Dances with Wolf

by Farrah Taylor

  “Abadabun. Who could wish for a nicer present than you in that dress?” He pulled her into a warm hug. Abby looked up at him as he slowly released her.

  There were tears in his eyes. “I don’t say this often enough, but we’re so proud of you. You know, this party’s as much about celebrating you coming back here as it is about me joining the ranks of Certified Old Men.”

  Abby was speechless. Her father was a man of many good deeds, but few words. “That means a lot to me. I wasn’t sure you approved of my dropping out.”

  “You followed your intuition,” said her mom. “And it’s already begun to pay off.” She leaned over and grasped Abby’s hand. “Now, about those hot pink boots.” She gave Abby a quizzical look. “Bridget picked them out, right?” Abby nodded.

  “I like ’em,” her dad said. “Makes you stand out from the crowd.”

  “As if a man would care about what you’ve got on your feet,” her mom sighed, “when you’re wearing that lovely dress.”

  Her dad’s left eyebrow lifted teasingly. “I don’t suppose there’s anybody you especially had in mind when you bought it?” he asked, about a millisecond before her mom slapped his hand and gave him a death-stare. (Apparently she was the only parent allowed to grill Abby on her love life.) But he continued anyway: “Matt Markley was the first guy to RSVP.”

  “She’s not interested,” her mom said. “Something about a Jiffy Lube.”

  Abby laughed at her dad’s perplexed expression. “Yup. Matt Markley’s definitely on the no-fly list.”

  “How about Wolf, then?” her dad said. He was so sweet, but so clueless, too. “I know you’ve always carried the torch for him, haven’t you?”

  “Oh my God, Dad, please don’t,” Abby said. She went beet-red, and turned toward the window so they wouldn’t see.

  “If Matt’s on the no-fly list,” her mom said, “Wolf’s a weapon of mass destruction.”

  “Sorry,” her dad said. “Mom said you guys had made up, and thought there might be a little more to it.”

  “How can you say that, hon?” her mom asked. “Wolf isn’t worth the dirt under Abby’s fingernails. He’s shown us that much.”

  “Guys…” Abby tried to interrupt. Her parents talked about her like she wasn’t even in the room.

  “Don’t be so hard on the boy,” her dad said. “He’s made some mistakes, sure, but he’s got a good heart.”

  “Mom, Dad, please…”

  “He’s got the heart of a snake,” her mom said. “And the brain of a pack mule.”

  “You’re too harsh, Marcie.”

  Abby silenced them with a deafening two-fingered whistle, one that she usually reserved for the punishment of barn animals.

  “What?!” both her parents asked at once.

  “I love you, but I need you to stay out of my love life, and get out of my room.” She shooed them away like a couple of meddlesome toddlers. “See you in a few.”

  On the way out, her mom’s eyes invited intimacy, a shared secret, a whispered thought, but Abby wasn’t ready for that and wouldn’t be for a good while. She closed the bedroom door firmly behind her, took off the dress—she longed for a nap, just a few minutes to collect herself—hung it carefully in the garment bag, and hooked it to the back of the door. “If I don’t have a good time,” she addressed the bag, “you won’t be the one to blame.”

  I must really be losing it, Abby thought with a smirk. I’m having a conversation with a party dress. It was definitely time to get a place of her own. Before she could banish the thought, she imagined Wolf visiting her there, showing up late at night, finding refuge with her under the covers, holding her to his strong, smooth chest until morning broke.

  Chapter Seven

  Wolf rode shotgun in Bridget’s truck, while Luther balanced two of their mom’s homemade rhubarb pies on his lap. Their parents followed them, though they certainly didn’t need any assistance in navigating the two miles to the Macreadys’ place. Wolf turned up the song on the radio, “I Lock the Door” by Marcus Troy, and sang at top volume.

  “Six of one, a half dozen the other,” he crooned. “God closes one door as he opens another.”

  Bridget reached over to turn it off. “How’s about we leave the singing to the trained professionals?”

  “That bad?” Wolf said, stung.

  “You sound like a heifer in heat,” said Luther through a chuckle.

  “Whenever you’re nervous, you act out like this,” Bridget said. “From the time you were a little kid. Larger than life and louder than thunder.”

  “That’s not true,” Wolf said.

  “It’s kind of true,” said Luther.

  “What have I got to be nervous about, anyway? This is a party, not a presidential inauguration.”

  “Why don’t you just come out and say it?” said Luther. “You’re scared spitless to see Abby again.”

  “Luther, a bull that weighs more than this 4x4? That scares me. Abby Macready? Not so much.”

  “That sounds like a load of bull,” Luther said. Wolf took advantage of the joke, unfunny as it was, and allowed himself to laugh. It helped release the tension that he wasn’t about to admit he was feeling.

  “Anyway, I saw her yesterday. Everything’s sorted out.”

  “Sorted out, as in, you’re going to dance with her all night before taking her behind Doc’s barn to do the nasty?” Luther snarked.

  “Nothing like that is going to happen,” Bridget said. “Ever.” She squeezed Wolf’s hand until he winced.

  “Hey, sis, come on,” Wolf said. “I need to grip the reins with these fingers.”

  He shook his hand loose and thought of the last time he’d held the reins in his grip. Yesterday, Bullet had seemed a little shaky in the pasture. And not just yesterday. She hadn’t quite been herself since the Billings Rodeo, more than three weeks ago. It wasn’t physical, he didn’t think, but something had happened to her. She seemed unfocused, out of it, depressed even.

  Wolf laughed at the idea of animal psychology—that was just a racket—but there was a good vet in Polson, Dr. Vickers, who could probably figure out whether Bullet had some kind of deeply embedded virus. He needed Bullet healthy. The season was about to hit high gear, and he depended on her more than anything or anyone. More than that, he hated to see the mare so spiritless. When Bullet was in a funk, so was he. Wolf Olsen, codependent with his own damned horse! He could almost hear Abby’s teasing voice. Anyhow, tomorrow he’d bring her over and have Vickers give her a once-over.

  As the truck ascended the rise, the lights along the Macreadys’ aspen-lined driveway glittered, a prelude to a Technicolor sunset. Summer was painfully short in the Flathead, but it sure was spectacular. The three of them exited the truck and Wolf ran his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he couldn’t stop himself from making. He felt uncomfortable, not himself in these stiff store-bought clothes, and wished the party were already over. He would have rather sipped a few beers on the porch, even with the hyperactive Luther, than have to mingle with half of Bigfork.

  He took in the proceedings. A six-member bluegrass band was mounting a stage in front of the barn. Cocktails and snacks were dispensed from a chuck wagon to its right. Guests milled in circles around Doc and Marcie Macready, hugging Doc, complimenting Marcie’s flowery dress. The man of the hour wore a white Resistol and a pale-blue Western suit with fancy stitching on the sleeves. He seemed overwhelmed by the attention, but that was Doc—humble to the core.

  Abby was nowhere to be seen. So far, anyway. Luther was already flirting with some redhead Wolf didn’t recognize, and Bridget was talking to a friend of hers from the brokerage. Hands in his starchy jeans pockets, he scanned the crowd for a friend of his own.

  Suddenly, two slender arms snaked around his waist. Abadabun? he thought. But instead he turned to see Heather Stone, a former prom queen from Flathead High, a girl Wolf had flirted with or briefly dated, he couldn’t remember which. Heather was wearing a strapless sequined top
over metallic jeans. In the deep space between her breasts hung a silver cross on a slender chain, Christ’s sacrifice transformed into a tacky trinket. This was exactly the girl he’d known, and had decided he’d wanted nothing to do with, at sixteen.

  Heather’s blond hair lay in artfully arranged beach curls over both shoulders. As she struggled for balance on knife-sharp stilettos not exactly well-suited to a barnyard dance, she grasped his arm for a moment. Wolf remembered that about Heather, that she was always reaching out to touch him, a spider pulling her prey into the web.

  “Wolf Olsen,” she said breathlessly. “I heard you’d be back for this.” She stood away from him, bolder than ever, and looked him over head to foot. “I’d say that rodeo life suits you just fine.” She put her hands on her waist and continued to stare at him until Wolf, mostly to stop her from appraising him like a farmer does livestock before a purchase, pulled her into a brief hug, then took a half-step back. He met Bridget’s eyes for a moment over Heather’s shoulder. She gave him a disapproving look, and he wondered if there was a single girl in the Flathead with whom he was allowed to interact.

  “I never expected to find you…still in Bigfork,” he said. He honestly couldn’t think of another thing to say to her.

  “Bigfork? You’ve got to be kidding. I moved to Seattle four years ago. Just took a few days off to see my folks. I’m a dental hygienist now.” Heather flashed him the proof, a flawless white smile.

  She hooked one arm through Wolf’s and began to walk toward the stage. The band was pounding out a bluegrass version of “This Little Heart of Mine.” All over the lawn, guests were beginning to couple up and step onto the dance floor.

  “If you’re as good a dancer as you were in high school, I’m yours for the evening, pardner,” she said. Wolf gently disentangled himself. She opened her eyes wide and smiled up at him.

  “I couldn’t do that, Heather. I’d be making enemies. Must be a dozen guys lining up to dance with you.”

  Heather shrugged, as if to say she didn’t care much about those dozen guys. There was something premeditated about her, like she’d come here specifically to chase him down. Pretending not to notice, Wolf guided her carefully toward a group of Luther’s friends, who were clustered near the chuck wagon, sampling some of Doc’s beloved single-malts.

  Luther, having moved on from the redhead, walked confidently toward Heather, and held out a margarita in a fancy pink glass. “Perfect timing,” he said. “Bartender just mixed this up for the prettiest girl here.” When Heather reached up for the drink, Luther winked at him. “See you later, bro.” Wolf, thankful that his little brother was either smarter or hornier than he looked, turned and made his way through the throng of dancers.

  At the far end of the dance floor, he saw Abby. No one else seemed to have spotted her yet. She was alone, though probably not for long. As if she could feel his eyes on her, she turned and looked straight at him. He had seen Abby Macready grown up, and that had taken some getting used to. But he hadn’t seen her made-up like this, ever. (Of course, he would have if he hadn’t ditched her on prom.) This simply couldn’t be his little sister’s best friend, a scrawny girl in pigtails, chasing her dog around in the mud. This was someone else entirely.

  The image of her burnished skin against the white dress rushed through him. The sun was still high in the sky, not even close to setting at eight o’clock, and its yellow-orange rays lit up her hair, her golden skin, her chestnut eyes. Without deciding to go to her, he found himself approaching her at a steady clip, as if his body had a will of its own.

  He reached her side in six long strides.

  Chapter Eight

  Abby had been surveying the dance floor, watching with some amusement as Luther whirled Heather Stone through the throng of her parents’ friends. Heather’s sequined top made her boobs look like two electric-blue snow cones that refused to melt even in the heat generated by a hundred gyrating partygoers. She’d heard that Heather, one of the “it” girls at Flathead High who had graduated the year before Abby was a freshman, had moved to Seattle. In this sylvan setting of mountains and river and clouds illuminated by the rising moon, Heather stood out like some kind of sexy alien. Tacky, yes, but undeniably sexy. In her white dress and absurd pink boots, Abby felt like a tomboy who was trying too hard.

  But then out of nowhere, Wolf strode right up to her and asked her to dance. She didn’t even have time to think. She just gave him her hand. It was like a dream, one of the many actual dreams she’d had in which Wolf finally made good on his broken promise.

  They danced in silence for a few minutes and Abby began to relax. Sort of. More like, she figured out how to contain her excitement, instead of screaming to the entire party, “Oh my God, I’m dancing with Wolf frickin’ Olsen!” Stilling her heart as much as she could, she felt his shoulders, solid beneath her fingers, his hips moving with hers. His body was just a few inches away, but bound by the rules of the dance, as if a small, civilized fence stood between them. A fence she didn’t know whether to trample over or bolster with steel-reinforced concrete.

  She rested her left hand lightly on his neck, clasped his right hand in hers and despite her best attempts to squelch them, the old memories returned. What she remembered most, what hadn’t changed at all, was Wolf’s gentle touch, his breath on her skin like a shy caress. No matter how rough and tumble he was in the world of men, he’d always been tender with her.

  “Wolf,” she said into his neck without thinking.

  Her cheeks burning, she looked up to see if he’d heard it.

  “Hey you,” he said, clueless. “Just like old times, huh?”

  …

  He breathed in the sweet, misty-morning scent of her hair. Her hand shifted on his neck and he remembered how she’d worked with Lolly in the barn, bringing the frightened mare to a peaceful state with just the power of her hands. He imagined her hands on him, her fingernails digging into his back. Then he drew back slightly as he remembered Bridget roughly squeezing his hand on the drive over here, warning him to stay away from her best friend. He glanced over Abby’s shoulder, suddenly paranoid that she’d be out there somewhere, hands folded across her chest, giving him the stink-eye. Blessedly, she was out of view.

  With something close to horror, he realized he needed to get himself out of this situation, and fast. Everyone at this party knew he’d broken Abby’s heart six years earlier, and if they saw them together now, they’d be on him like a swarm of bees. Sure looked like you two were getting along. Just like old times, huh Wolf? Don’t you do that girl harm again. His high school friends, his parents, his raging sister—they’d all have an opinion. No, he couldn’t be with Abby, ever. He couldn’t indulge this crazy attraction to her for a moment longer. He fished around in his head for some way of extricating himself from her grasp—God, she felt good, so right, against his skin—until he found the solution: keep it professional.

  He mimed exhaustion (as if an athlete in his superior condition could be winded from a couple steps on the dance floor!), and led her toward the chuck wagon. “You know what, Abby? I was thinking on the way over that you could give me a hand with something.”

  She followed him. “What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s a proposition, I guess.” He handed her an ice-cold bottle of Bayern beer.

  “If you’re asking me to the prom again, the answer this time is definitely a no.”

  Taken off guard, he laughed, even while she held her poker face a beat longer before cracking up.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help it,” she said. She’d always been earnest and passionate, not much of a joker. If she’d turned into some kind of comedian, he’d have to count that as yet another aspect of her miraculous transformation.

  “Well, I was thinking more about your professional advice. I need to ask you a question.”

  “Wolf Olsen? In need of a horse whisperer?” She acted like he was messing with her now.

  “Well, Bullet’s been acting a little…
weird lately.” He gave her the whole story, told her how he’d placed a distant third in the Billings rodeo, and that he felt something off about her, this beloved mare that had ushered him into the most successful phase of his career. He told Abby he didn’t think it was anything physical, but was planning a visit to Dr. Vickers in Polson before he left town.

  “Vickers is good,” she said. “If there’s anything physical, he’ll find it.”

  “I thought you were, I don’t know, against vets.”

  “No way. I’m not a doctor. I’m not even trying to be. I believe in good medicine, and good doctors. And Vickers is the best in the Flathead.”

  They really were talking shop now, thank God. He caught Doc looking at them a beat too long, but they were only chatting. No more bodily contact, that was for sure. He put a businesslike expression on his face and took a big step back from her as if to say to the whole party, Nothing to see here folks, best be on your way now.

  “You know,” she said, wiping off a faint mustache of Bayern foam, an unconscious gesture that made Wolf smile, “she might…no, I can’t say for sure.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “Well, it was real quick in the barn there, but it looked to me like Bullet might have been favoring her left hock a little.”

  “No way. Impossible. I would have noticed it.”

  “It was subtle. Just something about her gait. I could be wrong.”

  “You could be wrong? If she’s got a hock injury, that’s serious. I need to know.”

  The thought terrified him. He’d seen horses go down, down for good, when pushed too hard on a sore hock. He’d die if anything happened to Bullet. And losing her wouldn’t exactly do wonders for his career, either.

  “Well, Vickers will let you know.” She knocked back the rest of her beer, and he was impressed. Despite the gorgeous dress, and that elegant body of hers, she was no lady—she was a cowgirl, through and through. “You try aqua-therapy yet?”

  “Make Bullet swim in a river?” Wolf laughed. “Like that would do anything.”