Dream Country (18 page)

“No . . .”

“Then why not?”

Daisy shrugged, shaking her head. It seemed impossible, too much of an adventure for her to imagine. But then he kissed her again, tipping her face back toward the sun, covering her mouth with his soft lips. Once more, Daisy dropped the gold nugget; again, James picked it up for her.

And she moved off the dude ranch and went to stay on the DR. James put her right here, in the secluded cottage where she was staying now. He kept a respectful distance for a good long time. At least twenty-four hours. Daisy had eaten her meals up at the main house with James, Dalton, and Louisa. She had made friends with Paul March and the others. Louisa’s nephew Todd had been working here back then; Daisy remembered the time he’d brought her a bouquet of mountain daisies and looked in her window. She remembered how James had nearly killed him.

Raising her head, Daisy looked around. She blinked at the window, almost expecting to see summer light instead of falling snow. The little place hadn’t changed at all. Thinking of James, of their first meeting, broke something deep inside. The magic started again, and Daisy’s fingers felt hot. The candles flickered, as if a ghost had just flown by. Daisy thought it might be the spirit of that rattlesnake, the hideous creature that had—for so many years—filled her with gratitude.

Her jewelry put the wearers in contact with the spirit world, suggesting the sun and moon, the earth’s wintertime slumber and springtime renewal, and the reappearance of snow geese after their long migration. The division between the earthly and spiritual worlds was too mysterious for Daisy to fathom.

All she knew was, her fingers felt hot and the candles were burning down. The chants continued, and she wondered whether James was home from the range. Sage and Jake were in her heart, and for the moment that was enough. These spells of work brought her peace and serenity for as long as they lasted.

Picking up the bones, she heard a wolf call in the snow outside. It barked again, then poured out its heart in a full-throated bay. Something shook, like the ghost-rattle of the long-dead snake that had carried Daisy into love. She started, looking around, then realized it was just a loose pane of glass in the old cottage window.

Wind blew down the chimney, swirling the embers and making the candle flames jump. Daisy kept working, the magic and inspiration delivering her from worry. Sage was coming. She was traveling west, just as Daisy had done herself so long ago. Sage’s parents’ love and the spirit of the bones she wore around her neck would keep her safe. And bring her home.

Taking shelter from the storm, David and Sage had found another old cow barn. Two nights on the road, and this was getting to be a habit.

Outside, the snow came down. Three inches had fallen already, and David said they’d have six more before it was over.

“More in the mountains, where we’re heading,” he said. “Three, four times that in Wyoming.”

“But it’s not even Thanksgiving,” Sage said, thinking of how the ski areas in New England would love this.

“It’ll melt as fast as it falls,” he said. “It won’t last. The real snows don’t start till later. December, January.”

They were settled in a back corner of the barn, the dogs and kittens sleeping on their laps. Petal chewed her stuffed toy, staring with devotion at David’s face. Sage tried to arrange herself comfortably on the hay; the baby was active today, and she couldn’t find a position where his feet weren’t tapping on her organs. Once, David had stared hard at her belly, as if trying to see whether she was really pregnant or just fat. But he’d been too polite to say anything.

“You know a lot about Wyoming,” Sage said.

“Yeah.”

“Is it nice there?”

“Same as anywhere. Nice some places, bad others.”

Sage heard the cows mooing, and she looked around. She felt a thrill of memory, smelling the farm animals and hearing their big bodies rustle in the straw. This was a living, breathing herd, and she wondered whether it was anything like her father’s.

“We have cows,” she said.

“You do?”

“At my father’s ranch.”

David let out a quick, scornful snort. “He’s a
rancher
?”

“Yes, he is.”

“I hate ranchers,” David said.

Sage felt shocked, as if he’d spit on her feet.

“With a passion,” David continued.

“I don’t see how you can say that,” Sage said. “Considering where you picked for us to sleep. If you hate ranchers so much, why do you stay in their barns?”

“This is a dairy farm,” he said, glowering. “Not a ranch. There’s a big difference.”

“Cows,” Sage said, holding out one hand and now the other. “And cows. Big difference.”

“Milk,” David said, turning his left palm up, then his right, “and hamburger. Ranchers get the cows to trust them, and then they slit their throats.”

“Oh—” At some level, of course Sage knew that beef came from cattle and cattle came from her father’s ranch. But she had never liked to dwell on the particulars. She preferred to wash the picture in softness and light, mountain vistas in sunset colors. The idea of hamburger made her gag, and she covered her mouth.

“Sorry,” David said.

“My dad doesn’t do that part himself,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” Sage said, even though she wasn’t.

“It doesn’t make a difference anyway. It’s cruelty to animals. You get them to love you, take food from your hands, and then you make them suffer. It sucks, and I hate anyone who does it.”

Sage watched him as he spoke. His face twisted up like a wet washcloth, turning bright red. He took a cigarette out, held it in the palm of his unhurt hand. His teeth were clenched, a lot like a vicious wolverine’s. Sage actually felt a little scared of him; she could see there was nothing casual about the way he felt.

“Did you grow up on a ranch?” Sage asked after his face unknotted.

“No.”

“Then why do you hate ranching so much?”

“I’ve seen plenty.”

“Where did you grow up?” Sage asked, thinking it would be better if they got off this subject.

“Hollywood.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Sage’s feelings were hurt, but she wasn’t going to show it. The kittens were asleep, curled into six purring balls in the hay between her and David. The Scottie and spaniel stared at the cows, and Petal licked her shredded toy as if grooming a puppy.

“Why don’t you light that if you want it so bad?” she asked, gesturing at his cigarette.

“’Cause this is a barn, and there’s hay around, and I don’t want to kill us and the cows,” he said. “You’d better get clear on barn behavior if you’re gonna live on a ranch.”

Now Sage’s feelings were worse than hurt. Her throat felt tight and her eyes filled with tears. She was just like her mother, she cried very easily.

“Shit,” David said.

Sage wished she had never met him. Her lower lip shaking, she bit it hard and tried to see through her tears. The snow was only three inches deep—she could walk back to the main road and find her way to Wyoming. She wouldn’t even hitchhike. Her legs were strong and solid, and they’d carry her there. She would walk, Sage thought, starting to sob.

“Sage,” he said, coming up behind her. “Hey, Sage.”

“Leave me alone.” Sage shook her head. She stepped in a big clump of cow manure, and crying hard, she tried to scrape it off. “I don’t need a ride from you,” she said. “I’ll make it on my own.”

“What, in the snow?”

“Yes.”

David stood there. The more Sage tried to clean her boot, the worse the manure seemed to stick. Her stomach churned, and she knew she was going to be sick. She could almost read his thoughts; he must be feeling disgusted by her pregnant condition and that her father was a cruel rancher and the fact of cow manure on her shoe. And now she was going to throw up—

She did—all over her other shoe.

David didn’t even move. He didn’t turn away or make sounds of revulsion. Sage retched until her stomach was empty, crying between spasms. Leaning against a wall of worn barnboard, she felt overtaken by depression and loneliness.

“Here,” David said, taking her hand. He guided it to his shoulder, propping her up as he used a handful of straw to clean off first her left boot, then her right. Sage gripped his slender shoulder bones, trying to stifle the sobs that rose in her chest. Then easing her hand away, he stood up.

“Don’t cry,” he said, looking into her eyes.

Sage and David stood face-to-face. She shuddered, feeling the emotion pour through her. David wiped her tears with his thumb, and again she noticed the owl tattooed on his wrist. The color was vivid and lifelike, as if the tattoo artist had used magical pigments to make the bird come alive. Staring at the creature’s yellow eyes, Sage avoided David’s.

“Sage . . .” he said.

“What?” she whispered.

“Hey . . .”

He was waiting for her to look at him. She felt her heart beating, and for a minute she wondered if he was going to kiss her.

Right now, standing in front of David, she had some of the same physical sensations that went with kissing: the flush in her face and neck, the tingling in her arms and the back of her legs, the building sense that something was about to happen. But as Sage raised her head to gaze into David’s eyes, she knew that she was wrong about the kiss.

His expression was blank, as if he was sleepwalking. His mouth was half open, his eyes wide. Sage watched how he just stared at her, as if he needed her to say something. When she didn’t, his mouth moved. He seemed to be trying to form words, and then he finally spoke.

“I would never have let that guy hurt you,” he said.

Sage bit her lip, afraid she might start crying again.

“No matter what. I don’t let things get hurt. Dogs, cats, cows, people. I wouldn’t have let him hurt you.”

“I know. You rescued me.”

“I saved the dogs from puppy farms,” he said, as if reminding her and himself. “I’ve known Petal since she was a puppy herself. She was my mother’s favorite dog.”

“You lived on a puppy farm?” she asked, shocked.

David nodded. As if he’d missed a tear, he used his hurt hand to wipe her cheeks again. His gaze was blank, as if he had long since decided it was better to feel nothing than to remember the details.

“What was it—” she started, wanting to ask what had made him run away.

“That’s why I save things,” he said. “Why I don’t let them get hurt, no matter what. Okay?”

Sage said okay.

“So don’t worry anymore.”

“I won’t.”

“You need to eat,” he said. Although he didn’t mention her pregnancy, Sage realized then that he knew: the second person, after Deenie, to notice. She didn’t care; she was kind of glad, because she felt close to David in some way she didn’t quite understand—that was as important as kissing but didn’t need it. Good friends, potential best friends, she thought. The kind of friends that went through bad times together, feeding kittens with baby bottles. The kind of friends that helped each other find shelter from all sorts of storms.

“I know,” she said, patting her belly. “I need to eat.”

“Sit down,” David said, walking her toward the dogs and cats. “I’ll be right back.”

Settling herself in the nest they’d made before, Sage let the animals gather around her. Their body heat warmed her, and their beating hearts comforted her. Closing her eyes, she felt almost peaceful.

She heard the sound of liquid hitting tin. At first she thought someone was spraying a hose at the roof, but then she saw David halfway down the barn. In the dim light coming from tracks overhead, she watched him crouching in the straw, milking a cow. Sage could see he knew what he was doing; it took him less than a minute to fill the small pail.

Carrying it through the barn, his face was dark and shadowed. She couldn’t read his expression from here, and for some reason she was afraid it would be that blank stare. But when he handed her the pail, his eyes were soft and eager.

“Is it good?” he asked.

“It’s good,” she said, trying to hand him the warm pail.

But he wanted her to have it all. She felt suddenly ravenous, but she had to be careful and not take too much too fast. The animals must have smelled the fresh milk; they all began to stir, waking up from deep sleep. David opened the bag he had brought in from the car, filled the dogs’ bowls with food and water.

As he sat down to feed the kittens, Sage drank some more milk. A feeling of contentment started deep inside, beneath the fear and anxiety that had been with her every day for months.

Chapter Eighteen

L
ouisa wished Emma and Ruthie were with her. When you were Louisa’s age and sitting in a hospital room by the bedside of your infirm beloved, you wanted your family by your side. You wanted to remember that you were loved and cherished, that you had made a difference in this world, that your spirit would live on. Crises made you realize that no one goes on forever, that this precious life was over in a snap—just like
that.
And it made you want your offspring to reassure you that they would be there and love you till the end.

Two days after his fall, Dalton, sleeping, looked horrible. Louisa peered over the
People
magazine she was reading and thought his color was worsening. He lay on his back, tubes running into his wiry arms, his mouth wide open. The nurse had taken his partial plate, and he looked like a toothless vagrant. It shocked Louisa so much to see her Dalton looking so bad.

“Sweetheart,” Louisa said, grabbing his arm and shaking him awake. “Darling—”

“Huh?” he asked, not opening his eyes.

“Darling, it’s me.”

“Rrrrr . . .”

“Isn’t this place awful? I know you must hate it so much . . .” Louisa looked all around, at the ugly yellow walls, the nylon curtain around his bed, the heart and blood-pressure machines, the way his lower body was suspended in traction. If only they hadn’t given him so much medication: She wished he could join her in loathing the hospital. She would give anything to hear him crabbing and yelling for the doctors to let her take him home.

They hadn’t shaved him that day. A snowstorm had started yesterday and many nurses and aides had arrived late or not come to work at all. If Louisa had him at home, this wouldn’t have happened. She’d have gotten him ready—washed, changed, fed, happily installed at the big window overlooking his ranch: snow quilting all the corrals, barns, troughs; elk and bison trailing down the mountains in search of food; red-tailed hawks soaring on their daily hunts. Dalton would be wide awake, groomed and watching the world. Staring at Dalton’s grizzled face, Louisa knew what she had to do.

Rolling up the sleeves of her soft cherry wool dress—soft challis, cut on the bias so the skirt would swing like she was on the dance floor—Louisa rummaged through the bedside cupboard—tacky hospital-issue furniture, made of plastic and particle board—and found a basin, soap, towels, and a razor.

Louisa knew how to make a man feel right. She ran the water in the bathroom till it was scalding hot, and she soaked the towels for a good while. Then, wringing them out, she rushed them to Dalton’s bedside and wrapped them lovingly around his face to soak his beard and make him feel all swaddled and warm. Didn’t matter that he was eighty-two years old—he was all man and hurting bad. Louisa knew the best medicine for the toughest ranchers was sometimes letting them feel like a brand-new baby.

“There, sweetheart,” she whispered into his ear—other than his nostrils, the only part she’d left uncovered. “Relax, Dalton love. I’ll shave you better than any young nurse can.”

She unwrapped the towels, started up the lather. Working the cheap hospital soap into a rich lather took some doing, and she was mindful of the sensitive condition of Dalton’s skin. He flinched from the touch. Although he seemed asleep, he kept trying to talk.

“Sssh, love,” she said, rubbing the creamy suds into his beard. “I’m here, giving you your morning shave. Don’t know why I’m bothering, though. Always did like the way you looked after a night on the range, kind of low-down and grizzly . . .”

“Rrrr,” he said.

She began the actual shaving. She had done this before, many years ago. When she was young, before she’d met Dalton, she had worked as a dancer in a Cheyenne rodeo revue. She had been poor and broke, with an iffy career and a baby to support. So she had done outside work. There had been a men’s club, the Rod and Rifle. Louisa had worked there some nights, giving rubdowns and shaves—nothing cheap or unrespectable. She had learned to think of the razor as a feather, the man’s face as a balloon. She’d earned the biggest tips of anyone there because she’d had the lightest touch.

“That feel good, honey?” she asked, drawing the blade up his neck. She stroked the razor in a gliding upsweep, dunked it into the basin of clean water.

“Yes, feels good,” Dalton said.

Louisa’s heart leapt. She almost upset the water. “How are you feeling?”

“Like hell,” he said, but his eyes glinted through the lather. They stared right into Louisa’s, and she dropped the razor to clasp his hands.

“It hurts?”

“Not so much,” he said. “Can’t feel much of anything, as a matter of fact. Just like I drank a tub of bourbon. Where’s Jamey?”

“Fall roundup. He told me to tell you he’s coming as soon as he gets the cattle shipped.”

“Fall roundup.” Dalton closed his eyes again. “I should be there.”

“Let the boys take care of it,” Louisa said. “You rest up and let your sweetheart give you a nice shave.”

“My sweetheart,” he said. “Rosalind.”

Louisa gasped. She jostled the water basin, spilling it all over the side of Dalton’s bed. He had made that mistake exactly two times at the beginning of their time together—Louisa had told him if he wanted her to stay, he had better never,
never,
call her by the name of his dead wife again. And he had kept that vow all these twenty years. To hear that name here and now filled Louisa with such sorrow and rage, she had to walk away from his bed.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I’m all wet, Louisa!”

“It’s Louisa now, is it?” she asked, more sadness than anger in her voice.

“What’re you talking about?”

The doctor and nurse picked that exact moment to walk in. The nurse exclaimed over the sloppy mess and the doctor came over to stand by Louisa. She knew her mascara was in railroad tracks under her eyes. The doctor was already talking about a discharge date, how Dalton was stabilized now and what he needed was a place to convalesce and regain his strength, how Louisa would have to make arrangements.

Louisa licked her lips. She felt like crying more, and she thought she knew why. Making medical decisions for Dalton felt like skating on thin ice. They had never discussed their health-care desires with each other. She had once mentioned living wills to him—you’d think, with his high-risk life as a cattle rancher, he’d have thought once or twice about the possibility of falling off a cliff—but he’d just about snapped her head off. The fact was, she wasn’t his wife, and she didn’t have his health-care proxy. She sniffled, holding back the sobs.

“Listen,” the doctor said. “I understand how hard this is. May I make a recommendation?”

“Please do,” Louisa said stiffly.

“A few weeks in a nursing home would be the best thing—to let him heal and get him some physical therapy. If you can afford to keep him at home after that, and it won’t be too hard on you, you might hire a nurse’s aide. Insurance sometimes covers it, and there’s a lot of people around looking for work.”

“Thank you for the suggestion.”

“He’s strong. His muscles are in good shape, and he—”

“Thank you,” Louisa said again, cutting the doctor off. She was hugging herself tightly, wishing James was here to help her make the decisions. The nurse, who was young and quite pretty, was changing Dalton’s wet clothes and sheets behind the curtain. Louisa could hear him flirting with her, and suddenly it cut her like a knife.

“See you tomorrow,” the doctor said.

Louisa nodded. She thought of the name Rosalind, of how easily it had slid off Dalton’s tongue. Did he think of her all the time? What did Louisa mean to him, after all? He had never asked her to marry him. The fact had stung her when she thought about it, but she had honestly never realized, not once, how it cut her to the core.

Rosalind of the DR Ranch.

What if Louisa wasn’t in the will? James would kick her out in a second. She shook her head, unwilling to think such negative thoughts when Dalton was about to be ejected from his hospital bed. Nursing homes, physical therapy . . . at least the young doctor hadn’t mentioned senility or dementia today.

What had Todd said about a friend who worked in the nursing field? Something concerning home-care . . . a cousin or an in-law who looked after people in their own homes? Louisa would give Todd a call. She’d wait for Dalton to fall back to sleep, and then she’d take a walk down the hall. She had seen a pay phone around the corner from the nurses’ station.