Colorado High

by Joyce C. Ware

  “Good-looking, too,” Tessa said. She patted the buckskin’s sand-colored neck, sighed, and threaded her fingers through the coarse strands of his long black mane. “Lord, I hate to see him go. Hope his new owner appreciates what he’s getting.”

  Miguel smiled. “You say that every time, Miz Wagner. My nephew know of this man, he say he’ll do right by your little horse—and his friends, when they see what this potro can do, they will bring you more business.”

  “I just hope he keeps him whole. Cow sense like he’s got deserves to be passed on.”

  “Like Thor did to him.”

  “That old boy sure grandfathered a lot of fine cow ponies, Miguel,” Tessa said. “Remember the first time we watched him work? The way he sized up those calves, anticipating every move they made?” She laughed. “I swear I saw a smile on that horsey face.” They strolled together out of the corral, boots and hoofs sending up little spurts of dust. Tessa squinted up into the sky. Squat white puffs had begun to form above the mesa, embryos of the cumulus clouds which would billow into towers by afternoon’s end. She handed her foreman the reins. “Okay, Miguel, cool him down. He’s earned a rest.” She paused at the gate. “How’s Chinook doing?”

  He scratched his bony chin. “A little bit tetchy . . . off her feed some, too. She’ll be dropping that foal any day now.”

  “You call me the minute she goes into labor, hear?” Manuel touched the brim of his sweat-stained hat. “I’ve got high hopes for this one.” Very high, Tessa amended as she walked back towards the house.

  She always did have, of course; that’s what made it all so worthwhile. There was no such thing as a fully, achieved goal. Perfection was God’s province, not man’s ... or woman’s.

  A hot, dry breeze swept across her path, evaporating the moisture from her damp skin. She shivered, then stretched, hoping to work the kinks out of her back. The kinks came easier these days. Wincing, she hunched her shoulders back and forth. Came easier; lasted longer.

  She paused next to the old windmill. Erected by her father a half-century ago, the tower leaned off-center now, but its rusty metal blades still creaked in response to every passing breeze, pumping water in fits and starts to the mossy wooden trough it served. The ranch had long since been equipped with a more efficient system, but Tessa knew it was the slow trickle through the trough’s rotting planks that allowed the sunflowers ringing its base to flourish.

  How her mother had loved their bright faces!

  See, Tessa? They always face the light, keeping the darkness behind them. “I know they’re only plants,” she had continued, “but I’ve always thought of them as ... well, not a bad example for us.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind, you mean?” Tessa remembered scoffing. “That’s not very realistic, Mom.”

  “Maybe not, honey,” her mother had replied, “but I’ve never seen much point in brooding about things you can’t change.”

  Tessa figured she was in her teens by then, supposedly grown out of the childish sulks that had often sent her running away from home--usually no farther than the bridge over Houston Creek. A symbolic gesture, like Gavin stonefacing his father’s verbal attacks.

  She couldn’t recall what had given rise to that particular exchange, but she was sure her mother’s patience had, as always, put Job’s to shame. Let’s see now, I was a late baby, so at that time Mother would have been . . .

  She idly counted it out on her fingers. My God. About the same age as I am now. It was a sobering thought. “And damn it,” she muttered, “I still find that advice hard to accept.”

  Tessa snapped off one of the tough hairy sunflower stems and twirled the petaled head as she resumed her slow progress towards the house. She entered the kitchen, yawned, ran water into a tumbler, and stuck the sunflower in it. “Miguel was right,” she murmured. “A sandwich and a little snooze will go down real nice right about now.”

  Yeah, too nice by half, an inner voice jeered. Next thing you know you’ll be dozing off in a porch rocker every chance you get.

  Jolted by a sudden mental image of herself rocking side by side with Pop Bradburn, Tessa threw water on her face, ran a comb through her hair, splashed on the rosewater she kept over the sink, applied a swipe of bright lipstick, and headed for her pick-up.

  “I’m not out of the game yet,” she confided to the dusty windshield as she wheeled out the front gate. “Nosireebob! Not by a long sight.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Was everything to your satisfaction?” the Silver Nugget’s proprietor asked Tessa as she paused to pocket her change.

  “Oh, yes,” she replied. Too much fat and way too many calories, she thought, but that was her fault, not his. She pushed open the heavy door and narrowed her eyes against the mid-afternoon glare. “And every one of those lovely crispy French fries will stake out a new claim on my hips,” she muttered as she strode out down the street, “but who the hell’s looking?”

  She exchanged nods with familiar faces spotted among the strolling tourists impeding her progress towards her parking slot. Ouray’s main drag wasn’t quite as trafficked as Telluride’s yet, but just give the Chamber of Commerce time. The town’s hot springs pool had always been a big draw, and of late just about every motel had its own spring-fed hot tubs to soothe guests after a day spent four-wheeling on the old mining trails or, in winter, Nordic skiing. Some even provided a European-style massage. Quite a change from the old boarding-house days when the only overnight guests were miners from Camp Bird seeking comforts of an earthier sort.

  Tessa found herself yawning uncontrollably as she drove the ten miles north out of the narrow Ouray valley into the wide creek-fed meadows and piñon pine-studded foothills surrounding Cottonwood. She wasn’t used to drinking at lunchtime, but an old friend from her high school days had joined her at the table, bringing with her a bottle of mildly effervescent white wine that they shared along with their reminiscences.

  She circled the square, pulled up in front of Jeannie’s salon, and walked in.

  “Hey, Tessa!” Jeannie said, alerted by the jangle of the opening door. She eyed her friend speculatively. “Look, about this morning ...”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, the way I cut you off. I didn’t mean—”

  “You’ve got a business to run, Jeannie. Deciding what I should wear to Scott Shelby’s housewarming doesn’t exactly rank up there with profit and losses.”

  “Or taxes,” Jeannie added.

  “Definitely not taxes,” Tessa agreed, laughing.

  Jeannie eyed the plump woman sitting under a dryer, deep in People magazine’s rundown of the latest antics of the British royal family. She asked the blond operator washing a client’s hair to call her when the bell rang. “C’mon back,” she said to Tessa, leading the way through a curtained doorway. “Actually, I do have a suggestion for you ...” She broke off, frowning. “Are you okay, Tessa?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why?”

  “You look as if you either just rolled out of bed or wish you could fall into one.”

  “Gee, thanks a whole lot. I had lunch at the Silver Nugget, which included Evelyn Lawson wallowing in sanitized memories of our dear old golden school days, ending in a long moan about how her life since high school had been all downhill.“

  “I don’t wonder,” Jeannie cut in. “Those big boobs of hers have gone the same route. What was it the boys used to call her?”

  “Awesome Lawson,” Tessa supplied. “I didn’t think she’d appreciate being reminded of that. Anyway, we shared this bottle of wine--well, not shared exactly, more like one-third for me and two-thirds for her. Tasted like a fancy soda pop, and it went down so easy I didn’t think much about the alcohol content. I was halfway here when it hit me . . . damn near fell asleep at the wheel.”

  “Well, maybe what I have to tell you will revive you. Marion Shelby came in around noon for a trim and blow-dry, so I asked her opinion about it.”

  “About what, Jeannie?”

&nb
sp; “About—” Jeannie took a deep breath— “about what she thought might be the right kind of outfit for you. You know, for the house-warming? I mean, who would know better?”

  “You did what!”

  “Just hear me out, Tessa! It all started with her telling me about Jed stopping in to see her, how nice he is and all, and I happened to mention how you and Jed share a fence up on Hayden’s Bald, and she thought your name sounded familiar, and— “ she shrugged— “one thing just led naturally into another.”

  “Naturally?” Tessa challenged.

  “Okay, so maybe I steered the conversation a little. The thing is, she wasn’t the least put out or offended; if anything, she seemed . . . interested.” They stared at each other. “So, do you want to hear what she suggested?”

  Tessa stuck her hands in her pockets and leaned against the washer in which the salon’s soiled towels were noisily sloshing. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Steer clear of glitzy. She was very positive about that. She says go for trim and cool. Something you’ll feel comfortable in, like pants and a really good shirt. It could be silk, or even satin, but understated ... I guess that means plain, right?”

  “In other words, a dressy but tailored shirt. No ruffles; nothing twinkly.” Jeannie nodded. “Hmmm-mm. Don’t have anything like that, but I’ve got those custom-made black gabardine pants I use for exhibition riding— “

  “Yeah, and the slick black alligator boots you were awarded when you retired from barrel-racing after winning everything in sight.” Jeannie slid an appraising glance at her friend. “That was a while back though . . . have you tried ‘em on lately?”

  “My feet are the one part of me that’s stayed the same,” Tessa said. “They may be flatter,” she added with a wry smile, “but not fatter.” The washer began to vibrate beneath her as the load entered the spin cycle. “Whoa!” she exclaimed as she shifted to the dryer. “Ever thought of renting these out as Cottonwood’s answer to that fitness center up in Montrose?”

  “Now there’s a thought. Not a very good one, but—hey!” she protested, as Tessa lightly cuffed the top of her head. “What was that for?”

  “For not minding your own business.” Tessa leaned down and planted a kiss on Jeannie’s cheek. “And so was that. The question is, where do I find this cool, trim, tailored and no doubt, very expensive silk— “

  “Or satin— “

  “Shirt.”

  “Telluride, probably,” Jeannie suggested. “Ask Garland. Or we could look in those upscale catalogs I sent for last Christmas . . . the kind with clothes in colors like aubergine and celadon?”

  “You’re a regular font of couture wisdom today, Jeannie.”

  “Someone has to play fairy godmother to your Cinderella, Toots.”

  Tessa laughed. “Who have you cast as the wicked stepmother? Marion Shelby?”

  “No way! She’s a nice lady, Tessa. Though I’m damned if I can figure what the attraction was—his to her, that is. I can’t see Scott Shelby being turned on by nice.”

  “According to Scott’s peculiar value system,” Tessa observed dryly, “niceness in a woman is a fault that can always be compensated for by good looks.”

  Jeannie stared at her. “You don’t know then.”

  “Know what?”

  “Marion Shelby must be at least sixty-five.”

  So Jed was right, Tessa thought. I should have known; he usually is.

  “Oh, she’s trim enough,” Jeannie continued, “and she’s funny and smart and up on everything, but she’s let her hair go white, and sometimes she has that perky look of women in those awful TV commercials about denture cleaners . . . that I-may-not-be-a-kid-anymore-but-don’t-count-me-out look?”

  “There but for the grace of God, Jeannie.”

  “Hey, there’s no call to start throwing scripture or whatever at me. I’m just stating an observation, not passing judgment. Besides, it’s Father Time’s grace we oughta be worrying about, not God’s.”

  Tessa favored Jeannie with a goofy grin. “ ‘What, me worry?’ “

  “Ohmigosh!” Jeannie exclaimed. “Alfred E. Neuman! Remember the time my homeroom teacher found that copy of MAD in my desk? Lordy, how I loved that magazine! I wonder if it’s still being published.”

  “Probably not in the same form. According to Gavin, PC has pretty much discouraged anyone from making jokes at anyone else’s expense.”

  Jeannie looked baffled. “What do personal computers have to do with jokes?”

  “I’m talking about political correctness, Jeannie. Look, suppose all the. Alfred E. Neumans in the world got together and brought one of those class action suits against the editor.”

  “About what, for heaven’s sake?”

  “For holding them up to public ridicule. Gav says college newspapers really have to watch it these days. You can be hauled into court for being racist and sexist, even ageist ... so why not nameist?”

  Jeannie shook her head. “That’s crazy, Tessa.”

  “Hey, it’s a crazy world out there.”

  They heard a faint bell, followed by a shout for Jeannie.

  “Duty calls,” she said.

  “Me, too,” Tessa responded. “I told Garland I’d have homemade pizza for dinner tonight. . , which in my case,” she confessed, “means adding stuff I haven’t bought yet to the ready-made I’ve got in the freezer.” She hitched up her shoulder bag, “Could I borrow those catalogs you mentioned?”

  “Sure . . . they’re in that box next to the washer, Tessa. Feel free to rummage.”

  Tessa emerged from the back room a moment later with an armful of glossy booklets. “Thanks, Jeannie!”

  “Hope you find what you want, Cinderella. Just don’t count on you-know-who to come up with the glass slipper.”

  “He did once,” Tessa protested.

  “Maybe so, but if he’s the prince you’ve been waiting for all these years, I think you’d be better off with the frog ... or is it the beast?” She pushed up the hood of the dryer to release her heat-flushed client. “Hell, Tessa, I never could keep those old fairy tales straight.”

  Fairy tale ? Tessa mused as she wheeled her cart through the Cottonwood Mercantile. Was that really all it was? She added a package of sausage to her basket. And if it was, she wondered as she searched through the green pepper bin for one with no flaws, what harm could a revival of it do?

  She suddenly recalled her high school English teacher’s droning discourse about the use of would, could and should.

  What harm would it do? Should it do?

  She couldn’t decide. And I don’t really care, she thought as she counted out eight of the biggest mushrooms and plopped them into a plastic bag.

  If I should die before I wake . . .

  “God!” she muttered. “What left field did that sneak in from?”

  Must be all that talk of aging, who is and who isn’t. .

  “I feel just fine, damn it!” she assured the dairy case. “I still put in long days and I drop off to sleep the minute my head hits the pillow. Okay, so the head’s going a little gray now, but what of it? Old is a state of mind; a state that hasn’t shown up on my license plate yet, and I’m nowhere near cashing in my chips!”

  “What chips are those?” a teasing voice inquired behind her. “Cow, poker, or potato?”

  “None of your damn business!” Tessa snarled.

  “Well! Excuse me for living!”

  Tessa blinked and whirled. “Oh Lord, I’m sorry, Angie . . . my mind ... I was. . . .” Her fingers fluttered, signifying general confusion. “Wow, look at your hair!” she blurted.

  Interpreting the exclamation as a compliment, Angie simpered. “Jeannie did it yesterday. You don’t think it’s, uh, too much?”

  Tessa eyed the towering platinum bubble. Too much? It was monstrous. A perfect match for the biggest mouth in town. “Suits you, Angie.”

  * * * *

  The rest of the week suited Tessa. On Tuesday she helped Miguel deliver Chinook�
��s foal, a bay and white skewbald colt, rambunctious from the word go; by Friday, when the calves arrived, the buckskin was backing as if he’d decided it was his favorite direction. The week before, she wondered if she was asking too much for him; now she regretted letting him go for so little.

  Saturday morning, Jed arrived with Bolt, already saddled, in his trailer.

  “Who did you get to stay with Pop?” Tessa asked.

  “I called an agency in Montrose. They sent down a woman who looks as if her last employer was the federal prison system. Pop was still asleep when she arrived, thank God. I gave her a list of Pop’s likes and dislikes—there were more of the latter, as you might imagine—and his doctor’s telephone number. I waited until she read it, then left. I don’t recall either of us saying goodbye.”

  “Oh Jed,” Tessa said. “Look, if you feel you ought to— “

  “I’m here and I’m staying, okay?”

  “Okay.”‘

  Tessa and Jed stood silently side by side, watching as the stocker calves milled in the corrals, rolling their eyes and bawling.

  “Not very promising, are they?” Jed offered.

  “Downright scrawny,” Tessa said.

  Garland, who joined them in time to hear this last exchange, said, “That’s why they’re here, isn’t it? If they were already fat, what would be the point in going to all this trouble?”

  “True,” Tessa admitted.

  “Very true,” Jed agreed. “And if they have decent breeding— “

  “Of course they do!” Tessa declared. “Like my dad used to say, a low-grade calf, no matter what you do for ‘im, is going to grow into low-grade beef. These are all purebred cow and hybrid-bull crosses, Jed. For this purpose we want vigor, not breeding potential.”

  “Can’t quarrel with that either.” He tipped his hat off his forehead, exposing a brow creased with puzzlement. “So why are we standing here with long faces?”

  “Because that’s what we do every year, Uncle Jed,” Garland said, grinning. “It’s part of the ritual.”