Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  By the time the moon had risen, they were turning onto the familiar gravel drive of the farm. Montana pulled the wagon to a stop and unhooked his arm from around her shoulders. He hopped down, helped her and unhitched the team. Addie sauntered over to the back door while he took care of the horses, and stood waiting for him, not wanting the touching to end.

  He didn't know she stood there. She could tell by the way he moved, never once looking her way. It was special, watching him move, watching his tall body as he walked the horses to the pump, where he watered them before leading them inside the barn.

  Addie still waited, enjoying the clicking crickets, the sigh of the breeze in the eucalyptus, the crackle of drying leaves. The barn door squeaked closed and Montana said something to Custus, then closed the door. He started to walk to the house but stopped and turned back toward the grain wagons lined up next to the barn. He walked over to them, and she watched as he untied one of the tarps. He reached up inside the wagon and pulled out a handful of grain. He just stood there, holding it, looking at it.

  She wondered what was going through his mind. His mood had lightened tonight. He was obviously happy. If ever there was a man who loved farming, it was Montana. She'd seen him do the same thing once with the dirt. He'd hunkered down and held it in his hand, like he was trying to make sure it was real and his. Was that what he was doing now? Possibly. He'd told her it was the highest quality grain he'd ever seen, and Bill Blue had said something similar. Montana had been so proud when the harvest boss had complimented him that her heart had skipped when she saw his face.

  Yes, she thought, that is what he's doing. He's making sure it's real and not just a dream. And maybe that was why she needed to have him hold her, so she would know this was real, not just some wonderful dream that would disappear one morning. Or maybe she needed to have him hold her like he'd held the soil, like he was now holding the wheat. Yes, that was it. She needed to have Montana care so much that he had to hold her to see if she was real. Then she'd know she was loved, and they would both know this wasn't a dream.

  Chapter 22

  Montana maneuvered the five-mule team down Stockton's Main Street. It was a bustling town, its dirt and gravel streets filled with vehicles of every kind. A fully loaded depot wagon emblazoned HOTEL CALIFORNIA rattled past him, luggage strapped precariously to the flat, black leather roof, and trunks and bags secured on the boot. The vehicle headed in a rush for the train station, where its passengers would unload and new guests would be taken to the prominent hotel.

  Black broughams and Studebaker buggies clustered around the walkways of the Main Street merchants, and some boys, with short pants, caps, and bruised knees, chased an ice wagon, picking at the ice blocks whenever the wagon was slowed by traffic. Barreling a cross path directly in front of Montana was a wagon load of chickens, squawking and cackling in their cages while feathers flew and fluttered in the wagon's wake. Whenever he saw chickens he thought of Addie, buying and half killing all those cockerels. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head; some chicken rancher, getting her green self talked into buying all males. Even now they still had more chicken than he ever cared to eat. He rubbed his unshaven chin thoughtfully as he waited for a freight wagon to lumber by. Maybe he'd buy some beef cattle with some of the money from the sale of the grain.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Montana checked to see if Will and Custus were still behind him. They had left Bleeding Heart the day before, each man driving a five-mule team pulling the double-bulk wagons full of wheat. At Mule Ear, the halfway point, they'd stopped and made camp, catching a few hours sleep before continuing on the remaining miles to Stockton. The sound of Custus swearing a blue streak echoed from behind him. Montana laughed, thinking that at least he knew the old goat was back there. He spotted Will, waved his turn to both men, and slowly turned the team and wagons on the road that led to the grain elevator.

  The harnesses clattered and the wooden wagon wheels groaned to a stop at the loading platform of the Avery Bros. Grain Elevator and Silage. White steam sputtered from a Chicago-bound train that was loading on the track that ran behind the elevator. Cattle thundered and bawled up a wooden ramp into a railed cattle car, and the smell of grain and hay and the sharp sting of cow dung sweltered through the hot, Indian summer air.

  Will pulled up, followed a few minutes later by Custus, so Montana went up the platform and stood in line at the office where the elevator operator would weigh and grade his wheat. There were quality grades of wheat, from fine, high quality used for special expensive flours, down to poor, low grade wheat that was used for feed mix. The high grade wheat brought eight times more per bushel than the low grade. And for a farmer it meant the difference between prosperity and failure.

  By the time Montana's turn came, he, Will, and Custus had been standing in the hot sun for over an hour. It didn't exactly make him overly tolerant of the cocksure little bastard of a operator, who took his sweet time getting out to the bulk wagons.

  Montana untied the tarp and pointed to the three sets of double wagons. "Here it is."

  "Yeah, yeah, what's the name?" The operator scribbled something on a clipboard, never lifting his weasely face up from his writing.

  "Creed, from Bleeding Heart."

  Then he looked up, his eyes roved over Montana, assessing him. "Untie all those tarps. I want samples from each wagon load."

  Custus butted in, sarcasm dripping from his gruff voice, "What the hell for? Ya think we done grew one kinda wheat for one wagon and another for them there others?"

  "We've been cheated before. If you want to sell the wheat, you'll abide by our rules." The operator eyed all three men. He stood with his bandy legs spread in a belligerent stance, and his attitude said he didn't give a rat's ass if they bought the wheat or not.

  Montana and Will untied the tarps, and the operator walked down the platform, scooping out samples of grain from every wagon. Then he left them and went inside for the grading and weighing.

  Custus struck a match on his boot and lit a cigar stub, puffing and sucking on the ugly, brown tobacco until the fat tip glowed orange. "Throws up a load of dust for such a li'l sonofabitch."

  Montana paced a few short feet of the platform. "He can afford to. Avery's the only grain elevator buying up here."

  "Creed!" the operator shouted, waving Montana over to the office. "Pull those wagons up here and unload into the chute. We'll weigh the loads."

  He turned to go back inside, but Montana grabbed his sleeve. "What about the grading?"

  "We'll give you the grade after it's loaded and weighed. Then you'll be paid." He jerked his arm out of Montana's grip and looked up at him. "If you don't like the terms, take the load away. We got others waiting for you to unload. I ain't got all day."

  "Jus' let me git one swing at 'im," Custus muttered to Montana. "I'll knock some sense inta the li'l fart."

  "Leave him be, Custus." Montana moved to his wagon and mounted the seat. With a sharp snap of the reins, he pulled forward, then backed into the loading chute, where the grain emptied into the weight shelf and then to the elevator. He pulled the wagon away, unhooked it and backed the front wagon for the same weighing and unloading.

  After unloading all the wheat, the three men stood waiting, Montana pacing, Will fidgeting uncomfortably and Custus practicing his punches. The office door creaked open and the operator walked outside. He handed Montana a piece of paper. "Here's the draft for your grain. You can cash it in at the Stockton Bank."

  "Wait. This can't be right. My check should be seven or eight times this much." Montana looked at the small figure on the bank draft, a stunned expression on his face.

  "Your wheat wasn't up to standard. We paid you for low quality. That's the best we can pay for that grade." The man turned back toward the office, obviously dismissing Montana as inconsequential.

  Montana grabbed him and slammed him up against the office wall. "That was high-quality wheat, you bastard," he said through gritted teeth, twisting the man's
collar. "And I've got witnesses."

  The man's face turned purple and he twisted against Montana's grip. Then he suddenly threw his feet up and kicked Montana in the gut. Montana doubled and fell to his knees, gasping for air.

  "Keep your hands off me or I'll tear up that draft. It's the best you'll get from us." He took a step back when Montana looked up at him, so angry he wanted to kill.

  Seething, Montana knotted his fists, fighting for control. He lost. His fist shot up and clipped the man right in the chin. He could feel teeth rattle.

  "Whoooeeee! Nail that there li'l fart!" Custus yelled, punching his own fists at the air, "Give it ta 'im!"

  The operator shook his head and came at Montana, who shoved the man back before grabbing his shirt front and punching him over and over and over. He felt nothing but fury and the physical satisfaction of smashing the man's cheating face in.

  The next thing he knew, Will had his arms, holding him back. "Stop, Montana, stop! You'll kill him."

  Another man came outside, a rifle pointed at the three men. "Get outta here, or I'll blow yer head off."

  Will pulled Montana away. Custus picked up their hats and followed them down the platform and over to the wagon. Will said, "There's nothing you can do, Montana."

  He brought his hand to his face, rubbing it to calm himself down. His knuckles were red and bloody and hurt like hell, but he didn't care. They'd all but stolen his wheat, cheated him, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it, except maybe kill the bastard.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," he said, grabbing his hat from Custus and heading for the wagons.

  Halfway there he stopped and spun around, hearing the voice of the man who had taken his wheat, his profit, and his pride. He was slumped between two elevator workers, and he rubbed at the blood on his face. Montana could still feel the soles of the man's boots as they knocked the wind from his gut. He raised a hand and pointed at him. "I'll get you, you bastard. I'll get you." Then he turned back to the wagon, jumped on the seat and took off.

  Two hours later he was on the road to Bleeding Heart, Custus and Will driving silently behind him. He'd cashed the draft, knowing that grain operator could cancel it and then he'd have nothing. But now he sat on the hard, wooden wagon seat, with the hot afternoon sun beating down. As he wiped the sweat from his forehead, his mind flashed with the image of his father, angry, just like he was now. He could remember watching his father prowl around the farmhouse, seething at the railroad for trying to steal his land.

  He remembered both his and Will's fathers meeting with the men and planning to make a stand, a stand that would eventually take their lives. But what he also remembered were the few times he'd seen his father not looking angry, but looking defeated, like Herbert Schultz had when he'd almost lost his farm. He never thought it would happen to him, but now it had. He had failed just like those men, let himself be manipulated.

  The wheat was fine quality, the best, and he knew that when it arrived in Chicago it would be sold as high quality. Then Avery Bros. and the S.P. would split the profit. And he had let them do this. God, what a fool.

  He was tired, so goddamn tired, but he sat taller, throwing his aching shoulders back. He wouldn't let them slump. They wouldn't do to him what they did to the others. He'd fight back. As God was his witness, he'd fight back.

  Addie pulled her hair back and tied it with a deep green bow. Her long black hair hung down her back, the way Montana liked it. She smiled. He'd be home soon. Tilting up her watch pendant, she checked the time: six-thirty. The evening light had faded from the south windows, so she went to the shades and pulled them, walking away as they retracted with a couple of loud flaps. One last glance in the mirror, a quick pinch of her pale cheeks, and she left the bedroom, heading for the kitchen where dinner simmered on the stove.

  Half an hour later the table was set, dinner was ready, and Addie paced like a nervous bride. She'd missed Montana. Last night had been the first night they'd been apart since their marriage. But it was for a good reason; actually, the best reason. By now he'd sold their wheat and was on his way home, probably busting at the seams with pride.

  A horse rode down the drive and she ran to the window. It was him. She untied her apron and hung it on a hook before racing out the back door. Down the steps she ran, unable to keep her excitement locked inside.

  "Montana!" she called and ran toward him, her feet moving so fast that gravel spit up in her wake. He dismounted and she flew into his arms.

  "Addie…'' he whispered, catching her and holding her so tight her ribs ached, but she didn't care. He had missed her.

  She smiled into his warm neck, then looked up. "Well, how's the most prosperous farmer in the valley?"

  His arms slackened and he let her slide to the ground, his face suddenly hard. He turned to his saddlebags, pulled out an envelope and slapped it into her hands. "Here's the money."

  She jerked back a bit, his voice was so angry. Staring at the envelope, she noticed its thinness. Slowly she opened it and looked inside. There couldn't have been more than a hundred dollars, much less than he'd mentioned making the other night. He had uncinched the saddle and carried it toward the barn, his horse following behind him. He hadn't said another word, and acted as if she didn't exist. He moved with purpose through the barn, getting rid of the saddle, settling the horse in his stall and brushing him, much harder than usual. He didn't look at her, and she sensed he was doing it on purpose.

  Something had happened, but what? And what could she do? She felt helpless, afraid to talk about the money and afraid not to. "Where are Custus and Will?"

  "In town." He kept brushing his horse.

  "The wagons?"

  "I took them and the teams back to the livery." He stopped currying and looked right at her with coldness in his eyes. "I paid the livery, and Will and Custus." He walked past her. "That's all that's left."

  "Montana, wait!" She reached out but missed him as he tossed the curry comb across the barn and walked out the doors, not bothering to close them.

  Her shoulders fell and she slowly moved to the doors. The back door banged closed, and through the windows she could see him walk through the house. He stopped in the dining room and a moment later she saw him lift a bottle of brandy to his lips, drinking a long time, too long and too much. He must have been swindled by the granary. She knew from the women's meeting that the grain people had somehow managed to get in cahoots with the crooked railroad, but with Wade working so hard at the state capital, she hadn't thought they'd be affected. And Montana never mentioned the possibility of this happening to him.

  He must be crushed, she thought, remembering how excited he'd been when the harvest was done. He'd been proud and happy, but not now. Now he was angry and defeated. She tried to think of something she could do to help. When her father had problems, her mother had been there for him, and she wanted to be there for Montana.

  Slowly, she walked to the house, went inside and headed into the dining room. He was gone now; so was the bottle. She turned off the lamps and went into the bedroom. He lay on the bed, fully clothed, his boots against the coverlet like he had that time she'd dumped the water on him. He held the bottleneck in his fist and he stared right through her.

  "Montana, tell me what happened." She sat on the edge of the bed.

  He raised the bottle and swallowed. "There's nothing to tell."

  She sagged on a sigh. "When are you going to talk to me?"

  "I thought I was talking to you." He drank again.

  "Please, let me help." Addie reached out and tried to put her hand on his.

  He jerked it back and shot off the bed, bottle in hand. "How are you going to help? Can you make the the grain operator honest? Can you make the wheat suddenly reappear so I can haul it somewhere else to sell? How are you going to help? By putting labels with stupid, senseless numbers on all my troubles? Will that make it all perfect?" He bent over the bed, moving his angry, scorn-filled face closer. "Or maybe you'll ju
st hop on that stupid bicycle and ride the hell away from a loser like me. That's what you ought to do, get the hell out!" He threw the bottle against the wall. It broke and a brown stain of brandy ran to the floor.

  She felt helpless and hurt, but she knew he hurt too, so she didn't lash out, she just searched his tight-featured face, while her mind groped for something to say.

  "Hell! You don't have to get out, I'll get out!" He left the room. Then the back door slammed, and a few minutes later he rode away.

  Addie sat there, alone, empty and aching. She didn't cry. She felt too impotent. She loved Montana and she couldn't help. He wouldn't let her. All she wanted to do was hold him and have him need her, need to hold her. But he didn't. She stared at the broken pieces of glass lying on the floor, shattered like her heart, shattered like her dream.

  Chapter 23

  The S.P. was robbed again. This time just a few miles from Bleeding Heart." John Latimer lifted a coffee cup to his lips, sipped, then set it down, his large sun-browned hands dwarfing it.

  "There was some of them there railroad agents in them fancy suits and preacher-white collars sniffin' all over town when I picked up them supplies." Custus settled back against his creaking chair, chewing on what Addie would have sworn was the same cigar stub he'd been masticating for months.

  "I heard," John said, then added, "They say it was the same two bandits that were doing all those robberies a while back. They got fifty thousand in gold."

  "Whoooeee." Custus rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth, shaking his head.

  Addie finished pouring coffee into the other cups, and she paused over Montana's. His knuckles were bruised black and blue, except for some splits in the skin which had scabbed, and they were swollen something fierce. She winced and he looked up at her, his eyes completely unreadable. His face was still taut with stone hard anger, his lips in a straight, hard line, his eyes alert and suspicious; his neck muscles were tight, and she could see the blood pump through the veins there. Nothing had changed since the night before—except he was back home. Her pride wouldn't let her ask where he'd been, so she walked back to the stove and tried to look busy while she listened to the men talk.