Heartbeat of the Bitterroot

by Janice Mineer

  Michael shook his head and sighed. “Yeah, it does look like just a nickname. See the quote marks around it? Too bad.” He pursed his lips. “Well, here’s something. It has a full name for his sister, including a married name.”

  “Barbara Morrison Newton.” I pulled out a pen and wrote the name down. A sister. My aunt. I wondered if she was still alive—if I looked like her at all.

  “I guess she’s the key to finding Skip,” I said. “I don’t see anyone else here that might still be alive. Wife, siblings all predeceased him.” I sighed. “Well, I can try searching her name on the Internet, but I feel like I’m looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  He put his hand around mine. “I know you’ll find your father. Just don’t give up.”

  A quick search for any kind of marriage announcement for my mother turned up nothing. Perhaps they were married out of state.

  The librarian helped me get a paper copy of the obituary, and Michael walked me out to my car.

  “I was wondering—can I see you on Friday? We could go to a movie or whatever you’d like.”

  “I’m sorry”—and I really was—“I’d planned on going to dinner down at my family’s. It’s Zee’s birthday, so …”

  He looked disappointed. “I understand.”

  “Would you like to come?” I ventured. “I know it’s not a very exciting way to spend your Friday night, but after last night, you’ve probably had enough excitement for a while.” I laughed apologetically. “Jack and Elizabeth will be there,” I added hopefully.

  “Sure. That would be great. What time?” He smiled.

  We made a plan for him to pick me up on Friday and said goodbye.

  I arrived home just as Jack and his friend were finishing up replacing my door and installing the deadbolt. I thanked them and they left. I felt my nerves calm at the sound of the heavy metal deadbolt shaft sliding into place.

  Chapter 24

  dc

  On Friday evening, I opened the door to a multicolored bouquet of roses and pink carnations.

  “Happy birthday,” Michael said.

  I tipped my head to the side, puzzled. “But it’s not my birthday.” Had he misunderstood the invitation? “It’s Zee’s,” I explained.

  He scratched his head in mock confusion. “Really? Are you sure it isn’t your birthday?”

  “Yes. I’m pretty sure.” A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

  “Well, this is awkward. Now what will I do with these? They will certainly wilt by the time we get down to Hamilton.” He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “I guess you’ll just have to keep them.” He pushed the flowers in my direction with a grin.

  “OK, I guess I can help you out with this.” As I took the flowers, their sweet fragrance filled my nostrils. “They smell lovely.”

  He came into the living room and waited while I put the flowers in water. “I see you have everything back in order.”

  “Yes,” I called from the kitchen. “Jack and his friend replaced the door.” I came back into the room and put the flowers on the table. “Bobbie helped me put everything else back together the next day, thank goodness.” I sighed. “So, we go on.” I wiped my damp hands on my jeans and cocked my head to one side as I centered the vase on the table. “Beautiful! Thank you. And this is good because you actually missed my birthday,” I teased. “It was three months ago.”

  “Oh. I won’t ask how old you are.”

  “That’s so polite.”

  “Elizabeth already told me.”

  “I have no secrets.”

  On the way down the valley, Michael asked me how my work had gone that day.

  “It’s always busy, of course, but some days are crazier than others,” I said. “I will never understand how it is that some people would complain about a broken snack cracker and other people are amiable about major problems. I had a customer yesterday who was traveling back from his grandfather’s funeral. He had an expensive urn with his grandfather’s ashes in it that he was bringing back to Montana so he could spread the remains in Glacier Park, a place his grandfather worked when he was young. When the guy landed in Missoula, the box had been smashed and the urn was nowhere to be found. He came up to the counter with this broken box. I expected him to hit the roof, but he was calm as a summer’s morning. He just said, ‘Well, this sort of thing happens. Now how can we go about finding that urn?’”

  Michael glanced at me with an arched brow. “Did you find the urn?”

  “Yes. It took a while, but someone in Atlanta located it and somehow pinpointed the plane it came off of. It arrived this morning and the man came and picked it up. He was very gracious about it.” I shook my head. “People are funny.”

  “Yes, they certainly are.” He smiled and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  I noticed how handsome he looked in his blue-gray sweater and plaid button-down shirt. I collected myself and said, “So, tell me about your day.”

  Michael explained that he had a teleconference call with a client in Bear Lake, Utah, about a large home that would overlook the lake. There were some concerns with the design, and it had taken most of his day to resolve them.

  “Sounds complicated,” I said.

  “It can be, but it is pretty rewarding to build a place that’s comfortable and beautiful where people can live and make memories for years to come. It’s like being a part of a legacy, something that lasts beyond the here and now.”

  I saw his passion for his work in his eyes. Every beam and every window, every stair and door was etched into the background he was creating for these people’s lives. This would be a place that would be a baseline to the rhythm of their lives. A safe setting for their comings, their goings, their laughter, their quiet moments of reflection. A home for meals shared, and a place for fervent late night talks. It was a sacred work to him. A work of love.

  Michael stopped for gas in Stevensville, and while he filled the tank, my phone buzzed. I looked at the screen, puzzled. The text was from a number I did not know.

  “Sometimes it’s better not to dig up the past,” it said cryptically. “Sometimes it’s safer.”

  Who could have sent it? Safer? Was that some kind of threat? I shook my head. Wrong number, I thought. Someone has the wrong number. Once I’d received a text that read, “I love you, Becky. Can’t wait till tonight.” It was from a total stranger. I felt awkward, stuck in the middle of a private drama. I didn’t even respond, hoping to spare the sender the embarrassment of knowing his message had been intercepted. Then I wondered if Becky ever got the message from her lover. A story left dangling in cyber space. This must be the same, I thought. Some random message misdirected in the lost regions of cell phone networks. Still, it was strange, and in the back of my mind, a warning bell rang quietly. Surely this text was in response to my search for my father and my digging up the past. But I argued with myself, who could possibly care? Someone as unimportant as myself—what would my research matter to anyone else? I pushed the thoughts away.

  Michael looked at me and knitted his brows when he got in the car. “You, OK? You look worried.”

  I hesitated, then showed him the text.

  “You don’t think it is from Hunsaker do you?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. I talked to Grant Stephens on the phone and he said Jeremy had been sent to Warm Springs, the state mental hospital. I’m sure they would not let him have a cell phone there considering his mental state.”

  Still he looked concerned. “Jenna, do you think this has something to do with your looking for your father?”

  I could feel my heart rate rising, not from fear because of a cryptic text on my phone, but from the fear of anything getting between me and my finding out if Skip Morrison was my father, from finding out what his story had to do with my own.

  “It’s nothing, I’m sure,” I said and put the phone in my pocket.

  Michael looked at me doubtfully but put the car in gear and turned onto the highway.

 
A

  When we got to the house, Martin and Ann came out onto the porch. They hugged me, and we spent a few minutes going over the night of the break-in at my place. Jack and I had kept them informed by phone about what had happened, but they still had questions. Had I gotten a dead bolt installed? Did I want to install a burglar alarm? Ann gave me a hug again, glad, she said, that I was safe. She thanked Michael for helping me.

  We went inside where Martin had been preparing to start a fire in the living room fireplace. He enlisted Michael into service crumpling newspaper. I started to follow Ann toward the kitchen to see if I could help her with dinner, but paused when I heard my uncle strike up a favorite topic with his now-captive audience.

  “So, what is your opinion on the grizzly bear being introduced in greater numbers into the wilderness?”

  It was a test, I knew. He was tapping Michael’s opinions, his knowledge of wilderness issues, testing the depths of his manhood. I held my breath.

  “I know there have been some problems,” Michael said judiciously.

  “Darn right. It’s not so bad having them up in Glacier Park or even down in Yellowstone, but when they populate in the Bitterroot Mountains, then we’ve got trouble. These animals are huge and potentially dangerous. Some people who hike or pack horses in the back country are really starting to complain.”

  “Aren’t they still considered an endangered species?” Michael asked.

  “No, they are just on the ‘threatened species’ list. Those bear lovers back east think it’s very romantic to give the woods to the grizzly, but they don’t have to live with them in their backyard. Just the other day, there was a story in the newspaper. Two guys out working in the woods were just standing there at their truck talking and a six-hundred-pound bear comes storming out of the woods at them.” He gestured with a stick of wood in his hand. “They yell at it, thinking they can deter it, but it keeps on charging. When the bear is about ten yards from them, the one man grabs a gun out of the truck and swings around just in time to get off a shot. He hits the bear right in the chest. Doesn’t even stop it. The bear gets within five feet of them and then just runs on by them into the woods.” He motioned with his hand as if the bear were running by them through the living room. “Come to find out, that bear was burying a deer he had killed, and their arrival in the vicinity spooked him.” He pointed his stick of wood in Michael’s direction. “That could have been a lethal encounter right there.” He stooped to fan the flames, then started in on another story.

  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed to Michael, who grinned at me.

  I went into the kitchen and saw a cake with Zee’s name on it. Carrot cake—her favorite—covered with cream-cheese frosting, pillowy and sweet.

  “Oh, that looks delicious!” I said. Ann nodded and smiled.

  I volunteered to make the green salad and asked about her work at the Red Cross. She talked about coordinating an upcoming blood drive and a regional meeting in Helena she planned to attend.

  I heard the door slam and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mackenzie stomp into the house and toss her books on the table in disgust. She went immediately upstairs to her room without speaking to anyone.

  “So, what’s going on with Zee?” I asked my aunt. “She seems pretty mad about something. Doesn’t look like she’s having a good birthday so far.”

  Ann shook her head. “It’s hard to say. I think it’s a boy again. I wish I could convince her not to get so wrapped up in these things. She makes herself miserable, I guess.”

  “Well that’s pretty typical for a lot of girls her age,” I said. I could sense Ann's weariness. This bonus child late in life was tapping away the last reservoir of patience she had.

  Ann set a huge pot of thick, hot stew on the table just as Elizabeth and Jack and their children came through the door.

  Jack shook Michael’s hand and slapped him on the back. I hugged Elizabeth, squashing the baby between us.

  “Where’s Emma?” Elizabeth asked as I bent down to squeeze Jordan.

  “She has a cold, so she stayed home with her grandma,” Michael said. “Sorry!” he added when Jordan looked disappointed.

  Martin called Zee to the table. She slumped in but perked up when she saw the cake on the side table. She scooped a bit of frosting and closed her eyes in delight.

  I gave her a quick hug. “Hey, happy sixteenth birthday!”

  She managed a little grin, despite her mood.

  Jack tugged her hair and said, “Cheer up, birthday girl.” She pushed him away but her smile widened.

  After some last-minute fussing over a booster seat for Jordan, we all sat down.

  “Hot scones!” said Martin. “Pass the chokecherry jam.”

  “I never have chokecherry jam without thinking about that summer the chokecherries were so thick,” Ann reflected. “They hung in enormous red clusters on the trees. They were so heavy I thought they would break down the branches.”

  She spooned the steaming stew into bowls and passed them around. The rich aroma of onion, carrots, and buffalo meat made my mouth water. For Zee, she had made a special vegetarian soup.

  “Oh, I remember that year,” Jack chimed in. “We kids went down behind the Fletcher place and picked a ton of them.”

  “We had about a dozen one-gallon buckets,” I explained to Michael, “which we filled to the brim and then realized that we didn’t have enough hands to carry them all. Not to be deterred, Jack cut a long branch from a tree and stripped the leaves off. We strung the handles of the buckets along the pole, and with Jack in front, me on the back end of the pole, and Angela bringing up the rear with a bucket in each hand, we marched home.” I smiled, remembering the tart smell of the berries, practically feeling the sweat beading up on my forehead, hearing the crunch of gravel under our feet.

  “I came along in the truck and found them marching up the road like great safari hunters bringing home the lion on a pole,” Martin said.

  “I’ll never forget Angela’s face when Jack gave her chokecherries to taste for the first time,” I said with a giggle. “They look so sweet and delicious, but, you know, they just suck all the water out of your mouth. They are so tart.”

  “Makes good jam, though, rich, sweet, and tart too. Lots of flavor.” Martin said as he stacked the jam onto his scone an inch thick.

  I was scraping up my last bite of gravy when Ann asked Jordan, “Presents or cake first for Zee?”

  Jordan dashed to the living room to bring the presents. Zee opened one from her parents—a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, and a sweatshirt. Elizabeth and Jack gave her a necklace and a diary with a beautiful cloth cover Elizabeth made.

  Michael produced a little envelope from his shirt pocket: a card with a gift certificate to Dairy Queen. Zee dropped her eyes and thanked him almost too quietly to hear.

  She opened my small package, a pair of earrings and a gift certificate to the mall, and threw her arms around my shoulders in thanks.

  “This one’s for Jenna,” my uncle said, sliding a small package wrapped in newspaper across the table. “Seems I forgot this on your birthday.”

  “Kind of late, Dad,” Jack observed.

  “You didn’t have to,” I said. “Ann sent me something.” I smiled at her, then regarded the little package with mock suspicion. “You shopped?”

  “It happens.” He shrugged.

  “Nice wrapping paper, Dad.” Zee commented.

  I tore off the paper and opened the box. Under a wad of tissue paper was a paperweight, a glass dome about three inches in diameter. Preserved inside was an exquisite pink blossom in full, perpetual bloom. Its petals formed a delicate cup shape with tiny threadlike stamen in the center.

  “Oh,” I said. “Is this … ?”

  “It’s the bitterroot. I figured since you decided to come back here you should have one of your own. You can put it on your desk at work.”

  I showed the gift to Michael.

  Martin began the lecture. “Of course, you know t
hat the bitterroot is the Montana state flower.”

  I nodded my head, remembering fifth-grade history class.

  “But do you know its history?” he asked.

  “Some.”

  Martin warmed to his topic. “Lewis and Clark identified the bitterroot in their journals when they explored through this area. Native Americans used them for food. In fact, they considered it a luxury. Back in the days of the early traders, it was so valuable, a sack of dried bitterroot roots could be traded for a horse.”

  “Wow,” said Zee, examining the flower closely. “These were worth a horse?”

  “I saw some last spring when I was on a hike. It grows close to the ground, up against boulders.” Michael contributed.

  Ann began to clear away the dishes. “Anything else you want to know about the bitterroot, you can ask Martin’s aunt May when she gets back from Arizona,” she said. “She’s the real expert. Do you remember? She grows them in her yard? It’s illegal to pick them in the wild, so she loves to raise them so people can enjoy them. She gives away the seeds she collects so people can grow their own flowers.”

  I remembered my last visit there, seeing the immaculate gardens laid out in front of the house, my aunt working away. “Does she still live in that cute little house in Florence?” I asked.

  “She does.” Ann pointed a finger at me emphatically. “And I hope you remember what we said that she might have information on your mother and the man who could be your father. Be sure to give her a call, OK? May would love to see you.” She tapped her cheek as something else came to her mind. “In fact, I have her punch bowl from the wedding. Can you return it to her for me?”

  “Yes, I can, and I promise I will visit Aunt May as soon as she gets back.”

  Ann left the table to rummage in the pantry for the bowl and then set it by the front door.

  Zee handed the paperweight to Jordan, who peered through the glass at the delicate pink petals.