When Mountains Move

  For those who matter most,

  with hopes I live my life in such a way

  you already know who you are.

  And for Heather and Jeff,

  who taught me there is no such thing as an ending,

  only new beginnings.

  Contents

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  AfterWords

  Discussion Questions

  Writing Prompts

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Bibliography

  Extras

  Chapter 1

  Friday, May 7, 1943

  Church bells strike to announce the hour. My body quakes from the force of the sound, and again from the force of the man, uninvited. He pushes me down, nails his elbow into my throat. I fight, kicking, clawing. Screaming.

  Someone calls my name. “Millie?”

  I throw my fists into the night, lunging white-eyed toward the voice.

  “Millie! Stop! It’s me.” Bump wraps his arms around me, and I jerk back, pushing against him. He withdraws, asking, “You okay?”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I stare at the pitch of the darkened ceiling and pull myself from the depths of the dream.

  Bump slides close again and touches my hand. “You always sleep in your boots?” He smiles, trying to make light of the dark. He doesn’t know I’ve spent the last six weeks fully dressed, even through the nights, always ready to run or to fight. I try to measure my breaths, slow my pulse. It was only a dream, Millie. Calm down.

  “Storm’s got me a little edgy.” I offer Bump an apologetic smile. I don’t tell him how every time I’m alone, I stay on full alert. How strange sounds and shadows and even the wind can make me look behind and check for danger. I wasn’t always this way, and I hope I can feel safe again someday, soon. For now, I leave the cot in the corner of the foaling room and walk across the red dirt floors of the Cauy Tucker rodeo barn, still trying to emerge from the haunting nightmare.

  “Was I screaming?” I ask Bump. I’m always fighting and screaming in the dream. If only I could have done that during the actual assault. The one that left me frozen and numb. Silenced on the steeple-room floor.

  “Nope.” Bump’s footsteps follow my own. “Not a sound. Just mean as a wolverine.” He smiles. Even now, weeks after the event, my dreams are the only place I have a voice.

  Bump tries again to cheer me. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He wraps his arms around my waist and turns me toward him, delivering a strong kiss, pumped with passion. I try to let him ease my fears, but when he moves me against the coarse wooden slats of the barn, my shoulder hits the wall a little too fast. A little too hard. I flinch. A rising panic tenses my throat. My body ebbs and flows between desire and disgust. It’s not his fault, Millie. You can do this.

  There’s no debating whether I love Bump; I do. But there is too much he doesn’t know about me. I want to give him the truth right now, before we say our vows. Then maybe he could understand why he’s found me frightened like this in the middle of the night.

  “It’s after midnight,” I struggle to find words to start. “What are you doing out here?” I reach for a towel to dry him. He’s walked in the rain all the way from the back barracks where he stays with the rodeo hands, a mixed bunch of cowboys stopping by between ranch jobs.

  “Missed you is all.” He pulls me back to him, moving his fingers from my shoulders, down to my waist, then below. At seventeen, I should want this, and not long ago I did. But now everything is different. Now, I am afraid of what a man can do, even one as good and kind as Bump.

  I pull away, gently, and hope Bump knows I don’t want him to leave. I just want him to slow down. Give me time. I’m not ready. “Bad luck to see me before the wedding.” I smile.

  “No such thing.” Bump catches my ear in his mouth and whispers, “How’s that cot holdin’ up?”

  “Oh, the cot.” I run my fingers around his drenched collar, beneath his stubbled chin. “I don’t know what I’ll do without it.” I try to match his playful mood. “Think there’ll be room to take it with us?”

  “No room at all. In fact, I’m thinkin’ we’d better give it a final farewell right now. Somethin’ to remember us by.”

  Thunder clashes, and the paint mare in the back stall releases a loud, guttural response. Two others yell back to her, and the barn is suddenly a symphony of horse talk. I tap Bump’s chest with my finger and softly scold, “I think we can wait, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Impossible.” He brushes my dark curls behind my ear and kisses my neck, then my collarbone. Just six weeks ago, a kiss like this would have sent me into flame. But that was before. Before Bill Miller caused my body to react with panic every time it is touched. Bump struggles to remove my shirt in the dark, the small buttons proving difficult for his strong fingers. “Was hopin’ I’d find you undressed at this hour.” One button slips through.

  I pull from him and move toward the hay room, flipping a light switch and drawing louder reactions from the horses. Bump stays behind and watches me walk. I glance back long enough to catch his crooked smile, the one that tugs my heart in its tender corners and makes me cling to the possibility of happy-ever-after.

  As the radio warms from a soft buzz to a heavy hum, I spin the tuner. Between cracks of static, the final few notes of an unfamiliar song seep out from the speakers. Then, a pause, before Harry and Trudy Babbitt give voice to the Kay Kyser hit from last year. “Who wouldn’t love you?” they sing. “Who wouldn’t care?”

  With a flick of my wrist, I toss Bump a pair of leather gloves. He catches them without looking, both in one hand. “Gettin’ cold feet?” Worry lines his voice.

  “Not a chance.” I try to sound positive as I haul hay to the row of stalls. “I just figure we might as well get a jump on the morning jobs. We’ve already got the horses all confused.” Bump follows with some old winter carrots, giving one wrinkled stalk to each horse. “How about you?” I ask. “You ready to back out?”

  “You kiddin’, Millie? I would’ve married you the first day I saw you.”

  Outside, the moon has sunk behind swollen clouds, and the stars have been swallowed by storm. In here, the fan blades spin, as the bright bulbs buzz like strange mouths shouting from the heavens. “Tell him, Millie,” they yell. “Tell him the truth!” Bugs swarm the lights, as if even they want to stop all the noise.

  I take a carrot from Bump and move back to offer an extra one to my favorite horse, Firefly. She takes it in three bites while I pet her soft bay coat. “I’ll miss you, sweet girl.” I trace the white blaze that lines the bridge of
her nose. “But you’ll be joining us in Colorado soon. I promise.” She nickers. I hope she understands.

  Bump runs his fingers along my spine, then pulls me to him again. I try to let the truth surface, but no matter how much I want to tell him everything that’s happened, the deep, black force of fear gets in the way.

  Between Bump’s repeated attempts to take me to the cot and my stubborn resistance, we spend the hours filling feed bins and topping water pails, grooming the mares and mucking the stalls. By the time we cross the final job from our daily list, the rain stops and the sun creeps in.

  We’re just cleaning up the last of the brushes when a wave of nausea slams me, one of many I’ve been dealt in recent days. I bolt for the door and Bump follows me, concerned. “You all right?” He moves closer, speaks softly. I bend behind the pines and try not to let him see me get sick. With all that’s happened in the last year, it’s no wonder my gut is a wreck. But life is better now. Much better. I hope this is the last time I ever let worry get the best of me.

  “I’m okay.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my shirtsleeve, mortified. “Nerves, I guess.”

  “Nerves?” Bump seems stung. “Thought you weren’t gettin’ cold feet.”

  “Not about the marrying part.” It’s not a complete lie. “But yes, to be honest, I am a little nervous about the rest of it.”

  “What rest of it?”

  My voice grows quiet. It’s the old Millie coming through again. Yellow. Weak. The truth is … I’m not sure I deserve Bump, and I wonder if others are thinking the same thing.

  “What I mean is, your entire family is coming. I have to stand up there in front of everyone we know and …”

  “And what?” Bump’s jaw sets. His shoulders stiffen.

  “And …” I look away. “Pretend I’m good enough for you.” I step around a mud puddle and make my way back into the barn, hoping the smells don’t get to me again.

  Bump tromps right through the puddle. “Good enough? For me? Millie, the guys can’t believe I ever got you to talk to me, much less marry me. I still keep expectin’ you to make a run for it.” Then he adds, “Please don’t.” There’s a sound in Bump’s voice I’ve never heard. Doubt.

  I give him my full attention again and exhale. Bump’s blue eyes hold my own, as he waits for my answer. That same color that first reminded me of hydrangea blooms. “I won’t, if you won’t,” I say. And suddenly, I mean it. No matter how unsure I’ve been feeling, a promise is a promise. And it’s one I want to keep. I move closer, rest my head against his sturdy chest, and allow myself to find safety in his long, lean frame. Bump lets the music move us while Sinatra croons.

  A peaceful sky, there are such things

  A rainbow high where heaven sings

  So have a little faith and trust in what tomorrow brings

  Chapter 2

  “There’s something romantically hopeful about having a wedding in the middle of a war.” Janine is speaking before she enters the barn. I’ve known her for six months now, and she’s been talking ever since. When she turns the corner and spots Bump with me, her pitch jumps two octaves.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing here, Bump?” Janine swoops her arms in big circles and begins to shoo. “It’s bad luck! Get!” She gives Bump a frisky nudge, but he manages to plant one last kiss on my cheek before darting for safety.

  “If I catch you back in here again before the ceremony, you’ll be sorry!” Janine’s chirp is less painful to me now than when I first met the spitfire secretary, but I still pinch my ears when she hits certain notes. “He just can’t wait, can he?” Janine giggles, and her entire frame, barely five feet high, springs with glee.

  I swat at Janine, laughing. We head out to the pasture as a bicycle bell dings from behind us. “Sis! Sis!” Camille’s called me this for months. Since the day her mother, Diana, took mercy on me and brought me home to live with them. Camille greeted me that day with an enthusiastic hug and announced she’d “always wanted a sister,” as if Diana had just brought home a stray puppy from behind the corner store.

  Camille drops her bike onto the wet grass before bouncing her way toward us, making Janine laugh. “Mornin’, Camille,” I say, lifting my hand to block the sun from my eyes.

  “For the record, I no longer answer to Camille. Call me Ann.” She lifts her cotton dress and curtsies. Camille always acts years beyond her age; she’s only ten.

  “Ann?” Janine feeds Camille the attention she craves. “Oh, please, do tell me, why Ann?”

  “After Ann Sheridan, of course. Didn’t you see her on the cover of Motion Picture Hollywood Magazine? Mabel thinks I look just like her.” Camille tilts her chin up and to the right, striking a pose, then spins in circles, making her light pink dress flare. For the moment, every bit of anxiety breaks away and I want to keep feeling like this—hopeful, believing I really can forget the past and that everything is going to be okay.

  Janine and I lean against a magnolia tree and watch Camille spin herself dizzy. “How did Diana Miller end up with such a sweet kid?” Janine whispers under a smile. Thank goodness, Camille doesn’t hear.

  “Diana’s not as bad as she seems.” I shrug.

  Janine rolls her eyes. “If you say so, honey.”

  “Well, she did take me in when no one else offered.”

  “Then why in heaven’s name did you move into the horse barn, Millie? Everybody thought you’d plumb lost your mind.”

  I don’t dare tell Janine the real reason I left the posh Miller home, or how even the Millers couldn’t give me the only thing I ever wanted: a loving family of my own. I think back to the sudden shift in Diana, after she learned that her husband had once been engaged to marry Mama. How quickly her kindness waned and her protective walls went up. How Bill Miller would stare me down at the supper table. Right in front of his wife. “I guess I needed things to be a little more predictable.”

  “Predictable?” Janine shakes her head. “Honestly, Millie, wouldn’t you rather sleep on soft sheets and bathe in a porcelain tub?”

  “It’s hard to explain, Janine. I admit, life with Mama and Jack sure wasn’t perfect. Wasn’t even good, most of the time. But at least I knew what to expect. When I moved in with the Millers, lots of things surprised me. Make sense?” I keep my eyes on Camille.

  “Well,” Janine says, laughing before lowering her voice back to a whisper, “to tell the truth, as tempting as that gorgeous house might be, I’d choose a barn over Diana Miller any day.”

  I nod, trying to think of a better way to defend Diana.

  “Where’s the dress?” Camille asks, finally getting dizzy enough to plant her feet. “Can I see it?” She wobbles as if she’s about to fall. This makes her giggle.

  “The dress? Oh, no, Millie. I forgot the dress!” With that, Janine runs toward the rodeo office calling for Mr. Tucker.

  “Not a good sign.” Always dramatic, Camille sighs as if there may be no chance of saving this wedding. Anything to stop me from moving to Colorado.

  “Worse things could happen,” I say, waving it off. “Now let’s go check on the most exciting part of the whole day.”

  “The groom?” Camille blows kisses to make fun of me.

  “No, ma’am.” I tickle her ribs and remember her obsession with Mabel’s iced desserts. “The cake.”

  By nine a.m. Bump’s relatives are already arriving from the Delta. The pasture is a steamy mess from last night’s storm, so Bump spreads straw to protect everyone’s shoes from the mud.

  “I sure am glad Kenneth found him a good girl,” Bump’s mother says, offering me a hug before kissing her son on the cheek. She removes his Stetson and tousles his hair.

  “I can’t believe I got so lucky,” I tell her.

  Mr. Anderson doesn’t say anything, which worries me, but he shakes my hand and Bump’s, too. When Bump pulls his father into a h
ug, the serious elder cracks a rare smile. Mrs. Anderson clasps her hands to her mouth as if this is the sweetest scene she’s seen in years. Then she puts her arm around me and says, “Part of the family now, Millie.”

  Bump winks at me, and it’s all I can do not to cry. One of the reasons I fell for Bump in the first place was because of his family. “We ain’t got much, but we’re good people,” Mrs. Anderson teases. And she’s right. They may be poor, but they are the kindest, most genuine people I’ve ever known. Now, they consider me part of this family. My gratitude swells.

  “You sure you don’t want to move this wedding inside the arena? Drier ground?” Mr. Tucker joins us, puffing his cigar and filling the air with a sweet-tinged cloud of tobacco smoke. It’s one of the many smells I’ve gotten used to in the time I’ve spent with the rodeo crew, but today the odor makes my stomach churn. Must mean my worries have come back in full force. I think of Mama being taken to East, labeled a “nerve patient,” never again to leave the hospital for the mentally insane. Get ahold of yourself, Millie. Don’t overreact. This is a good day.

  Bump goes back to spreading hay, his polite way of letting Mr. Tucker know this is exactly where we want to have the wedding. Outside, under the trees, where we’re most ourselves. No fancy church. No big rodeo production. Just a simple gathering of those we love.

  “It’ll be beautiful,” Janine jumps in, out of breath. She holds a long white garment bag in her hand, and I’m guessing the wedding gown is hidden safe inside.

  “But the pasture—” Mr. Tucker protests.

  Janine tugs on Mr. Tucker’s suit with confidence and stops him before he can finish his thought. “What a bride wants, a bride gets.” As usual, she flirts shamelessly.

  Releasing two more puffs of smoke into the air, Mr. Tucker winks at me, and says, “What Janine wants, Janine gets.” Then he offers a deep base chuckle that makes me wonder how long it’d take him to propose if he could realize Janine loves him.

  I move to help spread straw, but Janine whisks me into the rodeo dressing room, chatting the entire way about everything from keeping my palms dry in the heat to the importance of keeping my eyes off the ground. When she points me to the bathtub, I tell her it’s the best idea she’s had yet. I sink beneath the warmth of the water and rest my head against a rolled towel. Slowly, I inhale. Exhale. Willing my stomach to settle.