Dream Country (8 page)

“We can work this out,” Ben said, holding her hand. “We can do what we should have done before. Tell our mothers and get—”

“Not an abortion,” Sage said hotly. “Don’t say that.”

“Help. I was going to say, ‘get help.’ ”

Outside, the searchers were closing in. Sage heard them sliding train doors open, clanging them closed. Two state policemen stopped outside their car to light cigarettes. Holding her breath so they wouldn’t hear her, Sage crawled over to look out. They stood back, surveying the scene as if they were the head officers.

“Whose brainstorm was this?” one asked. “Five more miles, the damn train would’ve been in the station.”

“Element of surprise,” the older guy said. “Where’re two kids gonna run to out here? Into a cornfield? We take ’em in town, they could slip off, hide anywhere.”

“Engineer’s mad as hell.”

“Tough luck.”

“What are they, teenagers?”

“Yeah, boy and girl.”

“Romeo and Juliet,” the younger policeman said.

“Yeah, well, Romeo’s old enough to know better. We got him for kidnap, statutory rape, the whole nine yards. He’s looking at real time.”

“The report says they’re schoolmates, their families know each other. It’s probably just young love—”

“The court doesn’t give a shit about young love, true or not. You don’t stop a freight train, get two police forces out in the middle of the night, and not pay for it. The kid’s going to jail, and we both know it.”

“Yep,” the other guy said. “I know.”

Sage snapped her head to look at Ben. His mouth was hanging open with shock.
He didn’t kidnap me,
Sage wanted to scream.
This was my idea!
And rape! They were in love!

The two men ground out their cigarettes, drifted back toward the car being searched. Sage grabbed Ben. “We can’t let them catch us.”

“They think I did that.” He sounded bewildered. “I’m going to jail—”

“No,” Sage said firmly. “I won’t let them. I’ll tell them it’s all my fault, that I love you so much that—”

“Let’s turn ourselves in.” Ben’s voice was shaking. “Let’s explain the whole thing.”

“Didn’t you hear him?” Sage begged. “He said he didn’t care about the truth.”

“I can’t go to jail,” Ben said. “I’m supposed to go to college.”

“Let’s sneak off,” Sage said. She began trying to pry the door open. They’d been inside for over four days, their plan being to stay hidden till the crates were off-loaded in Boise, Idaho. From there, they were going to ride their bikes to Wyoming, camping out along the way.

“They’ll believe us.” Ben looked her in the eye. “I know they will.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Sage said, panicked.

“Sage,” Ben said. “I do. I do want to go back.”

“No.” She shook her head.

“I want to go home.”

“Ben, please . . .” she said, gulping down a sob.

“You do, too,” he said, softening his voice. “I know you. You think your mother’ll be mad, but—”

“It’s not that.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I want to go to Wyoming—”

“You can go later,” he said quietly. “The right way.”

“This is the right way,” she whispered, her heart breaking because she knew it was already over. Their journey across country, a new family together, had come to an end. Ben was leaving her—had left her already. She could hear it in his voice, and she could imagine the future: The next time she saw him, he’d be cool and distant. It would be a breakup like other kids’ she’d seen, with the girl crying by her locker and the boy sitting with his back to her in the cafeteria.

If he didn’t go to jail first.

“No,” he said, holding her hands. “It’s not.”

The police were in the car behind them. The train walls suddenly seemed as thin as paper. Sage could hear voices—talking and rough laughter. She was sobbing quietly, holding the sound inside. Staring at Ben’s hands clutching hers, she blinked away tears. If only she could make it last forever, this moment with Ben. Why did God give people love, then take it away?

“Sage?” he asked.

She could feel the strain, see him pulling toward the door. She knew he wanted them to turn themselves in, and the truth spread over her like a cold wave. This was one of those times she’d heard about in songs: If you love somebody, set them free. The idea seemed so cruel, so impossible.
It will never happen to me and Ben,
Sage had thought. But now she knew: She couldn’t make Ben come with her, no matter how much she wanted him to.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too,” he said, his eyes sharp with pain.

“Will you do something for me?”

“Yes,” he said gruffly, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Tell them you’re alone. Tell them I got off in Chicago or somewhere. Give me a little time . . .”

“A head start . . .” He glanced at the door. The policemen were getting closer; he could hear their voices in the car behind them, laughing as they scuffled around.

“Yes.” Pulling her hands away from his, she moved over to the trapdoor. They had spied it their first day, known they could use it as an escape hatch in an emergency. Now that she had made her decision, she knew she had to move fast. She grasped the bolt and tugged. It was thick and rusty, but Ben moved her aside and yanked the door open.

The trapdoor itself looked heavy, but she knew she could have lifted it. Sage could accomplish just about anything when she had the will. It was about a yard square, big enough to push her bike and backpack through. Ben helped her, and Sage was thinking she’d slip out, lie on the tracks under the train, waiting for everyone to move away. Ben would distract them for her, and by the time the ruckus died down, she’d be hiding in the field.

“I think you should come with me,” Ben said.

“I know,” Sage said. “But I won’t. Don’t even try to talk me into it.”

“But—”

“Please, Ben,” she said, the tears rising again. “Don’t. For me.”

“Shit . . .” He shook his head.

“You’ll be okay, won’t you?” She’d heard the men talking about arresting him, but she couldn’t believe they would. Ben was so gentle and good. “I’ll tell them you didn’t do anything. As soon as I get to my dad’s—”

“I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Sage nodded.

“I know how much you want to get there,” he said, stepping toward her.

“I do.” Sage knew nothing else could part her from Ben.

His eyes were wide, his brown hair falling into them. He wore the rawhide she’d given him, a bear claw hanging from it. Her father had sent the necklace to her years ago, and it had always been one of her most cherished possessions. She touched it with one finger, as if she could get strength from the bear, her father, and Ben. She glanced at the trapdoor he had helped her unlock.

“Will you do something else for me?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Hold me.” His arms came around her, and his breath was warm in her hair. She felt their hearts pounding together, and she felt her belly pressing against his, their baby inside. “Tighter, as if you’ll never let me go,” she gasped.

“We’re too young,” he said. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

But it’s happening,
Sage thought. She memorized the feeling of his arms, the smell of his sweater, the sound of his breath, the dampness of his tears on the top of her head.

“You have to leave.”

“I know.”

“Fool them,” she said. “Don’t let them see you near this car—”

“I’ll try.”

He backed toward the trapdoor. She knew it was important that he leave the car, roll out, go running down the train as fast as he could, to lead them away from her. Blindly, she turned away. She could cling to his side, watch him leave her, or she could stick to her plan, make her own dreams come true.

“Sage . . .” he said, as if maybe he was reconsidering, or as if he just wanted to see her face one last time.

“Go!” she said, sobbing, without turning around.

She heard his side brushing against the opening, the thump of his feet as they hit the ground. Crossing the car, she looked into the open space where Ben had gone. It was small, thirty-six inches wide, but to Sage it looked bottomless. Her eyes were blurry with tears, and she couldn’t make the ground come into focus.

She heard Ben running away, and her heart squeezed smaller and smaller as she wondered whether she would ever see him again. She thought of how much she had loved her father and brother, and how one day they had disappeared from her life. Kneeling down, she stared—now it was coming into clear view—at the dusty earth between and outside the tracks, and she saw Ben’s footprints. She heard voices, men starting to shout and hustle from all over, pounding past her car like a stampeding herd.

Cradling her belly, she told the baby everything would be fine. They would be in Wyoming soon, on the ranch, in their own log cabin. She would take care of them both along the way; she wouldn’t let anything happen to them. She made her voice brave, to sound as convincing as she could. The strange thing was, the more she talked, the more she believed herself.

Hearing the hubbub several cars forward, she knew that this was her chance.

Heart pumping, she took one last look around the car. It was the first home she, Ben, and their baby had shared together, and she hoped it wouldn’t be their last.

Bracing herself with stiff arms, she dropped through the opening. Landing softly on her pack, she lay on her back and tried to get her bearings. Voices came from her left, and she glanced over to see a crowd of officers standing in a circle. She knew they were surrounding Ben, and although she strained to hear, she couldn’t make out his voice. This was her chance, and Ben was giving it to her.

Scooting out from beneath the train, she hauled her bicycle out behind her. The air felt dry and cold. Lungs aching, Sage strapped her pack on her back, tightening the harness even as she began to mount her bike. The police cars were on the other side of the train, but she could see their blue strobe lights reflected in the low clouds. Dawn was breaking.

A line of red showed above the horizon. Sage stared at it for a moment. The sun was there, even if she couldn’t see it yet. The sky was dark blue, lightening from the bottom up. Sage caught her breath, gazing east at the sunrise: She knew that the sun had already risen over Silver Bay, that her mother was back there in Connecticut, that every minute of her day so far had probably been filled with thoughts about Sage.

Taking that as a blessing direct from her mother, Sage pointed her bicycle away from the rising sun and began to pedal west. Her legs were stiff, but they loosened as she moved. She rode into the dark cornfield. Half the corn had been harvested, and it was stubble: Sage ducked between rows of dry cornstalks, tall and brown. Her tires bumped over ruts in the ground. Her shoulders hit dry leaves, and they sounded like playing cards in her spokes.

Ben was back there, protecting her as she got away. The police voices grew fainter and fainter. After a minute, all she could hear was the beating of her own heart and the whisper of wind through the rows of cornstalks. She wobbled a little, riding over the uneven ground, but her legs were strong and sure as she straightened out and headed through the field into the last traces of night.

Chapter Eight

T
he night before, James had been burning irrigation ditches in the Red Mine Canyon. Standing upwind, he had watched the smoke blowing through the steep ravines of the Wind River Range, crimson in the firelight. He had heard a wild snarl, and when he looked up, he saw a bobcat drive a calf off a cliff.

Climbing down, he had found the calf with its back broken, lying at the foot of the trail. The animal struggled, trying to stand, still thinking it could run away. James crouched beside it. He petted the calf’s long neck, trying to calm it down. The calf’s eye was wide and dark, and it stared up at James with terror. Any creature not its mother was the enemy right then.

“I’m sorry,” James said.

Kicking its front legs, the calf was paralyzed in its hindquarters. It squealed, and its mother called back from above, a long lowing that sounded grief-struck.

“You’re not alone,” James said, because he thought it was important for creatures to know that. More than anything, he hated to think of anyone or any animal suffering alone.

Standing up, James had drawn his gun and fired, killing the calf instantly.

Now, saddling up the next morning, James tried to think about anything but the look in that calf’s eye. He wished he hadn’t seen the fear, known that the calf was still nursing and wanted nothing more than its mother. He wished he didn’t think of his own children with that same look.

“Rain’s coming.”

At the sound of his father’s voice, James turned. He peered into the darker part of the barn, saw his father standing by the stalls. The old man stepped forward, dressed for work in chaps and boots.

“Morning, Dad,” James said.

“Seen those thunderheads over the basin? We’ll get rain for sure today. Where you heading?”

“Down to the east pasture. Thought I’d check on the herd out there.”

“Want some company?”

James hesitated. The last time his father had come with him, he’d gotten disoriented and upset. He’d thought James was his father instead of his son, spun back fifty years to a time when they had been driving the Rydells’ sheep off their land. Dalton had started sputtering about the family’s enemies, the importance of tradition, how cattle were better than sheep. James had brought him back to reality, set him straight on the father-son relationship, reminded him that he was living with Louisa Rydell—granddaughter of his archenemies—that peace had been made a generation ago.

“Sure,” James said now. “I’d be glad to have you.”

“Wouldn’t want to be in the way,” Dalton said gruffly.

“You won’t be.”

They finished saddling up, led their horses outside, started riding east. James still had the scream of that bobcat in his ears, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Sage. Several days had passed since Daisy’s call, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep since, waiting for the phone to ring. He wanted to hear Daisy, her voice clipped and cool, telling him the whole thing was a mistake and Sage was back sleeping in her bed.

“Damnedest drought I ever saw,” Dalton said, cantering alongside past a stand of cottonwoods. “Lasting clear into October.”

“Well, you’re predicting rain,” James said.

“Your father can call the weather, can’t he?” Dalton asked, chuckling.

James didn’t reply. He’d been praying for rain all summer. He had cows so thirsty they were trying to drink dirt. They were moving close to the cliffs, hoping to catch a trickle of runoff. Last month he’d trucked in water. Dumping it into tanks, he’d watched cattle trampling each other to get to it. Thirst was a killer.

The drought called forth rattlesnakes. By night, their rattles sounded all through the Wind Rivers, that ominous
tch-tch-tch
coming from rocks, ledges, the chaparral, rafters in the barns. Dust covered everything, a fine brown film shading the animals, ranch buildings, people’s skin. But now his daughter was out there somewhere, and he couldn’t bear to think of her getting rained on.

“Taught you how to irrigate,” Dalton said. “The old way, the right way.”

“The hard way.”

“You complainin’?” Dalton asked testily.

“Wouldn’t do that, Dad.” Neighboring ranches had fancy irrigation systems with pumps and sprinklers, everything on timers. When the well ran dry, they paid to have water trucked or freighted in. Everything was automatic, computer-operated, error-proof.

The Tucker way suited James. It wasn’t the easiest or most efficient, but it felt real to him. When it came to his herd, he knew what was what. He had to climb on his horse twice a day, ride out to the pastures to change the water himself. He had to walk the land, know every rock and crevice. His herd knew the pitch of his voice, the sound of his horse’s hooves. It gave him comfort to know that he was part of the land, closer to Jake. It was a small thing, but it gave him a little peace.

“Louisa said Daisy called.”

“Yeah, she did.” James had passed Daisy’s message on to Louisa, just in case Sage tried to call the ranch and she happened to answer.

“Your girl’s gone missing?”

“That’s what Daisy says.” James felt his stomach drop.

“She’s a teenager,” Dalton said, guffawing as if that was explanation, joke, and curse all rolled into one.

“I know.”

“Well, teenagers hate staying home. You think I don’t remember the time you decided to borrow my pickup, drive all the way to Lander after supper one night? You were all of fifteen—no license, no nothing.”

“I remember,” James said. It was the year his mother had died and Dalton had started seeing Louisa. He’d spent it acting half-crazed, drinking till dawn, skipping class, taking his father’s truck every chance he got. When Louisa moved in, the half-crazed became full-blown.

“Well, there you go. Don’t waste your time thinking anything bad. Nothing’s wrong with your daughter that growing up won’t fix. She’s not lost, she’s not disappeared. She’s just a damned pain in the neck, like you were, and she’s runned away. Give her a week, and she’ll be home again.”

“A week?” James asked.

“Yep,” his father said. “Seven days.”

The thing was, James found himself counting as if his father had the inside story. Sage had been gone for five days now. If his father was right, he only had two more to wait. Then he’d hear from Daisy—or Sage herself—and he could rest easy. James had taken his father’s word as the gospel truth on everything when he was young. That had changed with Louisa. And it changed even more now, day by day, as his father grew less alert and sharp, as James caught himself treating his own father like a child.

“Hey, Dad—” James didn’t know exactly what words he wanted to say, but he knew the subject had to do with his children and Daisy, the losses they’d suffered in life—things he never talked of to his father.

“Clouds are movin’ in,” Dalton said, looking at the sky. “Hope Louisa remembers to take her wash in early, because the sky’s gonna open up.”

James didn’t say anything. His father had sensed something coming and saved them both from James saying something stupid. James spurred his horse’s flank, took off on a dead run. The ground was flat here, dusty and dry. Sagebrush had withered in the summer heat, and it lay in bundles of dead twigs. Dalton was right behind him. James could hear his father calling out, telling about the time he’d plugged an irrigation hole with a rusty refrigerator, but James just let his horse run harder.

Tuckers didn’t talk about love. They didn’t cry about the past or speak of dreams about the future. They didn’t express fears or doubts. They just got the job done. They talked of nature, weather, horses, and cows. The ability to predict rain was a talent, and Dalton had it.

James had calves tumbling off mountainsides, being attacked by parched bobcats. The ranch needed rain. But right now, James didn’t want it. He’d sacrifice the whole herd if he could keep his baby dry. James Tucker would let every single four-legged animal on his land weaken and fall if he could ensure his daughter would be okay. He wished his father was able to predict something like that. Truly predict it, the way he could rain.

He thought back to how Daisy had acted when Jake was missing. One day, after he had been gone for a month, she had ridden into the canyon and tried to feel his presence. She had this gift with stones and bones—the way she could touch things cold from the ground and sense life inside them. James had watched her kneel in the dirt where Jake had last sat, sift sand and pebbles through her fingers as she said his name over and over.

“Stop,” James had said, grabbing her roughly.

“I want to know where he is.”

“You’re not going to find him in the dirt.”

“It might be my only chance.” She pressed her face into the earth. Mud clung to her eyelids and nose. She licked it from her lips.

“Daisy, stop.”

“He’s here,” his wife had said. “My baby is here.”

It had rained for two days before, and the ground was soft and wet. Dirt had turned to mud, and the underbrush was thick and green. James remembered feeling sick, knowing that the earth teemed with life. Things were living all around him, but Jake was gone.

Daisy made a terrible guttural sound, as if she was reverting to some primitive beast. James had wrapped her in his arms, rocking her back and forth. “He’s here, he’s here,” she had cried, and only then had James realized that the noise she’d made was that of weeping, of grief bubbling up from some part of her they hadn’t known about before.

“Daisy—”

“He’s here!”

“Daisy, stop. You don’t know—” James had said, powerless to stop her from crying, clawing at the earth, making that terrible sound. All he could do was hold her, let her weep. He had rocked her back and forth, listening to the wind in the rocks overhead, feeling the rhythm of their bodies moving together. After a while she had stopped crying. James had kept rocking her.

Riding hard now, he thought back to that time with Daisy, of the silent promise he had made while she wept for their boy. That James would never, for as long as he lived, abandon their son. No matter what else happened in life, he would stay there for Jake. Daisy had raked the earth, eaten the dirt where Jake had played. James would never leave the land.

But what could he do for Sage?

When he was young, his mother had told him, “If you’re going to pray, don’t worry. But if you’re going to worry, don’t pray.”

James couldn’t stop himself from worrying, but he couldn’t stop himself from praying, either. He just galloped east toward the dry pasture, his father right behind him. He felt the wind in his sunburned face, and he pulled his hat lower over his eyes. The dust was blowing in, and he couldn’t see straight.

From the ridge, he could see so far. Canyons, pastures, ranch, and range. The Wind River mountains ringed the scene. Whenever he stood here, he felt as if he mattered, as if he had a place to come home to.

He also felt very alone. No one knew he was here, and no one cared. Sometimes he saw the ranchers tending to calves, and his eyes would burn with tears. That’s what fathers were supposed to do: look after their own.

Mothers and fathers, mothers and fathers:
What did it all mean? Out on the range he saw so many parents and young: deer and fawns, cows and calves, coyotes and pups. The babies deserved a chance to grow up, but plenty didn’t make it. The ranch was a brutal place to live—or die.

He didn’t care anymore. He’d sit up here while the storms passed, wait forever if he had to. Thunder cracked, but to him it was a dream song. This was his mountain, and he’d been rocked to sleep by the sounds of nature so many times before. In the land of the wild outside, comfort had to come from within.

Hugging himself, he felt the tears pouring down his cheeks.
You’re a good boy.
The words came from far away, in another voice. Someone had told him that once, and he told himself now. Hoofbeats sounded below, and he shrank against the rock ledge. He wasn’t ready to be seen. Yellow leaves were falling now. Maybe when the snows came, when the houses were warmed by fire and the mountain was covered in ice.

Maybe then he’d show himself. Maybe then he’d claim his mountain home. Another thunder crack, and he inched closer to the ledge. He’d always needed something to believe in, and he’d always found it here, on the ranch.

Growing sleepy, he curled up in a dry spot and let the dream songs come.
You’re a good boy
, he heard.
You are a good boy.