“I don’t think I ever met any of them.”
“No, you didn’t. Once I graduated from high school, it was decided that I should move to Powell Springs and find work. Since it was ten miles away, I couldn’t travel back and forth and the family all urged me to find a place here to live. I guess you could say I was invited to leave. So I got a room at Mrs. Donaldson’s boarding house and went to work at Bright’s Grocery.”
“They weren’t at our wedding.”
Susannah shook her head. “No, but I invited them all.”
“Did you ever hear from them again?”
She leaned back in the chair. “During the influenza epidemic, I got a letter from one of my cousins saying that my mother had died. I hadn’t seen her in years. Anyway, I didn’t find out about it until after the funeral. Things were pretty hectic during those months. Every town was busy either trying to stay alive or tending the dying.”
“So because you have no family of your own, you dote on Pop. I do remember that.”
She hesitated. “Yes, but he’s become a lot more, well, difficult with age.” Shrugging, she went on, “Maybe he was always that way and I was able to overlook it. Now I’m not so good at it.”
Just as he was about to put his spoon into the oatmeal, the bell above the front door rang and someone walked in.
“I’ll see who that is,” Susannah said, heading toward the waiting room.
It was Shaw. Riley sighed.
“I thought you were at home,” he heard her say.
“I know you people try to keep me in the dark about things, but I heard all about Riley’s to-do at Tilly’s. Now Mae tells me some out-of-town doc in a fancy suit and spit-shined shoes has her cooking for him. I guess the doctor gal couldn’t handle it.”
“Dr. Carmichael is a specialist, Shaw. He deals with problems like Riley’s.”
He thumped in, stooped and stiff, and gave Riley a once-over. “You don’t look any worse for wear.” Behind him, Susannah couldn’t help but roll her eyes.
“Hi, Pop.”
The old man’s eyebrows rose. “So—you remember me now, eh?”
“More than I did before.”
“Sure! You wouldn’t forget your own father. I taught you boys everything you know about horses and ranching, all kinds of stuff. I hear you scared the pee outta Winks.” He cackled. “Damn, I would have paid money to see that.”
Riley frowned at him. Had he always been this thoughtless and dense? Or was he just getting addled? He couldn’t remember his father all that well yet.
“It was a lousy day for me,” Riley said and gave him a bitter look. “I learned from the town drunk that the woman I thought was my wife is not. I wouldn’t wish that on a person in my position.” He closed his eyes for a moment as another fragment of a memory floated to the surface of his consciousness. “In fact, I seem to remember that I could have gotten out of going to war altogether because of the contract we had to send horses to the army, but you wanted me to go. You wanted Cole to go, too.”
Shaw scowled, deepening the furrows on his creased face, and he shifted from one foot to another. Susannah followed this exchange with an expression of rapt attention. “Well, everybody was enlisting—hell, the boys all lined up to buy train tickets to Portland so they could go. You and your brother both wanted to. It was our duty to send troops to Europe. Everybody was going,” he said, as if that explained it all.
“Maybe. But this”—he tapped the scar on his temple—”this was the result. And you would have paid money to see the village idiot tell me I’m not married when I thought I was?”
“Heh-heh, it was just a turn of phrase, boy. I didn’t mean any harm by it. Winks is a rummy old windbag. We all know that.”
“It seems to be a common condition around here.”
Susannah looked at him with a cross between admiration and astonishment.
Shaw pointed a crooked, arthritic finger at him and scowled. “Now, look, boy, you keep in mind who you’re talkin’ to. Just because you’re a war hero and all don’t give you the right to sass your father. You’re still one of the junior members of this family, and I ain’t about to put up with guff from you. Why, I won’t take it from any man, so don’t you go gettin’ ahead of yourself.” He shifted his aim to Susannah. “That goes for you, too, sister. I’ll be at Tilly’s if anyone wants to find me.”
He turned and stumped his way out. Susannah’s hands were clenched into tight fists at her sides, her arms straight and stiff as she watched him go.
“Oh, that man!” she said after the door closed.
Riley looked at the oatmeal in front of him. The top had dried out, and it looked crusty and unappetizing. He pushed it away and replied, “He’s a true gem, isn’t he?”
Carmichael’s mental mumbo jumbo had actually helped, but Riley’s memory was still full of holes. Those things he could remember were kind of hazy and partially formed, and he still had trouble with his short-term recollection. Periods of time, a few minutes, a few hours, would pass and he would realize he didn’t know what had happened. This occurred whether or not he’d been drinking.
Some things were much clearer, though. His war experience, the atrocities he had seen and things he had done, which had slumbered in relative isolation in a corner of his mind—except for episodes of The Strangeness—were now more prominent. And there were still the dreams, jumbled, vivid, frightening. His hands trembled at times for no reason and overwhelming fear still dogged him at any given moment, but a drink or two helped that. He’d begun to appreciate the sharp taste of the Canadian whiskey that Cole brought home.
Back at the horse farm, he knew that he used to share his current bedroom with Susannah. He also remembered the feel of her warmth next to him in the night—or under him, in the throes of a passion that sizzled like a branding iron.
And he remembered that he had loved her with equal intensity. That when he was at the desk working on the accounts, he’d listen for the rustle of her skirts in the hallway or the sound of her footsteps on the flooring.
Now that his memory had improved, and having had the chance to talk to her about some of their shared past, some of his hostility and anger had simmered down. She hadn’t waited very long to remarry, but he could imagine that it might have been lonely here for her. It certainly was for him. Who knew, maybe it might work out between them after all. They could rekindle that warmth and love, and go back to the way things were. It would certainly help to get readjusted to this life if the life were as he’d left it. Her marriage to Grenfell might be only one of convenience for both of them.
One Saturday evening the week after he returned home from Jessica’s office, he was sitting on the base of his spine, deep in the brown leather sofa in the parlor. Grenfell had taken the boys and driven Susannah into town to help the Women’s Library Committee with a bake sale to raise funds for the busy library on Main Street.
Not far from him, his father was creaking back and forth in his rocker. Riley wished he were asleep instead. His snoring was less irritating than his bitching about anything and everything under the sun. Sometimes he could actually block out the sound of the old man’s yammering. Tonight, though, no luck. But when his monologue turned to Susannah, Riley began paying closer attention.
“Y’know, you and your wife had a good thing going before the war. If I was you, I wouldn’t let that Grenfell stand in my way. I always thought there was something shifty about him. Like those kids, for instance—he says he’s their foster father or guardian or something. We’ve never been able to pry it out of him who their mama is. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were his and she took off and left him with them.”
“Why would he lie about something like that? If they’re his sons, he’d have no reason to hide it.”
“Yeah, well, he wasn’t much more than a drifter when he came here. Who knows what skeletons are in his closet?”
“I hired him. I remember that much. I wish things could go back to the way they were, but a lot ha
s happened since then. Maybe I don’t have the right to break up their marriage.”
“You hired him to work here, not take your place, damn it! He’s a hired hand. She’s your wife. Do you want her or don’t you?” The speed of his rocking chair increased.
“Yes.” Riley’s answer was a sullen admission of the truth.
“Then start sweetening her up. They’re already in separate beds—have been since the day you got back. He’s out there in the bunkhouse and she’s upstairs alone. You managed that much just by coming home. If you want back in her bed, do something to work your way in, unless you think it’s fun living like one of them monks in your own house. Even I go to see Mae now and then. She’s a little weathered and dried up, but she gets the job done, by God.”
Riley was distinctly uncomfortable with this discussion. Who wanted to talk about this kind of thing with his father? And yet… yet…Pop had a point. He could win back Susannah, the woman whose image he’d studied until he’d memorized her features, even before he remembered her from his past. He might be able to convince her that he was the better choice so that he could recover his own life. He’d seen no grand love affair buzzing between her and Grenfell. Maybe she was just hoping for Riley to speak up.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky and a horse will fall on him or something. Then she’d really be a widow. That’d make things easier.”
“You might be right,” Riley said absently. He had already retreated to his own thoughts, and in his mind he traveled back to the long-gone days of their early marriage.
The old man brought the rocker to a halt and thumped his fist on its arm. “Well, hallelujah and write down the date! Someone in this house said I’m right. I don’t remember the last time that happened. I keep telling ‘em and telling ‘em I didn’t get to my age without learning something. I know more than any of you will ever have in your pinkies but—” and on Shaw harped, but Riley had blocked out the sound.
So far, all he’d given Susannah was a pretty rock. A rock. But, if he remembered correctly, which was always doubtful now, she wasn’t a woman who could be swayed by fancy gifts, anyway. Neither could he recall how he’d courted her. He wished it were as simple as firing Grenfell to clear him out.
But it wasn’t that simple.
Suddenly his hands began shaking—another unpleasant leftover from his battle experience—and he stood abruptly. The whiskey bottle was hidden upstairs in his bedroom. If he left it down here, Pop would drink it for sure.
Riley needed it more.
• • •
The early November day dawned with a fog that lifted around ten in the morning to reveal a clear blue sky so bright and sharp it almost made a person’s eyes ache to step outside.
Riley stood at Kuitan’s stall while he quartered a new, crisp apple with his pocketknife. He’d picked it himself from the small orchard that grew just on the other side of the paddock. The trees were far enough from the fence to keep the horses from nibbling at their fruit, but close enough to tantalize them.
The buckskin snuffled at his shoulder and gave him a light shove, as if to hurry him up. Riley smiled. “Patience, mon ami. You don’t want to make me cut off the hand that’s going to feed you.” He held out his hand, and the horse took a piece of the apple with gentle delicacy that belied his eagerness. “I remember you now, almost as well as you remember me. We used to race across the fields with Susannah and Sally, and we’d let them think they’d won. But I knew you were the faster horse. I had to hold you back.”
Hearing her name, Sally poked her head out over her own stall door.
“I’ll bet you remember that too,” Riley said to her.
Just then the sound of boot heels on the stable floorboards made Riley look up, and he saw Tanner Grenfell walk in carrying a saddle. Tanner nodded at him and went into the tack room. If humans could raise their hackles like the long, slender neck feathers on turkeys or pheasants, those hackles would be up on both of them.
Riley heard him rummaging around in there, and then he emerged to walk down to Kuitan’s stall. He reached out and patted the horse’s neck, smoothing his dark, silky mane. “He’s a beauty—a really fine horse. Smart, sure-footed, bridle-wise. Someone trained him well.” At least the man was tactful, especially given the situation.
“Someone has taken good care of him,” Riley answered, while the horse watched them both.
Grenfell finally turned his gaze to Riley. “I would have done it anyway, but I thought it was only right since his master couldn’t be here to tend him. I saw a lot of good horses pass through here during the war, and I always worried about where and what we were sending them off to. I probably wasn’t the right man for this job back then. It bothered me to think about it.”
Riley sighed and closed his eyes for a second. “A man goes to war, even if he doesn’t want to, and he knows why he’s there. He goes into battle, even if everything in him wants to make him turn and run, but he knows he must go. And so he does.” He drew a shaky breath, remembering the horrors of the battlefields. “I saw men on both sides killed, and limbs blasted from bodies helter-skelter. Horses…God, the horses, abused, lame, injured, blinded, and suffocated by poison gas attacks, starved, pushed beyond the limits of humanity and decency, their limbs also blown from their bodies, and horses literally worked to death. When they couldn’t go on, they dropped to their knees and died. Sometimes that took hours or days. If someone took pity on them, he put a gun to their heads and shot them.” Riley’s voice began to shake, and he stroked Kuitan’s velvety nose. “If there is a final accounting when we die, I wonder if people—if we—will be forgiven for the sins committed against those animals. Sending a horse—an innocent—to war, is like sending a child. All those horses had going for them was the possible kindness of a wrangler and their own noble hearts. They did everything that was asked of them and more. Usually, mounts whose riders were shot off their backs just kept running. But now and then, I’d see a horse standing beside his fallen comrade, his reins dangling while he’d nudge the dead man’s shoulder, trying to get him up, trying to save what had already been lost.” He turned to look at Grenfell straight on and sighed. “It was heartbreaking.”
Grenfell cleared his throat hard and swallowed. He dropped his gaze to the boards under his feet, saying nothing.
“I know that our contract with the government could have kept me at home with Cole and everyone here. But as much as I wish I hadn’t gone to war, and for all I lost because of it—my wife, my mind, my physical agility—it would have been so goddamned wrong to just supply the horses and stay here, congratulating ourselves and celebrating the fact that we avoided the whole mess. Someone should have had to endure the same misery those brave animals did. If it had to be me, well, amen. So be it.”
Grenfell lifted reddened eyes to Riley and nodded. “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me.”
Then he walked back to the tack room, leaving Riley with the images of ghost horses in his mind.
• • •
“Mail call!” Cole said, his voice pitched just loudly enough to be heard throughout the yard.
Susannah looked up and tossed the rest of the kitchen scraps to the chickens in their coop. Now that late fall was upon them, the birds were in their annual molt, and egg production has ceased for a few months. Some people butchered their chickens when they got to this point, but she’d broken the unspoken animal husbandry rule that said it was a bad idea to name an animal later intended for slaughter. They were good laying hens, and she’d named all the girls. So for three or four months, she’d buy eggs from one of the neighbors. Cole and Tanner teased her about it, and of course Shaw told her she was just being idiotic. Another compliment from that old crank. She carried her empty bucket to the porch and wiped her hands on her apron.
“I had to go into town to pick up a parcel that came from Montgomery Ward so I got the mail, too.” He stood on the back porch, sorting the envelopes and publications on the railing. “Journal, journal, catalog, Go
od Housekeeping—” He handed that to Susannah. He stopped and looked at the next piece, an envelope. “Huh. Here’s one for Riley. From France.” He held it up and she leaned in to look more closely. The handwriting was crooked and clumsy, as if the pen had been held by someone unaccustomed to writing.
She reached out and took it from him. There were foreign stamps and postmarks on it. The paper was very thin and pale blue. In the upper left corner, she saw the name Véronique Raineau and an address that meant nothing to her. But of course she knew who Véronique was.
“It’s from the woman who took Riley in,” she said.
“She probably wants to know how he’s getting along,” Cole replied absently, already engrossed in a report from the state agriculture department.
“Probably,” Susannah said, tapping the corner of the envelope against her palm. Had he been writing to her? She wasn’t sure how he would have accomplished mailing the letters. He would have had to go into town or given them to someone else to carry for him. It didn’t sound like it was Cole. And Tanner—no, that was extremely unlikely. Shaw? He wanted nothing more than to see her reunited with Riley, plus he was no good at keeping secrets. She, most especially, would have heard about it from him, because he’d want to goad her. “I wonder how this woman got our address.”
“Oh, damn it!” Cole exclaimed and whacked the back of his hand against the report. “Can you believe people are still rustling cattle? You’d think this was the old West.” He’d already moved on to business matters.
Susannah thought she’d seen Riley go into the stable. She left her magazine on the step and crossed the yard to find him. Stepping into the gloom of the building, she breathed in the scents so familiar to her—hay, straw, leather, horses. Just like Tanner.
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