Debbie Macomber - Montana

“Gramps?”

Tom’s voice shook him out of his thoughts. He had trouble keeping his mind on track these days.

“What is it, son?”

“Is that true?”

He frowned. What was the boy talking about? The militia’s paranoid ideas, he guessed. Wasn’t that what they’d been discussing? “Of course it’s not true,” he barked. This computer-chip nonsense was as asinine as the supposed sightings of black helicopters swooping down and spraying bullets from the sky. “Question everything, son, you hear me?”

Tom nodded and returned to his sanding.

With his heart as weak as it was, Walt didn’t know how much longer he’d be around on this earth. He liked to think there’d be time to tell Tom and Clay about life during the Great Depression. And the war. Children these days didn’t know the meaning of hardship, not like his generation.

“Gramps?” Clay stared at him expectantly. “But you said bears ate trees. So don’t they really?”

Oh, yeah. That was it— that was what he’d said. About bears. “They eat the bark,” he explained, his mind traveling the winding twisting byways of time long since passed. He shelved the depression stories in order to explain what he knew of bears. “They scrape off the bark with their claws. Without the bark, the tree dies. So, yeah, you could say bears eat trees. Next time you’re in the forest, take a gander at a dying tree. If it isn’t some disease, my guess is that a bear’s been clawing on it.”

“Is that why you’re carving a bear?” the older boy asked. “Because they eat trees?” He ran the sandpaper lightly over the carving of the owl. Watching him reminded Walt that he didn’t see many of the northern saw-whet owls these days. The saw-whet was small as owls went, only seven inches high, and weighed less than four ounces.

He didn’t get much opportunity to study nature the way he once had. He missed his walks, missed a lot of things, but that was all part of growing old.

“Gramps?” It was Tom again.

“What is it, son?”

“Clay asked you about the bear. Why you’re carving it.”

“Oh, yes … the bear. It nearly got me, it did at that.”

Both boys stared up at him, and he grinned, recalling the adventures of his youth. “I happened upon her clawing up a conifer. I was just a kid at the time, but old enough to know better than to do something stupid—like get too close to a bear,” he added, muttering to himself. “Neither my horse nor I saw her until it was too late. The mama bear had two cubs and she was in no mood for company. She reared onto her hind legs and scared my horse so badly he tossed me clean off. I thought I was a goner for sure.”

Both boys listened intently. “What happened next?” Tom asked.

“Happened?” Walt chuckled, remembering the incident as vividly now as that day almost seventy years ago. He smiled and continued whittling as his mind filled with the details of that fateful afternoon. “Once I recovered enough to stand, I took off running, screaming at the top of my lungs.” He shook his head, grinning again.

“How old were you, Gramps?”

“Ten or so,” Walt answered. “My legs were good and strong.”

“So you ran?” Clay’s hands went idle.

“I didn’t figure on hanging around there and letting that bear eat me for dinner.” This reminded him of another lesson Molly’s boys needed, a lesson only a man would think to teach them. Women didn’t take to fighting much; they didn’t understand a man’s need for confrontation. What was important, however, was knowing when to fight and why. Knowing what was worth fighting for. And yet there were times when all the questions might have the right answers and still the best thing to do was walk away. He’d turned his back on a fight or two, and it had taken far more courage to back down than it had to stand his ground.

“She didn’t catch you, did she?” Clay asked.

“Damn near, but my pappy saved me.” To this day Walt remembered the surge of relief he’d experienced when his father burst into the clearing, his horse at full gallop. He’d raced toward Walt and it was hard to figure who’d reach him first, his father or the bear.

“My pappy saved me,” he said again. “He galloped up, grabbed me by the arm and swung me over his horse’s back.”

Even with his eyes so tired and faded, Walt saw the awe in the boys’ faces. He nodded slowly. It did his heart good to spend time with Adam’s grandsons. They needed a man in their lives, someone to take the place of their useless father. He wanted to teach these boys, but he didn’t have much time left.…

The screen door creaked and Molly stepped onto the porch, holding the door open. “Dinner’ll be ready in ten minutes,” she announced. “Time to put your tools away and wash your hands.”

Almost from the minute they’d arrived, Molly had been scrubbing and cleaning that kitchen. It comforted him, somehow, to see her put the house to rights. His own sweet Molly would’ve thoroughly disapproved of his housekeeping methods. He probably should have hired one of the women from town to take a scrub brush to the place, at least before his granddaughter arrived to find such a mess.

He’d always intended to hire a housekeeper, but had yet to meet anyone he wanted in his home for longer than five minutes. Nor did he like the idea of a stranger touching his Molly’s things. Maybe Ginny, but she didn’t keep her own house too well, and he’d wager she’d be insulted if he suggested she clean his, even if he was willing to pay her.

Tom and Clay didn’t need to be told twice about dinner. They were inside the house quicker than two jackrabbits. Walt wasn’t as fast on his feet. He heaved himself up, grateful that the boys had put away his carvings and tools. That Tom might have a smart mouth on him, but at heart he was a considerate kid. Walt took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of something delectable. He didn’t know what his granddaughter had cooked, but the tantalizing smells wafting from the kitchen told him he was in for a treat. Preparing meals had become an onerous chore; more and more of late Sam had been seeing to his dinner.

Walt trusted Sam, and that trust hadn’t been given lightly. It was why he’d asked his foreman to drive Molly into town earlier in the day. When they returned, Sam had silently carried in the groceries and left immediately afterward. Walt smiled to himself, amused at the way Sam was keeping his distance since Molly’s arrival.

Walt headed for the kitchen, moving at his own pace. Although Sam hadn’t said anything, he probably wasn’t too keen on Molly dating Russell Letson. It surprised Walt that she’d agreed to have dinner with that puppy of an attorney. The boy hadn’t let any moss grow under his feet, that was for sure.

Letson was a good man, shy and kind of quiet. Nothing like his father, who’d been outspoken and opinionated. His son seemed to keep to himself. He wondered why Russell hadn’t married. Of course there weren’t a lot of marriageable women around Sweetgrass.

Now that Molly was here, Walt suspected plenty of young men would be dropping by the ranch. Once they got a good look at his granddaughter they’d find excuses to visit. Pretty as a picture, Molly was. Smart, too, and a fine cook. Given time, she’d make a good rancher’s wife.

He believed that Molly needed a man, although he was sure she’d disagree with him. He’d like to see her get married again. She was still young and if she remarried, she’d probably have more children. It saddened him to realize he wouldn’t be around to know and love them, but he refused to think about that. He was determined to enjoy what time he had with her and the boys and let the future take care of itself.