Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  What she needed was to get herself under control, no sad faces, no tears, just positive confidence. Montana needed that from her, and she had to go in there to him in a moment. With a deep breath and a few eternal seconds of strength-gathering, she walked through the room, down the hall, and stopped outside the bedroom door. She rubbed her eyes for a second, then pinched her cheeks to make sure she didn't look deathly pale. Then, to help, she thought of the man she loved dancing with her on a dirt road—the memory always brought a smile of love to her lips. Hopefully, that would be what he most needed to see, a loving smile. Then she opened the door.

  He stared out the window, a listless, vulnerable look on his face. There were black circles under his eyes and the bones of his cheeks appeared even sharper. His eyes closed, and his face strained with an instant of pain. She could see the deep breath he took, then held. Oh God, don't let him hurt like this. Slowly his chest deflated and his eyes opened. He looked right at her.

  She smiled and walked over to the bed, then sat on its edge. She covered his large hand with hers. "Hello, love."

  He turned away.

  She rubbed his hand slowly. "Can I get you anything?"

  "A new pair of legs." He laughed without humor.

  "Montana, I—''

  His hand jerked from beneath hers. "Don't say anything. There's not a goddamn thing you can say, so don't try. Just don't goddamn try."

  She sat there, searching for something to do, or say, to help.

  "I love you," she whispered, willing him to turn and look at her instead of out the window.

  "Leave me alone." He didn't move his head even a fraction of an inch. If he had, the wall of tension he created would have seemed breachable. But he didn't move, didn't look at her. It was as if he couldn't stand to.

  Quietly, she left the room, closing the door behind her. Then she sagged against a wall, aching with a hurt so crippling that she thought her own legs might give way. She gasped for air. She fought the tears. Then she pushed away from the wall, rushing into the kitchen. She threw up in the sink pan, over and over, until nothing was left inside her but the gagging heaves of her sick stomach.

  Finally her stomach settled into a tight ball. She leaned her head down and slowly reached up and pumped some water into the sink. She splashed the cool water on her hot face and rinsed her mouth.

  Her hands gripped the counter and her tears came, rushing like a spring flood. She slid to the floor and cried, letting loose the grief she'd tried so hard to hold back. There was no longer a reason not to grieve, because the dream was gone.

  "I've told you before, I can feed myself! My hands aren't crippled!" Montana grabbed the fork out of Addie's hand, and she stiffened, as she had almost every day for the past two months.

  His hip had healed, but there'd been no change in his legs. He still couldn't move them, couldn't feel a thing from the waist down. She wished her heart were as paralyzed as his legs. Then she wouldn't hurt, day in and day out. Montana was angry, so, so angry, and since she was the only one there, he often took his anger out on her. It took every bit of love, every bit of strength she had, not to let him get to her, or at least not to show it.

  There were days when he was sullen, there were times when he ranted about the railroad, blaming them for destroying his family and him, and there were times when he lashed out at her. Today was one of those days.

  "I have some news," Addie said, unsure of how he'd react. He scowled at the tray of food on the bed. He hadn't touched any of it since he'd jerked the fork out of her hand.

  "If it's another one of those cheery stories of yours, keep it to yourself. I don't feel like being cheered up." He jabbed the knife into a piece of roast and sawed the bejesus out of it.

  "I doubt if this will cheer you up," she said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her own hurt voice. "The federal marshal has issued warrants for Will and Wade. For the train robberies."

  He swore, then muttered thoughtfully, "So they finally found out."

  "You knew?" Addie was stunned.

  He nodded.

  "You knew that Wade Parker was related to one of the men the railroad killed?"

  "Sure I knew, that's why I never said much. What did I owe the railroad? Hell, if I would have known about this," he waved a brisk hand over his legs, "I'd have joined them."

  She stood and walked over to the dresser, biting her lip and pretending to straighten the bottles and boxes on it. The only sound in the room was the clink of silverware. At least he's eating, she thought, feeling half eaten herself. Not a day went by that he didn't chew her up and spit her out.

  "When's the trial?"

  She turned. "They haven't caught them yet, just issued the warrants. I heard that Will and Wade have been hiding in the foothills, and it seems that the railroad and the marshal can't find them." She thought she saw a glimmer of a real smile, so she went on. "Custus told me that the ranchers and farmers the railroad cheated have been helping them, hiding both bandits and warning them if the railroad gets too close."

  She stepped closer to the bed. "Custus says it's getting to be quite a joke. The newspapers are making fun of the railroad's ineptness and rooting the bandits on. They've become heroes to most everybody."

  He did smile then, but it was short-lived.

  He put his hands on the mattress to try to shift his position and the tray wobbled. Suddenly the milk glass tipped and fell onto the plate, sending milk and gravy and roast all over him, the bed, and onto the floor.

  "Shit!" He grabbed the tray and flung it against the wall. She stood in stunned horror. The dishes crashed and broke, and the food that hadn't spilled, splattered up the wall, on the ceiling, on the floor.

  Her hand dropped from her mouth and she slowly walked over to the mess. She bent and picked up the tray, then without a word she stooped and began to stack the broken dishes on the cracked, wooden tray.

  "Leave it and get out." His voice was ice.

  She ignored him and picked up the rest of the pieces. Standing, she looked at him and said, "I'll get some clean sheets."

  "Don't bother. Just get out!"

  She turned and silently carried the tray out of the room.

  Montana heard the barn doors close, then the crunch of gravel as someone walked across the drive. Heels clicked on the wooden steps, a woman's heels. It was Addie.

  The sounds haunted him, reminded him that he was chained to the bed, unable to see anywhere except the small environment of the bedroom and the narrow view from the windows. He couldn't stand, couldn't work, so Custus and Addie did it all. She was working twice as hard as she usually did just to keep up with the farm.

  Where he had once been strong, capable of almost anything, now he was nothing but a lump in her bed. He couldn't even control his simplest movements without spilling food or knocking over a lamp.

  But worst of all, he was no longer a man.

  His head hung back against the pillows, covered only that morning with crisp, clean cases. Addie changed the bed every other day, either to keep him comfortable or because of some spill or accident. Every time he looked out the window, she was hanging out laundry or lugging the heavy milk pails with a yoke across her small shoulders. She was the strong one now, and every time he looked at her he was torn between wanting to hold her and draw some of that strength or wanting to send her away from the humiliation he felt. And every hour of every day he wondered if he could go on.

  He loved her; with every bit of his rotten, crippled soul he loved her. But he could never be the man she deserved, the man she needed. He couldn't provide for her. He couldn't love her, give her children. God, he thought, he couldn't even hold her the way a man holds a woman. His mind flashed with his favorite image—her love-filled face looking up at him as they danced on a moonlit night. It had been a simple thing that had made her happy, and he'd vowed he'd never forget it. And he hadn't.

  Now it haunted him, because though he hadn't forgotten, he was no longer capable of giving her that one,
simple pleasure. He would never dance with her again, and that thought stood as a symbol of all the "nevers" that faced them. Addie deserved better, and deserved a chance for a life without the burden of him. But he wondered if he could exist without her. Probably not, and that was what was so hard. While his mind told him to drive her away, his heart wouldn't let him.

  The door opened and she came into the room, a tub of steamy water lugging down her small arms and some towels draped over her shoulders. He watched her bump the door shut with her hip, then she crossed over to give him a bath. Every muscle that still worked in his useless body tightened with humiliation. He hated this, hated himself, and hated her for still loving him.

  To breathe around all that hatred was suddenly a struggle; he panted, his fists tightened. She walked toward him and set the tub on the edge of the bed, completely unaware of the rage that consumed him.

  He grabbed the edge of the tub and shoved it off the bed. Water rushed everywhere, and Addie screamed. The tub clattered to the wooden floor. She looked at it in horror, then looked at him as if she expected to see some animal.

  He leaned out and his fingers bit into her soft arms. He squeezed harder, bringing tears to her big, dark eyes. Through gritted teeth he spat, "Get out!"

  "What did I do?" she whispered, looking like a frightened deer. Then her mouth trembled and she cried, "What do you want from me?"

  He squeezed harder. "I want you to get out, leave, for good!"

  Her hands went to her mouth in horror and tears bled from her wide, hurt eyes. His guts twisted but he steeled himself against it, wouldn't let himself give in to it.

  "Get… out!" he shouted.

  And she did.

  Montana had heard her crying. The sound had torn through him, made the functional parts of his body tighten and flinch with each sob. Then he'd heard the clatter of her digging through the hall closet. She had walked into the bedroom, grabbed her purple dress and left the room. When she came in again, she wore the dress and her head was held high. Then she packed some clothes, shoving them into her cloth bag.

  With every item she stuffed into her valise, he wanted to leap from the prison of his bed and beg her not to leave him. But he loved her, so he wouldn't do it. Instead he'd struggled to turn onto his side, pushing his weight with only the strength of his arms, not an easy task, but determination and his pride gave him added strength. He faced away from her huge, dark eyes, the ones rimmed red from her hurt, the ones that no longer had warmth within them. But at least they no longer held pity either.

  Then she'd left the room, her dress swishing softly and the sound of her heels clicking on the floor, a familiar sound that he'd never hear again. He'd closed his eyes, foolishly thinking it would stop the emotion from rising into them and spilling over. Through a damp blur he'd watched her walk across the farmyard and disappear from view. A minute later the wagon jangled past. She was gone.

  And with her went the joy in his life, the one gift he'd been given and now had to give up. Like the slide scenes on a stereoscope, his mind flashed with her image, flying out the bedroom window in only her nightdress to land on his chest in a ball of indignance, the flurry of her small feet pedaling that cycle of hers with a cart full of canned beans bouncing behind, her face flushed with enough determination for ten men, and the Little Miss Pinky who mounted Jericho backward. He laughed, but then the smile faded. He swallowed the hard lump of emotion that ached in the back of his throat.

  All he would now have were the memories: her indignant nose and the way it shot up like a scorpion's tail whenever she was mad; the silky brush of her long black hair; her taste—sweeter and spicier than baked apples; that odd mix of vanilla, honeysuckle, and lemon that he smelled whenever she was near; and the look of love in her eyes whenever she'd gaze up at him. She would look at him like that and he could almost believe that he could walk again.

  Almost, but not quite. But none of that mattered now because she was gone, and he swallowed that lump again, holding the pillow as tight as he would have held her—and then he cried.

  Chapter 26

  The train rattled on the track, slowing; its brakes squealed and the steam blasted out, disappearing into the fog that lingered on the station platform. Addie stepped from the train, pulling her cape a bit tighter around her cold shoulders. The temperature was so different here, at least twenty degrees cooler than home. She walked along the wooden platform, making her way to the gate where the other passengers left and found conveyances into the city. She stopped momentarily, having forgotten the bustle, the crowds, and the noise of city life. A moment later her hand covered her nose. She hadn't forgotten the smell, especially when it rode in on the cool, damp fog to remind her why she'd left city life.

  Bending, she picked up her valise, then straightened and pulled from her pocket a small piece of paper with an address written on it. A brisk walk to the street corner and she looked up and down the busy streets, seeing wave after wave of horsedrawn vehicles, hearing the rattle of steel-rimmed wheels as they crossed the trolley tracks, the clatter of a thousand horse hooves, shouts and bells and whistles all confined by tall, red-brick and gray-stone buildings that stood like prison guards up and down each knobby-paved street.

  A small boy hawking a damp wad of newspapers barged up to her, shouting something about the fall of the "giant octopus." Addie gave him a nickel and he smiled a toothless thanks, slapping the paper into her gloved hand and barging on to his next patron. She stepped back into the safety of a stoop, set down her valise and opened the paper. The tentacles of a cartoon octopus crawled across the front page, but the body of the creature was crushed underneath a boot branded Congress, and the headline blared in huge black block print: STATE LEGISLATURE APPROVES FORMATION OF STATE REGULATORY COMMISSION!

  She closed the paper and ignored the tightness in her chest, for the railroad always brought to mind the image of Montana, lying on the cold ground in front of the barn, his face pale and pained. That image always made her shake with protective anger for the man she loved.

  Taking a deep, damp breath, she tucked the newspaper under her arm, picked up her valise and walked up the street toward a cab stop. Now it was empty, the train passengers having hired the awaiting cabs and depot wagons that had been there only minutes before. She stood under the post that marked the stop and waited for the next free vehicle. She checked the address again: 627 Mason Street.

  Mason Street. The same street name as in Chicago… She had first seen that as a good omen, or strange coincidence; whatever, this San Francisco address was her destination, and her last hope.

  Before long she sat in a black leather cabriolet as it made its way through the hilly streets. The cabby pulled to a stop in front of a large, five-story, pink-brick building with curly iron grates and gray, wide-slatted shutters. He helped her down and she slipped the fare into his hand, never even looking at him because her eyes were drawn to the impressive building. She unlatched the gate and walked up the stone steps until she faced the huge double doors. A pull-chain style door chime dangled next to the sidelights in the door, and she pulled the chain firmly and waited, trying to ignore her fluttering stomach. She nervously smoothed a few imaginary wrinkles from the skirt of her pride dress, then listened for some sign of movement from within.

  An older woman in a white nun's habit slowly opened the large door and eyed Addie curiously.

  "I'm Mrs. Creed, I believe I'm expected—''

  "Yes, yes." The woman smiled and nodded repeatedly as she stepped back and waved Addie inside. With a quick look back over her shoulder, she watched the cabby pull away, then she took one last look at the building, grabbed hold of her skirt and stepped inside, knowing that the knowledge held within this one impressive building would determine her future. And Montana's.

  "Don't ya get so all-fired stubborn with me, goddammit! I fixed them there beans and ya'll eat 'em by God or ya'll wear 'em!" shouted Custus, just before he ducked to miss the plate of beans and bacon that sailed at hi
s white head.

  "Get out of here! Just leave me alone!" Montana glared at the old coot. His warden. They'd given each other nothing but trouble for a week, and it had been a dark, dreary prison of a week since Addie'd left, a week that felt to Montana like years of solitary confinement.

  "Ungrateful whelp," Custus muttered. "A-laying in that there bed, makin' ever'one as miserable as yer rotten self! Chasin' off the little missy with all yer dadburn hollerin'." He turned to Montana. "Well, ya ain't gonna chase me off. I kin be jus' as stubborn. I done got more years of practice at it. An' I promised 'er I'd take care o' ya!" Then he picked up the tin plate, scooping the mess of beans into it before turning. "I oughta make ya eat these." He waved the plate in front of him.

  "You're right Custus, he ought to eat them." Addie stood in the doorway, her arms crossed like a frustrated mother.

  At the sound of her voice, Montana's head jerked up. Life suddenly sparked through him. His heart thudded like a schoolboy and he had the overwhelming urge to grin with relief. Sitting up, he drank in the sight of her.

  Thank God she's back. Since she'd left, each hour had been a year, each day a decade. Heaven help him, but he needed her. And she was back. He had to bite his lip to keep from telling her the hell he'd been through since she'd left. But he couldn't do anything but look at her. A wealth of feelings soared through him all in one confusing yet joyous instant.

  God, but he wanted to hold her to see if she were real. The need to touch her swelled within him, and the need to feel her, to smell her, to taste her, and he wanted to run to her, and for one infinitesimal second he almost thought he could, but it passed. He sagged back against the bed pillows, knowing he couldn't run, couldn't even walk or stand. He waited a moment, expecting some of the life he'd felt at the sight of her to slip away. It didn't.