“I know.” Abby laughed. “This is a public service we’re doing here.”
After the party had wound down, Wolf climbed slowly into his truck, pulling one leg in after the other. He looked in the mirror and ran one hand through his hair. Rugged was one thing, unkempt was another. It was a wonder Bridget hadn’t alerted the fashion police. Behind him, he could hear the few remaining revelers still hanging out on the Lodge’s deck. Some goofball, probably Luther, hooted drunkenly.
Abby hadn’t been shy about wanting to see him after the party, but he’d told her he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open one more minute. That had been true enough, though he omitted the fact that pain was shooting through his knee and his abdomen, and he needed to get home and suck down a massive dose of Vitamin I before hitting the hay.
…
The next morning, he woke up with the sun—he hadn’t even bothered to close the bedroom’s blinds—and cautiously lifted his head a couple inches off the pillow. He’d slept on his back all night without changing position, afraid to trust his limbs to the least movement. And now he hesitated to move, knowing the first motions of his day were going to be just about insufferable. After a few more minutes, though, he pulled himself upright. Pain tightened like a noose around his chest. Uh-oh. This was not a feeling that could be blocked by any amount of Vitamin I.
He reached tentatively for his phone on the bedside table and scrolled through a few medical clinic listings. Except for the odd trip to the emergency room or a quick once-over from the rodeo staff, he religiously avoided doctors—what if he found out something he didn’t want to know? But now he needed somebody to write him a pain-pill script, and pronto. And it had to be somebody in his neck of the woods, though, not his parents’. Somebody who didn’t know any Olsens or Macreadys and who wasn’t going to spread the news that Wolf Olsen was dealing with what might turn out to be serious injuries.
With an epic groan, he got out of bed and wandered into the bathroom. He rubbed his eyes and looked in the mirror. Nine hours in the sack had done nothing to erase the fatigue from his face. His eyes crouched beneath his lids like they were trying to defend themselves against incoming light. He shuffled over to his closet and pulled out some fresh jeans and a halfway-clean shirt. Enough of the pity party. It was time to get some powerful meds, and maybe even submit himself to an x-ray or two. The champagne tasting Abby had so spontaneously offered to host, and their public coming-out as a couple, was less than twenty-four hours away. He didn’t have much time to shape up. Whatever superpower pharmaceuticals were out there, he was determined to hunt them down. After a quick check-in with Bullet, he set off to find a man in a white coat.
Three hours later, in the little town of John Henry, Montana—really just a stone’s throw from Choteau—he struck gold. A visiting doctor-nurse team in a clinic just off Highway Two gave him a thorough examination, wrote him a script for an x-ray, and slipped sample bubble-packs of a potent painkiller and a muscle relaxant into his shaking hands. The nurse had a brother who’d once competed against Wolf in Las Vegas. “He retired before his legs turned to pretzels,” she said, “and took up something less dangerous.”
“You keep testing your body like this, Mr. Olsen,” the doctor said, “and you’ll have a hard time just walking out to the barn at feeding time.”
Wolf thanked them kindly. He didn’t want to wind up like the nurse’s brother, but what choice did he have? Rodeoing was all he knew how to do. He limped past the desk as the pain in his knee reminded him why it felt so much better to sit down.
One hour and a Dairy Queen Malt Blizzard later, Wolf kicked off his boots, rolled back onto his own bed in Choteau, and pulled the covers over his head. Fatigue, along with the muscle relaxant, took him hostage as he crawled into a dreamless sleep. He slept through the night, woke at daybreak, and reached for the magic pills. Drink. Swallow. Repeat. Abby wouldn’t approve—she’d want him to do something more holistic—but right now he was thanking his lucky stars for modern medicine.
As he fell back onto the pillows, blocking his eyes against the relentless sunlight pouring through his bedroom window, Wolf wondered for the first time why he hadn’t told Abby about the pain he was enduring. She probably would think of some brilliant way to heal him that didn’t involve gorging on powerful painkillers. Why not tell her you’re hurting? It wasn’t just because he was a rodeo man and admitting any weakness at all ran against his code; it was that he had a feeling she’d do just what the doctor and nurse had done—suggest that it was time to hang up his spurs. If he did that, if he gave up the circuit, what the hell was he going to do with his life? Who would he even be? A nobody, that was the answer. No, he couldn’t tell anyone about all this pain—even Abby. Especially Abby.
It was only ten a.m. He didn’t need to be on the road until late afternoon. He could nap through the day and be good to go, or at least numb to the pain, by the time he needed to head to the Macreadys’ place.
…
“What was I thinking?” Abby called from one end of the kitchen. “Can you please tell me that much, Mom?”
“It’s only a little family party,” her mom said. “No need to get so worked up. We could just make a big pot of chicken stew. A little French bread on the side, and voila! Let the good times roll.”
“I wanted it to be more special.” She didn’t say why, of course. She didn’t say that it had nothing to do with Bridget’s stupid champagne (they were all the same to her), that it had everything to do with Wolf.
“Special like Martha Stewart special? Or Barefoot Contessa special?”
Abby made a face. “I was thinking more small plates, local food that doesn’t interfere with the taste of the champagnes.”
“Well, here you go, then. Take a look at this.” Her mom pushed a brochure across the long kitchen table. It was for something called “The Mercantile.”
“What’s The Mercantile?”
“It’s a great little place that opened up while you were in Spokane. They make small plates, medium plates, anything you want.”
“But I didn’t want it to be catered. I was going to make everything from scratch.” Abby couldn’t erase a fantasy from her head: a picture of Wolf biting into her homemade buffalo slider dripping with chipotle sauce, as his smile spread from one side of his face to the other. And her, next to him, wiping the sauce off his chin while their families looked on and laughed. It was the most ordinary daydream in the world, but that was the point—she wanted to show everyone that Wolf was going to be a part of her everyday life now. Nothing to see here, folks, just two kids who grew up with each other, falling in love.
“Hey, Abby.” Her mom snapped her fingers. “Wake up. The party’s in six hours. Why don’t you circle a few things you like on that menu, and we’ll supplement them with some desserts? My chocolate-chip brownies, your butterscotch-pudding-in-a-mason-jar? What do you think?”
Abby sighed. “I guess you’re right. There’s just not enough time to do something homemade.”
“No way. This’ll be great. In fact, the next two weeks look like one big celebration to me.” She opened the double pantry doors and began to pull jars from the shelves. “Let’s get Bridge’s wedding off to a booming start, what do you say?”
Abby slumped back into another daydream, Wolf dancing her into a corner of the living room, spoon-feeding her salted caramel ice cream, then licking the dribbles from her lips as he moved side to side to the music piped in by her dad’s ancient stereo system. Across the room, her parents and Bridget would catch her eye. Her happiness with Wolf would be so obvious, any leftover resistance they felt about her man would melt like a pint of ice cream left in the kitchen sink.
Abby’s hands shook as she swept her hair up and secured it with two silver barrettes. She reached into the cabinet and sprayed herself with Cavender’s Gypsy Kiss—nothing like a little perfume to mask the smell of Eau de Cheval. When she finished dressing, she peered beyond her balcony to the road. It was still too
early for any of the guests to arrive. Except for the faint haze that hung over the tarmac every July afternoon, the road was empty. Would Wolf come early? Would he call before he arrived? Should she have reminded him what time the party started?
It was too late now. She’d have to tuck her anxiety away, like an old tissue, and wait for the evening to unfold.
Bridget and Mark, arm in arm, arrived first, followed by Jess and Karen Olsen. Luther came next, depositing one case of champagne on the Macreadys’ steps, and returning to his truck for another.
“Two cases!” said her dad. “I hope you all are planning on spending the night.”
“It’s just a tasting,” said Mark. “Two sips per person and we ought to be able to separate the good from the swill.”
“And I’m expecting all of you to do your part in the food department,” Abby’s mom said. “We went a little overboard.”
“Yum,” said Bridget. She stood over the dining room table and pointed toward a plate of dolmas wrapped in curls of cabbage. She rubbed her hand over her tummy. “Don’t worry, I won’t disappoint you. The Creature and I are absolutely starving.”
Mark moved behind her and gently guided a piece into her mouth. “Mmmm,” she said, licking her lips, then turning around to kiss him.
“It’s getting harder and harder to hug you,” he joked, as he held her at arm’s length. He made a tent of his fingers to span her stomach.
“She’s barely even showing.” Abby’s dad laughed. “Give her another couple months, why don’t you?”
“Yeah, just sit tight,” Bridget said. “You’ll have plenty of chances to talk about how enormous I’m getting.”
“You’ve gone to so much trouble, Abby,” said Karen. “We could have done the tasting at the Lodge, or at our house.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Abby said. She couldn’t reveal the real reason yet, of course, because her own guest of honor was nearly a half-hour late. She peeked down the driveway, willing Wolf’s truck to appear. Where was he, anyway?
Although Abby hadn’t planned it in advance, every guest rose and toasted the bride and groom in turn. The toasts grew longer and less eloquent as the champagne disappeared, glass by glass.
Luther’s toast was last: “To the cutest couple in the Flathead. To our amazing host, Abby Macready, and to Doc and Marcie, too. And to my idiot brother, who must have gotten the date wrong.”
The whole table laughed. Jess said, “You probably shouldn’t call your brother an ‘idiot,’ but—”
“Oh, go ahead and say it,” said Bridget.
“What is wrong with my son?” Karen said, clearly embarrassed.
They all guffawed, except for Abby’s dad. She caught his eye. He seemed to be regarding her with a special sympathy, like he was feeling all the anger and hurt that she was. She hadn’t seen that look from her dad since—well, since the prom.
The realization came crashing down on her. Wolf had done it again. The man had a special talent for socking her in the gut right when she was opening her heart to him.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? Had she done something to push him away?
And why had she let this happen to her, yet again? She must have been crazy to think he’d changed. Anybody foolish enough to dance with Wolf Olsen was only going to wind up dancing by herself.
Chapter Twenty
Wolf bolted upright as if from a bad dream. He rubbed his eyes and wondered what the ruckus was about—it was his alarm clock, country music blaring out of the tinny speaker. What the hell, what time was it? He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 11 p.m.? The radio had been cranked for hours, and he hadn’t heard a thing? Impossible.
In one motion, he threw the covers to the floor. His legs turned to rubber as he stood and made his way toward the bathroom. Nothing an ice-cold shower couldn’t remedy. Ten minutes from now, he’d be fit for whatever lay in store for him. He reached to turn the shower faucet, then stopped halfway and stared himself down in the mirror.
Only after turning on the water did he think to glance at his phone. Nine texts and an untold number of missed calls. He’d put the damn thing on silent. Sweat formed on his brow, and his pulse started to race. Two from Abby, four from Bridget, two from his mom, and even one from Luther that read, Wolf Olsen, you have f——- up again!
Oh God, no. Abby’s party for Bridget and Mark was already over, probably had been for a couple hours, minimum. Wolf groaned. His worst fear had come true—he’d left Abby in the lurch, again.
He hobbled back into the bedroom and punched in Luther’s number.
“Whoa, what rock did you crawl under, bro?”
“How much trouble am I in?” He groaned. “Just tell me.”
“You gotta be a little more specific.” He snickered. “With Abby? Or with Bridget and Mark? Or with Mom and Dad? Or with—”
“You could start with Abby, I guess. Man, I just cannot believe what happened to me.”
“Where are you, anyway? Are you in trouble?”
“Nah. I’m in Choteau.” Wolf snorted. “And in trouble. I basically slept seventeen hours straight.”
“Tell me you didn’t get mono from one of those barrel-racing girls.”
“No, man. I only—” Could Luther be trusted with the biggest secret of Wolf’s life? I only want Abby. She’s always been the only one.
“You only what?”
“I only…want to make it up to Abby, and her folks. And Bridget and Mark, too.”
“You’re gonna have an uphill battle, man. Marcie really unleashed on you.”
“Right in front of everybody?”
“Nah, she was venting with Doc in the kitchen. She is scary.”
“And how about Mom and Dad?”
“They were pretty embarrassed. Especially when everyone gave their toasts to Bridge and Mark. You are the best man. You don’t want me to step up and take your place, do you?”
“No, I’ll figure this out. I’ll think of some way to make it up to them.”
“Better be something huge.”
Good idea, Wolf thought. A simple apology wasn’t going to cut it, he knew that much. But what could he do to get back on Abby’s good side?
The shower water was cold enough to remind him of the February, long ago, when he, Abby, Bridget, and Luther had skated on the edge of Flathead Lake. Wolf had fallen through the ice, all two feet of it, but Abby had been genuinely worried about him, had taken off her own gloves and stretched them over his big callused fingers, then rubbed his hands between her own while he gulped down the thermos of cocoa she’d brought in her backpack. He’d felt loved, cherished even, though he’d been too young and dumb to realize how precious a gift it had been.
How could he have let her down, again? Did he even deserve another chance?
Costco flowers wouldn’t cut it, Wolf decided as he sped past the big-box stores on Highway 93. He eyed the clothing stores, the recently shuttered Barnes and Noble, and even a great-looking vintage Ford pickup truck in a sweet shade of baby blue. But that would be too extravagant, too showy.
He pictured Abby as she must have stood alone last night on her parents’ deck, a Juliet minus her Romeo, while the rest of the family toasted the first Olsen wedding of the younger generation. He should have been there with his arm around her. Like Abby, he should have been ready to share news of his own with the most important people in his life—that the two of them were going to build something together, something real and lasting. They were meant to be together, he should have been bold enough to say, so strong that nothing could tear them apart again. Why was he always realizing what was in his heart when it was too late? He should have known how important this was, not just to Abby but to himself.
The “shoulds” were overwhelming. How much had he damaged her over the years? She seemed so strong now, so mature. Could he earn back her trust? As if in response, Wolf’s ribs ached, his knees pinged, his calves tightened up anew. To be with Abby now, he needed to be as honest with her as s
he’d been with him. Would he tell her the real reason for his absence? It seemed like a feeble excuse, his physical ailments, in the face of Abby’s less visible but all too acute pain. But it was all he had.
Before he could reach the turnoff to Bigfork, he found himself in the parking lot of Ranch & Home. The way to a woman’s heart is through her horses. Where had he heard that before? It seemed like sound advice. And what other options was he left with?
He jumped from the truck, wincing as he landed, and limped his way through the aisles until he found what he was looking for: a genuine leather carryall for Abby’s tools-of-the-trade—her soft rope halters and blankets, her dried apple and molasses treats, her herbal remedies. He could even get it branded with her name on it. Just outside of Kalispell, there was an old guy, Fred Willow, who did beautiful leather-welding work. Maybe he could go there and get it done right now. Now here was a gift that would acknowledge how much he’d come to respect her profession, how much he shared her love for four-legged beasts.
Package in hand, he got back into the truck and drove to Mr. Willow’s place. He had no time to waste.
…
Abby went through her morning routine on autopilot, trying to block out the dull ache in her chest. Matt Markley’s gelding was coming along nicely. And so was Matt. He’d learned to approach his good-looking roan gelding without making so much commotion. He routinely carried carrots in his back pocket and didn’t seem as self-conscious when Arrow sidled around him to extract a treat. His awkwardness only returned when, all too predictably, he’d asked Abby if she’d like to stay for lunch.
“Maybe another time,” she’d said, handing him Arrow’s reins, though she cursed herself for sidestepping him yet again. She knew she’d never stay in or go out with Matt Markley. Fake a smile, fake having a good time—it just wasn’t in her repertoire. As far as going through the motions went, she didn’t have a repertoire of skills, a fact for which Wolf could be held accountable. She’d never had to pretend to be anyone but herself with him. But how far had that gotten her? All the way to zero and back.
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