Heartbeat of the Bitterroot

by Janice Mineer

  “Jordan,” Martin said, “there is a story about how this flower was created.” Jordan raised a solemn face to his. “Once, an Indian mother could not find food for her family. She was so sad she cried and the tears she shed fell to the earth. The sun looked down in pity,” here he pointed skyward and Jordan’s eyes followed his finger, “and changed the tears into this beautiful little flower. The woman learned that the precious roots of the flower could feed her family and save their lives.”

  “I heard it tastes awful,” Jack pronounced.

  “Well, the root can’t really be used by itself, because it has a bitter taste,” Martin admitted, “but the Native Americans used to cook it and then mix it with berries or meat. It added important nutrition to their diet. They sometimes mashed it and mixed it with moss and deer fat, making a kind of patty like an old-fashioned protein bar that could be easily transported. The dried root by itself would last for months. It is a valuable plant, versatile and resilient. Just like you, Jenna.”

  He smiled at me, and I could feel the red blush spreading up from my neck.

  “Ah, I think I see that pink color in your face right now,” Jack teased, reaching around the table and trying to pinch my cheek. I threw a scone at him and he dodged, landing his elbow in the honey butter.

  Ann went to the kitchen with a pile of plates. Suddenly we heard her voice, a long, loud wail. “Maaaaartin! That darn horse is in my garden again!” She flew through the dining room, broom in hand. “Martin, help me out,” she demanded.

  Martin moaned, paused, and then dragged himself up out of his chair. “No better way to ruin a good meal than to chase a cussed animal,” he complained. “Michael, care for a rodeo?” He kicked Jack’s foot off the divan. “’Lesgo before your mom kills that horse.”

  We all piled out of the house to see a beautiful buckskin contentedly stomping down the last of the tomato bushes in the garden.

  “Dad, don’t hurt him,” Zee cautioned from behind.

  “I’ll whack his fanny all the way back home,” he growled.

  “Whose horse?” Michael asked.

  “Neighbor’s,” Jack responded. “The guy’s a ‘gentleman farmer.’ Paid dearly for this buckskin, then neglects his fence. This is the third time he’s been over here looking for apples … and trouble. Mom is none too fond of him. Hey!” he shouted waving his arms and shooing the horse towards his father. Ann wielded the broom and Michael and I brought up the rear. After a few vain attempts, we succeeded in running the horse into the corral and closing the gate.

  “Now,” said Ann, her hair falling in a tangle about her flushed face. “I believe I will have a word or two with Mr. Alvin Williams.”

  “Uh, oh. He’s in trouble now.” Jack said.

  Martin strolled into the house after his wife.

  Jack, Michael, and I leaned against the corral fence watching as Zee leaned over the fence straining to touch the buckskin’s nose. He jerked his head back, nostrils flaring. She lost her balance and almost fell inside the fence.

  “You are gonna get yourself killed,” Jack warned as the animal snorted and shied, throwing his head back and kicking up dust. The long slant of the evening light touched fire to the sheen on his black mane as he pranced and pawed. He spurned Zee’s low whistle. Flicking his thick black tail, he flung his head and trotted away, his great muscles rippling.

  “Well, let’s go in. I believe we have some candles to burn and cake to eat,” said Jack. “And I forgot my earplugs so for heaven’s sake don’t let Michael sing. He can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  Michael feigned offense.

  “That can’t be true,” I said, glancing at Michael.

  “Well, I’d deny it if I could,” he admitted sheepishly, “but I don’t like to lie.”

  A

  It was late by the time we said our goodbyes and headed home. The Bitterroot River shimmered a platinum blue, weaving in and out of view as we drove north. Stars pierced the sky overhead and reflected like quivering diamonds in the water.

  “Sorry Uncle Martin grilled you when we got there,” I apologized.

  He smiled. “He’s pretty passionate about the bear situation.”

  He handed me a case of music CDs to select from, an eclectic mix from opera to pop. I chose Michael Bublé and slipped the disc into the player.

  He asked me about my travels and how I liked living in LA, if I missed it. I answered, but after I realized I’d been talking more than my share, I asked him to tell me more about his work.

  “I know I can be kind of a workaholic,” he said. “The Bear Lake project needs to get to the developers as soon as possible. They are pretty much breathing down my neck at this point. But it’s coming together. It’s a large custom home that will be built up on a hill overlooking the water. It’s going to be beautiful.”

  His profile was bathed in the warm glow of the dashboard lights. I sank into the comfort of his voice as he spoke. Music played softly from the stereo. He reached for my hand, covering it with his warm one. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. It was like an electric current passed between us—a vibrant force that hummed in the air.

  It was not difficult to imagine him drawing the visions in his head out onto paper: warm bricks, lofty beams, tall windows letting in amber sun. His love of his craft was evident. How rewarding it must be to be able to create something that would last, something that would bring people together in one comfortable place.

  “So, when you design a house like that, how long is it before it is complete, ready for people to move in?”

  “Oh, let’s see. One like this … From the time it leaves my desk until the time they walk through the door with the furniture … about a year and a half.”

  “Isn’t it hard to envision a project that won’t actually be finished for a year and a half?”

  “I don’t have much trouble thinking ahead with my work. That’s pretty tangible stuff. I do have a lot of trouble doing that with the rest of my life.” He paused. “You know, envisioning the future. I used to have a plan for my entire life. I knew what I wanted to be doing and where I wanted to be right up to the time I would turn ninety.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then rested his hand on the gearshift. “I planned to learn to fly when I was thirty. Wanted to be fluent in French by the time I was forty. Live there for a while. I wanted to hike around Mount Ayers in the Australian outback when I was fifty. But not now. I just can’t picture any of it in my head. I can see the future for Emma. I just can’t for myself. I just kind of do what’s in front of me.”

  We pulled up in front of my house and sat for a moment in silence. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys.

  “Well, thanks for going with me.” I said. “I hope you weren’t totally bored. And thanks for the flowers. That was really sweet.”

  “Sure, I wouldn’t want to forget your birthday.”

  “But it’s not …” I protested.

  He reached for me and said, “However, I did forget something.” He pulled me close and kissed me. I was engulfed in the feel of him, the smell of his skin, the warmth of his arm around me. “That’s because I forgot the card,” he whispered.

  Chapter 25

  dc

  I arrived at work happy for the diversion from my thoughts about Michael. I was smack in the middle of a bittersweet dilemma. When he looked at me, I was lost in his crystal blue eyes, but I felt fettered. I strained against this beguiling hope. A voice inside me chided me, citing my failures, my inadequacies, my history. Nevertheless, I was compelled, feeling along deeper and deeper into this relationship. I was moving barefooted, enjoying the fresh cool waters of his presence in my life, but I was torn, fearing the undertow. Was there a drop off underneath? Or perilous snags littering the bottom?

  The last thing I needed was my heart shattered on the floor like a teacup.

  I dove into the pile of papers in my in-basket, sorting out scheduling requests into separate piles. It felt good to be able to make decisions about things I could contro
l.

  The peace didn’t last long. My door burst open and Britney flew in.

  “Britney, do you ever knock?” I said, not raising my head.

  “Jenna, we can’t get this passenger on her flight.”

  “Because?”

  “It’s full.”

  “OK. So, tell her it’s full.” I pulled a pencil out of my hair and began ticking off columns.

  “It’s the senator’s wife.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Jenna, I like my job. I’d like to keep it. Last time this lady had a problem, her husband complained all the way up to corporate. Can you help me make her happy?” Britney pleaded.

  My eyes drifted to the ceiling as I pulled up an image of Clarence Osborn’s wife. Tall, elegant, chronically distracted. It wasn’t really Mrs. Osborn that was the problem. It was her husband. He had more than once called our office to complain about connections for his wife, even though she often showed up at the last minute to request a seat. I remembered holding the phone a foot away from my ear as the man’s voice bellowed his displeasure.

  I jogged a folder full of papers and placed it neatly in a vertical file.

  “Britney, he’s not even a real senator,” I reminded her, trying to put the ball back in her court. I had these papers to fill out. “They just call him that because he made all his money in real estate back in DC.”

  “Puleeze,” she begged wringing her hands dramatically.

  Resigned, I picked up my walkie-talkie and followed Britney as she bounced out the door.

  I hadn’t seen Beverly Osborn for over a year, but the woman had remained unchanged. She still carried both her long-haired Chihuahuas with her. It struck me as odd that someone who had lived in Montana could look so little like the average Montanan. Too much time spent in DC, I thought. Her hair was teased into a frenzy, her once lovely face powdered heavily in an effort to mask the telltale signs of age. Her fawn-colored dogs were practically buried in the thick black fluff of a fox fur collar as she held them close to her ample bosom.

  “Mrs. Osborn, may I help you?” I asked. “You may remember me; my name is Jenna Clark.”

  “Oh, yes dear,” she said with a quizzical smile. Her bright red lipstick had made tiny rivulets into her powdered foundation. “Well, we have a bit of a problem,” she said with her trademark sweetness. I assumed “we” meant her and her little dogs.

  “I have been invited to the birthday party of the president’s niece—that’s the president of the United States, you know.” She paused for effect. “I must get into the DC area in time to shop at Violet Boutique for the occasion. There seems to be no room on this flight. Can you help me out?”

  I felt that I would very much like to help her out, partly to avoid the ear-shattering call which would come from her husband if I failed. “Well, let me see what I can do,” I said.

  I went to the service counter, Mrs. Osborn in tow. Opening up the schedule on the computer, I could see right away things were not looking good. I scanned the flights, connections, and arrival times to DC, but I was having difficulty concentrating on the screen. Mrs. Osborn leaned over the counter, her heavy perfume filling my nose. The two twitching Chihuahuas nestled at her neck, licking their mistress on the face.

  “Well,” I said, diverting my eyes. “Hmm. What time do you need to arrive in DC?”

  “Before three this afternoon, that way I can get to our condo in time to change before I go shopping.” The tiny dogs shivered nervously as they licked her cheeks, eyes, and mouth.

  “Well, I can see that there is another flight I can get you on in an hour that will take you through Chicago. Would that work for you? Is there a chance we could get you some coffee in the restaurant and make you comfortable while you wait?”

  “I think that would be lovely,” the woman said. “Perhaps a bite to eat. We haven’t had anything for breakfast but dog biscuits. We were in such a hurry to leave, isn’t that true sweeties?” More frantic licking—forehead, ears.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, confused.

  “General Jackson and Theodore here. You are hungry aren’t you, my dears?”

  “Oh.” I made the reservation and checked in the bags. I asked Britney to help Mrs. Osborn transport her carry-on to the restaurant and bring her a latte. Britney dodged the moist, flicking little tongues as she held the woman’s elbow to steady her.

  “On to the next battle,” I murmured as I escaped back to my office.

  Just before noon, my cell phone rang. It was Bobbie.

  “Hey, girl. You working hard?”

  “There is so much work here. It’s all backlogged from yesterday. I may never catch up. What’s going on?”

  “Just wondering if you can take a break for lunch. Too busy?”

  I gazed at the snowstorm of papers stacked in piles on my desk and sighed.

  “I need to get out of here for a few minutes. How about I meet you at Kadenas in half an hour?”

  “Sounds good.”

  A

  I found Bobbie sitting by the window. Her bright orange-and-green flowered blouse borrowed extra vibrancy from the sun slanting through the panes of glass. The smell of fresh-baked rolls filled the air. A girl in a chocolate-brown apron brought us menus and poured us ice water.

  Bobbie peeked conspiratorially over her menu and asked, “So, what’s going on with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Oh, that’s a good sign. He’s getting to you, isn’t he?”

  “Bobbie, it’s just not a good time for this. I have things to line out at work. I’m trying to find my birth father. I’m actually still trying to get settled into my house, and by the way, do you know how to get coffee stains out of a porcelain sink? I … I just don’t need the distraction.”

  “Would that I had such a distraction,” Bobbie mumbled ruefully, drumming her red-polished fingernails against her cheek. “His little girl seems like a nice kid.”

  “She’s adorable. Those big blue eyes and curly black hair. You’d think she’d be spoiled with her grandmother and everyone doting on her all the time, but she is just the sweetest little thing.”

  I remembered Emma’s soft hair against my neck and the way she snuggled into my shoulder as I read to her at the cabin.

  But I stopped myself abruptly. What was I thinking? How could I become a part of her life and Michael’s, even if they wanted me? An image of my mother’s back, walking away in the weak morning light haunted me. Did I have what it takes to be there for someone so vulnerable?

  “I’ve seen what he’s like with her,” Bobbie said.

  “Yeah. Worships the ground she walks on. He’s kind of like Jack. He just talks to her like she’s a person, not a porcelain doll.” I sighed. “They are so cute together.”

  “Wow, a man with feelings. The only thing my last boyfriend had feelings about was his ATV.”

  I shook my head as if to scatter my thoughts out onto the wooden floorboards beside me. I picked up my menu. “I don’t want to think about it. Let’s order something.”

  Bobbie reached over and turned my menu right-side up. “OK,” she said dryly.

  Chapter 26

  dc

  Cindy did not forget her invitation for me to help with caring for the bison. She called early one morning and set up a time to meet down at my uncle’s ranch. It had been a while since I had worked with the bison, and I was looking forward to some time outdoors with the animals. A break from work at the airport. A break from wondering when I would see Michael again. I tried to convince myself it would be better not to wish for this, better to keep my life simple, uncomplicated. But as much as I tried, I could not keep from seeing his smile in my mind’s eye and hearing his warm voice in my head.

  Also, I wanted some practice with my new Nikon. I wanted to get used to the settings and get some good photos of the bison for my album. The bison pictures would add a new dimension to my collection, a contrast to the Waikiki beach photos
and the cliffs of Acapulco.

  The day was chilly and the sky a woolen gray when I arrived at the pasture. The ground inside the fence was browned from frost and from the trampling of the herd’s feet. I waited in my Taurus just outside the gate until Cindy pulled up in her battered, dirt-encrusted Pathfinder.

  I rolled down my window, and Cindy leaned over the passenger seat and pushed open the door, her thick blonde ponytail swinging onto the shoulder of her Levi jacket. “Get on in and I’ll open the fence.”

  I grabbed my bulky camera bag out of my car then slid onto the seat of the SUV. The door creaked threateningly as I wrestled it closed.

  Making sure the herd of some bison was far from the fence, Cindy unhooked the heavy chain that held the wide, galvanized metal gate and swung it open. Across the field, the bison turned their great heads and looked toward us. Cindy quickly took her seat behind the wheel, ground the gears, and pulled through the gate. She jumped out to shut the gate, and by the time she got back in the SUV, the massive animals were on the move. It was like being at the center of a swarm of huge, dark insects. Kicking up clouds of dust, the bison broke into a run as Cindy maneuvered through the field in the direction of the feeding troughs. Midway, she stopped and let the herd gather round, nostrils flaring, nosing close to the open windows, picking up our scent.

  “They know me, but they are wondering who the heck you are. Bison don’t see so well, but they have a keen sense of smell,” Cindy explained.

  Some of the animals were as tall as the roof of the Pathfinder. They looked like they could wield their short, thick horns and flick the vehicle over on its side without the slightest difficulty, but their innocent, almost fearful, huge brown eyes told me that was not their intent.

  “They want their cookies. They love them. I think it’s the molasses in them,” Cindy said. “A few treats for you today? You want your treats, don’t you, Dolly,” Cindy crooned softly to a cow that nuzzled her window. “This one in front is Stella, remember her?” Cindy said. “That bull over there is Gus.”