Dream Country (31 page)

James didn’t know what he believed. For years he had been operating on autopilot. It had been a long time since he’d found meaning in clouds or snow—if he ever had. For over a decade, running the DR Ranch, he’d been phoning his life in—showing up in body only, leaving the details to Paul March.

But this morning, something had happened: Seeing the snow geese, a part of him had cracked open. Making them fly hadn’t been his idea; it had come through him from somewhere else. Was someone—God, the Great Spirit, a higher power, the ghost of Louis Shoulderblade—telling James to wake up? James had never been big on prayer. His mother had taken him to church when he was young, but he’d stopped believing in God—in anything—round about the time the roof had caved in on her.

He hadn’t been planning to ask Daisy to marry him that morning, but the words had come out of his mouth—and she hadn’t said no. Right now, watching Daisy write in the snow—circles around circles, letters spelling “SAGE” and “JAKE”—James hung on to his saddle and felt hope spreading through his body.

Just then, a blue pickup passed by, headed in the direction of the ranch. James watched it drive past about fifty yards, hit the brake lights, and turn around. Sensing danger, without really thinking, he gave his horse a light kick. The big black began to move slowly, and James maneuvered himself between Daisy and the road. The blue pickup came back.

The truck seemed to gather speed, but as it approached Daisy and James, it slowed down. James watched the driver’s window roll down. His stomach tightened, ready to react. Todd Rydell poked his head out, and James wasn’t sure whether to relax or get ready to fight.

“Hey, James,” Todd said. “Hi, Daisy.”

Shielding her eyes against the sun, Daisy smiled. “Hi, Todd.”

“What’re you doing out here?” James asked. “Thought you were doing deliveries for some outfit in Lander.”

Parking his truck, Todd climbed out. He wasn’t dressed right for the weather—not even for driving around. He wore boots too low to do any good, a lightweight jacket that would have him frozen to death if his truck ever decided to break down somewhere remote. James knew that was why he had never made it working on the DR—why he’d never make it as a rancher anywhere: He didn’t have any common sense.

But right now, the thing James noticed most was Todd’s pallor. He had a jellyfish look to him—pale and soft and somehow floppy, as if whatever backbone he had, had gone right out of him.

“Got something I need to talk to you about,” Todd said, looking upset and guilty.

“What’s that?” James asked.

“Maybe you and I—” Todd began. He was going to suggest the men stand aside, talk out of earshot of Daisy. But James shook his head.

“Whatever you want to say, say it in front of Daisy.”

“James—” Daisy backed away. “It’s okay.”

But James crossed his arms, shaking his head. “What, Todd?”

“Shit,” Todd said, as if he didn’t really want to talk. “It’s about Alma.”

“Alma?”

“Tammy’s sister,” Todd said. “Does health care—Louisa hired her to help out with Dalton’s recuperation.”

“The woman at the house,” Daisy said.

“Yeah. Alma.” James had done his best to block out the fact they had one more Rydell—or near-Rydell—living under his family’s roof. “I know her. What about her?”

“Look,” Todd said. In spite of the cold, sweat was pouring down his face. He wiped his sleeve across his brow. His eyes had always been evasive, and right now they darted around, everywhere but James’s face. “You and I haven’t always gotten along. The sheep and cattle stuff, and you and me personally—”

“We haven’t always gotten along,” James repeated, squinting. Something bad was coming: He could feel it inside. The way Todd was talking, trying to squirm out of whatever had happened—James thought back to the months after Jake had disappeared, how Todd had constantly apologized for not finding him. He had been on the scene, one of the men riding the roundup. Part of the search party, he had stayed out two solid days looking for the little boy.

He had apologized to James, and Tammy had asked forgiveness from Daisy. It had struck them as strange and upsetting, and they had done their best to steer clear of the Rydells from then on.

One time—about a year after Daisy had left him—James had gone to the Stagecoach and run into Todd. The recriminations had started up:
If only I’d looked harder. I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive . . .

The emotion had shot through James like a freight train and he’d asked Todd:
If it’s not your fault, why do you keep saying you’re sorry?
Right there with Louisa singing down from the stage, James had decked him. Todd had fought back, bottles breaking and fists flying. Then Todd had asked the real question:
How do you live with yourself, knowing you lost your kid?
The fight had ended fast after that—James knocking Todd to the ground, trying to kill him with his bare fists like the godless man James had turned into.

“Todd,” Daisy asked now, sensing the same trouble brewing. “What have you come to tell us?”

“Alma Jackson has two sons,” Todd said.

“So what?” James asked.

“They’re bad kids,” Todd went on. “They both are, both brothers. Been in juvey hall for drugs and stealing, one’s there right now. Alma thinks the other one worships the devil, wants to be a mountain man. When she took this job, taking care of Dalton, I told her—make sure he doesn’t find out you’re here. She needs the money bad, or I wouldn’t have told Louisa to call her.”

“How old are they, her sons?” Daisy asked, her voice soft.

“Teenaged.” Todd couldn’t meet Daisy’s eyes. He was even whiter than before, as yellow pale as dirty snow.

“They’re young . . .” Daisy said.

“Well, he found out she’s working on the ranch. His father spilled the beans, I guess. He called his mother, and Alma told Tammy.”

“What’s his problem with us?” James was staring at Todd across the top of Daisy’s head.

“The kid’s had the idea for a long time now that the land should belong to Rydells. I know he’s not family by birth, but with me and Tammy being married, I guess he figures he should have a piece. Calls himself the Guardian—guardian of Rydell land.”

“How’d he get that idea?” James asked, feeling hot as he imagined Rydell holiday dinners, the whole crummy clan sitting around the turkey, grousing about how the Tuckers had run them out two generations ago, plotting how to get even.

“Never mind that.” Todd wiped his brow. “The point is, he’s here right now.”

“‘Here’?” James thought of the Polaroids, the tracks, the campsite, the dead steer.

“Somewhere on the ranch. Hiding out, I guess.”

“How long’s he been here?” James asked, thinking back to problems last spring and summer.

Todd shrugged. “I don’t know. The only reason I heard anything is that Alma talked to Tammy. Her boy—his name is Richard—knocked on your father’s kitchen door one night.”

“What’d he want?”

“Food, I guess. To go in and look around.”

“Did she let him?” Daisy’s voice was thin.

“Let him?” Todd asked nervously.

“Let him in—give him food.”

“No.” Todd was vehement, and he shook his head for emphasis. “No, she did not. She sent him packing.”

“I wish she had let him in,” Daisy said, gazing up at the mountain. “How old is he?” she asked again.

“I dunno—sixteen, I guess.”

“I hate thinking of him out there, being hungry,” Daisy said, scanning the trees along the ridge.

James had seen the brutal evidence: If this kid was responsible for killing the calf and steer, he wasn’t going to worry about him being hungry. Instead, his concern was for Daisy. Even now, he didn’t like her standing out here in the open. And where was Sage? If they had an enemy, James wanted his family inside, where he could keep them all safe till the kid was caught.

“So.” Backing away, Todd seemed as uneasy and nervous as before—as if he couldn’t wait to get going. “I just wanted to let you know. It’s not my fault—he’s her son, he’s always had problems—if I’d known—”

“Not your fault.” James stared at him . . .

Tripping over his own feet, Todd went down on one knee. His useless boots had submerged, and now he sank into the snowdrift. Pulling himself out, he scrambled into his truck and drove off. James watched him go, hearing the tires hiss over the plowed pavement.

“That was strange,” James said. “Is it my imagination, or does he feel more guilty than he should about all that?”

“I wonder . . .” Daisy held out her hand, so Scout would come closer. The horse nuzzled her from the other side, as if she wanted to keep Daisy safe. A white stream of exhaust trailed behind Todd’s truck.

“That kid is here, somewhere on this ranch,” James said. “And he hates us, wants what we have. Guardian for the Rydells—God. Is that enough for Todd to feel guilty over?”

“Alma was staring at Jake’s picture,” Daisy said. “I saw her.”

“What?”

“She couldn’t take her eyes off him.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” James wondered why Daisy would mention it now.

“Remember how we suspected Todd, back when Jake—”

James didn’t like the wild look in her eyes, the direction she was heading with her question. “Daisy,” he said, holding her hands.

“Remember, though?”

“We didn’t have any answers,” James said calmly. “That’s all. I didn’t like Todd, he didn’t like me—it was easy to look at him. What reason would he have had to take our son?” But Daisy had started him thinking.

Images of bullet holes and blood filled his mind: This month alone, someone had butchered one of his calves and a steer. James knew a lot about hate, and he understood that that was what it had taken to pull the trigger, wield the knife. Don’t let it be true, he thought. Don’t let the truth of what happened go this way . . .

“I’m thinking something crazy,” Daisy said, trembling harder as she raised her eyes to James’s.

“Don’t,” James continued, holding her hands. “Just think about Sage. She’ll be here soon.”

“What if?” Daisy asked. “That’s all. What if?”

“Daisy, don’t do this.”

“The age is right—”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, what if . . .” Daisy whispered.

James grabbed her hard, held her against himself till she stopped talking and he started asking the questions of himself, the what-ifs, one after another.

What if Daisy was right, and Alma had been staring at Jake’s picture? What if Todd had only pretended to search, had taken Jake away? What if Todd’s nervousness today—the guilty look in his eyes—went all the way back thirteen years? What if he’d had that much hatred and resentment inside him, passed it to the kid who was out there now—somewhere on the ranch?

Daisy was electric. James could feel the tension filling her body, making her quiver against James’s chest as if she were being electrocuted. Running his hands down her back, he felt her buzzing. She was charged—on fire—with the idea their son might be—could be—alive. The possibility gripped her, shaking her from the inside out, and now that the thought had her, it wasn’t going to let go easily.

Clutching Daisy, James knew what it was like: He had lived with that electricity, the constant possibility of Jake Tucker one day walking out of one of the canyons, for every minute of the last thirteen years.

What if their son was alive? And he hated them?

Chapter Thirty

D
avid held the wheel and tried to focus on driving. That was all he cared about right now. The kittens were mewing, hungry as bears, and he hated to hear hungry animals. Petal was still whimpering from him and Sage yelling before, but he couldn’t stop to comfort her right now. He had a pregnant girl sitting beside him, the snow was about to close in again, he didn’t know how passable the roads were up ahead, and her water had just broken.

“Maybe I just peed,” she said, her voice high and excited. “I was so keyed up, I just didn’t even notice—I should have asked you to stop.”

“You didn’t pee.”

“Are you sure? How do you know—I think maybe—” She chattered nervously.

“I’m sure,” he said. Growing up on a puppy farm had taught him many things, not least of all what amniotic fluid smelled like. The barns had been soaked with it, and many nights since he’d left there, David had dreamed the odor in his sleep.

“It can’t be,” she said, clutching her belly. “It’s too soon.”

“I know.” He gave the car a little more gas, as much as it could take on this ice.

“But what will happen,” she asked, letting out a panicked whimper, “if the baby comes too soon?”

“Don’t think about it,” David said, reaching into the backseat, fumbling for the paper bag containing the kittens’ things. If he kept Sage distracted, maybe they’d get to help in time. He figured they were closer to the DR Ranch than any medical center. He hoped someone there would know what to do.

“Here,” Sage said, clicking her tongue for the kittens to come. She was trying to fill the bottles, but in her anxiety, she’d spilled most of the formula on her lap. The cats didn’t care—they began lapping right off her coat. Maisie scrambled up to join them.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. “And I’m sorry to say this, but you’re wrong. It wasn’t water breaking, it was something else. So let’s get back to other things, Jake. Like your memories . . .”

“Let’s not,” David said, pushing the car a little faster. Sunlight sparkled on snow and ice, hurting his eyes. The mountains loomed high on the right side of the car, and he knew that within the hour, shadows would fall and make the driving worse. Plus, clouds were starting to form overhead. Sage was breathing hard, as if she were exerting herself in some new way. Her body knew what her mind would not admit.

“Jake,” she said. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Listen, okay? Just for a minute—you’re adopted, right? And then when you were three or four, you got lost in a cave?”

“Yeah, so what?” He still remembered the cave—the darkness full of yellow eyes, the sound of his own voice echoing against the rocks as he called for his mommy and daddy.

“What if those two memories are the same? If they happened at the same time?” Sage asked.

“They didn’t—” David didn’t want to hear her stupid theory anymore. The idea of coming from her perfect family was too nice to even consider—when it turned out not to be true, he’d feel like driving this old car off a cliff. On the other hand, the more she kept talking, the more distracted she’d be.

“What if they did?” Sage pressed. “What if you weren’t an infant when you got adopted by the puppy farm family—but older? Three or four.”

“I was a baby when I went to live there. They—” He had been about to say “they told me,” but his memory stopped him short: He had been calling
Mommy, Daddy!
in the cave—he could hear it now, ringing in his ears—but he had never called his adoptive parents by those names. He had called them by their Christian names, same as he did now.

“Tell me,” Sage said. “I know you remember something.”

“Nothing.”

“We’re twins—I know you’re remembering.” But she let it go. She just held the kittens, trying to feed them, a scared look on her face. “Oh,” she said suddenly.

“What is it?”

“Aaahhh!” she cried. Bending double, she nearly crushed the kittens and Maisie. They scattered, jumping into the backseat with the dogs. Sage rocked back and forth, moaning in pain. David checked the road, the sun in the sky, and he put the pedal down harder. Sage moaned, her breath tangled in her throat. He wanted to reach over, help her through, but he was afraid to let go of the steering wheel.

“Sage, breathe.”

“I am.” She was crying.

Straight ahead, he could see a real road. Cars and trucks were going by, slowly, but at least moving. The logging road had another hill in it—a long slope down, on the dark side of the mountain’s shadow. David tested the brakes. They caught, making the car fishtail a little. Good—if he could just steer straight and not panic.

“Oh, Jake,” Sage cried.

“We’re almost there,” David said. He gripped the wheel. This had been his uncle’s vehicle. His uncle was well-off compared to his family, and he seemed full of guilt or something about the way they lived. He hadn’t been back since the time he’d threatened to take David away, but he did things like send them money, clothes, and this old four-wheel drive.

“Owww,” Sage breathed.

David remembered looking out in the driveway one day, seeing the car parked there. He’d been so excited—thrilled to think his uncle might have come back to visit. Hope had been scarce on the puppy farm, but David remembered his uncle as kind and fun. Someone who used to play with him, to ask if he was okay, who wanted to protect him from the bad stuff. Also, who had saved his life in the cave.

David had taught himself to drive in this car. At fourteen—way too young, but that far out in the boondocks, who was going to know? His parents hadn’t minded—they had liked the fact he could now haul sick and dying animals to the burial ground, go on late-night puppy runs, drive errands to places he wouldn’t likely be stopped. The terrain was often muddy or icy; he had learned to use four-wheel drive the way other kids learned to ski.

They had made him kill the runt litters and sick mothers—too old or used up to reproduce anymore. Whenever David closed his eyes, he saw those plaintive faces, heard their whimpering pleas, heard the whack of the ax. He had been his parents’ executioner, killed more dogs than he could count.

As soon as he could—in August, when he’d saved enough money and hoarded enough food—he had taken Petal out of her pen. Then he’d stolen his uncle’s car and run away. He hadn’t planned his crusade at first; all he had known was he was never going back to the farm. But the more he drove, the more he saw Petal looking at him with gratitude for saving her, the more David had known his mission in life was to help dog mothers.

And girl mothers, he thought, glancing at Sage . . .

“This hurts.” She met his eyes across the seat while bent nearly in half. “I’m having bad cramps—the worst I’ve ever had.”

“Contractions.”

“No, it can’t be!” she said, her face knotted with emotion and pain. “It’s too soon. It takes nine months. I’m having cramps—from something I ate. I’m having terrible, terrible gas. Those wheat puffs—”

“You’re having the baby.” David kept his eyes steady on the real road as his uncle’s car cruised them safely down the washboard slope, the last quarter mile of logging trail that had taken them through the central wilds of Wyoming.
Mommy! Daddy!
It was weird, how his own distant voice seemed to be getting louder in his own head.

Dalton thought of those frontier movies, where the mortally injured hero—arrows sticking out of him, blood pouring from the gashes—drags himself home through the canyons and across the range, hanging on through the last half-reel in order to save the goddamn family farm. Well, that’s how Dalton felt today. Clinging with every shred of memory he had left to the fact that he had to talk to the lawyer at nine
A.M.
and make things right for Louisa, dragging himself—bleeding—through the morning.

His thoughts were slippery things, like trying to hold an armful of snakes—serpents slithering off into dark corners the more he tried to hold on to them. And just about as nasty, too: Wills, death, and memory loss were not pretty thoughts. But if he didn’t take care of this now, he might forget forever.

Alma came skulking in, her washbasin sloshing with water. Dalton sat upright in his chair, resenting the intrusion so much he damn near lost his purpose. He had been holding a slip of paper on which he’d written, in his spidery hand, “lawyer.” With Alma setting up her portable barbershop, Dalton stared at his note and forgot what it meant.

“What the hell’s this?” he asked, staring at the word. When she tried to read it, to help jog his memory, he grabbed it away. “Never mind,” he said. Then he remembered. “Bring me the phone,” he said.

“I have to get you shaved.”

“Well, that’s nice of you, but I’ve got business to attend to first, young lady.”

Alma narrowed her lips, biting them from inside and drawing her mouth in like an inside-out purse. She wasn’t a looker, poor woman, and biting on her lips like that just made things worse. She had sallow skin, overplucked eyebrows, and an unfriendly disposition. Dalton hoped maybe being around Louisa would help her out disposition-wise. Right now Alma looked about ready to collapse.

“The thing is,” Alma said, twisting her hands, “I have a family emergency. And I’d like to attend to you first off, so I can—”

“First off,” Dalton said, interrupting her, “hand me the goddamn phone. You want to see a family emergency, I’ll show you one if I don’t make this call.”

Her lips thinning even more, Alma let out a volcanic sigh and went to drag the phone across the study. Dalton kept staring at his note, just to stay clear-headed. His broken leg stuck out in front of him, symbolic of those arrows from the frontier movies—reminding him that every minute counted. Dalton had to do this last half-reel right.

Alma came over with the phone, and Dalton had to send her straight back to the table to get his address book. He told her to look up Harding & Powell, and if she knew that was Dubois’s finest law firm, she gave no indication. Directing her to dial the number, Dalton waited for her to leave.

“Water’s getting cold,” she said, testing the shave basin.

“Make it nice and hot again,” he suggested, killing two birds with one stone—getting rid of her and assuring himself of a hot shave. “That’s a girl.”

Wayne Harding and Dalton Tucker had been doing business for fifty years, and Dalton’s father had used Wayne’s father’s services for fifty years before that. Wills, trusts, contracts, deeds, commercial transactions, it didn’t matter: Tuckers called Hardings. Just as, on the ranch, the Tuckers had always used Marches for foremen: Paul now, his father, Asa, before him. Some partnerships endured. Although Wayne had recently been elected probate judge, he still did work for Dalton.

“Dalton, it’s good to hear your voice,” said Wayne Harding.

“Good to hear yours,” Dalton agreed. They made the requisite small talk about snow, cattle, court, and families. And then Dalton explained what he wanted. Wayne listened carefully, not interrupting once. He knew about Dalton’s loyalty to James and his love for Louisa, and he understood the complicated history between the Tuckers and the Rydells.

“Let me make sure I have this straight,” Wayne said. He had been taking notes, and he read some of them back. “You want to give Louisa a life estate in the DR Ranch—that is, the right to stay there for as long as she lives.”

“Yes,” Dalton said. Although his mind was fuddled, he trusted Wayne completely, and he knew that Wayne would carry out his wishes to the letter. He felt he could start to relax a little now, not hang on to every detail so tightly.

“She will have no actual ownership, no right to sell or pass it on to her heirs . . .” Wayne allowed himself a chuckle and a little aside. “That’ll be sure to delight Todd and Tammy Rydell.”

“Let’s make sure of that,” Dalton said. “No Rydells smiling at the reading of my will.”

“None?” Wayne asked.

“None!” Dalton pounded the arm of his wheelchair for emphasis.

“Well, Dalton, Louisa’s a Rydell.”

“Damn.” Dalton loved her so much, he always almost forgot.

“You could change that,” Wayne said, chuckling again. “Make an honest woman of her and marry her.”

Dalton squinted. He’d thought of that, only about fifty million times. God, he knew how happy it would make her: the ring on her finger, the walk down the aisle . . . she’d make a beautiful bride. But then Dalton saw himself—the groom—withered and be-casted, sitting there in his wheelchair in a morning coat and top hat, his scowling son James standing at his side, holding the ring and Dalton’s dentures on a little pillow.

“Bull crap,” Dalton said. “You had to bring that up, didn’t you?”

“Got you thinking,” Wayne laughed.

“Shit-fuck.” Dalton’s heart was heavy as he swore: Rosalind’s portrait was glaring at him from the bedroom down the hall. He wished he could walk right over and close the door.

“You’re an old romantic,” Wayne said. “Jennie’s always said so. Every year she’s a little more disappointed not to get a wedding invitation. See you and Louisa properly married off.”

“Twenty-eight years she’s waited,” Dalton said. “Now she’ll have to wait twenty-nine.”