Nadia Nichols - Montana Dreaming

The bay gelding was standing right where she’d left him, but he was trembling, sweated up, rolling his eyes and obviously in a state of near panic. “Whoa, now. Easy, Billy… Whoa now.” She laid Blue down and eased toward the horse. Speaking softly, she took up the trailing rein and pressed her palm between his wide and frightened eyes. Slid that same hand over the crest of his neck and smoothed his long dark mane. “Easy, Billy. I know you’re smelling that bear and I know it scares the dickens out of you, but Blue’s hurt bad. We have to help her….”

Even as she spoke she was reaching for the saddlebag that held the first-aid kit. She had the buckle undone and her fingers were pushing the top flap back, groping for the cordura bag secured within. “Easy now—”

Without warning, Billy let out a scream of fear, a horrible sound that only a horse in sheer terror can make, and at the same moment he reared on his hindquarters and bolted for home. One second the gelding was a big solid presence right beside her; the next he was the sound of hooves drumming hard in a gravel-scattering uphill run and she was lying flat on her back where she’d landed when his shoulder had knocked her down.

The bear was close. Very close. A grizzly, the same bear that had hurt Blue.

Jessie scrambled to her feet, cradling her broken arm. The cast protected it from the constant insults she heaped upon it, but getting knocked down by Billy had hurt. Considering all the other problems she faced, she barely noticed the pain. She moved quickly to where she had left Blue, who was staring with bared fangs and throaty growls at the thick wall of brush behind her. She wasted no time hoisting the little cow dog into her arms again, and then, cradling her as best she could, she turned tail and ran. Oh, she’d read all the Yellowstone advisories that running from a bear was the very worst thing a person could do, but run she did, as fast as she could while carrying Blue.

She chose the same path Billy had taken and she didn’t look back. Adrenaline gave her a speed, power and endurance she would not ordinarily have possessed. She ran with the dog in her arms until every fiber of her body protested and she could run no farther. She was back on the ridge trail and heading for home, and the wind was demonic, screaming out of the west at gale force. It was beginning to snow, and darkness was no longer a distant threat but a near reality.

She gasped for breath, sinking to her knees with Blue in her arms. She had to get below the tree line, out of this killing wind! She wasn’t going to make it home, not by a long shot, but they couldn’t spend the night up here in the pass. They’d freeze to death, and then historians would have to rename it Dead Women Pass. Morbid thought. She weighed her options and pushed to her feet. Her injured arm ached unbearably beneath Blue’s weight. “It’s okay,” she soothed the hurt and frightened dog. “It’s all right. I’ve got you, Blue. You’ll be okay….”

She staggered along, her body bent into the wind. Down and down they went, until finally the brunt of the wind was turned by the thickly forested slope. It was nearly full dark now, but she kept moving for as long as she dared, and then finally she knelt and laid Blue down. She had chosen a good spot to hole up. A blowdown had upended its great tangle of roots and earth, making a fine wind-break. She broke the dead branches from it in the last of the fading light and kindled a tiny fire at its base, more out of a need for light than for the little warmth such a small fire would cast. Blue was sluggish, shocky. She was in pain. Who knows what sort of internal injuries she might have sustained from the bear’s blows?

The little cow dog had shared a working partnership and a special friendship with Jessie for eight years, and was irreplaceable. Blue mustn’t die. She couldn’t die. Jessie used her bandanna to bind the deepest wounds on the cow dog’s thigh, unzipped her coat and drew the shivering dog against her. Then she zipped the coat back up with the dog inside it. She fed the last of the firewood onto the small fire and sat back, cradling the trembling dog in her warmth.

It was going to be a long, cold night.

GUTHRIE SLOANE HAD BEEN driving since well before dawn, but he was too close to home to stop now, in spite of the darkness and the near-whiteout conditions. He had a good four-wheel-drive truck and the big plow rigs were out, keeping the drifts pushed back. He’d make Bozeman inside of an hour, and with any luck would be hauling into Katy Junction just shy of midnight.

He felt as if he’d been gone forever. When he’d left this past spring he’d wanted to go. Couldn’t wait to put as many miles as possible between Jessie Weaver and him. But over the summer his hurt and anger had faded, to be replaced by a kind of chronic depression. He’d worked hard, putting in sixteen-hour days, seven days a week, at the fish processing plant. The job was inglorious, but it paid very well and kept him busy, kept him from dwelling on his miseries.

That is, until he got the letter from his sister, Bernie, back in Katy Junction. “Jessie needs you,” she’d written. “She’d never admit to it, but it’s true. Please come home!”

The day the processing plant shut down for the winter Guthrie stood on the wharf smelling the salt tang of the harbor, admiring the mountainous coastline, the rugged beauty that was Alaska, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to go back to Katy Junction. That very day he’d closed his account at the bank, thrown his collection of moldering camping gear into his truck and headed south.

He had no illusions about returning home to Jessie’s welcoming arms, no matter what Bernie had written. Jess had made her position clear and was not the sort of woman to say anything she didn’t mean. “We don’t share the same dreams, Guthrie,” she’d told him at their parting. “Lately all we do is fight. I think it’s best we don’t see each other anymore.”

Or something to that devastating effect.

Jessie’s dreams were her wild Spanish mustangs and somehow preserving some small part of the rapidly shrinking range for them to roam free. Her dreams were grand. His were far more humble and modest. He dreamed of marrying Jess and proving up that little claim he’d staked for himself along Bear Creek. He wanted to run a few head of cattle, put some acres to good alfalfa hay, tinker with farm machinery and work for his sister’s husband. He wanted to raise a few towheaded, chubby-cheeked, milk-toothed babies, love his woman, have a good dog, a good horse and a dependable truck.

His dreams fell far short of Jessie’s aspirations. She wanted to save Montana, and was driven by a desperate passion that intimidated Guthrie. Sure, he saw where she was coming from. Who wouldn’t? Didn’t they all love the vast rolling plains and towering mountains that boldly defied distance and description?

Guthrie downshifted to slow his truck as he came up behind a small foreign car. Visibility was poor, snow was building up on the road surfaces and his drive south would be arduous, but it would be worth it, because when he arrived, no matter what time it was, he would be home. Finally, he would be back where he belonged.

MCCUTCHEON HAD BEEN standing on the ranch house porch for twenty minutes. It was the third time this day that he had made the long drive from town to talk to Jessie, ask her if she’d thought about his offer, tell her that she couldn’t pass it up because where else would her horses have as much running room and feel so much at home as right here on their own range?

It was snowing hard, and had been since midafternoon. Jessie had ridden up in the high country that morning to look for her wild mares and she wasn’t back yet. And it was dark. Full dark. On a stormy night when an unexpected blue norther was piling down wind-driven snow at the rate of an inch an hour. He checked his watch again, its dials luminescent, and swore softly. This wasn’t how he’d imagined this day to be…standing on her porch—his porch, dammit—his stomach tied in knots.