't know," I mumbled, still refusing to look at him.
"You're embarrassed," Jack said, stating the obvious and noticeably tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "That's – ugh, Blaze..."
It was my turn to be the questioner. "What? Why 'ugh?'"
We were at the grocery store. Jack pulled into a parking spot directly out front, turned off the engine, and turned to me, looking me right in the eye. "Why 'ugh?'"
"Um, yeah." I responded, as he failed to blink or look away. "Why?"
"Well," he smiled, "to take a page out of your book, Miss Wilson, do you think I invited you to Sweetgrass Ranch because I think you're an awful person?"
I squirmed, wanting to look away but somehow unable to. Not with him looking at me like that.
" You think you're all in control, don't you?" He continued. "I could tell that from the very first moment I met you. And at your job, I have no trouble believing you ar
e. But you should see yourself right now! You can barely look at me. Quite frankly, it's adorable. And no, I don't think you're awful. I did think that, for a little while, but that was just me being angry at the wrong person."
God help me I never quite understood what the word 'swoon' meant until Jack McMurtry looked me in the eye in his pick-up truck and told me plainly that my self-consciousness was adorable. Not that I let him know what I was feeling...
"And you, uh – I mean I – don't really think you're terrible," I blathered, my cheeks tingling.
"Well that's great to hear," Jack grinned, opening his door and jogging around to my side to open mine, which only served to fluster me – and amuse him – further.
"So," he asked, briefly putting a reassuring hand on the small of my back as we walked up a small set of steps to get to the automatic doors of the grocery store, "what do you feel like eating?"
I didn't really feel like eating at all, even though the last thing I had eaten was a sad, overpriced little sandwich at Dulles airport hours before. It was like the focus of my being was so entirely on Jack, and how it felt to be with him, that biological functions like eating had just fallen by the wayside. "I don't know," I said. "It doesn't matter – whatever you feel like eating. I wish I could make –" I snapped my mouth shut, barely cutting the words off before I blurted them out, and shocked at what I'd been about to say.
Jack looked at me as he grabbed a basket. "What? Why do you look like you were just about to confess to a murder?"
What I had been about to say was that I wished I could cook something for Jack. Lord knows where that urge came from, but there it was, an inexplicably satisfying image of myself presenting him with a hot, home-cooked meal. It was detailed, too. Right down to the look on his face – pride, happiness. Jesus, had I been drugged? Was there something in the Little Falls air that was slowly transforming me into a 1950s housewife?
"Er, nothing," I said, a little too quickly. "We can eat whatever you want."
"You sure?" Jack asked. "I'm not a sophisticated city slicker like you, Blaze. What if what I want is peanut butter and jelly on sliced white?"
I laughed. "That's fine. I like peanut butter and jelly. When I run out of Kobe beef and truffles, anyway."
"I bet."
In the end we picked up the ingredients for some kind of mashed potato and cabbage dish that Jack said his grandmother taught him how to make, along with some pre-made salad that I insisted on. It felt good, grocery shopping with Jack. I mean, it felt really good. I stood in line waiting for our turn at the check-out and half-expected someone to comment on the visibly glowing woman in their midst.
Back at Sweetgrass Ranch, Jack announced that I was going to help him with supper and handed me a vegetable peeler.
"I assume you can peel potatoes?"
"Yes I can peel potatoes," I responded, mock-offended. "I'm not sure how much money you think IRS investigators make, Jack, but it's not enough to afford eating out every night."
Jack was filling a saucepan with water. "Oh," he grinned. "I just assumed you had a private chef."
"Yeah. I wish."
"Here," he said, setting the saucepan down next to me. "Chop them into cubes when they're peeled and put them in here."
Careful, my subconscious warned me as Jack and I prepared supper together. Careful, Blaze.
Because who knew grocery shopping or peeling potatoes could be so damned great? I knew it was the company, of course, and not the activities themselves, but in truth I couldn't remember feeling so good as it made me feel to just be in that shabby old farmhouse kitchen with Jack McMurtry, teasing each other about our respective lifestyles and shooting each other little glances when we thought the other one wasn't looking.
"What is this, then?" I asked, when the potatoes were boiling and Jack was throwing the chopped cabbage into a pan of sizzling bacon fat. "It smells delicious."
"We just used to call this Grandma Dottie's Famous Mashed Potatoes," he replied, "but I think it's some kind of traditional Irish dish, actually. Col-something. We should probably put some bacon in it, if this is all we're going to have – it's usually more of a side-dish. Come with me."
"Ooh," I swooned, as Jack led me out of the kitchen and into a smaller side room. "A pantry. An actual pantry. This place is like a housewife's dream come true."
Jack opened what looked like a small refrigerator and stood aside so I could see the various cuts of pork hanging on hooks.
"That's what's left of last year's pig," he told me, grabbing a large piece of what I assumed was unsliced bacon. "There's a couple of hams left, too. I don't go through food the way we used to when this house was crammed with people. Here, take this."
He handed me the bacon and I studied it, running my fingers over the surprisingly dry surface. "I've literally never seen unsliced bacon," I commented. "Is that strange? It feels strange here, in this context."
"You've never seen unsliced bacon, but you're drooling over the pantry," Jack laughed as we walked back to the kitchen. "We'll make a housewife of you yet, Blaze."
"Oh will we?" I asked.
"I reckon so, yeah. I mean, you're already part of the way there – you wanted to cook me dinner, didn't you? So the desire is there, we just need to get you up to scratch on the practical skills now."
"What?!" I spluttered. "I never said I wanted to cook you dinner! You're making things up now."
Jack took the bacon out of my hands and gave me a knowing little half-smile. "Oh, you didn't say that? I thought you did, in the grocery store. I must have misheard you."
"No, I – no, I did not say that," I protested.
"You were thinking it, though, weren't you?"
I wanted to scowl at him but the scowl just turned into a smile. "I – Jack, how do you know that? You can't know it. You –"
"Well did you or didn't you?" He asked, slicing the bacon and throwing the strips into the frying pan with the cabbage. "Did you or did not you not want to cook dinner for me? Don't look so pained, Blaze, I'm not asking you if you've ever killed a man."
"It'd be easier to answer that," I replied, shaking my head. "I haven't killed anyone. The answer might be different in a couple of hours but so far my record is clean."
Jack turned to look at me for a moment but I couldn't read his expression. Then he went back to tending to the cabbage and bacon. By the time it was all finished the smell had triggered my appetite and I was ready to tuck in.
"Oh wow," I said, covering my mouth with my hand when I realized I was talking with my mouth full. "This is delicious. What did you say this was?"
"Grandma Dottie's Famous Mashed Potatoes. We used to beg for this as kids. She made it a lot, too, because it was Blackjack's favorite as well."
I remembered what he'd said earlier about it being a traditional Irish dish and took out my phone, entering the words 'Irish dish potato cabbage traditional' into Google.
"Colcannon," I announced as the results came up. "That's what this is. Colcannon."
Jack nodded. "Colcannon, huh? Good, isn't it?"
I nodded back to him, because my mouth was once again too full to speak.
Chapter Thirteen
Jack
When Old Blackjack was dying, I remember him telling me once, during one of his more lucid moments, that it was like time had slowed down. Like every second suddenly mattered, in a way they hadn't when he had a lot of them left. That's what it felt like to be at Sweetgrass Ranch for those last few days, and Blaze Wilson's presence did nothing to reduce the effect. In fact, she made it much worse. There was something acutely bittersweet about watching her awkwardly chop potatoes in that kitchen – a kitchen she looked oddly at home in, in spite of her city ways – just days before I had to leave forever.
I tried to tell myself it wasn't Blaze, that my emotions were simply about the Ranch I was about to lose, but I knew better. When we were finished eating, and my ability to prevent my eyes lingering along the lush curves of her body was weakening, I
suggested we go and take a look at the Moileds.
"The whats?" She asked. "The Spoileds?"
"The Moileds," I corrected her, "although Spoileds is actually more accurate. It's a breed of cattle. Irish Moiled cattle."
"I've never heard of it. Although to be fair I've never heard of any breed of cattle. What are the black and white ones?"
"Holsteins. Those are dairy cows. The Moileds are very rare – in fact I think this might be the only purebred herd in America."
"Really?"
"Well I don't actually know for sure but I've never heard of anyone else owning any. They came over in the 1800s with the original McMurtry, and we've never crossbred them. Blackjack brought over a few heifers and a bull in the 50s to diversify the breeding stock – they were kind of his prized possessions. He never let them out onto the open range with the beef steers, and we only bred them to replace the ones that died – they were more like pets to him than livestock."
I looked down at Blaze's feet – clean, expensive-looking leather shoes. Those wouldn't do.
"Here," I said, putting down a pair of rubber boots in front of her. "Put these on. You'll ruin your shoes otherwise."
"It's so idyllic here," Blaze mused as we walked down to the barn. "I mean – oh, I'm sorry, Jack, I didn't mean to –"
"It's OK," I replied, shrugging. "It's not like I don't know it – and it's not like I forgot it won't be mine in a few days. So don't worry yourself about –"
"A few days?!"
"Yeah. I got the final notice of, uh..."
"Final Notice of Intent to Levy." Blaze said quietly.
"Yeah, I got that a little while ago. I can't fight it, so there was no appeal or anything. I've got to be out by November 3rd."
Blaze cast her eyes down and didn't respond, but we were at the barn by that time. I unlatched the big, heavy barn doors and threw them open.