When Mountains Move Page 27

  “Millie?” Diana stands quickly, as if she’s been stung. Then she turns to watch the men in the work pen. She waits a long time before continuing. Too long. Surely she is upset with the way I’ve been acting since they arrived. I sense she is about to walk away. Instead, she speaks. “I heard what you said. To Oka.”

  I pause, say nothing. I’m not sure what she means.

  “About Isabel,” Diana goes on. “About my husband.” She shields her eyes from the sun and directs her stare toward Bill Miller. “I heard what you told her. In the barn. I know.”

  Surely she doesn’t mean that conversation. “You know?” I stand.

  Now she turns and confronts me eye-to-eye. “Yes, Millie. I know.” The pitch of her voice is unsteady, and I can’t tell if it’s a result of anger or disgust. She stares at Isabel as if she’s looking for proof that Bill Miller is her father. I step between them, hoping to shield my child from any threat. “Truth is,” Diana gives a long and desperate sigh, as if she’s trying not to cry, “in a way, I guess I’ve always known. I knew when you didn’t come home from church that day. Bill Miller was late for supper.” Her voice breaks. “He’s never late for supper.”

  Now Diana’s gaze settles back on her husband in the pasture, the monster who fathered my child. “I knew when he wouldn’t let me search for you. I knew when you snuck your suitcase out the window and never looked back.”

  Neither of us speaks, and the silence seems to stretch for days. I struggle to find a single thing to say. Such phrases don’t exist. So I stick with the closest terms English offers to express what I am feeling.

  “Diana, I’m … I’m so sorry.”

  Her body folds in on itself, as if she’s a balloon and all the air is leaking out. I don’t know what else to say to her. I just want to get away. Get Isabel away.

  Finally, she speaks again. “It’s not your fault, Millie. I couldn’t accept it. You understand? I couldn’t …” She cries now, and for the first time, I see the real Diana. Vulnerable and afraid. I want to hug her, but I don’t.

  “I couldn’t accept he would do such a thing. Not my husband,” she continues with her eyes kept down, focused on the hard dirt ground. “But now I see it all. He was never the man I thought he was. Was he? He lied from the start. About your mother. About you.” She wipes her cheeks, trying to gather herself.

  I want so badly to reach out to her, to do something, anything, that would take away her pain. Instead, I catch Isabel and head for the trail. Escape.

  I can’t get Isabel far enough away from Bill and Diana, but I also don’t want to frighten her. So I carry her on my back, moving quickly up the trail until we reach a safe distance. Only then do I slow our pace, letting her take the lead. She walks intently, listening, smelling, touching, seeing. I try to be like her, to capture the creation, every sacred inch of this mountain, and to tune in to what really matters. To block out the rest.

  We walk between yellowed aspens, their white bark based beneath the singing leaves. Below, in the valley, the elk sing love songs. The rivers run without pausing. The forests breathe. One thing is for sure: the mountains don’t care about Bill Miller. His presence hasn’t changed them at all. Oh, how I want to be strong, like these mountains. Unbreakable.

  When we reach our prayer circle, I pull Isabel into my lap. I make a wish on a small stone and toss it to the winds. Isabel does the same with a tiny pebble. Then she plays on the rocks, laughing and singing. How can I protect her innocence? How can I keep her happy? Safe? Sheltered from men like Bill Miller?

  The twin peaks stand in the distance, watching over us. I think of Bill Miller, traveling here to find a horse for Camille. Sitting at my table. Giving me a wink. He acts as if he has every right to intrude in my life, as if he wants me to know that no matter how far I go, I’ll never really get away from him.

  I think of Diana, overhearing the conversation between Oka and me. Learning of her husband’s betrayal. This makes me even angrier with Bill Miller. Not only has he hurt me. Now he’s hurt Diana, too, and that will hurt Camille. The damage has no end.

  But that’s what would happen, isn’t it? If I took revenge on Bill Miller, it would only hurt Diana and Camille. To them, he is a husband, a father, a much-loved man who is the provider for their family. I wish Diana hadn’t overheard our conversation. I wish the truth was still buried. I wish the burden was still all on me.

  I pull the pistol from my hip, rolling the weight of the weapon from hand to hand. Then I aim out into the nothing, imagining Bill Miller standing over me when I was a girl. As I cock the hammer, I am reminded of the green wall of quotes Miss Harper kept in her library. I memorized the verses when I was younger, and one comes to mind now, an ancient quote from someone named Calcott or something. “He that has revenge in his power, and does not use it, is the greater man.”

  Strength. Ihanko. Power. The greater man. Krasnaya. Red. Millicent. Strength.

  Isabel tires, and I am reminded of how frail life can be. I release the hammer, without firing the gun, and put the pistol back into my holster. Then I pull my child close to me. Isabel’s tiny lids grow heavy, and soon she is napping on the sun-warmed boulder. While she sleeps, I think through the choices Mama and Jack made in their lives. The bad decisions that drew us all into a spiral of chaos and pain. Now it’s me who makes the choices. How do I fix all that is wrong in my life? How do I save my marriage? Build the family I always wanted? Give Isabel more than I ever had?

  As the sun begins to sink into the afternoon haze, my daughter stirs. It’s a late nap for her, and she wakes hungry. I pull her onto her feet and we turn for home, following the trail back into the trees. I’m hoping by the time we reach the ranch, the Millers will be long gone. Then I will tell Bump everything. It is time for him to know the truth.

  I try not to let Isabel feel my tension. None of this is her fault, and I will not allow the hurt to trickle down to her. We stay the path, singing simple songs together as we hike, hand in hand. “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down.”

  As we make a bend in the trail, I stop cold in my tracks and warn Isabel to hush. Just ahead of us, a pale mountain lion crouches on a ridge. This time, a cub lies at her side. The tip of the mother’s tail twitches, the only thing that gives her away. I lift Isabel into my arms and warn her again to be quiet. She listens.

  I pull the pistol from my hip again, its chamber still warm from my time in the sun. It’s likely the lion has seen us long before I ever spotted her. She is no more than three feet from us now, perched in prime position for an attack. Fortner told me they keep a large territory, so she’s probably the same one who chased me into the barn when we first moved to this ranch. If that’s the case, she’s already shown she can be aggressive. And while an attack on a human would be rare, our odds are worse because her cub is tucked close.

  My heart pounds heavy against my chest and my teeth buzz with alarm. “Run!” the signals tell me. “Get away!” But we don’t stand a chance. The lion would pounce before I finished a single step. I know this. All the fears of our last encounter come back like hot coals against my skin. There’s not a cell in my body that isn’t screaming loud and clear: “Danger! Danger!”

  But I hear Oka’s voice too, reminding me of my Chahta name. “Ihanko,” she says. “Strong.”

  Isabel wraps my hair around her tiny fingers, and my thoughts turn to Mama. I picture her now, yielding to the forces against her. Refusing to stand up and protect me. Refusing to protect herself.

  With the gun in my hand and my eyes on the lion, I feel Isabel wiggle in my arms. Her soft, plump cheek rubs against my neck. She has survived so much already. This can’t be how it ends for her. I won’t allow it. This lion will not hurt my child.

  The mother lion remains in place, still moving her tail with random, irregular tics. She’s trying to make me flinch. Scare me into movement. But I refuse. I breathe in. Out
. Maintain my stare. Isabel seems aware of the tension. She, too, stays quiet.

  I set the pistol but can’t get a clear shot. All I can really aim for is the tail. That would do more harm than good. I could try to fire a warning shot to scare her away, but it’s too great a risk. If the threat caused her to lunge at me instead, she’d slash my throat before I could fire a second shot. I have no real option. So I wait, gun at the ready, and I rely on the one thing that has always seen me through. I pray.

  With Isabel pressed against me, I don’t stop praying, even when the lion turns her head to the sound of footsteps down the trail. In the distance, leaves crunch hard and loud beneath fast feet. I keep my eyes on the lion while I monitor the approaching noise. It could be Bump. Or Fortner. Or Oka. I have to warn them. “Stop!” I shout, afraid my voice will draw the lion, but she doesn’t move an inch. Instead, she stares down the trail, waiting, just like me. Oh please, Bump, don’t come any closer.

  Just as I’m about to yell out “Lion!” Bill Miller’s head arcs over the rise, and as hard as it is to believe, I am suddenly being stalked by two kinds of predators. I hold Isabel close in my arms and tighten my grip on the pistol. I don’t know which is worse, the lion or the man.

  He’s talking before he reaches me. Shouting, angrily. “How dare you!”

  Diana must have finally found the strength to confront him with the truth. But if that’s the case, did she tell Bump the truth too? Think, Millie. Don’t panic. I need to get to Bump, but I’ve got to get past a lion and Bill Miller first.

  I try not to show any reaction to Bill Miller’s anger because that would give him two things I don’t want him to have: power over me and fuel to feed his temper. I learned long ago how to navigate a safe path around an angry man. I focus on trying to breathe slowly, hoping to keep Isabel from crying in distress. I avoid looking him directly in the eye, just as I do the lion, trying to observe without signaling a challenge. As he shouts louder, the lion’s ears tuck back and she draws her mouth back to bare sharp, yellow teeth. It’s clear she’s agitated, threatened, with her cub against her side. I hold my own child, understanding how the lion feels.

  Bill Miller is completely unaware that he is approaching a mountain lion. She is well camouflaged by rocks and brush, perched on a ridge above us, tucked beneath the trees, watching cautiously as the man moves closer in his city clothes, yelling, “You think you can make those kinds of accusations?” He stops to catch his breath, struggling with the climb and the higher altitudes. With hands on his knees, he bends a bit, looking down and breathing heavily. But by the time he lifts his chin, he has managed to collect himself. I am sickened by the way he stares hard at Isabel, as if he can control her, too.

  I lift my arm and point the gun directly at his chest, nothing but air between the chamber and this man. When he realizes I am armed, a flash of fear crosses his face. Only for a second, but that’s enough to make me hold my fire. I don’t shoot, and my hesitation calms him. In a matter of minutes, his behavior has shifted from red-faced shouts to a winded break for breath to a moment of sheer panic in the face of the gun, but now he offers a smug smirk, as if he’s certain he has the upper hand.

  “So she’s mine,” he says, looking at Isabel with a vile twist of the eye. The corner of his lip rises.

  Again, my instinct is to run. But if I do, the lion’s predator-prey responses might be triggered. So I stand still, hoping to outlast both beasts. Hoping to keep my daughter safe. Praying for God to pay attention. To send help. My heart bangs hard against my ribs, and my lungs sting with the understanding that each breath could be my last. But one thing is for sure; I refuse to be silent anymore. I refuse to give in to any of his threats. If it’s a fight Bill Miller wants, I’m ready.

  “You have no right,” I say to this man, each word a punch. “You will never lay a finger on her. Not one dirty little finger.” I try to steady my shaking hand as I cock the gun with my thumb. It’s hard to do with Isabel in my arms, but I manage. I don’t want Bill Miller to think I don’t know how to handle a pistol. How to make a good shot.

  As I reset my aim, the snide banker releases a hissing sound, as if he’s got no intention of listening to anything I say. As if he’ll do exactly what he wants, when he wants, and no one will ever stop him. Not even a girl with a gun.

  He takes two quick steps toward me.

  I stand my ground and reposition my weapon. “Not another step.” I try to say this with conviction, but my voice quavers.

  Isabel squirms in my arms, tugging my shirt. Bill Miller watches her with a strange look, and I’m not sure how to read him until he says, “If she’s my blood, you can’t keep her from me.”

  Breath leaves me with force, as if I’ve been pierced in the gut. This man doesn’t care one bit about being Isabel’s father. He’s only trying to hit me where it hurts the most. It works.

  “You can’t do that,” I say. I am shaking harder now, but I refuse to whisper, to stutter. Refuse to give in to this man ever again. I will stay strong. He will hear me.

  “You better believe I can. You’re nothing more than half-breed trash. No judge would think twice.” His laugh is a high-pitched rattle that causes the lion to flinch. Still, Bill Miller doesn’t see her. He takes another step, reaching his hand out to touch Isabel’s cheek. I pull away before he makes contact, but this brings me closer to the ridge where the mother and her cub are perched. Bill Miller shrugs his shoulders, to show he’s not the least bit concerned with what I think. Then he lets me know his plan: “Diana always did want another child.”

  In that one sentence, I see the bigger picture. This man would try to take Isabel just to spite me. Just to put me in my place. But he forgets. I have a choice too. Pull the trigger, Millie. End this now. My fingertip slides across the trigger. One quick pull. That’s all it would take. But then I remember the lesson from Mama’s story about Cain and Abel. The choice. I have a choice.

  Please, please, God. Help us. The wind stirs leaves around our feet, bringing me back to my senses. Bill Miller looks away, and I exhale.

  Isabel leans to be put down. She doesn’t fully understand our danger. She only wants to catch the swirling leaves. As the limbs above us bend and sway, I remember my sweet gum tree back home, Sweetie. How I watched from those limbs as Jack pressed a knife against Mama’s throat. How I wanted, more than anything, for Mama to stand up and fight for her life. To fight for mine.

  As the yellow leaves wave above me, I slowly gain composure. I look Bill Miller right in the eye and say, “You know what I just realized?” He curls his lips down as if he doesn’t care to know, but I continue anyway. “I’m the one with the gun. I could pull this trigger right now, and there’s not a single thing you could do about it. I could leave you bleeding on this trail and I’d never have to worry about you hurting anyone ever again.”

  He cocks his head and grins, obviously finding me amusing. “You don’t have it in you. You’re too much like your mother.”

  “You think I’m the weak one?” I almost laugh. “You? Bill Miller?” I say this condescendingly, shaking my gun for emphasis. “The rich boy who didn’t get his way? Still pouting because my mother told you no?” His smile fades. “That’s right. I know who you are, Bill Miller. I see right through your fake smile and your fancy suits. I may be a half-breed. I did grow up poor and you can call me trash all you want, but the truth is, Mr. Miller, you’re the pathetic one. Having to force yourself on a young girl just so you can feel like a man.”

  With this, an evil overcomes him. He gives me the darkest, angriest look I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. But I don’t back down. For some reason, I’m no longer afraid of him. The power has shifted. “You know what else, Mr. Miller? You’re not even worth this.” I twist my wrist, letting the gun tilt a bit, releasing my aim. “You aren’t worth the worry I would carry with me if I did shoot a hole through your heart. You’re the bad guy. Not me.”
/>
  Bill Miller stands for a minute or two, staring at Isabel and me. The lion still sits no more than two arm lengths above me, watching cautiously, trying to remain hidden. She must realize she’s outnumbered, as she tries to protect her cub who now tugs her mother’s tail with her teeth. But that doesn’t change the fact that with one quick pounce, we’re their next meal. Diana’s husband still hasn’t noticed the animals, and this doesn’t surprise me at all.

  “Now, Bill,” I drop the family name to prove he’s no better than me. “Here’s what you’re going to do.” I talk while moving my hand, letting the barrel of the gun add weight to my commands. “You’re going to turn around and walk right back down that trail to find Diana. You’re going to tell her you are a pathetic fool and that you’ll do anything she wants for the rest of your life, if she’ll even consider forgiving you. Then you will head straight for the depot and catch the first train back to Mississippi. If you’ve got a lick of sense, you won’t look back.”

  With this, I send the heavens another silent plea. He’s all Yours. Please help me walk away. Keep Isabel safe. Please. I hold my daughter in one arm, my pistol in the other, and give one last look to the mother lion before stepping slowly away from all these beasts.

  I try to move in a broad arc around Bill, but the trail is narrow here, with a steep rise to one side, a drastic drop to the other. I have no choice but to step within reach of this man. As we pass, he lunges to grab me. His arm catches mine, causing my foot to slip on a slice of stone. Then Isabel’s weight shifts just enough to throw me off balance and send us both to the ground.

  When I slam against the trail, my grip tenses and the gun fires. Isabel screams.

  In a panic, I drop the pistol to the ground and search my daughter for any sign of injury. I’m frantic, terrified I may have shot my own child. Danger stalks from all directions, but Bill Miller no longer matters to me. Neither does the lion. I lift Isabel’s arms, her legs, turn to examine her back, until I finally realize there is no blood. She hasn’t been hit by the bullet. She’s not hurt. Just terrified.