A Cowboy's Love Part 3

Cal made no move to start the engine. The warmth of her hand on his had been nice. He was eager to feel her touch again, but he knew too much about nervous animals to take a chance on scaring her away. Instead, he turned and settled himself back against the door, one arm resting on the wheel, the other on the back of the seat. He was glad of an excuse to sit quietly in the unlit interior of the truck so he could watch the way her fine, white-blond hair captured the silver flashes of cool moonlight.

She's as beautiful as any wild animal.

"I guess I should explain." She hesitated.

Cal said nothing; he was wis.h.i.+ng he could reach over and touch that beautiful hair, but he remained still and just waited.

"I mean, I should explain why I said it was spooky. I'd just been saying we could go to this place that I like, sort of my own private place, where no one had ever been with me before. And then, just when I said that, I remembered something that had happened there, when I was really little, about seven or eight years old."

She paused, remembering. She took another cookie and ate the whole thing while she thought it over. Then she decided to tell him.

"I was really little," she began, "like I said, and my dad used to let me run wild, pretty much. I don't think he ever cared what was happening to me. I used to play up here in this canyon all the time, so I got to know it pretty well and I always felt safe here.

"But there was this one time, something had happened at home, and I ran away up here and wound up getting lost."

She paused again, thinking about that day, and Cal waited, not asking what had frightened her. When she was ready, she went on.

"The school bus had left me off down by that clump of cedars, where the dirt road begins, where you turn off from the highway, and after the bus drove off, I started walking up the road to the house. It was just one of those freaky things; there was this rattlesnake curled up in the dirt, sunning itself I guess, and I didn't see it till I was practically on it. Well, I knew enough to be scared of rattlesnakes and I guess I jumped a mile in the air and the snake jumped too, trying to get away from me. Well, it took off right into the field, but when I landed, I came down on a rock and twisted my ankle pretty bad.

"I was still scared the snake was going to get me, even though I'd seen it trying just as hard to get away from me, and I couldn't run because my ankle was hurting so bad, so by the time I'd limped to the house, I was crying and calling for my daddy. I saw his car outside-we had an old beat-up Chevy convertible then-so I knew he was home, but when I came in, he was just sitting at the kitchen table, and he was drunk, of course. I tried to tell him what happened and he got real mad, and he yelled and yelled and when he tried to get up his chair fell over and that made him madder. He kept yelling about how much trouble I was and couldn't I look where I was going, and why was everyone always picking on him. He was stumbling around and things were falling on the floor, dishes, the newspaper . . .

"I was afraid he'd come after me and I ran out. I guess I was so scared by then, I didn't even feel my ankle hurting anymore. I came up here into the canyon, where I always felt safe. Only this time, everything was so confused and seemed so dangerous, what with the snake and my ankle hurting and beginning to swell up and my dad so mad. I lost my way and I wound up not knowing where I was. I just kept climbing and slipping and sliding around and I was getting scratched by the branches and the stones, and I lost my shoes. I guess they came loose with all the slipping and sliding around and I didn't even stop to find them, but I just kept climbing and climbing until I found an open s.p.a.ce, where there was this big flat rock. And I got up on the rock to rest, and I could see down into the valley. I could see the road to my house and the town all laid out in front of me, like a big picture.

"So I started to feel better, like being all alone was okay, sort of safer, even. There was something about having found this place high up over the valley, and being able to see everything spread out, I felt okay, like I'd found my own private place where I was safe and in charge.

"And right then, young as I was, I understood that I really was alone, that I'd just have to handle things by myself, without help from other people. I think I was learning something I had to know; kids who aren't being cared for right have to learn to take care of themselves.

"Anyway, it was just around then, when I was feeling better, I heard this sort of soft breathing behind me. And when I looked up, this huge cat was standing there on the ridge. I just froze and it stayed there, absolutely silent, for a long time, watching me."

She paused, remembering, and then repeated, "For a long time."

The next part was harder to describe.

"But it's funny, Cal. As scared as I was, I had the feeling that that big cat was just like me, that we were sort of related, somehow. Like he was there to tell me something. And here's what it was: he was all alone and I was all alone, and just like he could take care of himself, I could take care of myself, too. And like we were, somehow, together. Almost like we were friends or something . . .

It was hard to go on as she struggled to find the words.

"I don't know how to explain it. Like I didn't need to be afraid of him."

She needed to be silent for a few moments as she realized she just couldn't express the mystery of the experience.

"But anyway," she said at last, "the cougar never did anything. He just watched me for a while-it seemed to be a long time, but maybe it was only a minute or two-and then he went away. Didn't even twitch his tail or anything, just quietly walked on."

She was suddenly aware of how long she'd been talking.

This sounds so bizarre. He must think I'm crazy. But talking about this-talking to him-it feels so good.

She took a breath and went on.

"So that was it. I did get myself back home again, eventually. I kept looking for my shoes, all the way back, but I never did find them, and I was scratched up and when I told my dad what I'd seen, he was so angry, said I was nothing but trouble, and he really walloped me. He said I was making it up about the cougar. He said anyone as much trouble as I was should have been eaten up by a cougar. So I shut up and I never said anything about it again."

Another deep breath.

"Until this very minute," she said. "With you."

She was swept by a wave of shyness and a sudden sense that she'd made herself very vulnerable.

In the shadows of the truck's cab, it was too dark for her to see the response that lay deep in Cal's black eyes.

"Lucky that cat wasn't hungry," he said. "Though I've never heard of a cougar attacking a child unless he wasn't able to find his regular game. Like if he was injured, or something like that, and wasn't able to hunt. There's plenty of fat game around and as long as he'd had his fill of deer, or had gotten a calf on the range, he wouldn't have bothered you."

"I suppose." She laughed a little. "And I guess I was kind of a scrawny kid at that. Anyway, that was a long time ago, but the funny thing is, every time I come into this canyon, I think of those shoes I lost, and I keep looking for them. Like I still expect to get a licking for losing them. Like maybe they're going to turn up under a bush or behind a rock or something. Little red tennis shoes. Red and white. I guess some gopher or something took them away-some pack rat or a hawk-who knows what, but they just disappeared. You'd think by now I'd have forgotten them. But still, it always crosses my mind every time I come up here, like maybe that cougar decided to take them instead of me. I don't know. It's just that I keep needing to find my shoes. Isn't that silly?"

"And you never saw another lion up here?"

"Never until this one, just now. They're around, I know; the ranchers are always keeping an eye out for them. Just tonight I heard some talk about Al Wideman seeing a big cougar a couple of days ago and he thinks it took one of his calves. Who knows, maybe it's this same one. But what's so strange is how I was just remembering that time, when I was little, and then just at the same minute I thought of that other cougar, there's this big cat staring us right in the face."

Just tonight, when I came here with you. Like magic.

"And until tonight," she said, "I never said anything about it to anyone. Figured they'd only call me a liar, like my dad did. But somehow, in my kid mind, I thought that cougar had some special meaning for me, only I couldn't tell if it was good or bad. Is that weird or what?"

"Not weird for a kid," Cal said. "Kids think that way. But those big cats are dangerous and-well, like I said, you were lucky."

"I guess you're right. I guess I really was in a lot more trouble that day than I realized. Still, no cat up here has ever done me any harm, which is more than I can say for the two-legged animals down in the valley."

Cal remembered what Harvey had told him. He didn't want to pry, but he sure did want to know more about this beautiful young woman. He could still feel the press of her hand on his; that mysterious electric current hadn't flowed in one direction only and he wondered if she'd felt it, too. If she had- He straightened around on the seat and started up the engine.

"Why don't you and me just ride on up to your special place you were telling me about. You can show me the view of the town from up there and fill me in on the folks who live there."

He started the truck on its climb up the steep grade.

"Okay," she said. "I like looking at the valley and the whole town and everything just spread out below. It all seems a lot more manageable from this distance."

The radio was on again, and the canyon ahead of them looked so friendly in the truck's headlights.

It really is funny, how the littlest thing can turn your whole mood around.

Chapter Four.

The narrow canyon road twisted suddenly, widening onto a clear s.p.a.ce that was bounded by clumps of scrub oak and tall spruces and, on one side, a steep cliff wall. Far below them, the broad valley stretched into the distance with the highway running straight through it and the spa.r.s.e lights of Sharperville winking up at them. At the base of the cliff, the layered red rock formed a natural bench, broad enough to sit back comfortably against the stone.

Jamie climbed onto her favorite roost and pulled her legs up under her.

I can't believe I'm doing this. I never brought anyone here before.

Cal had deliberately lagged behind so he could watch her scramble up the layers of rock, where she made such a pretty, moonlit picture, with her legs crossed, fitting so neatly against the grooved stone. A gentle wind, soft through the canyon, lifted her fine hair and moved it from her shoulders as she looked out over the valley. The air had become nighttime-cold, and Cal realized she was bare-armed and her orange vest was only a thin covering.

"I'll be just a minute," he called to her. He reached into the s.p.a.ce below the gun rack and pulled out a plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt. "In case you're getting cold." In a moment he had climbed up beside her and put the s.h.i.+rt around her shoulders.

Jamie tensed as he reached around her, for the protective gesture had startled her, in part because of its unexpected kindliness.

But only in part.

For she had felt again that unmistakable flow of energy, a wave of warmth that closed the small s.p.a.ce between them. She'd felt it through her skin. She needed to take a really deep breath, as though to make room inside herself for the sudden flow of feeling that curled deeply into her. Confused by the mixed feelings that were tumbling about inside her-pleasure, desire, and a hefty dose of panic-and needing to conceal her confusion, she turned away from him.

"Thanks," she said, fumbling to pull the s.h.i.+rt around her. "It does get chilly up here at night. I was beginning to feel cold." That was certainly a lie-his touch had brought all the warmth she needed-but how could she tell him that? Her mind made a quick twist and she forced herself to remember that they'd come here to look at the view.

"Well, there it is." She gestured at the valley spread below them, quiet and remote in the moonlight. In the distance, a thin cl.u.s.ter of lights marked the center of town, and across the valley, tiny spots of light were scattered spa.r.s.ely. An occasional beam from a car's headlights moved along the highway. She spoke as lightly as she could, trying to ignore the sensations that had just been so unexpectedly roused inside her.

"There it is, folks," she said. "There's the hustling, bustling little town of Sharperville you see down there below you, Galena County's busy downtown metropolis, the red-rock jewel of the nation, cattle capital of the world, and the intermountain west's answer to New York and Paris." The wind caught at her hair and she brushed it quickly out of her face. "Where everyone is just folks' and G.o.d help anyone who doesn't toe the line."

Cal caught the pain behind her sarcasm.

"You lived here all your life?"

"Every d.a.m.n minute."

He scooped up a handful of sandy earth and let it trickle out of his fist.

"I haven't noticed it seems such a bad place. Didn't anything good ever happen to you here?"

"Oh, yes."

But then she was quiet while she stared out over that silent valley, her gaze held by the far-flung lights. The night was vast around her and was stirred only by the rough, pulsing, high-pitched cricket-sound and the gentle whisper of the firs moving in the wind. Far away, the snow-tipped peaks were touched by the moon. A coyote called and she jumped. Then all was silent again except for the crickets and the wind-whisper.

"One good thing happened."

She felt the whole story rising up, about to be told out loud for the first time, a story she'd carried silently and so painfully for two years. She was astonished that it was happening with this man, this stranger. As though a key had been turned in a lock, as though a door had opened, and she was about to expose her unspeakable shame.

Cal was the best kind of listener. He said nothing; he just kept scooping up handfuls of sand, absent-mindedly, and letting them slide through his fingers. He sensed that he was hearing-in this time and in this place-what had never been told before.

She needed a few moments before she could start-and Cal waited silently.

"I have a little girl. Her name is Mandy-Amanda, actually-and she's four years old. Four years old this May. Mandy is the good thing that happened. The best thing in the whole world that ever happened to me. The bad part is, her daddy is Ray Nixon. Maybe you know the Nixons. Everyone in Sharperville knows the Nixons. Pillars of the community."

She made no effort to hide the bitterness in her tone.

"It's an old story, I guess. I was just so d.a.m.ned young and there was so much I didn't know. But there was one thing I did know, ever since I was a kid. The good' people of Sharperville didn't think much of us Sundstroms. People watch each other pretty close around here and they've got this thing-from the Bible, I guess-about visiting the sins of the fathers on the children, or something."

"Unto the third and fourth generation," Cal nodded thoughtfully, looking down at the faraway town.

"Well, the sad truth is, my daddy's a drunk and hasn't done a days' worth of real work in his life. And all I got from my mom were my blue eyes and my hair and her family name."

"What happened to her?" Cal had a feeling he already knew what happened to Jamie's mom.

"My mom ran off with some trucker from Idaho when I was a baby"-she kept up her brave pose for a moment or two and then she finally let her feeling show-"so I guess my folks really aren't any good." She turned away from him, embarra.s.sed. "I don't know why they turned out the way they did," she went on quietly. "They both came from real good old Scandinavian stock. The Sundstroms and the Jamissons were well known around here, used to be good, solid people. They settled this part of the country way back, more than a hundred years ago and they worked hard and built up their farms, prosperous places, well-cared for. Everyone knows both families were real respectable. Reliable, hard-working people who went to church on Sunday and knew right from wrong.

"But something must have gone wrong in the later generations. All of them just disappeared, G.o.d knows where, and there was nothing left around here of that whole line-both sides-except my dad and me. And that left me, like it says in the Bible, with the sins of my father . . ."

"Oh, Jamie, that isn't what it says-"

"Well, whatever. My dad never did work the farm and he just lets the house fall down around him. He lives on whatever odd jobs he can pick up around town. When he's sober, that is. So now the place is an eyesore and, like I've heard plenty of times, a disgrace to the community.' I've been hearing that one since I can remember. And some people in this town can be pretty unforgiving. They don't let you forget.

"Anyway, by the time I got to high school, I was real glad when Ray Nixon started hanging out with me. I figured it would make me look respectable, what with his folks being such upstanding pillars of the community, like I said. Can you imagine I could be so dumb? But I was just a kid and I thought they must be good people, I mean they do their church work regularly and Ervil-he's Ray's father-he plays the organ for Sunday morning services. n.o.body can touch Edna's needlework at the county fair and they're always the ones to see to it that there's no liquor at the high school dances."

Jamie's smirk gave Cal a pretty clear picture of the "good" Nixons.

"You can imagine Edna wasn't exactly happy when Ray told her we were getting married. She kept prissing up her mouth and whining about how she never would understand that boy. Of all her kids-there were eight of them-he was the wildest of the bunch, she said, always into some sort of trouble, keeping her life a misery. And now here he was marrying Lee Sundstrom's daughter."

Jamie's voice became a whining, sarcastic mimicry of her former mother-in-law. "Ever since that no-good wife of his ran off, Lee Sundstrom has just got worse and worse, and that Jamie, that daughter of his, is going to turn out to be no better than her mother, you just mark my words, you see if I ain't right.' And then she'd poke Ervil to make him agree with her. Ain't I right, Ervil? Ain't I?' And Ervil always agrees with Edna so he'd nod his head, up and down, obediently. And then she'd point to Ray and say, But there's never been any stopping that boy from doing whatever he wanted,' like she thought he was just the cutest d.a.m.n thing that ever happened."

"So you and Ray went ahead and got married?"

Jamie shrugged.

"It didn't seem so stupid at the time. I'd known him ever since kindergarten, and I thought the Nixons were really respectable people. I was too dumb to know that being prissy and small-minded isn't the same as being decent. It took me a while to figure out that Edna's front parlor was plenty clean but the spirit inside her was mean.

"So, that very summer, right after we finished high school, we drove over to some little town in Nevada and quick got married and Edna got to tell everyone how her boy had run off with that no-good Sundstrom girl.'"

"So you had no fancy ceremony?"

"No way. There was no one on my side to make a regular wedding, and we knew Edna and Ervil would never approve. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. Like I said, we were so young, we even thought it was kind of a kick in the a.s.s, you know? Be the talk of the whole senior cla.s.s. I mean, imagine"-she smirked-"I wasn't even pregnant.

"But it turned out Ray wasn't just some wild kid. I mean, it wasn't just high spiritedness, you know. The marriage was in trouble right away-like that's a big surprise."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Well, right away Ray got a job at the hydro plant and it seemed like he always had to work crazy hours, and somehow he always needed to be out of town for days at a time. We had this little trailer home-Ray's still living there now-and it got so I never knew when he'd be coming home. He didn't care when I told him I was worried or that I didn't appreciate the way he was treating me. There were all these phone calls at all hours, and meetings with people I didn't like the looks of. And when I tried to find out what was happening, that's when things started to get real nasty."

"He hit you?"

"Sure, he hit me."

"And you stayed with him?"

"I know it sounds real stupid, but I actually was pregnant by then. I'd already figured out things weren't likely to work out, but I guess I was so miserable and so confused, I thought having a baby would make us a real family." She needed to stop. The memories-and the shame-hurt too much, and she felt the tears starting. And she was not going to cry in front of this cowboy, and she needed a moment to get her brave face back on.

Cal understood. He stayed quiet so she could continue when she was ready.

"But honestly, Cal. No matter how bad all the rest turned out, having Mandy was wonderful. She's the greatest little girl. I just don't see how someone so wonderful can come from Ray Nixon. Must have been something good left over from my side.

"Anyway, I thought I was somehow going to make it all work out-for her sake, you know? That's another dumb old story . . ." with both hands she gestured the futility, the frustration.