Colorado High

by Joyce C. Ware

  He wrenched open the door to the cab, jumped in, started the engine, and before Tessa could collect her thoughts, had clanged away over the cattle guard under the ranch gateway. ,

  Tessa wedged the big rectangle under her arm and trudged back towards the house, a corner of the padding trailing unnoticed behind her in the dust. Inside, she propped the board against the kitchen table. She removed the pad and slung it over one of the chairs.

  Should I return the pad to him? she wondered. No point to it, she decided, taking in the stains and rents in the fabric.

  Did I really call him saintly?

  She had told Marion Shelby quite the opposite. Recalling the feel of Jed’s lean, hard, naked body against hers and the frantic, glorious love-making that followed, she dosed her eyes.

  Saintly? Hardly.

  A quiver of renewed desire stirred deep within her. Why hadn’t she recognized their fervent joining for what it was? As a beginning rather than an encounter; a long-delayed fulfillment instead of a sop to her injured pride. Jed was right; she had used him, only to find herself forever in his debt.

  On Wednesday, the Baumgartners came, accompanied by the veterinarian Garland had recommended. He asked Tessa a number of interested questions about her breeding and training program, but although he was both pleasant and knowledgeable, one look at the slightly built, jug-eared young man told her Frederico Chavez had no reason to fret as far as Garland was concerned.

  The Baumgartners adored Banner— even Miguel smiled at Betsy’s unabashed delight in her lovely gaits and manners—and after she passed the vet’s inspection with flying colors, they roared off in their snazzy little red convertible, leaving Tessa with another twenty-thousand dollar check clutched in her hand and a delivery date set for the weekend.

  “You shouldn’t have excused the first stud fee,” Miguel said, wagging his forefinger at her in gentle chastisement. “If others hear . . .”

  “This was a special circumstance,” Tessa said. “Banner could never have been a top cutting horse, you know that.”

  “But shown as a pleasure horse?”

  She threw up her hands. “You’ve got me there, Miguel. Why do I keep forgetting there’s a lot more to successful showing than Western events?”

  “Because Western events are what you’re best at, Miz Wagner.”

  “What we’re best at, Miguel . . . except that you have the good sense to take off your blinders occasionally.”

  Miguel seemed puzzled by the glum tone of her concluding phrase, but for Tessa it merely expressed the present state of her life: blind to its possibilities; deaf to the needs of others, and altogether dumb.

  Friday morning at breakfast Garland reminded her mother that she would be leaving from Telluride after work that afternoon for New Mexico and her weekend at the Chavez ranch.

  Tessa eyed the small duffle Garland brought downstairs with her. “Doesn’t look as if you’re taking much more than a toothbrush and a change of clothes.”

  “I don’t anticipate the need for a ball gown,” Garland said dryly. She looked down at her mid-calf-length, silver-buttoned denim dress. “I think of this as all-purpose. Mom, and I’ve got jeans and a shirt and sneaks in the duffle. What more could I want?”

  “A bathrobe, maybe?” Tessa suggested.

  “Rick said the bedroom I’ll be using has its own bathroom.”

  “Ah,” Tessa said, inferring that Rick and Garland would not be sharing sleeping quarters.

  “Every bedroom does, for that matter.”

  Tessa raised her eyebrows. “Nice what oil money can do for folks, isn’t it? Too bad your grandfather Hatton didn’t think of settling farther south.”

  “I’ll take our mountains any day over all that greasy black stuff,” Garland teased.

  “Oh my, don’t let your Uncle Lloyd hear you say that . . .” Tessa snapped her fingers. “Hey! I forgot to tell you! He decided not to challenge your dad’s will after all..”

  “No kidding! Why the change of heart?”

  “Heart didn’t have anything to do with it, Garland. It was all Jed’s doing . . .”

  Tessa explained the circumstances as objectively as possible. “I have the copy he had made of the portrait upstairs. “If you’d like to see it-- “

  “Don’t have time now. Mom. Besides, I think maybe Gavin and I should look at it together.” She picked up the duffle. “Just think of it,” she murmured, “no more questions. Wow.” She smiled at her mother. “Uncle Jed to the rescue again, right?”

  Tessa ducked her head to avoid meeting Garland’s eyes. “Right.”

  “Uh, I drove Rick down to meet him last Sunday morning. They seemed to hit it off. Which is more than I can say for Pop Bradburn.”

  “Well, you know how Pop is,” Tessa muttered, fidgeting with her napkin. “He probably thinks of someone like Rick in turns of someone you hire, not get . . . involved with.”

  “ ‘You’ meaning who. Mom?”

  “Us. Anglos.”

  “Bigots, you mean.”

  “C’mon, Garland,” Tessa said uncomfortably, folding her napkin. “How was I to know?”

  Garland dropped the duffle on the floor and put her fisted hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me you—”

  “Okay, so maybe I thought at first he was looking for work.”

  Garland glared at her.

  “Look, Garland, I like Rick Chavez, and you know how I feel about Miguel ... if he weren’t so damn religious I’d ask him to marry me. Tie him up for life.”

  Garland burst out laughing. The crisis had passed. “Good Lord, Mom! Miguel will never leave you. If you ask me, what you two have is better than a marriage.”

  “I hope you’re not saying you think he’s in love with me, because that’s a crock of—”

  “Not that way, no. What you and Miguel have is better even than love . . . well, better than lust anyway. Lust sure has a way of doing a number on a person’s thinking,” she added in a regretful mutter. “You guys have what you could call a commonality of interest, but you know where to draw the line. You know where it intersects and where it diverges, leaving you as separate, private people. Same as you and Uncle Jed. I don’t think you know how lucky you are. Mom.”

  Tessa darted a suspicious look at her daughter. Was she being sarcastic? No, Tessa decided. Garland just hadn’t noticed the fracture in her relationship with Jed yet. Too much else on her mind.

  “It’s harder when you’re young. Garland,” Tessa said. “That old devil desire has a way of popping up when you least expect it.”

  Garland grinned. “My, what an interesting picture that conjures up. See you Monday evening, Mom.”

  “Monday?”

  “Mona gave me an extra day off, remember?”

  “To recover from her Shelby experience? How is she coping, by the way?”

  Garland shrugged. “Mona’s a survivor. She may still be crying into her pillow at night, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. One thing’s for sure, she won’t be doing old Scott any more special favors anytime soon.” She leaned to kiss her mother’s cheek. “S’long!”

  “ ‘Old Scott,’ “ Tessa repeated after Garland left. She thought of Marion patiently biding her time. Nice woman. I wander if she’s located a horse yet? Tessa resolved to give her a ring Sunday evening after she returned from Grand Junction, where she was scheduled to judge Western classes at a big horse show being held at a ranch a few miles north of town. One of the horses she had bred was entered in the barrel-racing event.

  It’ll be interesting to see that one again, she thought. He was getting on in years, but from all reports still going strong.

  Which is more than I can say for myself, Tessa thought as she sat musing over a second cup of coffee, her mind wandering morosely from her immediate commitments to a future that seemed to drift aimlessly towards a bleak and featureless horizon. She’d continue working with the horses, of course, that was a given. But other than that ...

  An occasional jaunt wit
h a woman friend? Good works for the church? The western slope chapter of the Quarter Horse Breeder’s Association was always after her to serve on the board, but she hated paperwork, and the office of secretary was traditionally reserved for female directors. Judged by today’s standards, she wondered if that qualified as sexism.

  Tessa drained her coffee and scraped back her chair. She rinsed out her mug and upended it in the rack next to the sink. Maybe someday I’ll have grandchildren to distract me. Recalling the way Rick and Garland looked at each other at the Bluegrass Festival, she smiled wryly. Maybe sooner than I’ll be ready for ‘em.

  She opened the door to call Plume. Looking south, her eyes skimmed along the familiar line of peaks that jagged up black against the sky. Who would ride up with her this fall to help bring the spring calves-down from the high pastures? Calm her down when her Wagner in-laws riled her? Take her to next year’s 4H barbecue?

  Don’t be silly, she scolded herself. She could always take herself to the stupid barbecue; sit with Jeannie and Art; flirt with the guys. Like Garland’s boss, she was a survivor, too. She’d manage . . . with Jed or without him.

  But without him, how will I mend the fence up on Hayden’s Bald?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Tessa drove west out of Grand Junction on old Route Six. She’d been to the ranch where the horse show was being held, a bit north of the city and a few miles short of Fruita, but that was at least five years ago, and she couldn’t remember if the turn was off to the left or the right of the road.

  The traffic had been very light on four-lane Route 50, thanks to the early Sunday morning hour; here it was virtually nonexistent. She drove slowly, a window cranked down the better to enjoy the fresh morning air. The sky was cloudless, the air very still. According to the weather report crackling on the car radio, it would be hot, climbing into the high eighties by noon, followed by scattered late afternoon thunderstorms in the mountains. The typical summer weather pattern. The only unusual thing was the slight bead of perspiration Tessa felt forming along the edge of her upper lip. The forecaster either hadn’t said anything about an increase in humidity or she’d missed it.

  Ahead of her was a grove of peach trees. The curve the road took around it seemed familiar, and as it straightened out, she saw a horse trailer braking to make a turn to the right. As it cleared the verge, a brightly lettered poster announcing the show was revealed.

  The trailer slowed as it jounced along the gravel lane, then pulled off to the left into a large mowed field and eased into the long line of horse vans that had preceded it. Beyond was a large fenced ring and a small grandstand, temporary by the look of it. Overall there was a general air of bustle created by horses being led, ridden, or groomed by men and women--young for the most part— clothed in aggressively styled Western gear. It resembled, Tessa thought, pictures she’d seen of Gypsy caravan encampments.

  “Hey there! Tessa Wagner! Long time no see!”

  Tessa’s blue eyes searched through the crowd. Spotting a waving hand and a familiar smiling face, she plunged into the milling scene, happily becoming part of it.

  The events Tessa was slated to judge were scheduled for early afternoon, after the hour-long break for lunch. By then, the sky was dotted with white puffs rapidly building into towers on the heat-hazed horizon. The decorative cotton bandannas worn by participants and spectators alike had long since been pressed into practical neck and forehead-mopping service, and the phrase about it’s not being the heat so much as this damn humidity was on everyone’s lips.

  The only people benefiting from the discomfort level were the sellers of cold drinks, especially a pair of enterprising preteens ladling out lemonade from behind a rickety, wildly busy, stand.

  “Is it really homemade?” Tessa asked in a whisper, recalling Gavin and Garland’s ventures at a similar age.

  Recognizing her as sympathetic, the younger of the two pointed to the pile of opened cans of concentrate concealed behind the curtain, then put a finger to her lips.

  “Well, you opened them and stirred in the water by hand,” Tessa said, plopping down a dollar bill for the largest size, touted creatively as the Tyrannosaurus Rex. “That’s good enough for me!”

  Tessa recognized the horse she had bred— like Jed’s Bolt, he was Thor’s out of Zig-zag—the minute she saw him enter, the ring. The name she had filed for him with the registry, St. Elmo’s Fire, had been inspired by the white blaze streaking down his chocolate face, but he was Elmo to the man who bought him from her as a green two-year-old, and his daughter, who rode him to second place in the Barrel Racing event, called him Mo.

  “Not bad for a fourteen-year-old horse,” Tessa said to her afterwards. “Your dad trained him well.”

  “Mo and I were born the same month in the same year, Mrs. Wagner,” the girl said, her cheek pressed against the horse’s lathered neck. “We’re practically twins.”

  Tessa looked them up and down. “Not quite identical, though,” she pronounced solemnly. “For one thing, you don’t have the same number of legs.”

  The ginger-haired girl giggled. “No, but we can practically read each other’s minds, can’t we, Mo-Mo?”

  To their mutual delight, the horse vigorously bobbed his head.

  “Can’t quarrel with that,” Tessa said. An announcement blared over the loud speaker. “Gotta go,” she said, taking a tissue from her pocket to wipe lather from the girl’s cheek. “These horses aren’t used to working in humid weather like this,” she cautioned. “Better put a cooler blanket on Elmo before you load him in the van, but be sure to walk him and sponge him down first.”

  “I always do!” the girl called indignantly after her.

  By the time the contestants left the ring after the last event, the sky had taken on a queer greenish tinge and the cumulus clouds crowding the horizon began to flatten here and there into ominous anvil shapes. The crowd thinned rapidly. Horses rattled up into vans; gates slammed on fidgety hindquarters, and as the first drops fell, yellow slickers were pulled on over fancy show regalia. Tessa, having turned down several invitations for the night, nosed her truck into the line of vehicles crawling towards the exit.

  As she entered the road back to Grand Junction, she turned her windshield wipers from the intermittent setting to low, switching them to high when she recrossed the Colorado, now running red and turbulent enough to make her wonder if she shouldn’t have accepted one of those offers of hospitality. The river couldn’t have risen that much since morning if it hadn’t been raining hard in the mountains for several hours, and considering the blinding slosh of rain defying the best efforts of the wipers—the storm would be her traveling companion all the way back to Cottonwood.

  In Delta, deciding to call it quits, she turned into the first motel she saw and got the last available room.

  “The road through Gateway’s already been closed on account of flooding,” the proprietor told her.

  “Damn,” Tessa muttered as she filled out the registration. “I was hoping to go home that way tomorrow.”

  “Where’s home, ma’am?”

  “Cottonwood, north of Ouray.”

  He shook his head. “They’re saying this weather system’s going to hunker down on the San Juans tonight . . . might not start moving out till midday tomorrow.”

  Tessa’s supper, bought from a bank of machines accessible, thank goodness, from the interior corridor, was a stale candy bar, a bag of potato chips, and a can of soda which she consumed while watching on TV an old movie she remembered not liking much when she first saw it twenty-five years ago. After the third commercial break she abandoned it and turned in, her lullaby the relentless booming of thunder— only slightly muffled by the double panes of glass in the large window fronting the highway— accompanied by lightning flashing through Venetian blinds she hadn’t been able to close more than halfway. After about an hour spent fruitlessly worrying about things she could do nothing about— Had Miguel thought to check on Plume’s whereabouts before
the storm hit? Would Turnip, notoriously thunder-shy, crash through the pasture fence and take everyone else out with him?—she fell into a deep, blessedly dreamless sleep.

  It was dark when she awoke, although her watch informed her it shouldn’t be. She peered through the blinds. The rain had steadied into a leaden downpour. Tatters of dark clouds hid the sky above and to the east, but a band of paler gray on the western horizon widened and lightened as she watched.

  By the time she finished breakfast—eggs, toast, hash browns, the works—at a truckers’ cafe on the edge of town, the clear patch to the west was wider still. The spectacular sweep of alpine peaks to the south, however, could be seen only in her mind’s eye. A tourist driving towards them this morning for the first time could only wonder what all the shouting was about.

  The gravel-topped dirt road leading to Skywalk Ranch was a quagmire. “Skywalk, hell,” Tessa muttered, trying to keep the truck on an even keel. “Pond bottom’s more like it at the moment.”

  The sunflowers ringing the old trough trailed tattered petals in the red mud. Some might revive when the sun returned; most of them, their stalks twisted and bent, wouldn’t. Tessa parked as close to the kitchen entrance as possible, pulled her slicker’s hood over her head, tucked her duffle under her arm, and scampered for the door. Before she could turn her key in the lock, it pulled open, sending her stumbling in. Miguel’s strong bony hands steadied her.

  “Miz Wagner! I didn’t know where you were, who to call— “

  “What’s wrong, Miguel? Has anything happened to Garland?” He shook his head. “The horses. . . did Turnip break out—”

  “No. Please.” He raised a hand high to stem her questions. “It’s Mr. Bradburn.”

  “Jed? Oh my God. What happened?”

  “No, Miz Wagner, his father. He had a stroke ... on Friday, I think.”

  “But I was here on Friday, Miguel.”

  He shrugged. “That’s what Vince Higgins tell me when he call last night. He say now the phone to the house no longer works and the road is washed out. Yesterday, Jed went across the flooding road to move that bull—what you call him?”