Dances with Wolf

by Farrah Taylor

  “Well, the burgers are a little better here. Just avoid the tuna melt; it might be a little past prime.”

  “Noted.” Abby nodded. “You know what else I remember about that place?”

  “What?” Wolf felt his throat tighten around the single word.

  “Bridge disappeared out back with John Creswell, giving us a few precious minutes to ourselves.” Wolf shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He knew exactly where she was going, but he sure wished she’d stop. “You were going to tell me something about your family, some big, carefully guarded secret, but you never got around to it.”

  It was all coming back to him now, the Talk That Never Was at that godforsaken burger dive. He’d been two or three beers in, and wishing he didn’t have to leave home so suddenly. He’d wanted to tell Abby everything, he really did. But then, just in time, he’d realized he couldn’t tell Abby about his dad, about the debts, the ranch, the whole mess. She was only two years younger than him, but two years meant a lot in high school. She was mature for sixteen, sure, but he didn’t think she’d be able to handle hearing about his dad’s complicated ways. He regretted a lot of things about the way he left town, but he didn’t regret keeping his dad’s secrets to himself.

  “I was going to tell you,” Wolf hesitated, “that I wasn’t long for the Flathead, that I’d be leaving home soon.”

  “You knew, even then? That was over a month before prom.”

  “I didn’t know I’d miss prom, but I knew I had to get out and start…earning my own keep…it was complicated.”

  “You were eighteen. I was sixteen. How complicated could it have been?”

  “One day,” he said, “I’ll tell you. That’s a promise.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But I’m going to keep you to it.”

  Wolf’s property was nestled in a valley that paralleled the Rockies, with a view that rivaled any ranch in the Flathead. There were two horses in the pasture, a mare and a yearling. Stella barked a greeting as the humans got out of their trucks.

  “So, Abs, when I left here, I didn’t know I was going to have a houseguest, and—”

  “The place is a pig sty, and you’d like to tidy things up without me sticking my nose in there first?” she asked.

  “Your mama didn’t raise a fool.”

  She laughed. “I’ll go see how Bullet’s doing after three hours in that musty old trailer.”

  “Cool. See you in ten.”

  He honestly didn’t know how bad the house was. He’d had some buddies over on his last night here, and couldn’t specifically recall whether he’d cleaned up the hungover morning after. But he was thankful Abby didn’t need a bathroom break. Picturing a push-up bra draped haphazardly over a lampshade—there’d been some female “buddies” present that night, too, though for his friends, not for him—Wolf shouldered Abby’s whispering equipment and walked through the unlocked door.

  The two-bedroom house, an old fishing cabin Wolf had moved from the Teton River, was a work-in-progress and a labor of love. As soon as he’d realized his family’s ranch was going to be saved for good, he’d poured a few grand left from his rodeo earnings into the cabin’s restoration. The walls were plain pine and stained tobacco-brown, with a peaked ceiling like an old church. The floor was the original black and white linoleum, repaired or replaced in crucial corners. He’d installed a copper sink in the tiny white-tiled bath and re-enameled an old claw-footed tub.

  An image of Abby luxuriating in a bubble bath popped into his head. His body started to tingle, and he tried to shake the vision off. She wasn’t staying long enough to get that relaxed, anyway. This visit was going to be over before they knew it, and it was going to stay strictly professional.

  He couldn’t stop himself, though. He wondered how her body had changed in the last six years. He’d felt its taut contours shifting alongside him on the dance floor, and his guess was that she had only improved with age. She was fitter, stronger, sexier than before. If he ever did get her into the tub, he could have some candles around to set the mood, and some chilled-out music. Maybe a little wine. Then, maybe he’d give her a back rub, a slow, patient one to relax her shoulders and upper back after what would surely be a long day of training. Finally he’d turn his attention to her long, limber neck, and if she let him, her firm, full breasts.

  “Get your shit together, Wolf!” he said so loudly that he almost scared himself, craning his neck around to make sure that Abby hadn’t entered the house without his realizing it. Gratefully, he spotted her leading Bullet around the ring.

  A dishrag in one hand, some Lysol in the other, he made a sweep of the living room, gathering discarded clothing and newspapers, tossing the whole messy pile into the bedroom closet. The bathroom barely passed muster, but he’d have to wait until later to tackle a major cleaning. He opened the medicine cabinet and made a quick inspection. There was no evidence of female occupancy. Anyway, he couldn’t remember the last woman he’d had here who’d actually spent the night. Certainly it was no one he’d cared enough about to invite back.

  His cleaning duties completed, he went outside to join Abby and Bullet.

  …

  Bullet was, plain and simple, the finest dappled gray mare Abby had seen in the eighteen months since she’d left veterinary school. And one of the friendliest, too. From the outset, the horse had approached her without hesitation, nosing Abby’s pockets for treats. But out here in Wolf’s pasture, she got a chance to see how strong and graceful the mare was, a true one-of-a-kind.

  “Good girl.” Abby fed her a carrot. Horse whisperer sure was a glamorous job—she always had a carrot in her back pocket. She mounted the fence and let herself down the other side, without taking her eyes off Bullet’s. Stella raced around her back quarters, but the horse flicked her tail calmly, as if canines were beneath her royal consideration.

  Abby reached for Bullet’s mane and untangled the days-old snarls with her fingers. She looked up at the sky. Though a storm hadn’t been in the forecast, the clouds were getting darker by the minute. She surveyed the pasture and saw only a lean-to to protect the two mares and the colt from the elements. Where is Wolf’s barn? she wondered, but then spotted it, a pre-fab two-stall building beyond a cluster of old tamaracks. She was relieved. Most rodeo guys didn’t coddle their horses; Abby was grateful that Wolf had too much respect for Bullet to be a member of that stupid pack.

  Bullet stood quietly as Abby ran her hands down the mare’s back legs. She gently circled Bullet’s right hock with both hands. No reaction. Bullet was strong and in fantastic shape, an aerobic specimen. Bullet leaned into her as Abby probed, lifting her right rear leg again as if to guide her to the place that hurt most.

  “Thanks very much indeed, my girl,” Abby said. She leaned back against the fence and took a long look at the horse. Then she walked away, letting Bullet follow her down the fence line.

  Without benefit of halter or bridle, she walked a circle eight in the pasture and Bullet shadowed her, favoring her right leg ever so slightly. The water-walking was sure to help with the inflammation, though, and soon enough the mare would be comfortable again.

  Abby heard his footsteps behind her as she stood in the center of the pasture. “So, how’s she doin’?” Wolf asked.

  “Well, you see how she favors her right side, just a little?”

  “I guess.” He scratched his chin. “Do I?”

  She jogged with the lead in her hand, then guided Bullet through a gentle turn.

  “Okay, I see that,” he said. “It’s definitely subtle, though.”

  “It is. And I didn’t mean to suggest back in Vickers’ office that you weren’t paying attention.”

  “Good!” he said, smiling. “Because I was.”

  “Do you turn her more often on that side, though?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. I’d have to ride her to figure it out.”

  “Okay, we’ll get to that.” She looked up at the sky, then brought Bullet to Wolf for him to inspect.
“But you see how much quarter-horse weight she carries in her upper torso? She’s pure muscle and then you have this delicate cannon”—she bent and traced her fingers down Bullet’s lower leg—“and this even more delicate fetlock.” She tugged on the few hairs that sprang horizontally from the crease in the horse’s foot.

  “What you’re telling me is she’s got ballerina legs and a truck-driver chassis.”

  “It’s just that she’s more thoroughbred than quarter. And you know how short a racehorse’s career is.”

  “Well, they don’t last as long as a dude-ranch nag, that’s for sure.”

  “Hilarious.” She continued to massage Bullet’s hock. “Well, it doesn’t look like it’ll become a serious injury at this point…”

  “Right, Vickers already told us that, didn’t he?”

  “But if it becomes one, she’d be down for the count. One season, maybe two, then she’s out to pasture.”

  “I knew the risk involved when I paid for her. But, Abby…she’s just so fast. Wait ’til you see her. She’s got a lot of guts, too.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But have you ever thought of breeding her?”

  “Hold on, now. Are you trying to figure out what’s wrong with Bullet, or are you here to lecture me about the evils of rodeo?”

  “Listen, I’m not completely anti-rodeo. In my profession, in this state—that’d be career suicide. I’m just saying you should play it safe. Riding this horse hard? In my opinion, that’ll never be a safe move. But if you breed her, and pick the right stallion, you’d be engineering Bullet’s best qualities into a future rodeo colt that you could win trophies with for twice as long.”

  “I don’t know. Seems like a gamble to me.”

  “What isn’t?” She put on the toughest expression she could manage, one that didn’t betray just how gorgeous Wolf was to her in this moment. The sun cut through a layer of clouds, throwing a gentle light across his face. His blond curls sitting on top of his Pendleton shirt collar, his blue eyes twinkling…it was all too much. Forget the emotions they’d shared, the family history between them—on a purely physical basis, no one else could stir Abby this deeply. Her mom had been dead-on—she must have been crazy to come out here.

  “Why don’t I toss some feed into the lean-to, and then I can put us together an early dinner? You barely touched that crappy hamburger at Hook’s.”

  “You remember I have to leave tonight, right?”

  “Yeah, I do. But it’s only three thirty. It won’t be dark ’til nine. Then you can get on your way.”

  “I say we keep working.” This was how she was going to get through the evening—by focusing on the business at hand. They’d work until sundown, and she’d head straight home, tired but satisfied with a job well done.

  “You’re not hungry after that drive?”

  “Nope,” she lied. Her stomach chose that exact moment to growl.

  “Liar!” he said.

  “You heard that?”

  “Doc Vickers probably heard that, all the way in Polson.” He laughed.

  “Okay, fine. I’m starving. But we’re on a tight schedule. Don’t you think we should get her in the water?”

  “We’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Okay, fine.” She forgot how stubborn he could be.

  “Great. Right now, all of us need a bite. Horses first, though, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  She watched Wolf measure out some barley and oats. He seemed to take pleasure in getting the proportions just right, in filling the water barrels with fresh water and removing any debris. As she watched him move quietly among his horses, she noticed the simple gestures, the care he took with them. This man loved his animals, after all. But was he willing to put Bullet’s welfare above his own? Or would he be just like every other rodeo cowboy, obsessed with winning at all costs?

  She tried not to care. Wolf’s life goals were out of her control. The only thing actually in her control was the job she was brought here to do: help Bullet in whatever way she could, and teach Wolf to do the same. Do your job, she said to herself. And stop thinking about the rest.

  Chapter Eleven

  After opening the front door for Abby, Wolf gestured upstairs. “Go ahead,” he said, “make yourself comfortable. Bathroom’s on the left if you need it. I laid out some towels, just in case you want to clean up before heading home.”

  Abby climbed the open stairs. The loft was furnished with a high-mounted double bed with a barn-siding headboard. There were lamps and night tables and a reading area under a full wall of books. Despite herself, Abby was impressed. The cowboy rides, she noted, and the cowboy also reads.

  But on each of the loft’s three walls, Wolf had mounted a sign: “Cowboy Up or Sit in the Truck” and “Always Drink Upstream from the Herd” and “Don’t Squat with your Spurs On.” Ah, that was the Wolf she remembered.

  In the small bathroom to the left of the loft, there were fresh dark green towels and a bar of Dial soap. The mirror above the sink was polished to a high veneer.

  Abby studied her reflection. Her hair had pulled to one side, her collar was dirty, her face patterned with the evidence of Bullet’s approval. She washed her face in hot water and took a second look. There was something different about her reflection, something she hadn’t noticed for a long time. She looked almost happy.

  Downstairs, Wolf was singing in the kitchen. He hadn’t turned on a radio station, but he was singing solo, a song Abby didn’t recognize. Between choruses, Stella provided a harmonizing groan or two as she watched him work at the stove.

  “Need some help?” she called over the railing.

  “Take your time. Got this handled, ten minutes tops, maybe fifteen,” answered Wolf. “Go ahead, freshen up. Nap in the guest room, even. Next door on your right.”

  Abby, secretly thankful for a few more minutes to chill out, took off her boots and lay down on top of the bright-red down quilt in the guest room. A thrill shot through her as she imagined them lying in this bed together. She tried to push the image out of her mind, though. She could almost hear her mom’s clucking tongue, and Bridget’s, too, clucking and tsk-tsking in her ears in stereo. Plus, she could never be with Wolf if he didn’t believe in her whispering work, and she could tell he was still very much on the fence.

  The mattress seemed new and was super-comfortable. Again, she was surprised. Wolf had seemed so not the nesting type. Had he done it alone, though, or had a she-wolf helped him out? What if all the nice touches, the new towels, the flannel sheets, the barn-sided headboard, the self-mocking cowboy slogans, had been installed by someone else? Abby pictured a slightly older woman, a bartender maybe, taking Wolf under her wing and teaching him how to feather a nest. Or maybe a girl his age with an eye for design. Or maybe this: Wolf had shacked up with dozens of female fans here over the years, and they’d all made their own contributions.

  Unable to nap with these hundreds—no, thousands—of imagined barroom hookups on her mind, Abby searched his bathroom for evidence. She knew she was acting crazy, but she didn’t, couldn’t, stop. There was nothing in the linen closet. Stacks of carefully folded towels, extra bars of soap, extra rolls of toilet paper and paper towels. Under the claw-footed tub, nothing. Not even a telltale long hair. And in the medicine cabinet, the predictable Mennen deodorant, a cardboard case of ultra-whitening toothpaste, and a giant bottle of Scope.

  She moved the mouthwash to one side. Behind it lay a small bottle of Lucky Blue Rose perfume, a dark purple liquid in a cut-glass container shaped like a horseshoe. Abby picked it up cautiously and twisted open the top. The fragrance filled the bathroom, and she waved it away frantically, then cracked the window to air the room out.

  She tried to picture the perfume’s owner, but no images came to mind. Just what was Wolf’s type? She moved the economy pack of toothpaste and saw a pink Lady Gillette razor, still in its package. Maybe it belonged to the owner of the Lucky Blue Rose, and maybe not. Either way, Wolf definitely wasn�
�t living “Lone on the Range” out here. He was exactly the playboy she’d always imagined him to be, collecting trophies of one kind in the ring, and of another kind entirely between the sheets. The thought made her feel queasy.

  To her horror, she realized how right her mom had been. Why on Earth would she come out here and poke at her old wounds? She’d thought she could prove something to herself, to her mom and to Wolf—show once and for all that she was over him. But here she was, poking through his medicine cabinet, confirming the obvious and making herself feel like crap.

  “Abby?” Wolf called up the stairs. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Though there was no way he would hear the door to the medicine cabinet on another floor—not while clattering away in the kitchen, anyway—she closed it with the silence of a skilled thief, heat spreading across her cheeks. She withdrew her hands and clasped them behind her back. Enough.

  “Mmm,” Abby said, mustering strength. “Smells delicious.” Okay, so this was a mistake, she knew that now. But she wasn’t going to mope around and show how much pain that damned perfume and razor had caused her. She was going to win a Best Actress Oscar for her part in a well-reviewed indie flick called, let’s see…Resisting the Cowboy. Yes, she’d nail this—it was the role of a lifetime. Summoning her inner Scar-Jo, she walked slowly down the stairs and saw that a table in the center of the living room had been set for two.

  As Wolf pulled out a chair for her, she sat, taking it all in. The tablecloth made of denim and white squares, two candles in holders shaped like rolls of barbed wire, a teal-colored rag rug under the table. All surely acquisitions of his throng of female admirers. Stella, blissfully ignorant of her owner’s internal turmoil, sighed deeply under the table and rested a single paw atop Abby’s feet.

  Wolf poured them each a glass of red wine.

  “Wine?” she asked. “Remember, we still have work to do out there.”

  “Just a glass.” He smiled. “Pretend you’re European.”