Dream Country (15 page)

At the thought of her father’s disapproval, Sage bit her lip. Her eyes filled with tears, and as if on cue, so did her bladder. She had to go again already! The baby tickled her insides as if he thought it was a big joke. The car slowed down, and even without streetlights, Sage could tell it was the pervert.

“Couldn’t leave you here all alone,” he said, rolling down the window. He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. His tie was knotted so tight, it made his face puffy and red. “I got to thinking—her father’s not gonna find her
there.
Why don’t you climb in and let me drop you off someplace proper?”

“Um, no, thank you,” Sage said politely. “My father knows exactly where to find me.”

The man opened his door. He’d been busy since letting Sage off fifteen minutes earlier—although his tie was knotted and his shirt was all buttoned up, his shirttails were untucked. And there was a definite opening where his zipper was supposed to be.

“You’re with child,” he said, making a statement.

“My father’s coming—” Sage said, scanning the horizon. Could she make it across the field? She’d have to leave her backpack behind. She might have to pee as she ran, but she didn’t care.

“You started having sex young,” he said, getting out of his car. “You can’t be much older than fifteen or sixteen. What are you, fifteen?”

Sage dropped her backpack. She turned to run, but he caught her arm. He felt it with pudgy fingers, just as if he was testing a chicken for plumpness. He squeezed up and down her bicep, pulling her toward his car. Sage screamed. She tried to kick him in the open zipper, but she slipped on the roadside sand. She heard him breathing harder, and she felt him embracing her with both arms. Screaming her head off, she kicked her feet.

Just then a car started up. She looked wildly around, struggling against the man. He was dragging her now, urgently, toward his idling Ford. The man grunted with effort, trying to throw her into the front seat. Tires squealed, burning out on sand and pavement.

“My father,” Sage sobbed, trying to tear away from the man. He yanked her hair. She looked for the other car, but it was a phantom. It didn’t really exist, except in the roaring engine sounds banging in her ears. “My father’s coming for me,” she cried. “Daddy!”

“Shit,” the man said, still holding her hair.

Out of the field, a big black car appeared—no lights on. It was a long Jeep-style vehicle, old and low, like some sort of official-looking highway maintenance car. Its pipes and axles and oil pan clanked against ruts in the field. Sage saw the rust holes and realized it was the broken-looking vehicle she’d seen parked by the ramshackle barn. The front door opened even before the car had come to a complete stop, and the driver came tumbling out.

The driverless black car coasted slowly by, cruising down the road a few yards before coming to a gentle stop against a hump of grass, while the driver got to his feet. He brushed himself off, then came striding over to Sage and the salesman, who had released his grip on her.

“This is a family matter,” the salesman said.

“No,” Sage tried to say, but her teeth were chattering. It didn’t make a bit of difference—the stranger wasn’t waiting to hear what she had to say. He just wound up his right arm and punched the pervert right in the mouth. Sage heard the pop of skin and the breaking of teeth.

“Mmaaateeeffff . . .” the creep said through fingers clamped over his now bleeding mouth.

“You’re done with them,” the stranger said.

“Mmaaateeeffff . . .” the salesman said again, as if he couldn’t believe it. His teeth had been perfect, Sage thought as he scrambled into his Ford and roared away. But she stopped herself short of feeling sorry for him. Instead, she turned to the stranger—to thank him. But he had run a few yards down the road, to where his car had stopped.

She would have expected a hero to be older and bigger. From several yards away, she could see that he was about five six, just a few inches taller than she, and thin. He had brown hair, and he wore faded jeans. Sage heard dogs barking and she realized the sounds were coming from inside the car. When her rescuer came walking back toward her, she could see that he was no older than she was—about sixteen, seventeen at the oldest.

Thank you, she wanted to say. But instead she just stared.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I think so,” she managed.

“That guy hurt you?”

“He tried.” Sage’s teeth were starting to chatter again.

“I heard,” the stranger said. He gestured toward the collapsing barn. “I was in there, and your scream scared every bird in the rafters. You see them fly out?”

“No, I was a little busy,” Sage said. “Is that your barn?”

“Nah,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket. He took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out. “Want one?”

Sage shook her head. She stepped closer to him. Something about his voice made her want to hear him talk. The sound was soft and low, a little gravelly. It sounded like a man’s voice. Darkness shaded his face, so Sage waited for the match light to see his eyes. They were pale green, and they looked hooded—as if he’d been hurt or hiding or both. He took a long, deep drag off the cigarette—just like a man who’d been smoking for twenty years.

“Where you going?” he asked, blowing the smoke out.

“Wyoming.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“I’m hitchhiking,” Sage said. She tried to laugh, sticking out her thumb. But something about the way he just stared at her without smiling, with his pale green eyes glowing in the smoky light from his cigarette, made her feel like crying instead.

“I’ll give you a ride,” he said. “I’m going there.”

“To Wyoming?”

“That direction, anyway,” he said. “West. My name’s David.”

“I’m Sage.”

She had forgotten about having to go to the bathroom again, but now the feeling came back full force. The baby swished around inside, just as if he was playing with a hula hoop.

“Um . . .” she began, trying to think of a polite way to tell David she had to pee.

“Go ahead. I won’t look,” he said, turning his back as if he’d known exactly what she was going to say before she’d even said it. Sage crouched down again, steadying herself with one hand, staring at his back. A dog in the car wailed, loud and heartsick. Sage could see the animal, frantically leaping from the front seat to the back, rubbing its nose all along the windows to get closer to David.

He touched the glass with one finger, and the dog stopped. Inside the car, nose to the front window, the dog was motionless against the glass as if it could smell his scent. As if calmed and held steady by his presence. Sage still didn’t have any tissue, but this time she didn’t wait to air-dry. She wanted to get into the warm car and hear the sound of David’s voice again.

Chapter Fifteen

D
alton and Louisa had stopped down at the Stagecoach to have supper and audition a new guitar player to replace Marty Hamlin, who’d just gotten thrown in jail for a parole violation.

Sitting onstage, the lights right in her eyes, Louisa sang softly while listening to the young man play “Gentle on My Mind.” He had a beautiful playing style, sweet and poignant, and Louisa was relaxing into the thought that her problems were solved, her show would go on even better than before—Marty had always played so tense and angry though what Louisa had wanted from his guitar was
romance
—when she heard the crash.

Everyone surrounded Dalton. He lay on the floor, moaning in pain. Louisa burst through the crowd of men, crouched beside him. At first she thought he’d had a heart attack, but his eyes were wide open and he was breathing fine. Writhing hard, his face was pale as death.

“Darling, what happened?” she asked. “What is it?”

“Think I’ve been shot,” he said.

“Shot—my God!” Louisa actually looked for blood.

“He fell,” the waitress said into Louisa’s ear. “He was headed for the men’s room, and his legs went right out from under him. My grandpa broke his hip last year, happened the exact same way . . .”

“Call the ambulance,” Louisa said calmly.

“We did, they’re on the way,” the waitress said, but Louisa had already stopped listening.

Louisa gripped Dalton’s hand. His eyes were open so wide she could see the whites showing all around the irises. He was terrified, so she covered him with her shawl. She leaned down, kissed him on the lips. They felt cold, and she was afraid he might be going into shock.

“They shot me,” he said. “A gunfight, just like when my daddy . . .”

“You’re safe,” Louisa said quietly. She heard the others talking behind them, laughing with discomfort at Dalton’s confusion. Wanting him to be quiet, to protect him from their pity and derision, she covered his body with her own.

“They shot me,” he said again, looking into her eyes for the truth. “No one believes me, but that’s the truth. I’ve been shot. Haven’t I, Louisa? Haven’t I?”

“Whatever you say, my love,” she said. “I believe you.”

An hour later, Dalton was having X rays at the satellite medical center off the highway. Louisa hadn’t smoked for many years now, but she found herself craving a cigarette. Waiting had never been her strong suit. She called the ranch, and James answered. Louisa could tell from the way his voice fell, he was disappointed it wasn’t Sage. But he snapped to the moment Louisa told him about Dalton.

“What happened?”

“They don’t know what’s wrong,” Louisa said. “He was healthy as all get-out this morning, and after supper he just collapsed. Fell down hard, James. He must’ve broken something, but we just don’t know what.”

“What are the doctors doing for him?” James asked.

“Tests. Trying to keep him comfortable.”

James was silent, but Louisa could hear his boot heels pacing the floor. “You just caught me,” he said. “I just stopped in to check for news on Sage.”

“The roundup, I know.”

“Yeah, and I can’t leave,” James said.

“You don’t have to. I’m here.”

“I know, but he’s my father—”

“I’m here,” Louisa repeated.

“Thanks. Tell him I’ll get to the hospital as soon as I can. Okay?”

“I’ll tell him.”

When Louisa hung up, she felt her throat stinging. James had thanked her, as if he knew his father was in good hands. That Louisa was with him—she always was. Kindling that little resentment like a damp campfire kept her busy for the next few minutes. So much so, she hardly noticed when her nephew Todd came walking in—dressed in his navy blue package express service uniform, as if he’d come to deliver something.

“Aunt Louisa,” he said, standing there with a worried look in his eyes. “Mel at the Stagecoach told me you were here. I came straight up, didn’t drink my beer, didn’t drop my truck down at the depot.”

“Oh, Todd,” she gasped, pulling him down to kiss his cheek. She felt so relieved to have family there, she held his hand and didn’t want to let it go. “Dalton fell. They’re doing X rays right now—”

“Man.” Todd shook his head. “A fall . . . is he okay?”

“I don’t know yet. They haven’t told me anything.” Louisa cast a dark look toward the treatment rooms, trying to see around the curtain. “I tried to go in with him, but they wouldn’t let me.”

Blood is thicker than water, her father used to say. Louisa hadn’t always believed that was true. Her relationship with her parents had been strained after she’d gotten pregnant, and her own daughter didn’t come to see her half as often as Louisa wanted—her husband wanted her all to himself, a possessive and selfish man. So when Todd put his arms around her, she was surprised by the deep, primal sense of care and family connection she felt.

“Mrs. Tucker?” a young man in a white lab coat asked. He introduced himself as Dr. Middleton.

“I’m Louisa Rydell,” she began.

“She’s Mrs. Tucker,” Todd interrupted.

“Well,” the doctor said, oblivious to the shock on Louisa’s face. “Your husband has suffered a fractured femur—the thighbone of his right leg.”

“Like a broken hip,” Louisa said. “Happens to everyone when they get on in years. Gonna happen to me someday.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” Dr. Middleton said. “It’s more painful and, in Mr. Tucker’s case, more serious. He’s had some significant bone loss, and his femur . . . well, to put it simply, it just crumbled. Disintegrated, if you will.”

“His thighbone
crumbled
?” Louisa asked, horrified, picturing it just turning to dust.

“Yes. Imagine an old wall with mortar—”

“Hey!” Todd said, stepping forward. “Do you have to be so insensitive?”

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, bowing his head and steepling his index fingers in apology. “I just want Mrs. Tucker to understand—his convalescence will not be easy. He’ll need round-the-clock care. Getting in and out of bed, to the bathroom—the most basic things will be impossible for him to do on his own. Coupled with the dementia—”

“Oh, God,” Louisa cried, unable to control her distress. “Maybe if you were the head of some hospital instead of working in this little backwater bivouac . . .” The young doctor was regarding her with compassion in his eyes, and that made her feel even worse.

“Maybe we need a minute to absorb this,” Todd said.

“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “I was thinking that myself. I’m going to send Mr. Tucker up to Dubois, get him admitted to the hospital until he’s stabilized. And then . . .”

“We’ll talk about ‘then’ later,” Todd said sharply.

“Thank you for being here. James has the roundup,” she said to Todd when Dr. Middleton had walked away.

“I’m just glad to help,” he said.

“Especially for what you said at the beginning. That I’m Mrs. Tucker.”

“That’s how I see you,” Todd said.

Louisa nodded. She hated getting upset in public places—she never liked having anyone see her act weak, and she couldn’t stand having her makeup run.

“I just hope he’s taken care of you,” Todd went on. “Looking toward the future, I mean. Treated you on paper like the wife you’ve always been.”

“You’d better not be talking about anything like a will,” Louisa said, hardening her eyes. “I hear you or anyone mention ‘Dalton’ and ‘will’ in the same breath, that person’s gonna need one of his own. And quick!”

“I just want to see you taken care of.”

“Don’t worry. Dalton’s a man of integrity. He does what’s right,” Louisa said, smoothing down her hair. If the doctor had the diagnosis, that must mean the tests were done and Dalton was ready to see her.

“I’m sure of that,” Todd said.

“Mmmm,” Louisa said.

“I’ll help you handle anything needs handling,” Todd assured her. “Tammy’s sister’s a nurse’s aide. She works at a convalescent home up Dubois way. Does private duty, too. I’ll give her a call and ask about broken femur bones.”

“Thank you, dear.” Louisa suddenly felt so tired and old, as if all the mortar was crumbling inside
her
. Sitting down, she stared at her feet. She was wearing red high heels. This morning she’d felt she could dance up a storm, and right now the love of her life was lying on a stretcher with his bones turning to dust.

Todd had gotten her thinking. She was just a visitor on the DR Ranch—the initials stood for “Dalton” and “Rosalind,” his first and only wife. Dalton loved Louisa—of that she had no doubt. But he had never changed the name of his ranch. He had never married her. James’s dislike of her had carried too much weight, and Dalton had never wanted to risk upsetting his son.

Where would Louisa go when—if—Dalton were to . . . she shook her head hard, not even wanting to think the word. The ranch was her home. That’s how Dalton had always wanted it, and he wouldn’t leave her high and dry. He wasn’t that kind of man. Letting out a long, low breath, Louisa rose. She said good-bye to Todd. And then she walked, straight and tall in her red high heels, down the antiseptic white corridor to be with the man she loved.

After climbing into David’s rusty old four-wheel drive, Sage felt exhausted and relieved. His hand was bleeding from punching the man’s teeth, and he wrapped his fist in gauze—he had a roll in a first-aid kit, which Sage thought was impressive. In the wide-open Nebraska dark, the moon threw silver light on endless frost-covered cornfields. David drove slowly, as if the car was too old to make it going fast.

Sage wanted to thank him, tell him how amazing his rescue had been, but she couldn’t bring herself to talk about what had just happened. Her teeth were chattering, and she wished she could take a bath and get the feeling of the man’s hands off her skin. Instead, she looked around.

The old car rattled as it drove, looking like something that belonged in a black-and-white movie. The seats were torn, their stuffing coming out. The reason why was obvious: The car was filled with animals. Sage saw a dog curled in a ball, a spaniel with bandages over its head, a broad-faced dog with a shredded toy in its mouth, and at least six tiny kittens. The kittens were going wild, running across the seat backs, across the old-fashioned door handles, hanging upside down from the fuzzy white headliner.

“It’s their busy time,” David apologized. “They get active after dark.”

“What are you doing with six kittens in your car?” Sage asked, oddly comforted to be talking about cats instead of what had just happened. “Wouldn’t they be better off at home?”

“Not the home they came from,” David said.

Sage glanced at him, mulling over his answer. Maybe he was running away from some terrible home—the opposite problem from hers. Sage’s trouble was that she had two good homes in very distant places. “Are you running away?” she asked.

“I don’t think of it that way,” he said. “I just don’t live there.”

“Interesting way to put it,” she said.

“Why, are you? Running away from home?”

“Running to home, actually.”

“Interesting way to put it.” He grinned.

He lit a cigarette and held it in his unbandaged right hand. Sage saw tattoos on his forearm—a hawk, an owl, a star, the moon, and three wavy lines that reminded her of how a little kid would draw a river.

Sage looked around the car, counting the animals. She looked at the stout, tricolored dog—just making eye contact—and it cowered in the corner of the backseat. It wrapped itself around its toy and tried to hide its head.

“Don’t hide,” Sage said, holding out her hand.

“That’s Petal,” David said, looking in the rearview mirror. “She’s a pit bull.”

Sage withdrew her hand. “Aren’t they attack dogs?”

“Only ignorant people think that. Petal came off a puppy farm. You know what that is?”

“No, what?”

“A place where they stick dogs in crates and breed them until they die. The mothers spend their whole lives having puppies, one litter after another. The puppies get yanked away before they’re finished nursing. The mothers get bred immediately, pregnant with another litter. They never get over missing their puppies. It’s a bad place.”

“Petal lived there?”

“Yeah. She was one of the mothers. She thinks she’s pregnant all the time, even though she’s not. Hasn’t been since I took her away.”

“Oh, God.” Sage looked back at Petal again. She had arranged her small stuffed animal between her paws, licking it tenderly. “She likes that little toy.”

“She thinks it’s one of her pups,” David said. “In her mind, she’s always pregnant, always nursing.”

Sage quietly touched her own belly. The baby was still, resting for now. It seemed strange to hear a young man talk so knowledgeably about pregnant, nursing dogs, just as it seemed incredible that she should be so far along herself. In three months she’d have a baby, and she’d know just as much as Petal. “You took Petal away from that place?”

“Yeah,” David said. “And I took the others from places like it.”

Again, Sage turned to look into the backseat. The other two dogs were just as docile as Petal. The one with the bandaged face—a brown-and-white spaniel—lay at the opposite end of the bench seat from the pit ball. In the middle, curled up in a tight ball, lay a Scottish terrier. Sage’s mother and aunt had had Scotties when they were young, and she knew the breed was feisty and curious—but this dog wouldn’t even lift its head.