“Let me guess.” Her mom smiled warily. “Wolf is back.”
“Bingo. How’d you know?”
“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but Karen Olsen stopped by specially about an hour ago, to ask me a favor.”
“I’ll just bet. She wanted to make sure Wolf was included on the guest list for Dad’s party.”
They’d be celebrating Doc Macready’s sixty-fifth birthday in just a few days, and since he was the most beloved obstetrician in the Flathead, it promised to be the biggest bash of the season.
Abby’s mom clapped her hands. “He’s taken the week off the circuit to be here for your dad, and to meet his sister’s new boyfriend.”
“Mark didn’t just start dating Bridge, Mom. They practically live together. Not that Wolf would know. He hasn’t been back here for more than a long weekend since he left.”
“I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”
“I am only because I love Bridget, and because the Olsens are like a second family to me.”
“Abby…” her mom said.
“What? The whole Flathead worships the ground he walks on, just because he’s some big rodeo star now. But he’s not exactly the world’s greatest brother. Or son. If you ask me—”
Abby stopped and caught another glimpse of her face, still a feverish red beneath her brown skin, in the mirror.
“Oh, Abby.” She turned Abby slowly around to face her. “I know Wolf hurt you. What he did that night was inexcusable, and you know I’m not the boy’s biggest fan. But the Olsens are our closest friends.”
“They’re my closest friends, too, Mom.”
“There was a time when you and Wolf got along so well. After you turned fourteen, and finally let somebody with less than four legs into your life.”
“Very funny. But it isn’t about that night, Mom. It’s about everything he stands for now. I care about family, and he sees his twice a year at best. Plus, I’m trying to save horses, and he’s in the ring, riding one beautiful animal after another into the ground.”
“That’s a little dramatic.”
“You think those broncos try to throw their riders because they’re enjoying themselves?”
Abby looked down at her paddock boots, powdered with the red dust of a month-long drought. Tears sprang unwelcome in her eyes, and she bent down to unfasten her boots. Wolf Olsen, her best friend’s older brother, had been her playmate, her friend, her idol, since before she could walk. He’d taught her how to jump rope and play hide-and-seek. He’d taught her how to ride Queenie, the Olsens’ long-gone mare.
And without knowing it, he’d taught her how to fall in love.
By sixteen, Wolf had become one of those high school gods trailed by an entourage of blustery boys and admiring, hopeful girls. Abby had tried to keep her feelings at bay, but Wolf had spent one too many afternoons lounged on the Olsens’ front steps, flexing his sleek, tanned muscles, letting the sun worship him. She’d tripped over him once, and he’d caught her with the deftness of a natural athlete, saving her an embarrassing plunge into the thorny roses that climbed a trellis alongside the yellow-frame farmhouse.
“Abadabun,” he’d said, brushing Abby’s bangs away from her face before he released her back to whatever game she was playing in the yard. He knew her name, her full name. She’d been too surprised to answer.
Too bad. He’d once been the most beautiful boy she’d ever known. And now he was just another rodeo cowboy, a man who could walk away from an injured horse, or a woman he’d scorned, without a second glance.
“You can handle this, right?” Abby’s mom interrupted her daydream. “You can be around Wolf without…well, without feeling hurt all over again?”
“Of course I can. It’s no problem at all.” She laid a reassuring hand on her mother’s, hoping what she’d said was true.
…
Wolf sprawled across the lower half of the bunk bed in his old room, taking his time as he woke from a dream about Abby. Until yesterday, whenever he pictured her, he’d seen the barely pubescent version: the girlish beginnings of hips and waist and breasts, and that was about it. But now her body was ripe and round. She was confident and willful, and she was showing up in the middle of his dreams, uninvited. He hoped it was a one-time thing.
But in the stall with Lolly yesterday, the way she’d worked the bandana around Lolly’s muzzle and let her hands run over the mare’s flanks, vibrated through him. He didn’t believe in whispering—not for the horses he rode, anyway—but Abby sure looked sexy while she was on the job. Beautiful veins coursed through her hands. He couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like if those fingers were running over him, touching his neck, his chest, his arms. He closed his eyes and rested his hand on his abdomen, still sore from five sets of crunches, and yet again spoke her full name aloud. “Abadabun.”
What stars had aligned nearly two decades ago when Doc Macready found three-year-old toddler Abadabun Red Feather in the Salish clinic in Ronan where he volunteered twice a month? The story of Abby’s adoption had been told in the Olsen household so often, to Wolf it had become as vivid as an actual memory.
“Well, who do we have here?” Doc had asked Osa Red Feather, who had brought the child in with a severe earache and a sore throat.
“This is my niece, Abadabun,” Osa Red Feather had said. “She’s been ailing a couple weeks. She can gargle aspirin, but nothing else seems to work.”
“And what a sweet little bun she is,” Doc punned. “She’s up to date on her shots, right?”
“Yes, doctor. My sister Pima never skipped a clinic day.”
Osa leaned over to whisper into his ear. “Pima and her husband? They died in that collision off Eighty-Two a month ago.” She shook her head sadly.
“That’s terrible,” said Doc. He looked closely into Abadabun’s brown eyes. “You and your husband getting the help you need to raise this child?”
“The tribe would never let us down.” Osa nodded. “But I kind of think I’m a disappointment.” She folded her hands in her lap while Abadabun let Doc look into her ears with his stethoscope. She was playing with his tie pin, twisting it back and forth.
“How’s that, Osa?”
“We have four to raise at home. I’ve got her sleeping in our bed, but it isn’t what her mama would have wanted for her. She had their complete attention. An only child. She needs to be somebody’s only child. You ever come across a nice family, my husband and I’d be open to meeting them. The elders understand. We all want the best chance for our children.” She opened her arms and Abadabun crawled across the table toward her. She clutched Doc’s tie pin in one plump hand like a trophy. (When Doc told the story, he never left out this detail.)
Doc Macready drove home with Osa’s words burning in his ears. Marcie was waiting for him on the deck, her arms full of lilacs from the bushes they’d planted twenty years earlier, the spring they’d bought the ranch. He ran up the steps and took her in his arms and whispered the words that were etched onto Abby’s life as clearly as a cross-stitch sampler hanging above a four-poster bed.
“Marcie, I think I found us a baby girl.”
Bridget’s voice called up the stairs, scattering Wolf’s daydream into little pieces, a jigsaw puzzle knocked off a table. “Wolf—it’s Dad, in the barn,” his sister yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “Get over there, will you?”
Wolf bolted into his jeans in one motion and ran shirtless down the stairs and past Bridget, his heart pounding.
“What’s wrong?” he called over his shoulder.
“How should I know?” she said with nonchalance. “He just needs you out there.”
“If it’s not an emergency, don’t scream bloody murder about it,” he barked. Wolf had had enough reasons to worry about his dad over the years—he didn’t need Bridget to give him another.
“Didn’t mean to cry wolf.”
“You need some new material, sis.” It was an old joke that had never been funny to beg
in with, though his mom chuckled while stirring half-and-half into her coffee.
“Don’t slam the door!” Bridget and his mom called out in sync, though it was already too late. Old habits died hard.
His dad stood by Lolly’s stall, feeding the horse from his hand. Lolly’s head bobbed up and down in a friendly way, nothing like the day before when she’d started up such a ruckus at Wolf’s approach.
“You saw Abby working with her yesterday, right son?” he asked.
“She seems pretty good. Patient, anyway. You figure this mare’s worth your time?”
“Yep. The mare and her trainer.”
Wolf ignored the comment. “So what’s on the agenda today, Dad? You said you needed some help around here—what can I do?”
“W-Well…” his dad stammered. What was up? Wolf took a close look. On his old man’s weather-worn face was a distinct look of embarrassment.
“Out with it, Dad. What’s up?”
Wolf’s dad talked without meeting his son’s eyes. “What I need is for you and me to get in the truck and drive to town and get us some decent gear for this party Friday.”
“You gotta be kidding me. I’ll bet you wore overalls to your own wedding. Mom or Bridge put you up to this?” Wolf asked.
“Both of ’em. And I figure they won’t let up until we do something about it.” Dad shoved his hands in his pocket and headed toward the truck.
“I was under the impression I came home for a lot more than Doc Macready’s party. I thought you needed some real help.” Wolf had been helping his dad in ways big and small since he left the Flathead six years before, but he meant the physical kind. He’d done nothing but sit on his ass for the two days he’d been home, and he longed to put a sweat on.
“Sure, I need your help. But the chores can wait. And Luther’s turned into something of a ranch hand. You’re not the only one who can hang onto a post-hole digger. But Luther? The boy’s twenty-one years old and has got no sense of style whatsoever. For that, I turn to my eldest.” Smiling, his dad put one arm around Wolf’s neck and guided him through the double barn doors toward the waiting truck.
…
Abby and her mother sat at the round oak table in the kitchen, waiting for their oatmeal in the big green pottery bowls to cool. It was her dad’s day at the Salish clinic. In the past few weeks, this had been a special time for the two Macready women, a time to gossip and hatch elaborate plans for the big party coming up. But this morning Abby felt out of sorts, overwhelmed by the memories of Wolf that loped along the surface of her mind.
“I don’t mean to badger you, but have you thought about what to wear to Dad’s party?” her mom asked.
“Yes. No. Bridget said she’d help me. We could drive down to Missoula to shop tomorrow, or even go into Kalispell today.”
“But if you want to order something online, tonight’s about the last chance to do that.” Mom shook her head, then pulled Abby’s hair away from her face. “And don’t make me say it—there’s your hair to think about.”
“Go ahead. You want me to wear it up, right?” It wasn’t just Wolf—even her parents thought of her as nothing but a little girl.
“Well, off your face for a change. Like this, maybe?” She twisted the ends of Abby’s hair and held it to one side in a loose coil. Abby had to smile. She’d tried that Scarlett-Johansson-on-the-red-carpet look in the mirror only this morning. She was a drop-dead look-alike. If Scar-Jo were a Montana Indian instead of a Hollywood blonde, that is.
“Mom, it’s a birthday party, not a wedding. Who’d even notice if I had a new updo?”
“Well, for one, there’s Matt Markley. You talked him into horse whispering last week. I think you could talk him into a Texas two-step with you Friday night.”
“Matt Markley? The man’s got the roughest hands I’ve ever seen. I may get his horse calmed down, but he’s another matter entirely.”
“You’re probably right. That whole Markley clan’s sure had their share of run-ins with animals.”
“Matt should be running a Jiffy Lube, not a horse ranch.”
“Abby, stop.” Her mom chuckled.
Last week, in his rugged fashion, Matt had complimented Abby, calling her “a great-looking gal” before turning away to hide the blush that lit up like wildfire on his cheeks. A handsome enough guy, he’d asked her to dinner, though Abby had pretended not to hear the question. Markley was all right, but he’d didn’t compare to—
“Then, of course, What’s His Name will be there.” That was her mother’s preferred nickname for Wolf, her least favorite of the Olsen children. “Probably best to avoid dancing with him. Just keep it calm, cool, and polite. Let bygones be bygones…”
Abby allowed herself a memory of Wolf and Bridget practicing the foxtrot on the Olsens’ wrap-around porch as she’d sat speechless on the stairs, watching them. This was the day before his prom invitation, the day before her life had gotten a whole lot more complicated.
“He’s all yours now,” Bridget had said. “He’s a klutz, anyway.” The truth was, Wolf had never been a klutz. He’d moved with a feline grace, seemingly straight out of the womb. That night, after Bridget had gone inside, Wolf had danced a few steps with Abby on the porch, under the apple trees that lined the Olsens’ property. Blossoms rained down on them, and to this day Abby didn’t know if she’d imagined it, but she could have sworn he’d looked at her in a new light, taken her seriously for the first time. He looked nervous almost, his hand trembling slightly at the small of her back. The next day, he’d surprised her by asking her to the prom. And of course, no matter what the Olsens or her parents would think, no matter what her best friend would think, there was only one answer. Yes, yes, yes.
Abby flashed a smile and answered her mom’s question. “If you’re asking your Native American daughter to bury the hatchet, yes, Mom, I can do that.”
“Now you’re just being fresh.” She wagged a finger, and Abby breathed a sigh of relief.
“Anything for Dad. Anything for you, too.” Abby could do this. She could collect herself. She still had two days until she came face-to-face with Wolf again. “One thing, though. If he asks me to dance, I’ll take a cattle prod to him. Right where it counts.” She cracked a boot onto the hardwood floor and air-jabbed toward an imaginary male crotch, a merciless warrior going for the kill.
Her mom shook her head. “That’s my girl. Fierce as ever.” She picked up the mail and headed down the long hall toward the kitchen.
Inside, Abby’s heart continued to burn, a raging furnace of memory. She had spent weeks shopping for a prom dress and heels tall enough to look all six feet of him in the eyes. Like two supporting actresses in a rom-com, Bridget and her mom had come with her, giggling, offering advice, debating the virtues of sapphire blue over sunflower yellow.
The sunflower had won, though in the end it was all for nothing.
Chapter Three
Ever since Abby had decided to leave veterinary school in Spokane eighteen months earlier, she found herself explaining her decision to others, and even to herself. Why had she abandoned her lifelong goal of becoming a vet? Why had she broken things off with Ben, who was sweet and kind and handsome, to move back to the Flathead and live with her parents again? Wasn’t that the telltale sign that she had failed utterly at becoming an adult?
But Spokane hadn’t felt right, and neither had school. She’d been busting her butt trying to ace Organic Chemistry, while she hadn’t as much as mounted a horse since leaving Montana. No, living at home or not, she was on a new, more exciting path now. She was making up her own rules, one at a time, and building a career, a life, she could be proud of forever.
As for Ben, he was amazing on paper. And he loved her, in puppy-like fashion. But Abby wanted heat and fire and explosive passion, and Ben was lukewarm at best. She knew that something, someone, was out there waiting for her, just beyond the horizon. All she had to do was keep her foot on the gas and keep moving toward it.
That�
�s what she’d told Bridget, who totally got it because she totally got Abby. But to everybody else, she’d just said, “I missed the Flathead. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.” That line, designed to appeal to the regional pride characteristic of all Montanans, usually shut them up.
Her parents hadn’t given her a hard time about coming back. As an adopted only child, Abby was the focus of their devotion, and they trusted her completely. But when most folks in the area so much as heard the term “horse whisperer,” they snorted and shook their heads. They might have been thinking about that cheesy movie with Robert Redford. Or they might have had their own ideas about horse whispering. “A bunch of malarkey,” Jess Olsen, an old-school rancher who had ruled his horses with an iron first before Abby had gotten the chance to convert him, once said. “Hippie mumbo-jumbo.”
But if Abby were talking to a real horse lover, she’d mention the legendary Buck Brannaman, who was famous for taming wild horses in a matter of minutes. Abby believed that she could follow in Brannaman’s footsteps. She was able to sense when a horse was in physical pain and could spot an injury that might have gone unnoticed for weeks or months. Most importantly, she was able to detect when a horse was suffering from an emotional injury—a memory of abuse, for example, or of a fire in which stable mates had died. Abby made it her mission to try to understand what a horse was feeling before she ever laid a hand on her.
Lately, she’d wondered if the same principle applied to people. Brannaman had once said something along the lines of, “A horse’s nerves heal real slowly. Lots of things about us heal real slowly, too.”
Bridget was front and center with her own philosophy about men, telling her the other night over beers at the Rusty Spoon, “If only you could read men the way you read horses, you’d be set for life.”
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