When Mountains Move

by Julie Cantrell

  Bump and I both smile politely, but Sheriff Halpin pounds heavy steps toward the man. “I’m warning you!” I tug Bump’s arm, suggesting we leave too. Bump offers Sheriff Halpin a final farewell, trying to leave on a positive note. “Appreciate your help, sir.”

  The sheriff doesn’t respond. Instead, he keeps his eyes set on the man, who continues to completely ignore him.

  I nod back to Kat and her son, Henry.

  “We’ll swing by in a few weeks,” Kat says. “Give you time to get settled.”

  “Please do,” I tell her, hoping she’ll keep her word.

  When the man follows us out, Sheriff Halpin shouts, “Don’t come back!” I’m not sure if he means the strangely dressed man, or all of us.

  I climb into the truck, and Bump hands me the two small sacks of supplies we’ve purchased in hopes of getting off to a decent start with the sheriff. Before Bump can close my door, the man questions Bump again. “Mind if I follow you out and take a look at the place?”

  “We ain’t even seen it for ourselves yet.” Bump laughs, closing the passenger door. The man waits, as if he knows Bump will give in. Sure enough, he does. “I do suppose we’ll need help eventually. But, I gotta ask, what’s all the fuss about? With the sheriff in there?”

  “It’s personal,” the man says. “I’m no danger.”

  Bump doesn’t answer, so the man continues. “I have my own tent, teepee of sorts, so I won’t require boarding. Just a spot to pitch.”

  Bump has moved to his side of the truck where he opens the driver’s door. He doesn’t yet sit.

  The man continues. “I hunt. Fish. You won’t have to feed me.” Now he waits while Bump assesses the situation.

  Finally, my husband extends his hand. “How can I reach you, if it turns out we do need the help?”

  “Just send word around town. Ask for Fortner. It’ll get to me.” The man shakes Bump’s hand with confidence.

  “Fortner?” Bump asks.

  “Right,” the man answers. And with that, we leave him standing in front of the general store, his arms crossed, and his eyes planted right on us.

  “Well, that was interesting.” I adjust in my seat and try to read Bump’s thoughts. “What’s his story?”

  “Got no clue. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he shows up tomorrow ready to work.”

  “Sounds like he’s on the sheriff’s bad side.” Not a place I want to be.

  “That’s for sure,” Bump says.

  “And what did he say his name was?”

  “Fortner.” Bump’s brow twists as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Like the ol’ Fortner place, the ranch we’ll be runnin’. Kind of strange, don’t you think?”

  “I do. But from the way those shoppers reacted when they heard we planned to fix up the place, I’m bettin’ we could be in over our heads. Might not be the worst thing to have some help.”

  “No doubt it’ll be a lot of work for us, Millie, but to tell you the truth, I’m lookin’ forward to havin’ you all to myself for a while. Won’t be long before Oka arrives, and I ain’t ready to share you quite yet.”

  I smile and give Bump a kiss. Then another. “Well, then, I guess it’s official,” I say. “We’re ranchers now.”

  Chapter 6

  Within minutes, our old Ford truck is bouncing along, running parallel to the stretch of mountains. We turn and follow a rough and narrow road that winds alongside a river. Heavy with snowmelt, the river surges around boulders and rocky crevasses, twisting and bubbling away from the mountains above. There is a power to the mountains, and while the river flows toward lower ground, I am drawn to the peaks. I’m glad the road ahead will take us higher. I lean my head out the passenger window and let my hair blow in the breeze.

  We drive more than twenty minutes outside of Lewiston, navigating wicked switchbacks and narrow turns, until, finally, Bump slows the truck and turns onto a dirt driveway.

  “Is this it?” I ask, as he weaves around deep ruts in the lane.

  “Yep. Nearly five thousand acres.”

  The land spans like a skirt around us, holding a mix of towering evergreens, thin-leaved aspens, and pond-dotted pastures. “All to ourselves?”

  “Yep,” Bump says again, smiling like a kid with a new toy.

  I imagine herds of horses galloping across the skyline, dipping their soft noses into the ponds and foaling in pastures. I lean up toward the dash to get a better view. “I can’t wait to see Firefly’s reaction.” I miss my horse with a sudden sharpness. “When can we bring them out here?”

  “Soon as we ready the pastures,” Bump promises. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple months.” We pass an old, rusty windmill, missing a few blades. The fencerow is badly damaged too. Nothing but barbed wire strung between splintered wooden posts, many of which have been knocked down by snow, wind, or animals.

  “Manure seems to have held up just fine,” I tease. Dry white piles pepper the landscape. As Bump turns a curve, my excitement plummets. I catch sight of a dilapidated cabin. He parks the truck and we get out to find our new home is a slanted and wind-battered shell of rough-cut logs. It’s been patched together with a mixture of mud and grass and what appears to be horse hair, but most of the chinking has worn away, leaving large gaps along the exterior of the crooked structure.

  L-shaped, the house holds a sagging porch across the longer side. The shorter stem has a second floor, its exterior made of unpainted milled slats, as if it were an afterthought. Windows line each level, but every glass pane is broken and the wind thrashes across the shards of glass with a high-pitched howl.

  Bump and I walk together around the property, carefully surveying the home’s exterior. He’s the first to speak. “Watch your step.” He points to the worn wooden planks, as we make our way across the porch. We find one spot where rainwater has dripped over the years. Or maybe snow. Either way, it’s rotted clear through. “Gotta replace these boards.”

  “Fine place to put a barrel,” I say, trying to find the good. I struggle to open the warped front door and am met with a cloud of dust. We both fight coughs and sneezes, but soon the particles settle and we step carefully into the house.

  “Looks like the Jerries beat us here.” Glass crunches beneath Bump’s boots as he walks ahead of me through the clutter. “It’s a warzone.” Rough, uneven planks make up the floor, with gaps as wide as a fist in some parts where piles of dirt seep through. Feed sacks whip from the broken windows in shreds. Newspaper scraps and gunnysacks have been stuffed between logs. Bump opens a wooden cupboard in the kitchen. A mouse runs out. I jump.

  “Anything else in there?” I ask.

  “Nothin’ you’d want to see.” He closes the cupboard and continues through the house.

  I jiggle the handle of a woodstove and peek inside to find a heap of old white ash. I’m hoping it’s hardwood. Then, I can boil it down to make soap the way Sloth taught me. “We did come for adventure, right?” I move into the bedroom to find another space without furniture. I was looking forward to a real bed, but I don’t dare complain. Bump seems sad enough without my pointing out the obvious.

  “One heck of an adventure, all right.” I can almost see Bump’s spirit sinking as he kicks at a loose pile of dirt. Even though we expected it to need work, turning this house into a home will be a bigger challenge than either of us had bargained for.

  “At least the fireplace looks good.” I move back to the living area where a large stone hearth centers the room. Between that and the woodstove, we shouldn’t have to worry about heat once winter hits.

  Bump nods and makes his way up the stairs without saying a word. I follow. We find two small rooms, both with floors that slant at awkward angles. The glass windowpanes are broken, like the ones downstairs, but these rooms are cleaner, and aside from a few birds’ nests, the top floor doesn’t seem to be nearly as infested with wildlife.<
br />
  As we walk around the house, we compose a list of tasks to be done: replace the windowpanes, rid the house of rodents and insects, scrub everything inside and out, repair doors and floors. The list grows longer with each step.

  “We got no business here, Millie. What was I thinkin’?” I’ve never seen Bump so full of doubt. “I shoulda given you a choice. I never offered you a way out of this deal, did I?”

  I move toward him, but he steps away and paces the floor. I stay still and watch him. The noise of creaking boards and booted steps pounding the wooden planks is nearly more than I can handle. I am reminded of my father, Jack, and the sounds that made me hide in fear every time he returned home to deliver wounds Mama called bangers and stamps. Is this how it starts? Something goes wrong, an unexpected disappointment, and anger begins to swell inside a man? I shudder.

  After a long stretch of silence, Bump turns toward me again and says, “Here’s your chance, Millie. If you wanna toss in the towel, no one would blame us. We’ll go right back to Iti Taloa, and we’ll be fine. I promise. Mr. Tucker will understand.” He has seemed sure of this plan from the start, never hinting to the tiniest fleck of hesitation. Yet now, he sounds as if he’s full of fear. Could it be that he is as afraid as I am? His blue eyes hold my own and I begin to soften.

  “Well, I have to admit, it is nice to be asked.” I kiss him, so he knows I’m not bitter. I walk back downstairs and out to the backyard. Bump follows me to the edge of the river, waiting for an answer. We are shaded by slim clumps of wimpy willows that bow to an army of water birch trees, standing proud and wearing their dark bark like armor.

  “What do you want, Bump?” I lean against a sturdy spruce and breathe in the evergreen smells that remind me of Christmas. I think of all we’ve left behind in Mississippi. The good, and the bad. “I mean, what do you really want?”

  “I just want you to be happy.” He takes my hand. “Stay here? Or go back to Iti Taloa? I’ll do whatever you want, and we won’t have no regrets. Either way.”

  “Promise?” My eyebrows peak.

  “Promise.” He still sounds deflated.

  I take my time to answer. I look out at the weedy pastures and the crumbling house. I let it all sink in. “You really think we can turn a profit in three years?”

  “No way of knowin’.” Bump looks around doubtfully.

  “You think we stand half a chance?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, almost if he’s trying to fight it, a smile creeps in. “More than half,” he says with a hint of optimism again.

  I’m encouraged. “And you think we’ll be able to bounce back if we don’t succeed?”

  “No doubt about that.” His smile spreads.

  “You really think I have what it takes to be a rancher’s wife?”

  “Not just a rancher’s wife,” he says. “A rancher.”

  “Well, how can I not take that dare?” I manage a genuine smile and say, “Let’s go for it.”

  “You sure?” Bump asks.

  I nod, remembering Mr. Tucker’s words of encouragement. “Ready as we’ll ever be.”

  My husband’s smile can no longer be hidden. He almost darts across the grass when he turns his attention back to the list of jobs. “At least the coop is in decent shape.”

  I follow Bump to the chicken house and open the door to the roosting area. Bad move. The stench is unbearable, and raccoons have claimed the shelter. The mother stands upright, hissing and baring her sharp teeth as her three kits curl behind her. I figure they’ve only had their eyes open a few days, so I hurry to close the door and leave them be.

  “It won’t take much to get a flock started in there,” I say, grateful Sloth taught me how to manage a coop before he died. “Can probably find some hens in town that are already laying.”

  “I reckon so.”

  “The pasture has potential.” I move back toward the fence. “And the barn is still standing.” I ignore the bleached-white bones of cattle scattered across the land.

  “’Atta girl.” Bump winks.

  “It really is beautiful here,” I say. The wide, shallow river curves behind the house, and I’ve already spotted at least two fresh springs bubbling across the property. “We shouldn’t have to worry about a water source.”

  “Bound to be full of trout.” Bump dips his hand into the clear river water, then tosses a rock to make a splash. He looks up at the mountains stretching above us and adds, “There’ll be plenty of game to hunt too. Elk. Mule deer. No tellin’ what else.”

  Thick blackberry bushes climb a long stretch of fence, and signs of a large garden remain on the side of the house beside what appears to be a creamery. “Woodshed seems sturdy enough, and I’m betting we can save this outhouse, too,” Bump adds.

  “Outhouse …” I mumble. I’m just realizing there are no luxuries here. In my head, I tick off all the other things we’ll be doing without: running water, electricity, telephones …

  There’s no use complaining. I direct my attention instead to another outbuilding that looks to have been used as a smokehouse. There’s a fair-sized root cellar as well. It’s got dirt floors but seems to be a sturdy log structure dug into the ground. Certainly a good place to store preserves, root vegetables. Another useful skill I learned from Sloth.

  “At least the weather’s nice,” I say. The wind is blowing straight and strong. The sun dots the cloudless sky with a brilliant blur. And a peregrine falcon paints the blank blue canvas, his yellow claws tucked tight against his speckled tail feathers. Bump curls his hands around my waist and pulls me against his chest. Then he points to a back corner of the right pasture where black charred trunks stand naked in the sun.

  “Fire?” I ask.

  “Looks that way,” Bump says. Then he adds, “But that wasn’t what I was showin’ you. Look closer. Underneath.”

  At the base of the leafless trunks, at least five acres continue to burn bright yellow with wildflower blooms. Their color a stark contrast to the ashen remains. I’m brought back to the blooms of my childhood, the ones that always delivered hope. It’s as if God has sent a message, just for me. A reminder that life can renew itself.

  The sun stands proud above us, and sky stretches blue into forever, and I am wrapped in my husband’s arms. Here, in this moment, I am completely at peace.

  “We can do this, Bump.”

  “We can?” He still sounds doubtful.

  If ever Bump needed me to be strong, to be sure, it is now. I look him in the eye and make another promise. “We will.”

  I hammer stakes into the ground, helping Bump make camp in the yard. “I sure hoped to have more to offer you than this,” he says, looking at the tent as if it’s a disgrace.

  “Bump, stop it. Look at this place.” I point to the river rushing beside our tent, the majestic mountains rising up behind it, the open-aired pasture where our horses will foal, and the lush green valley deep below in the distance. “Who could possibly ask for more?” I gather wood and clear a firepit, forming a ring of stones around the ground I’ve scraped bare. Bump strings a hook and begins fishing for supper. There isn’t anyone around for miles, and no matter how far I look in any direction, I can’t spot a single car, or home, or steeple, or shop. It’s just Bump and me.

  “First thing tomorrow, I’ll start on the house.” Bump pulls an empty line from the water and casts again.

  “We’ll start on the house,” I correct him.

  “Should be able to make a good bit of furniture with the scrap wood in the barn,” he promises. “Tables, shelves. Most of what we need. But we’ll have to order a mattress.”

  “Told you we should have brought that cot,” I tease. I stack a triangle of small twigs, strike a match, and light the fire.

  “You deserve better,” Bump says. “Sheriff Halpin gave me a Sears and Roebuck for any big items we need delivered fr
om Denver. I’ll drop an order in the nearest mailbox tomorrow. Think I spotted one about ten miles down the road. Why don’t you take a look at the form, see if there’s anything else you want to purchase.”

  “Can’t think of a thing,” I say. “We’ve got all those wedding gifts in the truck. Dishes, pots and pans. Some linens and utensils. You packed every kind of tool we could possibly need. Oka stocked us with seeds, and Diana gave me a set of stationery. Mabel has us all set with preserves. Let’s stick with a mattress for now. That sounds like a good place to start.”

  “Got one!” Bump yells, pulling a trout to the surface. “Grab that stringer, will ya?”

  I manage the fish while Bump baits his hook for another catch. “One more, and we’ll be set.”

  After supper, I pat my bedroll and call Bump closer. “You take good care of me, you know that?” He smiles and pulls me onto him. I unbutton his shirt, tug at the sleeves, gently undressing him. He falls back, beneath the stars, and I kiss his neck, his chest, trying again to distance myself from that steeple. He wraps his arms around me, and turns me under him. I resist. Maybe someday I’ll be able to rest in my husband’s arms without feeling Bill Miller force me down against the wooden floor. But for now, I keep my back to the moon and my spirit guarded.

  Chapter 7

  We have been living at the Fortner place for less than a month, and we’ve already managed to get the house in fairly decent shape. As promised, Bump built some tables and shelves from the wood in the barn. We salvaged some chairs from the clutter, but we did splurge on ordering a brand-new bed. Mattress, too. It was delivered yesterday from Denver. After sleeping on a cot in the rodeo foaling room for more than a month, followed by nearly three weeks of tent camping and then a pallet on the living room floor, our new bed is a blessing. So soft, and clean, and comfortable. I don’t want to climb out of it.