He turned the glass in his fingers, studying the brown liquid, as if it were a crystal ball and he had a future that he cared about. He emptied the glass in two quick swallows.
"Come here, Hannah," he said, his voice roughened by the booze.
She came, though she didn't know why.
He turned, bracing his back against the bar, and pulled her into his arms. The buffalo hide beneath her cheek was soft and smelled faintly raw. She tilted her head and leaned back, the better to look at him. A flush of heat touched his cheeks and his mouth curved into a faint smile, and she felt an echo of an old desire. He lowered his mouth to hers.
She pushed him away. "You can't just blow in here, Zach Rafferty, and take things up as if nothin' happened."
"I always could before. So what're you gonna tell me, Hannah, that you're not feelin' well? That you've got the monthly curse or you imbibed a little too much hell brew last night? I reckon about the only thing left between us that we haven't done is lie."
"You oughta know me better than that, cowboy. And you know something else about me, too. Except for those years when I was whoring, i only sleep with one man at a time."
He gave her a long, deep look. "So that's the way of it, then."
"That's the way of it."
She flushed beneath his steady gaze and started to turn away. He caught her chin with two fingers and turned her head back to face him. "You happy, Hannah?"
She nodded, then shook her head. A short huff of hollow laughter pushed out of her chest along with a sigh. "I'm plumb scared spitless. I love him so much, Rafferty. Too much."
He let go of her chin and picked up his empty whiskey glass. He tilted it at her and lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile that was both sad and mocking, of her and of himself. "I reckon you and I are two of the same kinda fool. Falling hard for the wrong person. It's too bad we couldn't have fallen for each other." He set the glass back down on the bar with a clink that sounded too loud in the empty saloon.
She covered his hand with hers. "We did in a way."
"Yeah." He turned his head and gave her a warm, sweet smile. "We did."
She leaned into him, to kiss him on the cheek, and found his mouth instead. Desire echoed again within her. The kiss deepened, turning exquisitely soft and tender, and lingered on her lips as they parted.
"So long, darlin'," he said, giving her a quick, light brush on the cheek with the tips of his fingers.
It was, Hannah knew, the closest a cowboy ever got to saying good-bye.
One day in late April the men rode out to catch some mustangs.
Clementine went with them. She wasn't sure why she did so. She hated the ranch; she didn't care if they kept or lost it. With Charlie gone, she didn't care much about anything anymore, except Sarah. And even with Sarah she was careful. Her heart was still near to bursting with bitter pain. She felt as if grief had crushed her like a great weight of stones until there was nothing left of her.
The morning they went after the mustangs, she carried Sarah Indian-fashion on her back in a cradleboard. The way the men captured the wild horses was to walk them down, not allowing them time to graze or drink at their favorite watering holes, until they were tired and docile enough to be easily herded. Gus had ridden ahead, to chouse the mustangs toward a valley to the south of them, and he left Clementine to ride there with his brother.
It was the first time they'd been alone together, she and Rafferty, in so long. Yet she could find no words to say to him. There was love in her heart for him, but no longer any tenderness.
They rode through a wood of larch, fir, and yellow pine. Just as she could feel the warmth of the sun and the caress of the grass-sweetened wind, so she could feel his gaze touching her averted face. She thought perhaps he was disappointed in her. He had called her useless once, a liability, like a dogie not worth the slaughtering, and she had proved him right. She wasn't cut out for this country. She had tried to show them all that they were wrong, but Montana had beaten her—walked her down and worn her out, just as they were doing to the mustangs.
Although it was early morning, the birds were awake and noisy, flying in circles and cawing. A creek, flowing high from the winter runoff, rushed over tumbled boulders with a lion's roar. But their horses' hooves made no sound on the damp and matted pine needles, just as they, too, were silent.
They came out of the woods onto a high ridge that overlooked a narrow grassy valley. Sunshine shimmered and glimmered off the snow on the surrounding peaks, making the sharp, jagged rocks look as if they were dusted with gold.
Rafferty eased his horse up next to hers, so close that their stirrups knocked. Moses clicked his teeth on the bit and jerked his head, jingling the bridle's rings and chains. Clementine kept her gaze rigidly focused on the fiery mountains.
"The first white men to see Montana called it Land of the Shining Mountains."
Clementine said nothing. It was very beautiful and she hated it, hated it.
"The old-timers who named this land also had a saying about it: Sometimes a body's gotta lean into the wind in order to stand up straight.'" He nudged his horse closer, until their knees touched. "Clementine, darlin'... Montana didn't kill Charlie."
She swung around to face him, so fast and with such fury that he flinched a little. "I hate you. I hate everything about this place, and I hate you most of all."
She tried to urge her horse into a trot, but his hand lashed out, grabbing the reins. Her horse snorted, his hindquarters dancing sideways. "Why do you hate me, Boston? Because I can't give you a certified guarantee that there'll be no more pain, no more losses? Or do you hate me because you can't keep the whole damned world locked out of your heart no matter how much you might want to?"
She met his challenging look with a wordless, rigid pride. He let go of her reins, and she yanked her horse's head around, heeling him into a canter.
She didn't go far. She went to the shoulder of the ridge, pulled up, and slid out of the saddle. She threw the reins over her horse's head and let them trail. She slipped the cradleboard off her shoulders and wedged it up into the roots of an ancient giant larch. She stooped over and kissed Sarah's plump cheek, but the baby didn't awaken. She walked to the edge of the bluff, stirring up a nest of ground larks with the kick of her skirts.
Below her a mist lay in a gray scarf along the valley of sweet-grass meadows and gently rolling hills. In the shadow of the mountains the land was all tans and blues and purples.
Her horse lifted its head, his nose quivering, and then she saw them—the wild ones. A band of mustang ponies crossed the valley, wheeling in a half-moon arc, kicking up mud, shying and snorting and ripping up the tender spring grass with their hooves. They were small and sinewy and mottled-looking, for they were shedding their rough winter coats. But their manes and tails were long and flowing like spun flax. And they were all the colors of Montana in summer: dun and buckskin, chestnut and sorrel and bay.
The lead horse, a stallion, stopped and began to graze, and so the others followed. Gus had told her once there was always only one stallion to a band of wild ones. The stallion ruled with the help of a wise old mare. Sometimes geldings or mules who'd escaped from captivity were allowed to join the band, but never another stallion.
Just then this stallion jerked his head up, and though she was too far away to see, Clementine could imagine his nostrils flaring as he scented the wind. At the north end of the valley she could just make out the small figure on horseback that was Gus, approaching the band slowly so as not to alarm them into an all-out stampede. The stallion whinnied and broke into a gallop, and his mares followed, and within seconds it seemed the valley was empty again. But the mustangs' escape was only an illusion. In the end the men would have their way—the wild ones would be worn down, captured, and broken to the saddle and the spur.
An immense sadness pierced Clementine's soul. Suddenly the great wilderness that was so beautiful seemed too huge and lonely to be borne. She stared at the dazzling, des
erted land and sky, and the sight made her dizzy. She tried to breathe, her chest pressing hard against her corset ribs. Something within her wanted to shriek.
In the blue canopy of sky overhead, a big golden eagle glided low, casting his shadow on the ground. The eagle screamed, and Clementine thought for a moment that the sound had been torn from her own throat.
She tilted back her head to the sky, letting the sun drench her in light and warmth, letting it seduce her. The wind gusted, stopping her mouth as if with a kiss, stealing her breath. She felt ravished by the wind.
There was no going back to the Clementine she had been before that summer day of dust and flying hooves, and the end of Charlie's laughter. Charlie was gone, and she was so afraid that in losing him she had lost the only thing she would ever be any good at: loving Charlie and being loved by him.
Yet somewhere deep inside her she could feel a stirring, like a tender green shoot just pushing its way through the thick, rich earth. She could feel herself coming back into the rhythms of life. Montana, hated and beloved, claimed her and it always would.
"Clementine..."
She turned, her skirts flapping in the wind. He came toward her, her love. The sunlight was in his eyes, narrowing them, turning them into chips of fierce, clear amber, and everything inside her seemed to give way. A huge hard mass of sorrow rose up in her chest and broke loose, dissolving, shedding off of her like a chrysalis.
She didn't know the tears were coming until she felt them on her eyelids.
He touched her face with his fingers.
That was all he had meant to do.
He had seen her standing at the edge of the bluff. And it was like this sometimes with her: he would look at her and his heart would catch. She seemed so fierce, with her head held high on her slender neck and her shoulders drawn back, erect and proud. She was so brave, his darlin'. Too brave for her own good. He had known a fox to gnaw off its own leg to escape a trap—such a fierce, snarling courage was Clementine's.
She must have heard him, or sensed his coming, for she turned just then, and the sight of her crying was like a kick to his heart.
And so he had touched her face with his fingers. To catch her tears, maybe, or to wipe them away. That was all he had meant to do.
But somehow his arms were around her and he was pulling her body flush up against his. Her hair was thick and silky under his lips. Her wild rose scent clung to her skin, to the air, to his senses. He breathed her in.
He was going to pull away from her, to let her go, and then he made the mistake of looking down at her face and seeing the passion flood her eyes. Her mouth opened beneath his, her breath gusting out of her in a helpless moan. She tasted hot, of tears and hunger. His hand slid to her waist and slipped down to grip her bottom, molding her closer. He kissed her deep, tongue to tongue, their breath mingling, and she made little wordless sounds and rubbed against him as...
Sarah let out a loud, impatient wail.
She jerked away from him as if they'd just been doused with icy water. For a moment he couldn't breathe, and then it came out of him in a rush, along with a wrenching shudder. "Clementine," he whispered.
With a sharp cry, she whirled and hurried over to Sarah, who was now turning the air blue with her hollering.
The leather of his saddle squeaked as he put his weight into the stirrup. He swung up onto his horse and rode away from her without looking back.
Clementine looked down at the top of her husband's head. There was some silver mixed in with the tawny gold, and it made her sad to think of it, to think of time passing, of days that were being lived and could never be lived over.
Gus sat on a nail-keg stool outside the door of the buffalo hunter's cabin, his hands sandwiched between his knees, his brooding gaze dissecting the ground.
"Sarah's down for her nap," she said.
He raised his head to look at her. "You going to talk to him?" he asked. Clementine said nothing. "You won't talk him out of it," he said.
"I won't try to talk him out of it."
As she crossed the yard she looked back once, not at Gus but at the cabin. The phlox was blooming on the roof, a promise of summer days to come. Around her the burned-off meadows were spotted green in places with new grass, new life.
The wild plum thickets were in bloom along the river, filling the air with their thick, sweet fragrance. The willows were swollen and sticky with brilliant red buds. Larks sang, frogs croaked, and the river made its own music, deep and rich, like a man's laugh.
She spotted the sleeve of his hickory shirt among the trees. He was fishing. At least he had a pole in his hands and a line in the water, but there was about him a sense of restless waiting, as if he knew she would be coming. She stopped farther than an arm's length away from him, for she didn't dare get close enough to touch. She wasn't afraid of him; she was afraid of herself.
He stared at her hard with those cold, uncomfortable eyes. "I reckon Gus told you I'm leaving in the mornin'."
She tried to say his name, but she couldn't.
"This time I ain't comin' back."
She had known this day would come. Ever since she had awakened, after the mad wolf had bitten her, to see the raw need in his eyes and the wondering look of a man in love... she had known he would have to leave her.
He set the pole down and rose to his feet. She stiffened, but he didn't take a step toward her. He only looked at her, and that was nearly more than she could bear.
"I'm going to say this once. I shouldn't say it at all, but I'm not tough enough to ride out of here and leave it unsaid. I love you, Clementine. But it's not the noble, chaste sort of love you seem to want from me. I want to take you, to make you my woman and only mine. I want to feel your hair slide across my naked belly. I want to know the taste of your tongue in my mouth. I want to have you beneath me, to spill myself long and deep inside you."
Oh, God, I am not worth all this... this passion, she thought. I was never worth it, and you make me so afraid. You have always made me so afraid.
"Clementine..." He looked up the river, squinting against the glare of sun on water. Then he pinned her with his yellow eyes. "Come with me."
She went absolutely still. Even her heart stopped beating. The silence stretched long and taut between them. She watched his face tighten, harden. She watched his eyes turn the brassy cold of winter suns.
"I love you, Zach Rafferty," she said. They were the first words she'd spoken to him since he had kissed her.
He pushed out a breath that caught and broke. "I know."
"I love you," she said again. And as on that day when they had captured the mustangs, she had the feeling of having burst free. She loved him so much. Sometimes you had to dare to grasp the lightning. And sometimes you had to dare to let it go. "Will you write?"
"No."
"To Gus. You could write to Gus."
He shook his head. And he broke then. She saw it in his eyes first, and then the anguish poured over his face. He turned his head, but she could see the cords in his throat working to keep back the tears.
"You will think of me." She said it as a command. He must think of her, for she was his. She would always be his.
"Clementine," he said, and her name came out of him broken and mangled. "My love for you won't stop with my leaving. Come an evenin' over the years, when you step outside your door and hear the wind blowing through the cottonwoods, that'll be me, thinking of you, whispering your name, and loving you."
She stared into his eyes, absorbing his pain, enduring it with him. Knowing it would be the last thing they would ever share.
Slowly, her gaze still on his ravaged face, she unclasped the cameo brooch at her throat. She didn't put it into his hands, for she couldn't bear to come that close to him. She laid it on the rock where he'd been sitting, and then she walked away from him without looking back.
Gus sat on the nail-keg stool and watched his wife come back to him. She went right into the house, without a word, without lookin
g at him. But he had seen her eyes.
Gus sat with his stomach quaking and his leg muscles tense. He wanted to go down to the river and see Zach, see if the same look of longing and loss that he'd discovered in his wife's eyes was there in his brother's. Instead he sat on the old nail-keg stool and watched the sun set.
He sat there through the night. Just as the dark was beginning to soften into dawn, Zach came back from the river, or from wherever he'd disappeared to. He looked right at Gus and there was nothing in his eyes, and there was nothing said between them. And then he went into the barn.
A half hour later he came out again, leading his saddled gray.
Tears filled Gus's eyes. He blinked hard, trying to will them away before his brother saw them. For he knew to his shame they were tears of relief.
Clementine pushed aside the curtain she had made long ago of bleached flour sacks and embroidered with little yellow finches. He was in the yard, her love, sitting on his horse, and Gus stood beside him, looking up at him and saying good-bye.
Gus would always be the cowboy of her dreams, but Rafferty was her life's passion. The man she was put on this earth to love with her every breath, every heartbeat.
She closed her eyes. She imagined herself going out the door and crossing the yard, holding out her hand to him so that he could pull her up behind him in the saddle. She imagined herself riding away with him, being with him, loving him forever.
She imagined herself going out the door and crossing the yard, but when she opened her eyes again he was no longer there, and all she could hear was the beat of his horse's hooves as he rode away.
Part Three: 1886
CHAPTER 26
Gus McQueen looked up into a hard morning sky that had already been bled white by a relentless sun. He cuffed the sweat off his face and whacked his hat against his thigh, raising a cloud of dust off his chaps.
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