Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  So she left him alone, left him to beat out his anger, and she walked into the other room, sat in the big chair and cried. Then she tried to conjure up the image of Dr. Karlson's clinic and of the young girl's face, her elation and the hope it inspired, because right here and now, with the sound of Montana's fists pounding his numb legs, Addie desperately needed some hope to cling to.

  The ache woke him up. It was a battered and bruised ache that had a distant familiarity. Montana hadn't felt that ache since the last fight he'd been in. But instead of swelling through his jaw, the pain was in his thighs. He sat up, his eyes riveted on his lower body. He jerked off the covers and stared at his legs.

  They hurt, they actually hurt.

  His breath labored and his throat tightened. He swallowed. The hope burned bright, a torch within him that yesterday was only a spark. He touched his leg and felt a bruised pain. And suddenly Montana was crying, deep wracking sobs of relief that he couldn't control, and didn't want to, because his legs hurt, thank God his legs hurt…

  Chapter 28

  His eyes burned and his relief was short-lived. With the bright morning sunlight came the fear and insecurity that shattered some of Montana's hope. His mind told him that he must have dreamed the pain, that maybe he wanted it so bad that he thought he felt it. He rubbed his hands down his legs. There was sensation. They still hurt. He pressed on one of the black and blue bruises. It was sore, but still he doubted, mostly out of the fear of killing off the last bit of hope that he'd ever be whole again. In the bright morning light he doubted, because he was human.

  God, he wanted to believe he could walk again. But he was so damn scared.

  The barn door banged shut and Montana could hear the meter of horse hooves, followed by Addie's laughing voice. His gaze skipped from his legs to the window, where he could see her leading Jericho out of the barn.

  Addie and Jericho. Miracles did happen.

  She stood in the farmyard, playing the game he had always played with his horse. He watched Jericho prance from view while Addie stood there grinning. Suddenly the charge of pounding hooves clapped up the drive, faster and faster. Then Jericho flew into view heading straight for his little wisp of a wife. And she stood there, black hair tucked into a neat little bun, her white shirt looking as crisp as fried chicken, her arms crossed, and she was smiling without a bit of fear in her face or her stance. Jericho stopped less than a foot in front of her, and she laughed. The horse whinnied and threw back his head, mane flying, as if he was answering her laughter.

  His wife and his horse had made their peace. Not once since the accident had she ever referred to Jericho as "it," which was something she'd always done before. Now she treated his horse even more motherly than she had the other farm animals. If he hadn't already named his horse, Montana was sure that Addie would have, although the horse's name fit. For his little wife, the wall of fear had come tumbling down.

  He watched her hang on Jericho's bridle, using him to steady her as she bent and dusted off her shoe. Her shoes weren't prissy new anymore. They were scuffed, and he'd noticed the other day that they were beginning to wrinkle, like his old, comfortable boots.

  Addie belonged here.

  No longer was she a prissy little librarian who'd come west on a whim. Boy, had he pegged her wrong. Now he knew why she'd come here. They had talked about it. She had a dream, just like he had. She'd been alone and needed the roots that the land gave a person. She'd had her doubts and her fears, but she'd up and left Chicago, determined to make those dreams come true.

  And she had. Now Addie could plow a field, milk the cows, wring a chicken's neck with the best of the farmers' wives. She could shoot a snake, drive a wagon, and even harness a team. And she could ride a horse. This little woman who'd been so afraid of horses had overcome that fear. She'd told him about her parents, of her father's death and her mother's crippling. He understood her. After all, he'd had some fears of his own. Snakes, the land, and the railroad. He understood how hatred and fear could combine into something that controlled your life…

  Montana didn't move, didn't breathe. He just thought about that for a long pensive moment. Then he groaned, realizing for the first damn time that he was still letting those things control him. He glanced at his legs then back at Addie, who stood by Jericho, stroking his neck and probably sweet talking him. His little wife was stronger than he was.

  He'd spent most of his life clinging to his hatred of the railroad and fighting to have what he thought was so important—the land, his own land. He fought with his very soul not to end up like his father, a failure. It was a hard thing to admit, thinking that the father you loved was a failure. And that was what he, Montana, had thought for all those years. But Addie would have never thought of his pa as a failure, because he had tried to build a place for his family. He'd tried.

  Montana had been so scared of failing that he had failed. Yet here was Addie, a little wisp of a woman, who'd given up everything familiar to her to come west and build her dream—a dream he'd forced her to fight for every step of the way. She had overcome every obstacle he'd thrown in her path. She'd even won his respect, and then his heart.

  And what had he been doing? Sitting in this bed, mired in self-pity and fear and not even trying to fight. His wife had faced a big battle—a battle with herself. She'd won. She'd faced that deep fear of horses she'd harbored since childhood, and she'd overcome it, because of her love for him. And what had he fought for? Not much.

  Oh, he'd fought for the land, the right to sell his grain freely, the farmers' railroad, but he hadn't fought for the things that really mattered. He hadn't fought the fears that made him give up. His wife never gave up. She was a little barn swallow pecking at the black hawk that was five times her size.

  Montana closed his eyes in shame. She was the strong one, and lying in bed letting his fear and doubt keep him there was the equivalent of giving up. But she hadn't given up. Like Dr. Karlson had told him, Addie had fought to help him. And he in turn hadn't even tried.

  He looked at the invalid chair, then at his wrinkled old boots, sitting abandoned in the corner, as if they were of no use. And that had been how he'd viewed them, of no use, because he hadn't been willing to fight to use them again. He made her fight his battle. She was the strong one, willing to fight for his will to walk.

  What a fool he'd been, a stupid damn fool! He took a deep, resolved breath, dug his fists into the mattress and pulled his body toward the edge of the bed.

  It took half an hour to get close enough to pull the chair parallel to the bed. He panted from the exertion of dragging the dead weight of his lower body. Sweat poured down from his temples and beaded on his chest. His neck and shoulders ached from straining. He fell back against the pillows, and when his eyes closed, Addie's face, filled with determination, flashed through his mind.

  From somewhere, either in the depths of his mind or in the depths of his heart, he found the strength to maneuver himself into the chair. Then he rolled around the bed, banging the rails as he learned to push and control the large wheels. He managed to roll to the other night table, and he picked up the book and laid it open in his lap while he gathered the strength to try.

  It was then that he realized he wasn't doing this for himself, he was doing it for Addie. Someday he would dance with her again, hold her again and, God willing, make love to her again. It wasn't fear that drove him on, nor determination, nor pride, it was love, and there was more drive and will and grit and faith in that one emotion than in anything Montana had ever believed in before. He finally had found the strength he needed. It came from his heart.

  The morning sun crept over the eastern foothills, dying the gray sky a burning pink, the few clouds a deep violet. It was dawn, and Addie's favorite time of day. She stood on the porch, leaning against the wooden rail, and her gaze moved to the giant oak tree.

  It had been over a year since she'd come to the farm, over a year since Montana had stood under that tree, pointing his gun at
her. It seemed like ten years and it seemed like yesterday.

  The birds awakened and sang in the cool morning air. A rooster crowed and the distant cackle of chickens hummed from the chicken yard. Mabel or Maud bawled from the barn, and Addie could hear Custus swearing at the cows. Soon he'd be bringing the morning milk into the kitchen where she'd make butter from the cream. It was Wednesday, and she always made the butter on Wednesday.

  Through the open windows she heard the soft, rolling hum of wheels across the parlor's wooden floor. It was Montana's wheelchair. She knew the sound well, since it had been so much a part of their lives in the past months. The front screen door creaked open, and she turned just as the wheels rolled out the front door.

  The chair was empty. Montana stood behind it pushing it through the open doorway. He turned and smiled at her. "Think it's about time we got rid of this thing?"

  She looked at him, standing so tall and straight, his shoulders back, his face all hard angles except for that wonderful dimple in his chin. Then she remembered what he had gone through, remembered his face contorted with pain as he tried to stand alone, remembered his determination when his legs gave way over and over. All he would say was, "I can do it. For you, I can do it." He'd sworn that she was his inspiration, and that anger and self-pity wouldn't help him walk, but having her there with him could; so she had stayed in the room while he'd tried.

  There were times when it had been so hard to watch him. Sweat would pour down his face as he struggled to stand, only to stumble or bonelessly collapse to the floor. She had wanted to run to him, help him, hold him, but she hadn't, for his sake. And he'd tried that much harder, pushed himself that much further. Other times the muscles in his face would strain and his fists would whiten, his breathing would deepen as he tried to find the courage to let go of the walker bar and take his first steps, alone and unaided. Yet as hard as it had been to watch his pain, she'd stayed there as he'd asked her to do, praying for him and for the strength she needed to mask her reaction. She refused to let her fear or doubt or concern show on her face.

  It paid off. She was there when he stood for the first time, there to see the pride on his face when he did walk. And remembering those moments still brought joy to her heart and a tightness to her throat.

  And now, when she looked up at him, the love he felt for her shone in those yellow eyes—the same ones that had frightened her so much the first time she'd looked into them. Every time he looked at her, those eyes held his heart. Her throat ached, and she swallowed so she wouldn't do something stupid like cry.

  He pushed the invalid chair out onto the porch and stepped around it, his right foot still carrying the inklings of a limp. His boots tapped an uneven, hollow beat on the wooden porch and that awkward sound made her heart rise to her throat. She loved the cadence of his footsteps and never, ever failed to listen for it.

  And this time, that sound did make her cry.

  Montana's arms linked around her, holding her as if he needed to see if she were real. Then she felt his chin rest on the top of her head. Her silly tears dripped onto his arm, and he turned her around, tilting her chin up so he could look into her face. "What's wrong?"

  She sighed as she looked up at him through her blur of tears. "Nothing really, I'm just being sentimental."

  He smiled then, that male smile of indulgence. "Are you going to cry for the next seven months?"

  She sniffed. "Probably. It's my prerogative, as an expectant mother." Her nose went up a notch.

  "So I've heard." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Can expectant mothers still dance?"

  "Only if they have music."

  He took her hand and placed it on his shoulder, then took her other hand in his. His lips touched hers for a brief instant, then he pulled back and began to whistle. A moment later they waltzed along the wooden porch, her cheek against his chest, his chin resting atop her head; and neither of them cared that they moved a little slower, nor that their turns were not so wide and even, the dips not so sweeping, nor that Montana's steps were a bit uneven. They didn't care because the dreams they once thought they'd have to surrender now danced on.

  Others, well, they weren't as lucky. The People's Railroad was fraught with delayed funding, operating decisions, and ironically, government regulations. For over two years Wade and Will continued to elude the authorities, hiding in the foothills, aided by a network of sympathizers. The S.P. was still entrenched in the manhunt, desperate to catch the robbers who had now become folk heroes throughout the state.

  A reporter for a San Francisco paper was able to interview both Will and Wade, and he printed the interview much to the chagrin of the railroad. Their own agents, numbering in the hundreds, couldn't catch the two men, yet a reporter found them and got an interview. Despite the humor of the situation, the interview humiliation made the railroad intensify the search. Eventually they caught Will, leaving the back of the Latimer barn where he met Lizzie. He was arrested. Wade wasn't so lucky. He was killed in a shootout a few miles away.

  But support for Will Murdoch was massive. Hundreds raised funds for his legal battle, but even public opinion couldn't save him. He was sentenced to life in prison by a railroad-owned court.

  Then the winds of change blew westward, and it wasn't long before the S.P. was "derailed" of its power. The rise of the Progressive Movement and the increase in regulatory power given by Congress to the Interstate Commerce Commission undermined the railroad's political machine.

  A few years later a Progressive reformist was elected governor of California and Will Murdoch was pardoned. Addie, Montana, and Lizzie were there when Will walked free. In a matter of days the town of Bleeding Heart had its own celebration out on the Creed place, which had quadrupled in size and was one of the most profitable farms in the state.

  The farmhouse had grown too. It was three stories high, with a skylight, turrets, and gables, and a round window that was the talk of the town. Music played from a white pavilion that stood in the west corner of the property. In that pavilion the town would gather to celebrate Admission's Day and the Fourth of July, for it was said that the Creeds threw the best damn celebration in the valley, maybe in all of Northern California.

  And nobody missed these gatherings, not even the newly elected United States senator, Levi Hamilton, who had managed to get four farm bills through Congress his first month. He was a local hero. The Latimers' bright redheads were among the crowd—John, Hettie, Rebecca, and the boys, Abel and Amos. Lizzie stood by Will, her new husband, and with them stood their nine-year-old daughter Amanda, who had met her father for the first time the day he walked out of prison. You couldn't miss her carrot-red hair, her mother's glow in the girl's green eyes, and her father's grin.

  The five Creed children, three boys and two girls, streamed through the crowd. Art, the oldest, and the spitting image of his pa, was already the best horse rider in the county. Josh was different. He had blond hair and black eyes, a superstitious nature, and a wicked sense of humor honed to precision by his idol, old Custus McGee. Josh also collected toads. Robert, the youngest boy, had skipped three grades, loved books, and had a tendency to label everything, even his older sister Lillian's prize chickens. They were an active bunch, who managed to raise a little hell themselves. But they were good kids, loving kids, raised by parents who loved and respected them and never failed to let them know it.

  The music stopped and Old Custus McGee left a group of arguing, crooked old men, half of whom had no hair. He moved through the crowd, as slow as a snail on a greased log, and he called all the children to the starting line of a cycle race—a favorite event in Bleeding Heart. Anxious and giggling, the children lined up, excitedly waiting to take off, their bicycles side by side.

  But one child was missing, and no one noticed that five-year-old Emily Creed, the youngest child, didn't ride in the race. She had rolled her little cycle, with its custom-fitted saddle, near some bushes and waited in the shade of the eucalyptus trees, twisting her black hai
r impatiently and watching the goings-on. With the blast of a gun, the race began, the other children taking off to cheers and laughter, dirt and gravel spitting up in their wake.

  Emily watched, then turned her gaze toward the pavilion, where her parents danced a waltz to the band. It was a familiar sight for her. She rolled her eyes. Her parents always danced.

  Little Emily Anne Creed didn't care about dancing or the race or the cycle. She had other things to do. She moved over to the giant oak tree that stood so proudly in the front drive, and she bent down, picking up a heaping plate that she'd hidden there earlier. Then, plate in hand, she skipped across the gravel dirt, her little shoes making a light, melodic crunch.

  Around the barn she traipsed, her long black hair flying out like a flag behind her. She reached the back pasture, her yellow eyes glowing like golden nuggets, and she grinned, a determined, stubborn little grin that showed the slightest hint of a dimple in her small chin. She ducked under a fence and walked across the grass, past the cows, past the mules, and over to a pond. Once there she laughed, a bright, cheerful child's laugh that rivaled the music of the pavilion band. Then she set the plate down and fed her mother's apple pie to her best friend—a plump, old horse with pink, freckled lips.