Dances with Wolf

by Farrah Taylor

  What if the same theory she’d developed to work on her horse clients could be applied to a twenty-four-year-old man? Horses operated from fear half the time; did Wolf, too? The answer came to Abby as she gently leaned on Beau’s left side, letting him know that she was in charge, that she would be riding him back down the hill.

  Wolf was afraid, he was almost certainly afraid, that he might not actually have a chance with her—maybe even a chance to be happy at all. He didn’t even have a high school diploma. That could be remedied easily enough, but it might not feel that way to him. Just like a horse whose only experience was in a ring, what Wolf really lacked was the confidence to move out and beyond the rodeo world. When she thought about it, she realized how small the circuit really was—nothing but a club, a tiny one at that, for overgrown boys whose values didn’t match up with those of an ever-changing world.

  Suddenly, the scenes Wolf had only hinted at became vivid for her. The nights in the trailer, bedding Bullet down before he could look for a place for himself to sleep. The after-parties at some random bar, the beer and stale pretzels that were a poor substitute for a good sit-down dinner at a Bigfork restaurant with family and friends. Real friends.

  It was true, Wolf would always draw a crowd wherever he was. But something told Abby he’d really missed his high school band of brothers and his family on his six-year sojourn. He’d been so alone.

  Wolf had every right to be proud of his ranch over at Choteau, but didn’t it take more than a few knick-knacks from Murdock’s and Herberger’s to make a house a home? With a pang of longing so deep it almost made her gasp, Abby remembered the night on the couch in front of the fire. With Stella at her feet, Wolf less than an arm’s length away, hadn’t she experienced the deep content of a homecoming? So maybe it wasn’t the surroundings that counted; it was the person you were with.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Wolf paused in front of the weekday offerings of Bigfork Village Florist. Before he could even launch Phase A of his new plan, here he was, thwarted by this meager small-town selection.

  “May I help you, sir?” A girl no older than sixteen beamed at him, revealing braces.

  “I need a corsage.” And who better to ask than a high school kid with a mouthful of metal? “Something really special.”

  “Bride or groom?” she asked. “Or member of the wedding?”

  “Nope. More like a prom corsage.” He felt ridiculous, but he didn’t expect this would be the last time.

  “Prom was like, three months ago. Well, mine, anyway.”

  “Not prom, exactly, but something like that. A little more sophisticated. Do you have any yellow roses?”

  “In the back. There are some tiny ones that just came in. I can cut you a few.”

  “And maybe something that looks like wheat, or dried grass? That’d be cool, right?”

  The girl looked at him with unchecked skepticism. “I can make it look cool, I guess. Why don’t you pick out what you want from the back and I’ll put it together? Like, pick the color ribbon you want.”

  “Ribbon?” Wolf repeated.

  “Yeah, that’s, um, a word for a piece of decorative string that florists use to beautify the arrangement.”

  “Very funny.” Karma was a bitch. He’d ditched a sixteen-year-old girl on prom night six years earlier, and now, another sixteen-year-old stood here mocking him.

  “What color’s her outfit?”

  “She’ll probably be in jeans and a work shirt.”

  “Jeans?” she asked, like jeans were the tackiest thing in the world.

  “Yeah, jeans. They’re blue, and made out of a surprisingly durable fabric, called denim.”

  The girl laughed, but now he was done joking around with her, choosing instead to picture Abby’s initial confusion, the way her feet would tap impatiently as he revealed first one, then another of his surprises, spreading them out at her feet like a purveyor of rare gems. He hoped she’d see them that way, anyhow; he had to pray she’d stick around past the confusion and the annoyance to see how sincerely he meant to win her back, to give her back what he’d taken away in high school.

  “Do you want a boutonniere, too?”

  “Sure, a single yellow rose, with a sprig of wheat.”

  “And a light blue ribbon. Blue goes with almost everything.” She stared at the lapels of Wolf’s Carhartt jacket.

  “Gotta rent myself another tuxedo,” he murmured to himself as he turned toward the door. Little did he know he’d be back in a penguin suit only a few days after the wedding.

  “We don’t have any of those,” the smart-ass said. Didn’t she realize this was Wolf Olsen she was talking to?

  Again, he ignored her. He was getting good at this. “I’ll be back in about twenty,” he called over his shoulder.

  He pulled up to the parking lot in front of Conrad’s Formalwear and willed himself out of the car. His knee was better today, but his obliques were still screaming in agony. The display window revealed an Elvis-like neon blue brocade jacket with shiny black lapels, a dark red version that looked like Grandma Olsen’s prized living room sofa, and a white linen tux, complete with a pink silk bowtie.

  “Bingo.”

  Ten minutes later, he carried a Conrad’s bag with its crisp white shirt and boxed bow tie (pre-tied; he couldn’t be expected to learn everything from scratch) and the white linen jacket to the car. He smiled, relaxing a tiny bit—he was more than halfway through his to-do list. Abby’s face rose up in his thoughts, the way the yellow roses would illuminate her. Looking out over the parking lot, he realized something: even if he didn’t win her back, even if he wasn’t her happily-ever-after, he wanted her to have this experience, to give her this gift.

  He didn’t know if he could make her whole again, but he wanted to try.

  It was easy enough to order the limo. Apparently, they weren’t in high demand in rural Montana on a mid-summer Tuesday. The driver even offered him a discount and a free bottle of champagne. But Wolf had already taken care of that, with six bottles of 2010 Schramsberg from the Jug Shop. The owner had picked it out especially for them. She was an old friend of Doc and Marcie’s, and Wolf had been careful not to arouse her suspicions. If Donna caught a whiff of the surprise he’d planned, she’d tell half the town.

  Next he would enlist the cooperation of Mark and Bridget. No, not Bridget. If she knew all the details she might tell Abby, and he couldn’t afford to have that happen. He’d just have to ask Bridget in on part of it, the hardest part, getting Abby back to the Mountain Lake Lodge tomorrow night.

  “Bridge, pick up.” Damn that sister of his. Now that she was married and settling into the prospect of motherhood, she hardly bothered to answer her cell phone. Once it had been the center of her social life. Now the core of activity was prepping the baby’s nursery, each day more embellished with items in every imaginable shade of pastel. If Wolf hadn’t seen one of the sonogram pictures himself, he’d swear Bridge was having quadruplets.

  He tried again. This time, she answered.

  “Hey, Uncle Wolf.”

  “Very funny. You’re making me feel a hundred years old.” Her, along with the aching pain in his side.

  “How do you think Mark feels? He’s the one without the prospect of a good night’s sleep on the horizon.”

  “Question is, how are you, sis?”

  “Apprehensive, excited, sleepless.”

  “Okay, well…I have one small favor to ask before you turn into a pumpkin.”

  “You mean, before I push out this pumpkin?” She smiled across the miles.

  Wolf smiled back even though Bridget couldn’t see him: a clueless dude about to make a final play for the woman of his dreams, for Bridget’s best friend, for Abby.

  He held the phone close and told her what he needed of her. “And have Mark call me back, okay? This is going to have to be a team effort.”

  Though he longed to stay in Bigfork for the next two days, near Abby in spirit if not actually with
her, there was plenty to do at the ranch. The drive back to Choteau would give him time to go over the details, to make sure everything was perfect before going back to Bigfork to actually pull it off.

  He arrived just before dusk. As he drove up his driveway, Bullet whinnied and loped next to the truck. “Easy girl,” Wolf called out, then warned, “And not a word to Abby.”

  He parked at the cabin, then rounded back to the barn to feed the horses. Bullet nudged him, nibbling around his back pockets for carrots. “Atta girl,” he said. “Abby may not be that interested in your owner, but she’s not going to be able to resist you.”

  That night, he ate in front of the fire, remembering Abby’s hair strewn across the couch pillows, her arms outstretched as if to gather in the warmth of the hearth. He slept with images of her interwoven in his dreams, and woke with a smile, his arms clasped around an imaginary form next to him. If his plans didn’t unravel, maybe this invisible substitute would be replaced by the real thing soon enough.

  The drive back to Bigfork seemed to take forever. Bullet, groomed to perfection, her mane braided by none other than Wolf himself, her tail flowing nearly down to her fetlocks. One of Bridget’s first assignments when Wolf returned was to help Mark trailer Abby’s horse over to the Olsen ranch, where both mares would be adorned with ribbons and flowers, then driven up to Mountain Lake Lodge to await Abby’s arrival. Wolf understood how corny this might seem, like a medieval knight’s ploy to win his maiden fair, but what did he have to lose?

  …

  On Tuesday afternoon, as Abby and Bridget were chauffeured up the long winding driveway toward Mountain Lake Lodge, Abby tried to ward off an unwelcome gust of memories. But could you call a moment a memory when it had occurred only days earlier? These were more like fragments of a nightmare, fragments that had haunted her ever since Bridget and Mark climbed into their getaway truck last Saturday and drove from their reception with a throng of well-wishers waving from the deck.

  She’d never thought she’d return here so soon. It was a Double Indignity—just desserts for a girl dumb enough to let the same man embarrass her twice in one lifetime.

  She remembered his apology, of course, the humility shining through his eyes. She’d thought he might break down, then and there, standing in her doorway. But had he been sincere? Or had it just been desperation doing the talking?

  He was a little boy, she decided. If things didn’t go his way, he pouted or changed tactics. Sure, he might have meant what he said, while he was saying it, anyway. But saying something meant nothing. Doing something was what counted, and Wolf’s actual deeds had brought her only pain and regret.

  So why the phone call two days ago asking her to come with Bridget to the Lodge? She’d offered to drive Bridge up, but Wolf had insisted he would provide the transportation. She’d wanted to ask questions, her voice was laced with impatience, but she managed to hold back.

  When the limousine pulled up beneath her window, she felt a jolt of excitement that she quickly tried to suppress. Inside, Bridget was stretched out across two seats, fanning herself, her shoes kicked off, freshly-pedicured toes turned toward the open window.

  “Seriously?” Abby peered in. The limousine driver stood patiently as he held the door for her. “What’s going on here?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Bridget said. “I’m as clueless as you are.” Abby didn’t believe her for a second. “I’m just along for the ride.” She leaned forward and pressed both hands on the knees of Abby’s jeans. “I see you dressed up for the occasion, as usual.”

  “Hey, I worked all morning. And these are clean. Pretty clean, anyway.” She removed Bridget’s hands gently. The truth was, her best friend looked good, and she didn’t want the dirt from her work jeans to rub off on Bridget’s hands. “The real mystery is, why are you so dressed up?”

  Bridget shrugged. “Wolf asked me to. I decided to do what he wanted for a change.”

  “Is Mark involved in this, too?”

  “Could be.”

  “I can see you’re not going to be my source.” Abby folded her arms and leaned back. The countryside looked different from the seat of a limo, she had to admit. It wasn’t half-bad to kick it in the luxurious back seat.

  When they arrived, the parking lot was empty. Except for a few employees’ trucks parked near the kitchen, the sleek limousine was the only vehicle in the lot.

  “I’m supposed to tell you to stay here for five minutes, then come on up to the main entrance.” Abby nodded, then clenched her hands together as she watched Bridget climb the stairs slowly and let herself in.

  She waited, trying not to let her thoughts run away with her. What if this was Wolf’s idea of a practical joke? There was no way to re-do the wedding. Besides, why would Bridget and Mark want to? For the two of them, it had been a storybook event. She was the only one in the cast of two hundred who’d been miserable that night. Well, maybe Wolf hadn’t had the time of his life either, she had to admit.

  At the top of the stairs, she looked down the ribbon of highway to see if she could spot his truck. Except for late-summer shifts in the landscape, the metamorphosis from emerald green to saffron fields, the emergence of rocks in the middle of the river, the highway was clear and unchanged. The first set of doors on the deck was locked. She peered through the double-pane windows to look for Bridget, but couldn’t see anything but her own reflection.

  She tried a side door. It yielded and Abby let herself inside. The dance floor, where Bridget and Mark had clung together, masked by repurposed layers of bridal tulle, was deserted. Dozens of chairs were piled to one side. Except for one table at the far end, the round tables were all folded and stacked up against a wall. “Bridget?” she called out. “Mark?” Her voice echoed against the walls.

  She squinted and drew closer. One table was set with a long, fluttering tablecloth. Tea candles on an oval mirror were lit and flickered in the nearly dark room. There were four gold plates, four napkins, four sets of silverware, and a large bouquet of yellow roses in a crystal vase. Just like the roses that grew on the arbor outside the Olsen’s porch, the ones with inch-long thorns that Wolf had spared her from when he caught her in that unplanned somersault down the rickety stairs. She’d looked into his eyes and he into hers. That was the moment, wasn’t it? The moment she’d realized she would never, ever want anyone or anything in her life more than this strong-limbed, curly-headed brother of Bridget’s.

  Behind the kitchen door, two flickering shadows. The music began. It was a sweet country song, Abby could never remember the name of it, of the boy-loses-girl, boy-finds-girl, boy-marries-girl genre. Still no sign of Bridget or Mark, or Wolf, for that matter. She knew something was happening, something big, and she needed to know what it was—now.

  A mirrored ball began to rotate, projecting a thousand tiny crystal lights against the dark walls. Something near the ceiling caught her eye, a long white object of some kind being lowered on a pulley system. It was a sign, slowly unfurling. Abby gasped when she saw what it read:

  BIGFORK HIGH SENIOR PROM 2008

  “Oh my God,” she said to herself. “What is happening?” She reached under her hair and loosened a tortoiseshell barrette. By the time she reached the center of the floor, her hair had fallen protectively around her shoulders.

  Wolf approached her in silence, hands hidden behind his back. He wore a white linen jacket over his dark blue jeans, and there was a single yellow rose in the lapel. The flower was fully open; the dewy petals seemed to reach toward her. She could smell their faint perfume.

  “I have something for you,” he said softly. He brought one hand to Abby’s face and gently traced the route of a single tear down her cheek. “Stand still.” Only then did she realize she was trembling.

  Wolf’s other hand held a delicate corsage of yellow roses and a miniature sheaf of dried wheat, the stems wrapped in blue grosgrain. He pierced the fabric of her worn denim jacket with a florist’s pearl pin. She didn’t flinch, and held his gaze. S
oft white light enshrouded him. The fragrance of the flowers was hypnotic, the words of the music reaching her ears a beat too slow to comprehend.

  If I made a mistake,

  if I left you behind

  I know what’s it’s like now

  to be legally blind.

  I’d ask your forgiveness

  if I thought I stood a chance.

  But darling,

  even if you say no,

  Please give me

  one last dance.

  As Wolf reached out, Abby moved tentatively into his arms with an unshakable sense that she’d lived this moment before, although of course, she hadn’t—this was the dance she’d always been denied. Just wait and see what happens, one half of her heart told her. Don’t give in to cheap theatrics, said the other.

  She moved wordlessly in rhythm with Wolf, only half aware of the tiny white spotlights that shifted across their faces. The circles of light grew larger and larger until they covered the surface of the dance floor. He suddenly turned and pressed her corsaged jacket against his chest. She felt a prickle of pain, the pin’s tiny dagger piercing her skin, but it subsided.

  “What is this?” she asked. “What are we doing here? And where have you hidden Bridget and Mark?”

  “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “This is about us.” They kept dancing, her booted feet in syncopation with his shiny black Fred Astaire shoes. He was so agile, she felt weightless and surprisingly calm.

  “We’re doing what we should have done six years ago.”

  “Meeting at an empty room in a deserted lodge in the middle of the afternoon?”

  “Guess again,” Wolf said.

  He whirled her back toward the center of the floor. The lights flickered magically overhead. She sneaked a look into his eyes. They were blazing with intention. She felt momentarily faint, but steadied her feet under her. It felt so right to be with him now in the mid-afternoon, though she had no idea why. For the first time in weeks, she believed that in his arms, she could take a normal breath.