Roz Fox - A Montana Christmas Reunion

“No! And that’s final.” Saxon slammed the bathroom door so hard it rocked the bus. Stiff armed, he leaned on the sink, gritting his teeth, telling himself grown men didn’t cry. It wasn’t until he heard the outer door at the front of the bus bang shut that he was able to emerge from his funk to shower.

He felt somewhat refreshed after donning clean clothes. Going into his bedroom, he decided to strip his bed and put the sheets and pillowcases in to wash. He couldn’t bear to sleep there again where Jewell’s signature shampoo had left a flowery scent.

After remaking the bed with fresh linens, he cleaned the kitchen of all signs that he’d hosted a guest last night. But as he started loading the dishwasher, he remembered his uncle’s letter. It wasn’t anything he’d want any band members to see, and they ran in and out of his coach at will.

Hurrying into the living area, he saw that the letter was gone. Obviously Donovan had discarded it for him. Cleaning up after him and the band was a duty of his recording label’s babysitter. Which pretty much explained Donovan’s role. Who else would show up wearing a suit at 7:00 a.m.? Although today he had dispensed with his usual tie.

Saxon sighed and went back to restoring order to his kitchen. Maybe he needed a break from touring more than he thought. He’d requested downtime after LA. His agent hadn’t sounded happy when he said he wanted to hide out and write new songs for a month or two. Granted, he hadn’t expected Sid to be overjoyed, but neither had he figured he’d get flak from the label owner. His band said they could use downtime, too. Harmony Records counted on him. So did Sid. Which was why Saxon thought they should realize no one lasted if they performed stale music. Fans demanded new songs every year.

He was in the process of tying up a bag with last night’s trash to toss out in the theater’s garbage bins when his driver knocked loudly and came in.

“Yo, Saxon, Donovan said we need to pull out. Are you riding with the band?”

“Not until after lunch. Can you give me a minute to throw this away?” He hurried to the front of the coach and held up the bag.

“I’ll get it,” the cheerful young man said. “There are puddles of standing water outside and you don’t have your boots on.”

“Thanks, Dean. I’m running on slow speed today.”

The man grinned. “It’s probably due to last night’s low barometric pressure.”

Saxon doubted that. He thought it was due to Jewell’s abrupt departure, but he didn’t argue. He went back to the bedroom to get his boots, knowing they’d be where he’d toed out of them in his rush to get Jewell into his bed.

Still at loose ends after Dean returned and both buses got under way, Saxon decided he’d be best served to sit with his guitar, keyboard and music pad and maybe get a head start on writing a new song.

But he sat staring at the blank page for a long time.

All at once he felt the bus jerk, slide, then smooth out again.

“Jeez,” Dean groused. “Sorry, Saxon. There are some low spots filled with water on the road. I don’t know if you’ve looked out, but in places, water’s running across the freeway. I had to swerve to miss a stalled car. Some people tried driving through that storm, I guess.”

Saxon set aside his guitar and went to the railing behind Dean, where he could see the road out the front window. Traffic was heavy. Passing cars threw spray up from their tires. He pictured Jewell driving on this road when it’d been dark.

He knew she was a good driver and had never been bothered by Montana’s deep snow. But traffic there wasn’t an issue. Worry for her wouldn’t let him get back to work. He didn’t have a phone number for her, but hers was probably the only veterinary clinic in Snowy Owl Crossing. Sure he wouldn’t rest until he at least knew if anyone had heard from her after the storm, he went to his bedroom to make a private call.

A man answered the number he’d gotten for J. Hyatt, veterinarian. “Uh, hello. I’m trying to reach Jewell Hyatt.”

“This is Dr. Cooper. I’m covering Dr. Hyatt’s calls. May I help you?”

“I’m phoning from Maryland. I... We had a hurricane here and I’m checking to make sure she got home okay.”

“Not yet. She called to say her flight was canceled and there’s a backlog. She’s rebooked but due back in a couple of days. May I take your name and leave her a message?”

The news that the other vet had heard from Jewell unwound the tight knot in Saxon’s belly. “Thanks, it’s not necessary.” He clicked off then because he didn’t want any more questions. She’d made it safely back to DC. That gave him peace of mind.

But even afterward all the chords he jotted down sounded like other songs he’d written. And thoughts of Jewell kept interfering. Words came to him about how her hair looked like fire and her skin like snow. Saxon tossed aside his guitar with a thud and scrubbed his hands down his face. He should shave.

“Everything cool back there?” Dean called. “I like listening to you play.”

“I’m okay. Just wrestling with a new song.”

“Carson’s asking if you’re ready to stop for lunch. Up ahead is a steak-and-burger place he knows. Donovan says we can get out and stretch and go inside without locals bugging you for autographs.”

“If that’s what the band wants, it’s fine by me. I don’t mind talking to fans. Most are respectful. We need them.”

“Yeah. Carson says Donovan worked with rock stars too long. Those fans mob an artist.”

“I guess we’ll see in a few weeks. The Hollywood benefit features crossover hits as well as country.”

“Hey, there’s the steak house. I hope it’s open. This dinky town looks sleepy or dead.”

Saxon stood again and peered out as Dean parked. He could see from one end of the street to the other. The businesses were small and built of weathered wood. As he put on his cowboy hat and swung down out of the bus, he was reminded acutely of Snowy Owl Crossing. Surprisingly, he felt a wave of nostalgia but was abruptly jerked back to the present by his rowdy band members trooping inside the eatery.

Donovan engineered seating so that tables where the band sat acted as a buffer to the back booth he chose for himself and Saxon.

Two waitresses emerged from the kitchen, bringing menus and trays of water glasses to the noisy men. The woman who served Donovan and Saxon smiled and winked at Saxon. “Saw you on TV at the last country music awards. Bought some of your songs for our jukebox.” She pointed to the opposite end of the room. “Willie Nelson’s been here. Reba, too. They gave us autographed photos we framed and put on the wall. Would be right honored to add you,” she drawled.

Donovan sighed and adjusted his tie, but Saxon nodded and smiled. “I’m sure we can scare up a photo I can sign.” He passed back the menu. “I smelled burgers when I walked in. That’s what I’ll have, with a large order of fries.”

The others ordered, too, and as soon as the women left, Donovan took a wrinkled paper from his suit pocket. Scowling, he set it in front of Saxon. “Why don’t Harmon or Andrews know you have family in Montana?”

Saxon stiffened. Fred Harmon was the owner of his label company, and Sid Andrews had been his agent/manager from the get-go. Saxon snatched the paper, wadded it up and shoved it in his shirt pocket. “What does it matter?”

“You have relatives we don’t know about anxious to see you in person, you bet your butt it’s the label’s business.”

“It’s nobody’s business but mine.” Saxon mustered a thin smile for the waitress who slid a sizzling steak in front of Donovan and a fat burger in front of him.

Donovan waited to speak again until the men at the adjacent tables were served and the waitresses had left. “How old is this uncle? Why can’t he phone you? Is he dying?”