When Mountains Move Page 10

  I have not asked for this. I have been cursed. So who could blame me for ending my pain? For shouting to the heavens that I am done. This is my life. Mine. And I do not want this baby. I do not want to be the mother of Bill Miller’s child.

  It’s early July and the heat has reached the ranch. Still, even when the temperature climbs, it’s bearable compared to Mississippi’s humid swelter. Bump has taught me to prime the water pump so the leather gaskets won’t dry out. I take a long drink and then refill the jar so it’s ready for the next prime. Then I move to the clothesline, draping the wire with wet clothes from the wash bin. I’m amazed to find they’re dry before I hang the last of Bump’s shirts. The white cotton sleeves shine bright like lights, reflecting the sun in waves against the wind.

  It’s been more than a week since Kat’s last visit, but her words still echo in my head. “You’re pregnant, Millie.” How could I have been so stupid? I cannot believe Kat has caught on to my condition when I convinced myself I had a stomach ulcer, ignoring all the signs. Even the constant craving for beets, a vegetable I’ve never had a taste for until now. If Kat has discovered my secret so quickly, that means Bump will figure it out soon too. If he hasn’t already. I’ve added the days, I’ve counted the cycles, I’ve calculated and subtracted and whipped the numbers every which way they can tumble, and still, there’s no way around it. I am nearly four months pregnant. I am carrying Bill Miller’s child.

  Bump comes up behind me, pulls my hair back, and kisses me on the neck. “How’s my beautiful wife?”

  I jump, as I do every time he kisses me in that spot. It’s a trigger, for some reason, and I can’t stand the way I feel when touched there. I try to remember the way River’s kiss would send a different kind of chill up my spine. I try.

  “No reason to be scared,” Bump says. “Nobody here but you and me.” The same thing Bill Miller said to me in the steeple. My stomach churns. Bump kisses me again. This time wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me into him. I stiffen. Try to focus on the way he smells of grain, sweat, and grass. Nothing like Bill Miller.

  “Where’s Fortner?” I try to hide any sign of worry in my voice. I’m not ready to tell Bump about this baby. Not ready to hurt this man I love so much. I should have been honest from the start. Then he might understand. But now the lies are too deep. The betrayal, too much.

  “Braidin’ ropes,” he says. “He suggested I take a break. Reckon he’s tired of my singin’?” Bump laughs, and I will myself into a better mood. He’s here to flirt, to have fun, to take a break for the first time since we arrived. I owe him that much, at the very least.

  “Well, well,” I tease. “Is the hard-working rancher out of jobs to do?” I hope he doesn’t sense the false tones in my voice.

  The laundry flaps in the wind, and I have to raise my voice above the loud sound of the shirts being whipped like flags. I pull one from the line and fold it.

  “Only one job I care much about right now.” Bump pulls me back to him.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” I force a smile, handing him the laundry basket and pointing to the line of dry clothes waiting to be folded and ironed. I leave him with a twirl.

  He drops the basket beneath the line, scoops me off my feet, and brings me to the door, laughing. “I just realized, I never did carry my wife over the threshold.”

  “Wife,” I repeat. “I can’t help smiling every time you say that word.” I try to think of nothing else. Dip my toes back into the sweet, cold waves of denial.

  Bump shows no shortage of romance, and for fleeting moments, I almost believe he can recover the part of me that was lost that cold day in March, when bells rang in the steeple. And my dress tore. And my soul shattered. Maybe, just maybe, with enough patience, Bump’s gentle giving could bring me to a place so pure, so perfect, and so peaceful, that nothing else would matter. Not even the fact that I’m carrying the child of another man.

  But in the end, I have to pretend again. Disappear into the mind of someone like Kat, a woman confident in her own skin, so sure of how to keep a man happy. What occurs to me is that Bump might be pretending I’m Kat too.

  In bed, Bump runs his rough hand across the subtle rise of my belly and gives me a look that makes me think he knows. I am barely showing, and for that I am grateful, but I need to tell him the truth. To let him know a baby will be born. A child that is not his. How unfair this truth—not just for me, but for the baby, for Bump, for all of us.

  I struggle to work the words to the surface. How can I tell him? Bump, there’s something you need to know … Bump, I haven’t been honest … Bump, please forgive me … Bump, I never meant to hurt you …

  “Bump,” I hesitate. “I’ve been trying to—”

  He interrupts. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Mr. Tucker is comin’ soon. He’s already got a ground crew movin’ the horses up from Mississippi. He’ll take the train and hope to get here before they arrive. Says Janine’s comin’ with him.”

  “Are they bringing Firefly?” Suddenly, the weight of the world falls away, with just the thought of seeing my horse again.

  “Yep,” Bump promises. “Scout, too.” I sense he’s as eager as I am.

  “When?” I ask, sitting up in bed, barely able to contain my excitement, nearly forgetting the baby and the awful truth that must be told.

  “September,” he says. “Expects us to have a good start on the pastures by then and wants to beat the winter snow.”

  “How many horses?”

  “Two dozen mares, plus their foals, so they’ll move slow. Keepin’ the others in Mississippi till we see how it goes. Plans on pickin’ up more along the route, and hopes to bring a fresh stallion down from west of the Divide in the spring. Some work horse with great lines. He can spout off the whole pedigree, so don’t get him started.”

  “Pick up how many more?” I want to know all the details.

  “Didn’t say exactly, but mentioned it could be a couple hundred or so. Some Texas rancher died. Good herd for good money.”

  I add this in my head and realize we’re about to take on nearly two hundred and fifty horses in all, plus the new Colorado stallion, plus Doc Henley’s mustangs and the rest of his herd, which he plans to rotate through our ranch. And cattle will be soon to follow. The fence lines still need mending, weeds cover the pasture, and we’re still working out the kinks with the water system. Not to mention we aren’t sure we’ll have enough hay to get us through winter. Five thousand acres of grassland won’t do us any good if it’s all covered in snow. A ball of panic begins to bounce inside me as I think about all we have left to do.

  “Don’t worry,” Bump says, sensing my anxiety. “It’ll get done. It always does.”

  “Is Oka coming with them?”

  “She sure is.” Bump smiles. “Janine’s worked it all out.” And with that, he pulls me back down into bed and wraps me into him. I forget all about fence lines and hay supply and water pumps. I think only of this gentle man who loves me, and how I am running out of time to tell him the truth.

  Chapter 12

  “Knock, knock!” Kat calls. She and Henry find me in the root cellar where I’ve spent the morning cleaning out old, moldy food and preparing a space to store new goods from our gardens.

  “Kat.” I smile. “You’re just in time to help!” I laugh because the thought of Kat helping me clean this filthy dugout is about as absurd an idea as Bump ever being lazy.

  “I’ll be happy to stock those shelves with all the fruit preserves you can stand, Millie, but if cleaning cobwebs is what you want, you’re asking the wrong girl.”

  Henry, on the other hand, jumps right in with me and starts playing in the dirt.

  “Figured as much,” I tease. Then I shift to the serious subject Kat seems determined to avoid. “You doing okay?”

  “We’re fine, Millie. And I’d rather not talk about it. I came here fo
r laughs, and I’ll settle for nothing less.”

  “Well, in that case …” I try to hand her a pair of work gloves, and it does indeed bring laughs.

  “As long as I don’t have to clean this awful cellar.” Kat steps out of the dank room, leaving prints in the floor. “Henry, why don’t you run and check the coop? I bet you’ll find eggs.”

  Henry leaps at the chance to have a real job.

  “Fortner still here?” Kat asks. It’s been two weeks since her last visit, and it sounds as if she expected he’d be gone by now.

  I follow her gaze in the direction of Fortner’s teepee. He’s already arranged various tools, ropes, and hides in neat, organized stacks around his home. A rifle rests against a spruce next to his camp. “From the looks of it, he’s not planning on leaving anytime soon,” I say. “You think we should worry?”

  Kat glances around, seemingly unsure about whether to share her thoughts with me. “I don’t know. My uncle’s convinced he’s a murderer, but honestly, I’ve always had my doubts. Most folks just steer clear of him, so I always have too.”

  “What happened?” I don’t look her way, hoping she’ll continue to confide in me.

  “Not sure exactly. But story has it,” Kat lowers her voice to a whisper to avoid the risk of Henry accidentally overhearing, “when the Fortners had to abandon the ranch, they left town and didn’t take their son with them.”

  “You mean he stayed behind?”

  “Yes, but he was just a boy at the time. Supposedly, he camped out in the woods and wouldn’t leave.”

  “How old was he?” I ask.

  “Not old, from what I can tell. Twelve, thirteen maybe? Folks say his family couldn’t afford to keep him. His father was ill, both body and mind. He insisted the boy was old enough to make it on his own. Suggested he find a job in the mines.”

  “That’s unbelievable,” I say, turning my attention back to the pickled vegetables. I learned long ago not to put much weight on rumors.

  “It gets even more unbelievable,” Kat says. “Story goes, a new family moved in a few years later, tried to get the ranch working again. In a matter of months, the wife was dead.”

  “And people think Fortner killed her?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea, Millie. Most people say it was a big misunderstanding, that the boy was young, like you say, and he would never have done anything like that. Others got scared. Said the place was cursed. Either way, no one dared come out this way and the house has sat empty ever since. My uncle didn’t buy into the stories. He’s always suspected Fortner was guilty.”

  “But he’s never been tried for it?”

  “No, they were both kids at the time. And besides, Fortner wasn’t around much after that. He started working as a trapper and trader, kind of a middleman between the Utes down south and the ranchers up this way.”

  “That’s why he dresses like that?” I think of Fortner, dressing like he’s part of a tribe but moving through the world in skin that is paler than mine.

  “I guess. I think he prefers their way of life to ours.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  Kat gives me a surprised look, as if she can’t possibly understand why anyone would choose such a life. Then she looks around as if she’s just remembering we use an outhouse and a hand pump and kerosene lamps. “Well, anyway, there’s more to the story. Years later, there was a German woman, Ingrid, kind of big at the top if you know what I mean.”

  We both laugh, and I continue cleaning the shelves with my work rag, suddenly aware of my own swollen breasts.

  “Well, Ingrid took a liking to Fortner. Started asking him to help her with odd jobs when he came through town. Things the woman already knew how to do by herself. She was a tough one, I tell you. Skin a deer, clean a gun, sharpen a blade. It was obvious what she was up to, and the sheriff didn’t like it one bit. She was keeping Fortner too close to town for my uncle’s liking.”

  “Sounds like he might have been jealous.”

  “That’s what most folks say, but either way, people started talking, and before we knew it, Ingrid was caught in the middle of a feud.”

  “Lovers’ quarrel?”

  Kat shrugs.

  “Don’t tell me people think Fortner killed her, too.” Now I’m getting chills. Could Fortner be worse than I fear?

  “Well, supposedly, one night, Uncle Halpin went to Ingrid’s house and guess who was already there?”

  “Fortner?”

  “You guessed it.” Kat crosses her arms. “Uncle Halpin didn’t take it well, and that’s where the story takes two turns. Tempers flared. Shots were fired. And somehow, Ingrid was the one who caught the bullet. Both men blame the other, and neither has changed his story in more than twenty years. Fortner started spending more and more time on the trails, until eventually he stopped coming through town at all. It’s been nearly a decade since anyone I know has seen or heard from him. Until you showed up.”

  “Why?”

  “People talk. Your boss bought the ranch from the bank. Fortner got word, I assume.”

  “You think he’ll hurt us?” I look out at Fortner’s stash of weapons and hides.

  “I really don’t know, Millie. I’d like to think he’s just curious, sticking around long enough to make sure you’ll take care of the place.”

  “But it sounds like he never cared about the place until now.”

  “That’s what I can’t figure. Uncle says he’s evil, and he’s not to be trusted. Says he’s as wild as the Injuns, that he has no soul.”

  I take offense to this, and Kat seems to suddenly notice my dark complexion. “Oh, goodness, Millie. You’re not …”

  “Choctaw,” I say. “My dad’s side.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  I cut her off. “So that’s what your uncle thinks,” I tell her, wiping dirt from another shelf, as I try to ease the guilt she feels. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve heard such things.

  “Yes, that’s right. Him, not me.” Kat seems eager to prove she thinks I do actually have a soul.

  I decide it’s a good time to change the subject. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask Kat, and now’s the perfect time. “So, on a lighter note, I’ve been finding a lot of berries around the ranch,” I begin, carefully plotting my questions to disguise my true intent. I can’t let anyone know my plan.

  “Oh, yes,” Kat says, obviously relieved I’ve let her comment slide. “Tons of wild strawberries in this range. Raspberries, too. Have you found those yet? Might be too early.”

  “Not yet. I’m waiting for the chokecherries to turn dark. And I’m watching for blackberries. I’ve been looking for cuttings and wild herbs to train in my garden, only I’m not familiar with all the plants here.”

  “Are they that different?”

  “They seem to be. In Mississippi, I could have told you the use for nearly every living thing in sight. Here, I just don’t know.”

  Slow down, Millie. Keep calm. I avoid looking Kat in the eye and focus instead on the old jars of beets and rhubarb on dusty shelves. None of the food can be salvaged, but I’m hoping to reuse the jars for this year’s canning.

  “You seem to know everything about these parts,” I continue. “Do you by any chance have a book on plants I can borrow? Something to help me prep the pastures before the horses arrive? Someone mentioned loco weed.”

  “Got quite a few, actually,” Kat says. Then she adds, “How’s the baby?”

  I don’t like hearing the truth out loud. I hold my hand to my lips to signal for Kat to keep quiet.

  Kat’s eyes pop wide with alarm. “You haven’t told him?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t want to get his hopes up, in case things go wrong.” Kat looks as if
she’s on to me. I stutter, adding a better excuse. “It’s just so sudden. I don’t think Bump’s gotten used to having me in his life, much less a baby.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I mean, we can barely handle all our work as it is.” I scramble to make a better excuse. “If Bump knows I’m carrying, he won’t let me help. It would be too much on him. It’s just not time yet. That’s all.”

  “Babies come when they’re meant to, Millie. I was young when I had Henry. Believe me, I sure wasn’t ready.”

  “But you make it look so easy.”

  “It’s not. I certainly never bargained to do this on my own.” Kat stands tall. “Being a mother changes everything. You may not know it yet, but believe me, this pregnancy isn’t all about you.”

  I turn my back to Kat and drop a jar of old pickles a little too hard into the discard box. The bailing wire snaps, and the glass shatters into a million little shards. How dare she say this pregnancy is not about me? It’s my body, isn’t it? It’s me who will risk my life by giving birth. It’s me who will look this child in the eye, day after day, seeing only the man who violated me. It’s me who may lose my husband, the one person in this world who loves me, when he learns the baby isn’t his.

  This is about me. It’s not my fault I’m in this situation. And the choice should be mine. But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I stare at the broken glass and regret the waste. Three jars ruined.

  “Millie?” Kat asks calmly.

  I don’t look at her.

  “Find the Indian woman, up in town. The one where you got the chickens. She might be able to get you some pennyroyal. And blue cohosh.”

  Now I look at her, confused.

  “That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it? How to stop this?”

  I say nothing as Henry returns with a bundle of eggs tucked in his shirt. Kat places them gently in the grass and gives her son a hug.

  “They don’t grow here. But I’ve known of women who …” Like me, she can’t seem to say it out loud. Henry pulls Kat’s leg, and she rustles his hair. Then Kat looks out toward Fortner’s teepee and says, “Why, heck, Millie. You may not even have to go into town.”