A Montana Christmas Reunion

by Roz Denny Fox

  Unless Jewell had totally changed, she was someone who needed caffeine prior to saying good morning.

  He came out of the bathroom and sniffed the air. No coffee smell. And the bus seemed too still. Panic gripped him as he sped down the hall. Had he dreamed the whole encounter with Jewell? It wouldn’t be the first time. But never before had holding her, kissing her, loving her seemed so real.

  The kitchen was empty. He snapped on the light. Last night had been real. The remains of two dinners were proof.

  Stifling a yawn, he noticed a faint light shone from the living room. Maybe Jewell had gone there to keep from waking him.

  All wall sconces burned, but the room was empty. From there he could see out through the wide bus windshield. What was visible of the sky was streaked with lavender and pink, a sign the storm had passed. His bus sat behind one used by his band. It would shock him to see any sign of life there this early.

  He clutched a railing that separated the bus driver from his living area. He’d had the wall that came with the bus removed because he and the band often jammed on the road or planned concerts. Ducking, he ran his gaze along the street that went behind the theater. The asphalt gleamed with wet puddles, but nothing moved for as far as he could see in any direction.

  Jewell had gone. She’d left without a word. Last night he’d invited her to travel with him—again. She’d slunk away in the night like a thief—one who’d made off with his heart. He’d spent years trying to forget her. Last night she’d shown up and suddenly he was back where he’d started—when he’d loved her with every fiber of his being.

  He stumbled to the couch, dropped down and buried his head in his hands.

  Hours later he remained there when someone rapped on his door. Because Donovan had the code, he waltzed right in. “Hey, what’s up?” He climbed the two steps. “Rough night? You look like hell.” He swiveled his big body around. “Where’s your lady friend? Should I pipe down? Is she still asleep?”

  Saxon dragged his hands down his face and felt the prickle of whiskers. “She left.”

  “It’s just as well. I’m surprised she joined you. She almost bolted before the concert started and again when it got canceled.” He extracted a folded envelope from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Who is she? Last night she asked me to give you this. My impression was it’s the only reason your lady came to the show. I forgot her name. I hate to keep calling her your lady friend.”

  “Jewell. Her name is Jewell Hyatt. Dr. Jewell Hyatt. She’s a veterinarian from my hometown.” Saxon took the envelope. His name was typed on the front.

  “Hell’s bells! Tell me she’s not the Jewell you write all those lovesick songs for but never sing in a show until last night?” The big man clasped his hands between his knees as he leaned forward and stared at Saxon. “Of course she’s one and the same. By the way, the guy who ran the sound booth said that song was the biggest hit with your audience. It sent his meter past the hot-damn zone.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t schedule it on the tour. It’s personal.”

  “You’ve always been stingy with info about your past.” He gestured toward the envelope Saxon clutched. “The lady said the letter was from your uncle. How come you never mentioned any family? I’m in the dark even though I’ve had your back for five years.” Donovan slapped him on the back. “So what’s in the letter?”

  Saxon’s lip curled as he dug a finger under the flap and ripped open the envelope. Taking out the single sheet of paper, he scanned the few lines that only requested him to come to the ranch so they could talk. Crushing it into a ball, he dropped it on the couch. “My past is better left buried.” Rising, he rubbed his bare chest. “I see the storm’s over. I’ll grab a shower and coffee. You roust the band. Tell ’em we’re off to Nashville for the CMA Music Festival. Plan a lunch stop in West Virginia. After we eat, I’ll join the band and we can choose which numbers to do on the tour. I thought we’d mix it up for each venue.”

  “Smart. Keep it fresh and you all perform better. Oh, I got word from the benefit promoter in LA. They want two songs. You’ll be live. Something jazzy to start. Get the audience revved up. Follow that with a tearjerker so people open their wallets and shell out for the charity.”

  “Okay. Whatever they want.” Saxon sidestepped Donovan and padded barefoot down the hall. “Let yourself out,” he called over his shoulder.

  “You’d do well to sing the love song you did last night no matter how private it is. The one where it’s obvious you got your heart broke.”

  “No! And that’s final.” Saxon slammed the bathroom door so hard it rocked the bus. Stiff armed, he leaned on the sink, gritting his teeth, telling himself grown men didn’t cry. It wasn’t until he heard the outer door at the front of the bus bang shut that he was able to emerge from his funk to shower.

  He felt somewhat refreshed after donning clean clothes. Going into his bedroom, he decided to strip his bed and put the sheets and pillowcases in to wash. He couldn’t bear to sleep there again where Jewell’s signature shampoo had left a flowery scent.

  After remaking the bed with fresh linens, he cleaned the kitchen of all signs that he’d hosted a guest last night. But as he started loading the dishwasher, he remembered his uncle’s letter. It wasn’t anything he’d want any band members to see, and they ran in and out of his coach at will.

  Hurrying into the living area, he saw that the letter was gone. Obviously Donovan had discarded it for him. Cleaning up after him and the band was a duty of his recording label’s babysitter. Which pretty much explained Donovan’s role. Who else would show up wearing a suit at 7:00 a.m.? Although today he had dispensed with his usual tie.

  Saxon sighed and went back to restoring order to his kitchen. Maybe he needed a break from touring more than he thought. He’d requested downtime after LA. His agent hadn’t sounded happy when he said he wanted to hide out and write new songs for a month or two. Granted, he hadn’t expected Sid to be overjoyed, but neither had he figured he’d get flak from the label owner. His band said they could use downtime, too. Harmony Records counted on him. So did Sid. Which was why Saxon thought they should realize no one lasted if they performed stale music. Fans demanded new songs every year.

  He was in the process of tying up a bag with last night’s trash to toss out in the theater’s garbage bins when his driver knocked loudly and came in.

  “Yo, Saxon, Donovan said we need to pull out. Are you riding with the band?”

  “Not until after lunch. Can you give me a minute to throw this away?” He hurried to the front of the coach and held up the bag.

  “I’ll get it,” the cheerful young man said. “There are puddles of standing water outside and you don’t have your boots on.”

  “Thanks, Dean. I’m running on slow speed today.”

  The man grinned. “It’s probably due to last night’s low barometric pressure.”

  Saxon doubted that. He thought it was due to Jewell’s abrupt departure, but he didn’t argue. He went back to the bedroom to get his boots, knowing they’d be where he’d toed out of them in his rush to get Jewell into his bed.

  Still at loose ends after Dean returned and both buses got under way, Saxon decided he’d be best served to sit with his guitar, keyboard and music pad and maybe get a head start on writing a new song.

  But he sat staring at the blank page for a long time.

  All at once he felt the bus jerk, slide, then smooth out again.

  “Jeez,” Dean groused. “Sorry, Saxon. There are some low spots filled with water on the road. I don’t know if you’ve looked out, but in places, water’s running across the freeway. I had to swerve to miss a stalled car. Some people tried driving through that storm, I guess.”

  Saxon set aside his guitar and went to the railing behind Dean, where he could see the road out the front window. Traffic was heavy. Passing
cars threw spray up from their tires. He pictured Jewell driving on this road when it’d been dark.

  He knew she was a good driver and had never been bothered by Montana’s deep snow. But traffic there wasn’t an issue. Worry for her wouldn’t let him get back to work. He didn’t have a phone number for her, but hers was probably the only veterinary clinic in Snowy Owl Crossing. Sure he wouldn’t rest until he at least knew if anyone had heard from her after the storm, he went to his bedroom to make a private call.

  A man answered the number he’d gotten for J. Hyatt, veterinarian. “Uh, hello. I’m trying to reach Jewell Hyatt.”

  “This is Dr. Cooper. I’m covering Dr. Hyatt’s calls. May I help you?”

  “I’m phoning from Maryland. I... We had a hurricane here and I’m checking to make sure she got home okay.”

  “Not yet. She called to say her flight was canceled and there’s a backlog. She’s rebooked but due back in a couple of days. May I take your name and leave her a message?”

  The news that the other vet had heard from Jewell unwound the tight knot in Saxon’s belly. “Thanks, it’s not necessary.” He clicked off then because he didn’t want any more questions. She’d made it safely back to DC. That gave him peace of mind.

  But even afterward all the chords he jotted down sounded like other songs he’d written. And thoughts of Jewell kept interfering. Words came to him about how her hair looked like fire and her skin like snow. Saxon tossed aside his guitar with a thud and scrubbed his hands down his face. He should shave.

  “Everything cool back there?” Dean called. “I like listening to you play.”

  “I’m okay. Just wrestling with a new song.”

  “Carson’s asking if you’re ready to stop for lunch. Up ahead is a steak-and-burger place he knows. Donovan says we can get out and stretch and go inside without locals bugging you for autographs.”

  “If that’s what the band wants, it’s fine by me. I don’t mind talking to fans. Most are respectful. We need them.”

  “Yeah. Carson says Donovan worked with rock stars too long. Those fans mob an artist.”

  “I guess we’ll see in a few weeks. The Hollywood benefit features crossover hits as well as country.”

  “Hey, there’s the steak house. I hope it’s open. This dinky town looks sleepy or dead.”

  Saxon stood again and peered out as Dean parked. He could see from one end of the street to the other. The businesses were small and built of weathered wood. As he put on his cowboy hat and swung down out of the bus, he was reminded acutely of Snowy Owl Crossing. Surprisingly, he felt a wave of nostalgia but was abruptly jerked back to the present by his rowdy band members trooping inside the eatery.

  Donovan engineered seating so that tables where the band sat acted as a buffer to the back booth he chose for himself and Saxon.

  Two waitresses emerged from the kitchen, bringing menus and trays of water glasses to the noisy men. The woman who served Donovan and Saxon smiled and winked at Saxon. “Saw you on TV at the last country music awards. Bought some of your songs for our jukebox.” She pointed to the opposite end of the room. “Willie Nelson’s been here. Reba, too. They gave us autographed photos we framed and put on the wall. Would be right honored to add you,” she drawled.

  Donovan sighed and adjusted his tie, but Saxon nodded and smiled. “I’m sure we can scare up a photo I can sign.” He passed back the menu. “I smelled burgers when I walked in. That’s what I’ll have, with a large order of fries.”

  The others ordered, too, and as soon as the women left, Donovan took a wrinkled paper from his suit pocket. Scowling, he set it in front of Saxon. “Why don’t Harmon or Andrews know you have family in Montana?”

  Saxon stiffened. Fred Harmon was the owner of his label company, and Sid Andrews had been his agent/manager from the get-go. Saxon snatched the paper, wadded it up and shoved it in his shirt pocket. “What does it matter?”

  “You have relatives we don’t know about anxious to see you in person, you bet your butt it’s the label’s business.”

  “It’s nobody’s business but mine.” Saxon mustered a thin smile for the waitress who slid a sizzling steak in front of Donovan and a fat burger in front of him.

  Donovan waited to speak again until the men at the adjacent tables were served and the waitresses had left. “How old is this uncle? Why can’t he phone you? Is he dying?”

  That last question hit Saxon like a barreling freight train. Had Jewell said Leland was sick? “I don’t know.” Squirting ketchup near his fries, Saxon watched Donovan slice his steak. “He’s my dad’s older brother. When my folks died, he was named my guardian. We had a rocky relationship. He thought I should be a rancher, not a singer. This is the first I’ve heard from him since I moved to Nashville.” Saxon pushed a fry through the ketchup, then shoved it in his mouth and picked up his burger. “Can we not discuss this?”

  “I knew the redhead who brought the letter spelled trouble the minute you asked to see her backstage. You never invite women to your bus. Now she’s gone and you’re acting weird. I work for Fred. He’s invested a bundle in you. It’s my job to keep you from going off the rails.”

  Half choking, Saxon had to take a drink of water. “I earn my keep at the label. As for Jewell, leave her out of it. She had business in DC, so my uncle asked her to deliver his letter.”

  “I admit you earn your keep. The question is, did you hear from your long-lost uncle because he’s suddenly broke and sees you as a potential cash cow?”

  “You read his letter. He doesn’t say why he wants to see me.” Saxon stabbed another French fry in the pool of ketchup.

  “While we’re in Austin or San Antonio, I’ll put out feelers. You know, to see if the old guy’s in debt or shopping for a loan.”

  “No!” Saxon wiped his hands on his napkin, tossed it down on his plate and got up. “Stay out of it, and that goes for Sid and Fred, as well. I get wind of anyone poking around Snowy Owl Crossing, I’ll find a new label.” He stormed out, aware that his band members had stopped talking and gaped after him.

  He got back on his bus, scribbled his name on a photo and took it back in to the waitress. He rarely flew off the handle, and so he was sure band members who’d been with him the longest would be curious. He had to decide how much to tell them. For all Donovan’s faults, he didn’t gossip. So the guys wouldn’t be privy to details about his uncle’s letter unless he shared them. However, they’d all seen Jewell, and most knew he’d taken her to his bus. If he said nothing, the guys would speculate that his tussle with Donovan most likely had to do with her. Damn!

  Back in the bus he paced. Was his uncle sick? Did he need money? When he was growing up, his parents had never even mentioned his uncle. So he’d been in shock to learn someone he’d never met had been named his guardian. He actually didn’t know much about his parents’ families, period. Maybe he should be the one asking questions. But ask who? Not his uncle. They hadn’t spoken since he left home. Jewell? She’d brought his uncle’s letter but had claimed she had no idea what Leland wanted. He had no reason to doubt her.

  * * *

  IT WAS LATE afternoon three days after the hurricane when Jewell finally caught a flight out of DC that eventually got her to Billings. Still feeling off-kilter, she would have spent the night in a hotel and driven home in the morning, but she was anxious to get there. She collected her pickup from the long-term lot, grateful the sun would be setting behind her on the drive.

  After connecting her cell to the hands-free device, she phoned Pete Cooper, her fill-in at the vet clinic. “Hey, Pete, it’s Jewell,” she said when he answered. “I’m heading home as we speak. Thanks for taking my calls. I’ll pop a check in the mail tomorrow. Did anything come in that I need to handle tomorrow?”

  “Not really. Tawana called. The Artsy Ladies plan to meet for a late lunch at the café Monda
y at one o’clock. She said it’s important. I left you a note.”

  “Ugh! They’re probably in a tizzy over the fact I wasn’t able to secure an owl refuge. I’m afraid everyone’s getting tired of working so hard to earn money at our Thanksgiving bazaars. Be sure to mark your calendar so you and your wife can come again this year. We need all the support we can get.”

  “Lois loves doing our Christmas shopping there. Hey, I left a couple of other messages on your desk. The secretary for the Wild Horse Stampede gave me dates and times they need you as the on-duty vet over the Fourth. And a man called but didn’t leave a name. He said he’d seen you back east.”

  Jewell’s bruised heart leaped. Had Saxon looked up her number and phoned?

  “All the guy said was that he was calling from Maryland. He mentioned the storm and said he wanted to make sure you’d driven through it okay.”

  Her heart calmed. “It was probably the owner of the horse farm where I had sperm shipped to Mark Watson. He and his wife were nice folks.”

  “Ah, speaking of the semen straws, Mark got the package. He’ll refrigerate it until you can go plug it into his mare.” Pete laughed. “Better you than me. I hate artificially inseminating any animal.”

  “There are jobs I like better. If that’s all, Pete, I’ll let you get back to doing whatever you were doing before I phoned.”

  “It’s okay. I’m cleaning cages at my clinic.” They shared a laugh, then said goodbye.

  It was full darkness by the time Jewell turned down the lane to her ranch. Just seeing the buildings fanned out in front of her headlights sent warmth trickling through her. Travel was exhausting. Home spelled comfort.

  She stopped outside the garage connecting her house to the barn, which now served as her clinic. All at once she noticed her headlights illuminated an animal cowering behind hydrangea bushes her mom had coaxed to life in the harsh Montana weather. Afraid it might be an injured wolf, Jewell squinted to better see before opening her garage. She had a tranquilizer gun in the barn, but Pete hadn’t left an outside light on there. The animal slowly crawled out from under the bush and she saw it was a puppy.