Dances with Wolf

by Farrah Taylor

“We’re making up for the dances we didn’t have at prom, right?” she asked softly. “And you’re trying to trick me into falling in love with you all over again?”

  “We’re making up for all the dances, and the chances, we didn’t take before, because I was too stupid to know you were, and always would be my one and only.” Wolf guided her toward the windows where the sun had almost dropped to the level of the mountains, bathing the single table in amber light. “We’re making up for lost time, Abby.”

  She looked around the room. Her eyes had had a chance to adjust to the light. Now she could see, the gold plates held bowls of shrimp. Four glasses of champagne sparkled. The tealights had been replaced by an ornate candelabra, and streamers outlined the walls.

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” She slapped him lightly on the chest, looking up at him. “This is like a scene from some cheesy movie.”

  “I promise you this isn’t a movie. This is the place we should have started our lives together.” He walked her to one of the many tables, all draped with fine white tablecloths, and held out a chair for her. She slid into it, her hands collapsed in her lap. She was trembling.

  Wolf reached for her hands. “This is your prom, Abby. Our prom.”

  She laughed as tiny diamonds of light swept across his cheek, then disappeared. “A disco ball. Nice touch.”

  “Taste your shrimp. There’s more on its way—a nice seasonal salad, filet mignon, the works. And after I’ve had you to myself for a little while, Mark and Bridget will join us.”

  “Because it’s not a memory until it’s on Bridget’s Instagram?” she asked.

  Wolf laughed. “Actually, there’s been a six-man camera crew following us for the last six months. We’ve been shooting a reality series.”

  “Very funny.” Abby looked around. “But before you trot out any more surprises, I have to know something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m happy to get my prom…this is really so, so sweet of you. But whatever I wished for and lost as a child…what if I don’t want the same things anymore?”

  He looked down. A silence fell on them.

  “Well, that would make sense,” he said. “You were a kid when we met, but you’re a woman now.” She glanced at him. His hands were shaking. “If it’s humanly possible—even if it’s not—I’m going to find a way to give you whatever you want now, and whatever you want twenty years from now. Thirty years. Forever.” Now he was the one doing the trembling. “I love you, Abadabun.”

  She felt the tears streaming down her cheek. “I love you, too, Wolf. I think I always have.” She leaned into his chest and breathed in his scent.

  For a few minutes, they danced in the silence, in the magical dream state. Abby literally pinched herself to make sure that this wasn’t some exaggerated wish-fulfillment hallucination.

  “Can we really be together, Wolf?” She looked up at him. “I mean, together in every sense of the word?”

  “Of course. Just tell me what you mean.” The music played on. Wolf took Abby’s hand and held it against his heart. It was beating staccato, like a horse going from a canter to a gallop.

  “I want us to be partners. Real partners. Not just in love with each other, but in love with our work, the work we do together. And I don’t think I can go through another rodeo season on the sidelines, wondering whether you or your horse are going to pull through.”

  “Abby, I swear you’re stealing my thunder.” He looked at her earnestly. “Bullet and I have had our last season rodeoing, I can promise you that. I don’t want to be one of those flea-bitten rodeo guys who hang around the scene, standing on the ramps, placing bets on who’s gonna go down next.”

  “You really are thinking of giving it up?” she asked.

  “I’ll always have a life with horses. I could never walk away from that. Just not a life in the ring, on the road, on the circuit. I want to spend my life with you. I want to be with you, doing what you love best, tending horses, releasing them from their pain. Who knows? I just might have inherited some of the whispering gene myself. And if I haven’t, I can learn from you. I’m willing to start from scratch, if you’ll have me as a student.”

  “Are you serious? Wolf Olsen, Horse Whisperer?”

  “Why not? We’ve already started. We’re a great team.”

  Tears welled behind her eyes, and for once, she made no attempt to staunch their flow. She leaned toward Wolf. He pulled her to her feet and took her into a full embrace. She felt the studs of his tuxedo shirt press against her like tiny stars.

  “Well, will you?” He tucked her hair behind her ears without letting go of her.

  “Will I what?” she whispered.

  “Take me as your student. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health.”

  She gasped.

  “And that too, whenever you’re ready, by the way.”

  “I am,” she swallowed hard, “almost ready.”

  “So am I, Abs.”

  He sang his song into her ear: love lost, love regained, love…forever. She shivered as she felt his finger trace the outline of her jaw, gently tilting her face toward his. She met his lips, so soft and yielding, and lost her breath, surrendering completely to this strong, complicated man, now finally hers. Another song played, and a third and a fourth. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t want to break the spell, or ever lose this moment.

  They must have spent a half hour, dancing alone, the only remaining dancers at the 2008 Bigfork High Prom, when Wolf interrupted at last. “So now, what should I say to our guests?”

  “Bring them in.” Abby smiled. “They’re probably getting bored back there. And I’m ready to party.”

  The lights flickered and swayed as a late summer storm rumbled through the mountains toward the lodge. Abby blinked and there were Mark and Bridget moving toward them from the darkness of the kitchen.

  “I thought you two would never end that World Summit,” declared Bridget.

  “You listened in?” Abby asked. “To every word?”

  “It was torture standing back there,” Mark said.

  “Those steaks were getting mighty cold waiting for you guys to make up your minds,” Bridget chimed in. “Did you forget I’m eating for two?”

  “No one could forget that, Bridge. You wouldn’t let us.” He put his arm around his sister, then led her to a chair at the table.”

  Mark squeezed Abby’s arm as he walked by her. “You look beautiful, Abby.”

  “In my work clothes?” She laughed.

  “In any clothes,” he said.

  “Too bad the horses won’t have a chance to play their part of this pageant,” said Bridget. Beyond her, the rain pummeled the windows.

  “The horses?” Abby looked up.

  Wolf reddened. “Shoot, I almost forgot about them.”

  “They’re under shelter,” said Mark. “No worries.”

  Wolf cleared his throat. “I thought no prom would be complete without Bullet and Beau.”

  “Bullet and Beau are here?”

  “Well, I couldn’t afford the driver all night,” Wolf said, his eyes twinkling. “And we can’t just walk home.”

  Mark laughed. “Wolf had us trailer them up earlier today. He decorated them in about a hundred yards of ribbon.”

  “You didn’t,” Abby said to Wolf.

  “I did. It was a goofy thing to do, I admit, but—”

  “I’ll bet they look fantastic,” Abby said.

  “They do, they do,” Bridget said. “Now can we eat, please? I’m eating for two here.”

  “And there’re only about five more courses to go out there in the kitchen,” Mark said.

  The laughter of the four friends ebbed and swelled as the storm passed overhead, and the lights returned to the kitchen. Abby and Wolf held hands under the table as they ate. She couldn’t remember if she was actually hungry or not. Everything about her life at this moment seemed incredibly full.

  Epilogue

  Winter came early to
the Teton Valley. By the first of November, the parched summer fields had frosted over. Snowdrifts filled the ditches but melted in the weak noonday sun. Wolf’s ranch was still accessible by truck, the cabin cozily heated from morning until night by a faithfully replenished supply of firewood. Abby liked to watch him cross from the barn to the house, sometimes braving the cold in little more than his unlaced Timberlands and boxer briefs. He needed to find new outlets for his risk-taking side, she reasoned, now that he’d put his rodeo days behind him.

  Three days a week, the two of them drove over Highway 2 to visit their families and Abby’s clients in Bigfork, Kalispell, and Polson. Bridget and Mark and the Baby Bump had settled into their new house, though Bridge was barely able to walk from one side of it to the other. The baby was due on Thanksgiving Friday.

  As word of Abby’s successes with ailing horses spread among Wolf’s old rodeo cronies, she spent an additional two days on the eastern side of the Divide. One by one, she was converting the ranchers’ and cowboys’ attitudes as well. They were mindful of her prescription for slow and thorough healing, pacified by Wolf’s endorsement of her methods and his constant presence at her healing sessions. His being there—a five-time All-Around Cowboy Champion, linking up with a horse whisperer!—sure wasn’t hurting business.

  One morning, after a difficult breech birth, Abby collapsed to the floor of a stall on a south Choteau ranch and cradled the exhausted mare’s head in her lap. Wolf inched the colt on his bed of straw toward his mother for a first feed.

  “Wow, I thought this would be over in a couple of hours,” he said.

  “You never know with these breeches,” she said. Her hair was clipped off to one side, her chambray shirt spattered with blood. She was exhausted, but so happy.

  “Because I had something I wanted to consult you about.”

  “Consult away,” she said, smiling over at him. But something in his voice made her take notice. He was trying to come off all cool, but he seemed nervous.

  He placed the colt against the mare’s teat, then slid across the wet floor until he and Abby sat parallel, their legs stuck out in front of them. Early morning sun filtered down from the barn’s skylight. For a brief instant, Abby realized they could have been in the eighteenth century just as easily as the twenty-first. A horse and her baby, and two farm people, essentially, two simple, trusting people who happened to be deeply in love.

  Wolf freed Abby’s left hand from beneath the mare’s head. “May I borrow this talented hand for a minute?” he asked.

  “Shouldn’t I wash up first?” she asked. An anticipatory blush began to invade her cheeks.

  “Blood, sweat, and tears,” he said. “All occupational hazards for you, Abs.”

  “For us, you mean.”

  He kissed the tips of her fingers and wiped them gently across his jeans.

  “Ms. Abdabadun Macready,” he said solemnly. He drew a tiny box from his pocket and placed it on her lap. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, my lover, my best friend, forever?”

  Abby gasped. “Seriously?” She stared down at the box without moving. “You’re proposing while we’re both elbow-deep in animal parts?”

  He laughed. “I’ve never been more serious.”

  “Well, I guess we are right in our wheelhouse. Getting engaged, mid–breach birth. This takes the cake.”

  “So don’t you want to see your ring?” he asked. He reached for the box and fingered the clasp, then raised it and lightly shook its contents.

  Abby nodded. Speech suddenly eluded her. The foal gave a single experimental whinny and rolled to its side, satiated with milk.

  “And if you say yes,” Wolf continued, “I may roll around on the floor, as happy as that little fella over there.”

  He opened the box. A single square cut diamond on a thick gold band winked back at them. “It’s my great grandmother’s stone, my dad’s grandma,” he explained, “but I designed you a nice sturdy setting, One that even a kicking mare in labor couldn’t dislodge.”

  “Designed?” Abby smiled. “You’re becoming a horse whisperer and a jeweler, now?”

  “There’s no end to my talents, Abadabun. Now are you gonna try this thing out, or not?”

  Abby shook her head in disbelief, then held her left hand toward Wolf. The ring slid on easily, the diamond glistening in the barn light.

  “Oh, Wolf,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

  “You’re perfect,” he said. “I never thought you’d take me back, with all my backward ways, but you did. You’ve just made me the happiest man this side of the Divide.”

  Abby breathed deeply, then stretched out her left hand to admire her ring. She climbed onto Wolf’s lap. “How about the whole state of Montana?” she joked.

  “How about in the whole damned world?”

  Abby leaned forward and plucked straw from Wolf’s unruly hair. “I’ll give you something to work on, Wolf-Man.” She pressed into him and they kissed while the mare and her new colt slumbered at their feet.

  …

  Every morning now, Wolf rose early to feed the horses with Stella trotting alongside, then returned to bed for a few minutes to cuddle the sleeping Abby.

  The sweet scent of lavender filled the room as the two of them kept warm under a patchwork quilt, an engagement gift from Marcie, Karen and Bridget. He slid one hand across Abby’s stomach and let his fingers listen for their baby’s first movements. Soon, Bridget’s little boy, Colt, would have a cousin the play with. Any day now, he told himself. He didn’t mind waiting.

  Stella stretched on a hooked rug beneath the bed, displaced now from the four-poster bed, but good-natured about it.

  The rest of the morning chores could wait. Outside an inch of fresh April snow fell on the roof of the new horse trailer. It, too, was a pre-wedding gift. Jess Olsen himself had overseen the painting of the logo on the driver’s side:

  Dancing with Horses

  Equine Training and Therapy

  Abby and Wolf Olsen, Proprietors

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  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks go to Carl and Tayef, for time off to research and write this book; to Heather Green of Teal Healing, Cambria, CA, and her encouraging words about the power of energetic healing on injured horses; to the remarkable Dr. Van Kirke Nelson and Helen Nelson of the Flathead Valley for providing the inspiration for Doc and Marcie Macready; and finally, to Maia and Ali, the best little pair of Arabian horses in Montana.

  About the Author

  Farrah Taylor is the author of Love Songs for The Road. Her two great passions in life are rock ‘n’ roll and the rodeo. She lives with her husband, Ty, and son, Latham—she’s pretty passionate about them too, come to think of it—in Polson, Montana. Visit her online at www.farrahtaylorromance.com, on Facebook or on Twitter @farrahromance.

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