Dream Country (10 page)

Eleven hours after leaving the train, Sage stopped to check her map. She was exhausted, and it felt good to stop. Digging through her pack, she pulled out the travel kit she had made before leaving home: flashlight, matches, pictures of her father and the ranch, and the map.

It was a Rand McNally map of the United States that she’d bought at the drugstore years ago. For a long time, it had hung on her wall, with one thumbtack in Connecticut and another in Wyoming. As time went by, she began tracing the route she imagined taking to the ranch.

Now the dream was real, and she had made it partway through Iowa. Luckily the roads were pretty straight, so as long as she pedaled toward the setting sun she’d be okay. By late afternoon, as she traveled country roads through field after field, she felt exposed in the wide-open spaces. She thought of stone walls, hills and valleys, oaks and pines: the landscape of home, with places to hide around every bend.

She realized how near she had come to being caught, sent back home with that close call with the police. One part of her wished she would be found. She pedaled along, thinking of Ben, wondering where he was. She kept remembering that moment when his voice had cracked, when he’d said he wanted to go back to Silver Bay. The memory made her cringe, tighten her shoulders. It made her feel alone and ashamed in ways she had never felt before.

It made Sage know that he would have broken up with her eventually. It made her picture herself alone with the baby. Had the authorities called Ben’s mother, put him on a plane home yet? What if they’d put him in jail? Riding along, Sage wished on every hay wagon she saw that he was okay. The hurt she felt was shocking, searing, like a just-skinned knee. She felt as if they’d been ripped apart, and she couldn’t quite believe it yet.

Even though she knew it was what Ben wanted. That made it worse. She thought of how she had known he wanted to go back: When he had held her on the train, it wasn’t the same as before, nothing like the magic bed. His arms had been around her body, but she’d felt him wanting to push her away. He didn’t even have to say.

As she rode her bike past empty cornfields, the stalks shorn down to foot-high stubble, Sage’s stomach rumbled. A few miles back she had found some unharvested ears, and she’d eaten the dry kernels, trying to pretend they were unpopped popcorn. Watching low clouds blowing across the endless sky, she tried to comfort herself, telling the baby they’d be there soon.

There.
What a strange word for little kids. She remembered her own mother saying it all the time:
“We’ll be there soon.”

The trick was not what her mother had meant, but how Sage had taken it. There wasn’t a time, from the age of four on, that Sage hadn’t hoped that “there” meant “the ranch.” They might be going to the A&P, the aquarium, the wharf, Aunt Hathaway’s—but if her mother said,
“We’ll be there soon,”
Sage’s mind would click into some bizarre mode, and she’d think—or at least hope—that her mother meant the ranch.

There,
Sage thought.
There.

A pickup passed, going in her direction, and she saw the driver check his rearview mirror. He hit his brakes, slowing down slightly. Sage sat upright, feeling her stomach lurch. What if he came back? She was way out in the middle of nowhere, and she knew full well to be leery of strangers offering her rides.

At the same time, she was exhausted. It would be getting dark soon, and she didn’t know where she was going to sleep that night. Besides, it looked like rain.

The pickup truck’s brake lights went off as the driver sped up again. Sage watched him for a long time, until the truck was no bigger than a fly.

The wind blew harder, getting dirt in her eyes. She saw tractors in the fields, their yellow wheels like big eyes watching her pass by. Thinking of owls hunting, she shivered all the way down her spine. That had been one of her worst nightmares of childhood, the dream of an owl swooping down on Jake, carrying him into a tree hole, tearing him apart like a squirrel.

“We’re almost there,” she said to her baby, just to let him know they were safe, that they’d sleep soon. “I promise.”

There were no twists in the road, no hills. She could see two houses up ahead, two red barns. The first house had a tricycle parked by the lamppost. A neatly trimmed hedge ran around the yard. There was a flagpole surrounded by chrysanthemums, the American flag standing out straight in the stiff wind. Aunt Hathaway loved the flag, always flew it from the white porch outside her small shop.

And the ranch had had a flag. Sage had forgotten all these years until this very moment, but now she remembered her grandfather giving her a ride on his shoulders, letting Jake pull the line that hoisted the flag up the tall white pole. Stopping her bike, Sage took a deep breath. She thought about going right up to the front door, asking for a place to stay that night.

They’d call the police in two seconds flat.

Instead, Sage wheeled her bike around the barn. She watched the house windows, to see if anyone was looking. Night was falling, and the sky was getting dark. Gentle shadows coated the brown yard. Pushing the heavy barn door half open, Sage thought of the familiar shadows of home: her house, the pines, the grape arbor. Since she had begun seeing Ben, she had sneaked into her own house many times at night: Not once had she ever appreciated the warm feeling of knowing that her mother was right down the hall.

Here she was in Iowa, hiding in the barn of strangers. She felt cold and alone, furtive as a criminal. Pushing her bike behind a rusty old tractor, she looked around. The day’s fading light came through cracks in the walls. A horse whinnied, and she jumped.

It was the children’s pony. Small and shaggy, it tossed its head as she approached. She saw a pile of apples and carrots on a low shelf, and she ate some hungrily. The pony nickered, and she fed it an apple. Bone tired, Sage wanted to curl up in the pony’s stall. She wanted to feel the animal’s warmth, curl her stomach against its spine. As she fed it another apple, hoping to make friends, the pony kicked.

Its hoof struck the stall, the sound loud and echoing. Sage jumped away. Her eyes filled with tears. She felt rejected, unwanted even by this gray pony. His ears were flat, and she knew that wasn’t a good sign. Sage remembered horse-lore from her childhood. Her father had taken her riding every day of her life until she was four, let her sit high in the saddle, hold the reins. She had a knack for horses, he’d told her. She remembered that still.

With the pony watching her, Sage climbed a narrow ladder to the hayloft. It was dark, and it felt warmer than downstairs, as if the straw generated its own heat. Too tired to look for more food, Sage crawled into the pile and pulled hay around her like a blanket. Snuggling into a ball, she felt her belly.

“We’re safe now,” she whispered. “We’re not there yet, but we’re safe for the night.”

She heard a truck whiz by on the road outside. A night bird screeched. Way up above, a jet engine droned, and she wondered whether the flight was going east or west. She pictured her mother’s face, and she pictured her father’s. The baby felt warm and cozy inside her. The hayloft was dark. They might not be
there,
but they were here. Sage slept.

David Crane loved the car because it took him away. He stepped on the gas, and he sped east. The car was ancient, with rust holes and missing trim. Inside, springs poked through the torn vinyl upholstery, and tufts of white stuffing and foam fell onto the floor. The car smelled of wet fur.

Animals huddled everywhere. Their eyes were wide open, alert in the night. They caught the glare of passing headlights—circles of yellow, all through the car.

Driving east through the Black Hills of Wyoming, he neared the Nebraska border. He hesitated, rolling down his window to listen to the wind. Here the ponderosa pines were dark and thick, and their boughs brushed against each other telling him which way to go.
Turn left, take the highway, drive fast:
as specific as that.

He got his directions from nature. The sun, the moon, the stars, the wind: Nature spoke to him the way a mother was supposed to. He got signals he couldn’t explain, followed them without too many questions. The directions always led him to animals, creatures who needed to be rescued.

One of the dogs barked, and he knew it was time to give everyone a walk.

“Want to go out?” he asked.

Two of the dogs whimpered in response.

Glancing into his rearview mirror, he saw a big semi barreling down the road. He pulled over to let it pass, and then he opened the car’s rear door to let the dogs out. They tromped into the trees, without any of the joy or freedom of normal dogs. Doing their business, they kept close watch on their driver.

When they had finished, he whistled long and low—like an owl hunting over the chaparral. The dogs dutifully marched back to the car, their heads hung low, one clenching an old stuffed toy in her teeth.

“Inside, Petal,” he said, giving her a gentle pat. “That’s a girl.”

Petal was his first rescue, and he loved her more than any other creature on earth. A white, black, and brown pit bull, she gripped her toy in her massive jaws, drool soaking it wet. He had given her the toy himself, something ancient from his own childhood, to help her feel secure.

With everyone safe in the old car, he opened the glove compartment. He had dropped out of school years ago now—if he had ever really gone. School had never meant anything to him, but traveling did. Nature taught him better than any teacher. Right now it—nature—was pulling him so hard, he couldn’t breathe right.

Mostly his work—saving things—kept him in Wyoming. Plenty of barns filled with stray cats, hundreds of puppy farms run by cruel owners. But right now he felt the tug—like a fish on a line—toward Nebraska. He had never felt such a compulsion. His eyes watered, and his mouth was dry.

Something needed him. Rifling through the glove compartment, he found his kit. Inside, he had sewing needles, a fine-tipped fountain pen, and ink. For now, he left the needles alone. But dipping the pen-point into the bottle of ink, he shook the loose drops onto the dirty floor of the old car.

Pen-point nearly dry, he adjusted the rearview mirror. It was dark, but he could see by the moonlight slanting through the pine boughs. Very carefully, he drew on his left cheek. Then on his right.

The marks symbolized protection, things to be saved. He knew he had something big ahead of him. It might be a hurt dog, a litter of abandoned kittens, an owl with a broken wing. David didn’t know; he’d have to wait till he got there.

That’s how it felt to him, starting up the car, driving through the Black Hills into Nebraska: as if he was heading into danger, as if whatever needed him this time was bigger and more intense than anything he had ever handled before.

Chapter Ten

D
alton Tucker’s prediction came true: The rain came. And once it started, it fell in torrents. Sheets of silver rain blew down the Wind River mountains, filling the lakes and riverbeds. Bison, moose, elk, and antelope drank alongside cattle. Draws filled up with water, and armies of rattlesnakes slithered up the crevices. Dust turned to mud, making the ground slippery underfoot.

On horseback, James was moving cattle down from the summer range. He wore his hat, chaps, a boot-length green slicker, and a bandanna around his neck, but none of that mattered: He was drenched through. The brim of his hat acted as a spout, pouring water straight into his crotch. At least it kept his mind off the worst of what might be happening, off the six days his daughter had been missing.

The calves scrabbled in the mud, trying to get closer to their mothers. The younger ones wailed and the mothers moaned. James and his crew had been working for six hours and in the move, families tended to get separated. Cow babies would stay with their mothers the rest of their lives if he’d let them. They wanted their mothers’ milk and protection, and they’d keep it as long as they were allowed.

He cared for the cattle and hated to see them suffer, but that went with the territory. The calves had to learn to survive—graze, find water—on their own. Each head on the range was worth money in its own right, and it was days like this that made James remember he was in the beef business, not the veterinary business. There were parts of ranching he hated, and this was one of them.

“James!” Paul March called, riding after a pair trying to run away. “Got a stuck one over there.”

James turned to look. The rain had transformed parts of the pasture into a bog, and a calf had gotten caught. He galloped over. The calf had sunk up to its chest, all four legs mired in mud. Its eyes had the look of a child lost in the grocery store—helpless and frightened. James didn’t let himself feel anything. He just drew back his rope, threw a loop around the calf’s neck, took his dally.

“She’s stuck good,” Paul said, riding over.

“We’ll get her out,” James said. With a half-hitch around the saddlehorn, he kicked his horse forward. The calf wouldn’t budge.

“When it rains, it pours,” Paul joked.

“No one’s thirsty today,” James said, rain trickling down his collar. As the horse strained more, the calf began to move. It popped out of the mud like a cork, found its legs, ran to its mother.

“Heard about Daisy coming out,” Paul said. “That true?”

“That’s what Louisa says.” James had heard the news last night.

Seems Louisa had taken it upon herself to stir the pot, call Daisy for a woman-to-woman talk. Daisy hadn’t mentioned anything about coming here when James had talked to her. The opposite had seemed true: that she hated the place with a passion, wanted to stay as far away as possible.

“Well—” Paul began.

James cleared his throat to cut Paul off. His eyes narrowed, watching his father. Across the pasture, Dalton sat tall in the saddle, seeming oblivious to the rain. For that matter, he seemed to have forgotten that he was on a horse in a downpour. He just turned his head from side to side, as if he was watching the world go by.

“Been a long time since she was here,” Paul said, not getting the message.

“Hmm. Yeah,” James said, not wanting to think about Daisy. It was a thought that picked up emotion as it passed through his mind. Long time ago, it might have been attached to hope. Now he found it was linked to dread. “Where’d you hear about her?” he asked Paul.

“The Rydell boys,” Paul said. “Talking at the bar last night.”

Louisa’s nephews, James thought. She must have told them, getting the word out. He wondered whether she’d included the part about Sage running away from home. Paul March was his ranch foreman—a good man, and a real friend. But James didn’t want Todd Rydell talking about Daisy or Sage.

“Nothing’s definite,” James said. “She might come, she might not. Don’t think she’s decided yet.”

“Look, I know about your daughter being missing,” Paul said, removing all doubt about what Louisa had said. “That she’s on her way out here. You’ve got to be worried shitless.”

“That’s a good word for it.”

“She’ll show up.”

“Yeah.” James wiped rain off his face with the back of his hand.

“She will, James.”

James nodded, peering at a cluster of cows, mothers and calves gathered together for protection. He thought of the calf stuck in the boghole, how the earth could just swallow your offspring without warning.

“James. Talk to me, okay? I was there, remember?”

“There?”

“When Jake went.”

“Went . . .” James repeated, considering the word. For some reason, it made him think of Daisy. He wondered what she would say if he tried using “went” on her, as in “Jake went away.” A mild, gentle word for the whole world falling apart.

“You’ve got to be going crazy. Why haven’t you said anything?”

James looked Paul straight in the eye. The foreman was big and stocky, going bald under his hat. He had pale brown eyes, the color of the land. The men had grown up together, right here on the DR Ranch—Paul’s father had been foreman to Dalton, just as Paul’s grandfather had been foreman to Dalton’s father, Asa.

James had gone to school with the March kids—Paul, his sister June, and their brother Luke. He and Paul had had their first beers together at a bar in Lander. They had played ranch Little League; they’d gone fly-fishing on Torero Creek. Attended each other’s wedding. Paul and his wife had baby-sat for the twins. James had no brothers, and Paul was the closest he had to a best friend. But in a million years, James wouldn’t have considered telling him about Sage leaving home, about Daisy maybe coming west.

“Nothing to say,” James replied after a long minute.

“I don’t know.” Paul shook his head. “Seems like there’s a whole lot to get off your chest—” His jaw was set, his eyes scrunched up with hurt and frustration.

“My chest’s fine,” James said.

“Whatever you say.” Eyes flashing, Paul seemed about to add something more, but then he wheeled on his horse and rode away.

It was hard being James’s friend. Daisy had told him that a thousand times. The thing was, James could give out—no problem. He could sit by a campfire and listen to another man’s woes about money, wife, kids, the roof of his house blowing off. But James couldn’t take kindness. He didn’t know why, but love, friendship, tenderness—whatever you wanted to call it—made him so uncomfortable he wanted to crawl out of his skin.

“Mind your own damn business,” James said once he was sure Paul couldn’t hear him. Even as he spoke, he felt a pain in his chest, the pain he got all the time, ten times a day. It came when he thought of his kids, when he pictured Daisy.
A lot to get off your chest,
Paul had said.

Okay, maybe. But where would it go?

The horse beneath him reared. A rattlesnake had somehow failed to heed nature, find its lair; it was there in the middle of his path. Coiled, rattle going, it opened its fangs to strike.

“Goddamn snake,” James said.

The big bay reared and whinnied and James brought it down to kill the snake. The bay’s front left hoof struck the rattler’s head, cut it right off. The long, thick body straightened out, jerking in spasms. The horse rose again. James felt its weight slam down again, jarring against the earth. Taking care of business, James thought. Killing a rattlesnake that might have bitten his horse.

Time was, he’d wanted to kill every rattler in the Wind River Range. He’d wanted to shoot every grizzly, drain every deep water hole, wipe out any possible danger to his family. After Jake disappeared, James had lain awake every night for months, thinking of all the threats that could befall him. Daisy had blamed him for losing their son. The least James could do was annihilate all the predators.

One rattlesnake, dead.

Now, maybe Daisy was coming west.

Daisy Tucker. Those big eyes, the way she’d look at nature—the mountains, the animals, the big blue sky—and have it come out her hands in the jewelry she made. Daisy had love in her hands, along with magical powers. The first time she’d held James, he had felt himself come alive. Every hair on his body had stood on end. She could kiss him and make him whole. When she touched his skin, he believed in heaven.

Heaven had been Daisy’s gift. For their five years together, James had lived with more peace and bliss than he’d ever dreamed possible. The mountains were the clouds, the land was endless sky. James and Daisy were above the realm of earth, the struggles and pains of being human. They hadn’t had to work at being happy, at loving each other, at having a good marriage. Heaven didn’t require such things.

Suddenly he heard his father cry out, then call, “I’m all wet!”

“Dalton, hey—”

“I’m soaking wet,” Dalton yelled again.

Shaken from his thoughts, James looked across the field of cattle. Dalton had climbed off his horse in the middle of it all. Trying to dry himself off with a red bandanna, he stood among the confused herd, getting jostled around.

“It’s raining, Dalton,” Paul said. “We’re all wet.”

“Why am I all wet?” Dalton asked, as if he hadn’t heard him.

Some of the young cowboys were laughing. They tried not to show it, and James turned away from them. He didn’t want to remember who to hate, to resent for making fun of his old father. Senility in a cowboy: No one wanted to think it could happen to them. The laughter got louder, and James snapped.

“Shut the fuck up,” he shouted.

“James—”

“Sorry—”

“You got fathers?” he asked. “Any of you?”

“Sorry, boss—”

James was past hearing. He shouldered through the herd. His father had no business being here. He had ridden out on his own, after James and the other hands had left the barn that morning. Now Dalton was trying to get his sopping clothes off, stripping off his slicker, unbuttoning his shirt. James felt the pressure of so many worries: Sage, Daisy, now his father. He wanted to explode, yell at Dalton for coming along where he wasn’t wanted, screwing up the day’s work.

“Jesus Christ, Dad,” James yelled.

“I’m all wet.” Dalton’s eyes were as wide open as a child’s.

“I know, it’s pouring rain,” James said, his face hot and flushed.

“All wet,” Dalton said sorrowfully. “Soaking wet.”

James bowed his head. He could hear his son’s voice. That’s what Jake had said every time James had given him a bath. With the same regret and dismay in his little voice, the boy had looked trustingly up at his father and said the same words:
“All wet. Soaking wet, Daddy.”

“You’re okay,” James said to his father now, as he had once said to his son. Swinging down from his horse, he stood by his father in the middle of the swirling herd. Cattle stepped on their feet, bumped against their bodies. “Don’t worry, Dad.”

“I don’t like it,” Dalton said, panicked. He was naked, having pulled off all his clothes.

James picked up the old man’s yellow slicker, wrapped it around his father. Dalton was skinny as a bird. Leaning into James’s chest, he was shivering. His face was leathery, wrinkled, but his expression was childlike. He breathed in panic. James thought of Jake. Wanting his son to be tough, at first James would try to ignore the child’s cries. Daisy had helped him come up with words of wisdom and comfort to soothe his son. He held his father, and he used Daisy’s words now.

“It’s only water,” James said as he held his father in his arms. The cows closed around them, and the rain pelted their heads. “There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”

Daisy rang the Davis house twenty times before noon. Half the time it was busy, the other half she got the answering machine. When both kids had still been missing, Paulina had answered Daisy’s calls screaming that she would like to kill Sage; she had known she was bad news from the minute Ben had brought her over. Daisy had hung up on her.

But Daisy had kept calling. The parents had to stay connected, to report any new developments. With Ben on his way home, Paulina was smug and cold. At least he was safe. Paulina had promised he would call, but still he hadn’t.

Once again, Daisy tried the line. She had left three messages, asking Ben to call her when he got in. She began to suspect that Paulina had lied, that she wasn’t going to tell Ben to call after all, so she kept calling. It worried her, tying up the line when Sage might be trying to get through, but she had to know—she had to ask Ben where she was,
how
she was. Just about to dial again, she heard a knock at the back door. Telephone in hand, she pulled it open.

Ben stood on the porch. He wore a parka that made his shoulders appear huge. Looking scared, he hung back. Daisy’s mouth dropped open. Very slowly, she hung up the phone.

“My mother told me you called,” he said. “It seemed better that I come over than call you.”

Daisy nodded. “Come in.”

“You probably don’t want to see me,” he said. His eyes were red, his face pale. His brow was screwed up with worry. He was one year older than Sage. Staring at him, Daisy knew he had gotten her daughter pregnant, helped her run away from home. Her eyes filled with tears.