Dream Country (6 page)

Because Ben couldn’t do this.

He loved Sage, loved her still, even though she was acting wild and talking crazy, even though her hair was dirty and her belly was round under her baggy brown wool sweater, even though she smelled like barf. But Ben wasn’t going to live with her on the ranch in Wyoming. He had made up his mind, he realized, sometime during the night before.

He’d get her as far as he could, put her into the hands of her father, then call his mother to send him the airfare home. It made him sick to know he’d gotten her pregnant. He had hurt her already, and he was going to hurt her worse: That dream of her, him, and the baby on the ranch wasn’t going to come true.

The thought sent a shiver through his body, and Sage felt it.

“Are you cold?” she asked, pulling her head back.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” She rubbed his forearms. “Because I have an extra sweater on. I’m boiling hot, you can have it—”

“I’m fine, Sage,” he said again, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice. It tired him out to have her trying to make him so happy all the time. Especially because he knew that before too many more days, he was going to let her down. He thought of library books, soccer balls, milk shakes. He thought of cheerleaders calling their stupid cheers, teachers yelling for quiet in the halls. He heard his mom’s voice asking him whether he wanted pepperoni or sausage on their pizza.

Ben Davis thought of all those normal things, and then he looked around the dark freight car and realized that all he’d had to eat for nearly two days was beef jerky and gorp. He knew that this wasn’t his real life, that Sage Tucker would never be his wife, that he thought of the child inside her as a mistake, not someone he wanted to live on a ranch with. Holding the trembling girl in his arms, he still felt love, and in that moment Ben learned something terrible: that love wasn’t always enough.

Chapter Six

T
he bar was dark and smoky, and Loretta Lynn was singing on the jukebox. Elk horns hung from every single inch of the wall, and license plates from all fifty states dangled by wires. James stood alone, drinking a beer. The couple beside him was fighting, snarling like wildcats. Wilton Stickley, a rancher from down south, had laid his health insurance card on the bar, atop his pile of money.

“What’re you doing there, Wilton?” James asked. “Planning on getting carted off to the hospital tonight?”

“Nope.” Wilton smoothed down his bushy mustache. “Got my reasons.”

James nodded. He had come to the Stagecoach Tavern that night to drink beer and get away from his own thoughts. Lately his mind had been a bad neighborhood, dangers lurking in every corner. Blame, guilt, resentment, and recriminations. Worrying about the herd not having enough water got him thinking about others he’d let down, failed to provide for.

A young woman James hadn’t seen before walked over, stood between him and Wilton. She had strong shoulders under her fringed suede jacket, a long blond braid hanging halfway down her back. When she stood close, James could smell her perfume, and he found himself leaning closer so he could smell it more.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” James said.

“Buy you a beer?” Wilton asked.

The woman smiled, turned back to James. Although he hadn’t made the offer, he pushed five dollars across the bar and told Joe to pour her a draft. She took the mug in her hands and took a long drink. Her eyes fell on Wilton’s insurance card, and she gave Wilton a closer look. Life was hard out here, and ranch life didn’t come with comprehensive health plans. Thanking James for the beer, she drifted toward the pool table.

“Usually works like a charm,” Wilton said.

“You figure you let them know you’re covered and they’ll want to marry you?” James asked.

“At least for tonight.” Wilton gave a big grin.

James nodded, went back to his beer. He’d come to town because he felt like talking, hearing some laughter, but now that he was here, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to stay. His work held him apart from others, and sometimes he felt that solitude had gotten into his bones.

No one except Daisy had ever gotten it out of him, he thought. But thinking of Daisy never did him any good anymore, so he twisted toward the pool tables and looked at the blonde, who was still smiling at him.

James had always gone his own way, even among all the people on the ranch. He needed the meadows of sweet grass and riotous wildflowers, the massive mountains of craggy red rocks against blindingly blue sky. He needed a lot of open space just to begin to dissolve what it was he carried inside of him.

He did lonely work with solitary creatures. Moving across wide territory, cows trekked single file. They’d straggle off, fall back, stop dead. That’s why herding cows was much harder than tending the more community-spirited sheep. Cowboys were assigned positions, front-back-center, to keep the herd together and moving. Working flat-out, with no one to talk to, they’d start thinking of the sound of their own voices as strange.

The door swung open, and James turned away from the blonde. His father and Louisa walked in, dressed as if they were going to the rodeo—his father all in black with a string tie, Louisa in a tight cream-colored top and full red skirt, her auburn hair bigger than ever. Dalton looked bewildered, as if he wasn’t sure of where he was. James hadn’t seen his father at the Stagecoach in many months, and neither had anyone else. A buzz started at the bar and spread back to the pool tables.

“Dalton!”

“Hey, man, where’ve you been?”

“Where are we, Louisa?” Dalton asked. James heard the fright in his father’s voice as he watched the old man seem to shrink before his eyes. His father scrunched up his neck, eyes wild. Louisa linked arms with him and proudly marched him into the bar. James started over, but held himself back.

Louisa surveyed the room. Her eyes fell on Todd Rydell, her nephew, over at the dart board. James watched Todd start to turn away, but once he realized he’d been seen, he waved and began walking toward his aunt. He was lanky and fair, the kind of cowboy who rode with a Walkman and used sunscreen. He was descended from the Rydells who’d grazed their sheep on Tucker land and nearly started a range war—so was Louisa. But Dalton loved her, so James had to respect her. Todd was another story.

“Dalton, good to see you.” Todd shook the old man’s hand. He kissed his aunt’s cheek, let her pull him against her in a big hug. James watched them whisper to each other, wondered what they were saying.

“It’s Todd,” Louisa explained to Dalton.

“Why are we here?” Dalton asked, checking to make sure his hat was on his head.

“For a good time, man.” Todd laughed, slapping Dalton on the back. “’Cause it’s Friday night and the music’s cranking.”

“Music?” Dalton asked.

“Hi, Dad,” James said quietly, standing between his father and Todd.

His father’s hard brown face softened. Smiling up at his son, his cheeks curved into a thousand more wrinkles. Nodding, he shook his son’s hand.

“Jamey,” he said.

James didn’t say anything. He just stood there silently while the noise rose around him. His father’s eyes were cloudy and blue, but as they stared at James, they looked happy. James watched his father take a long breath, settle down a little.

“What brings you down to the Stagecoach?” Louisa asked coolly, arms folded across her chest. “Haven’t seen you here in a long time.”

“I don’t come here much. You?” James asked, unable to resist the jab, knowing his father didn’t.

“To sing, son,” Louisa said, hurt but proud. “You know I’ve got an open invitation on Friday nights.”

James hadn’t forgotten. Louisa sang country western, and she’d been holding court here for over thirty years. That’s how Dalton had met her—drowning his sorrows the winter after James’s mother had died. Louisa had drifted to his table between sets, offered to buy him a drink, moved in before the spring thaw.

Daisy had loved to hear her. Once or twice a month they’d leave the twins with Betsy March, the wife of James’s foreman, come down to the Stagecoach, and sit right in front of the stage. Louisa would forget singing to Dalton or the men at the bar, sing straight to Daisy. Daisy had lost her mother young and Louisa had never had a daughter; their bond had been thick and strong.

“C’mon, Dalton.” Todd handed him some darts. “Let’s have a game. I’ll beat you fair and square.”

“Can’t beat me.” Dalton was laughing like his old self. “I can knock the tail off a swallow with my eyes closed.”

“Show me, man.”

While the two men headed down the bar, James felt something in his stomach tighten. He didn’t like Todd, and not just because he was a lousy cowboy. Todd had worked for him years before, and he’d been there the day Jake had disappeared. James had ridden off to rope the steer, leaving Jake to sit on a big rock. Todd and a few others had been riding drag—picking up defectors who’d stop to graze on the sweet grass around Jake’s rock—and James had trusted them to watch his son.

“What are you doing, Louisa?” James asked now.

“Doing?” Louisa’s eyes widened.

James stared down at her. It wasn’t her fault her nephew hadn’t seen where Jake had gone. It was James’s fault. He hadn’t asked the men to help; they hadn’t known they were supposed to. Half a minute. That was all it had taken for Jake Tucker to disappear from the face of the earth. It wasn’t Todd Rydell’s fault, but James hated him anyway. He hated himself worse, but that was beside the point.

“Yeah, doing. What’re you thinking, bringing my father here?”

“Well, I’m thinking of showing him a good time,” Louisa said. “If that’s okay with you.”

“He’s sick, Louisa.”

“A little confused, that’s all.”

“He’s got Alzheimer’s disease,” James said. “The doctor told us both.”

“So what?” Louisa asked, her golden eyes flashing.

“He gets confused. He’s embarrassed when people come up to him and he can’t remember their names. It’s loud in here, and the doctor said he does better with quiet. I feel sorry for him, watching him—”

“I don’t feel sorry for Dalton Tucker,” Louisa snapped. “I feel sorry for this
disease
. I don’t think Alzheimer’s disease has ever come up against anyone like Dalton Tucker. And another thing, young man—”

“Whoa,” James said, stepping back.

Louisa stepped forward, tilting her head back so she could stare into his eyes. She grabbed him under the chin, shook it hard.

“You ought to take a lesson from your father. You hear me? He’s not giving up. He knows what’s happening to him—you think he doesn’t? You think it doesn’t break him up every time he calls me by your mother’s name? But he’s full of life, and he’s not quitting until he’s taken his last breath and I lay him in the ground. That’s something you should try.”

“What I should try—”

“Damn right. You’re a walking zombie. It’s a holy miracle you don’t fall off your horse, riding herd. Hit your head, bleed to death out in the canyon. You lost your son, we all lost him.” Louisa was tearing up, drying her eyes with both index fingers to keep her mascara from running. “But you act like you were the only one. You chased Daisy and that baby girl away.”

“Leave them out of this,” James said.

“Don’t you tell me who to leave out of anything. I’ve got love in my heart, James Tucker, but you wouldn’t know that if it bit you on the ass. You don’t give anyone the time of day—it’s you and your boy’s ghost. That’s about it. Even your father—you act so high-and-mighty concerned about him, but you’ve been pushing him away for thirteen years, just like everyone else.”

“You done?” James handed her a handkerchief.

Nodding, she blew her nose noisily. Together, they watched Dalton draw the dart back even with his ear, throw a perfect bull’s-eye. The young men standing around went wild, and Dalton bought a round for the whole bar. Todd glanced over at Louisa, then at James. James held his gaze hard, trying not to show his dislike.

“Look at him,” Louisa said.

“Your nephew?”

“Your father!”

“He’s still got it,” James said.

“Mean as a cougar with the eye of an eagle,” Louisa said.

“Dead aim,” James said. “I remember seeing him shoot the head off a rattlesnake hanging out the beak of a flying hawk.” As he spoke, his father scanned the crowd, looking for Louisa. At the sight of her, he smiled and looked proud.

“I never claimed I could tame Dalton Tucker,” she said, breathing lightly. “I just asked God for help on how.”

“Louisa!” the sound man called from the stage. People turned toward the door, clapping and calling her name. A young man came forward, handed her her guitar. Being run through sound checks, the microphone gave off feedback. James backed away. He glanced toward the bar, saw that a middle-aged woman—skinny, bleached-blond, missing teeth—had gone to stand beside Wilton, caressing the back of his hand.

It was time to go.

James grabbed his jacket. He glanced at his father, to say good-bye, but Dalton was concentrating on throwing another dart. People had come from all over for Friday night at the Stagecoach, and the room was warm and full. Turning to go, James heard Louisa call his name.

“What?”

“Same goes for you,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“What you said about your father, what you said yourself, in your own words.”

James wrinkled his forehead, trying to remember. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He’s still got it.” Louisa was smiling.

James turned and walked out of the bar.

It was a long ride home, Louisa’s words ringing in his ears. He drove his truck along state roads, then veered off at Split Tree Pass.
Got it,
he thought. Got the ability to ride a horse, birth a calf, shoot a coyote. To smile at a girl, buy her a beer, take her to bed when you both knew you’d be gone before sunup. Bumping along dirt roads for ten miles, he swirled up a storm of dust and thought about how there was more than one kind of drought.

Driving through the gates of DR Ranch, he passed the big stone house where his father and Louisa lived and pulled around back to the narrow drive that took him home. He lived in a small log cabin behind the other ranch buildings. He had built it himself sixteen years ago, from cedar logged on the mountain. It had been a belated wedding present for Daisy, started the same week she’d told him she was pregnant. He’d finished it just in time for the babies to be born.

Running his hand along one smooth log, he stood outside the front door and smelled the sage. Night birds were calling, and the stars were on fire. James stared at the sky. The mountain made a black hole against the glowing stars, and that seemed about right to James; it was the place where Jake had disappeared. He tried to look at the sky, but his gaze was always drawn back to the mountain. Just across the pass was the canyon where—

The telephone rang. James let it go. It was the same line that rang at the main house, probably one of Louisa’s nieces or nephews calling. But the bell wouldn’t quit, snapping him into the present. He walked into the house, his boots sharp on the hardwood floor.

“Hello.”

“James?” She said his name, and he heard her voice.

“That you, Daisy?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He waited, trying to get his breath back again. He heard from her once or twice a year, always telling him something about Sage—her good grades, her artistic prowess, the essay she’d had published in the town newspaper—and informing him in none-too-kindly tones that he should send his daughter a telegram, a letter, a bunch of flowers. That he should get on a plane and visit her. But every single time, the sound of Daisy’s soft voice shocked him to his bones, as if he was hearing it for the first time or as if he’d never gone a day in his life without it.

“How is she?” he asked, knowing Daisy had to be calling about Sage—there wasn’t ever any other reason.

“She’s . . .” Daisy gulped, and then there was something like silence, broken by the unmistakable sound of her breathing into the receiver. James could practically feel it on his ear. “I don’t know how to tell you this. Sage is missing. She ran away.”