When Mountains Move Page 9

  We are startled from each other’s arms and ride the rest of the route with our eyes on the road and a smile on my husband’s face.

  In town, we park in front of Doc’s Place. We’ll walk across the street to the diner before returning to Doc’s. He’s invited Bump to take a look at his mustangs, and Bump is more than eager to land a paying customer. Plus, he insists I ask the doctor about my ulcer, and I’m certainly ready to end the constant irritation.

  “Bump. Millie.” Doc comes around the corner of his house and greets us cheerily as we climb out of the truck. “I’m just about to have breakfast. Come on in.”

  Bump gives me a please say yes look, obviously eager to eat. I laugh and follow the men into Doc’s Place. The walls are bare, no photos of loved ones. No signs of family. His home is orderly and stocked with only the bare essentials, even though I’m guessing he can afford luxuries. Doc’s a decent-looking man. Certainly intelligent, and friendly enough. I’m a bit surprised to discover he lives all alone. Only a whole lot of horses in the paddock and a coughing patient or two in the adjoining room.

  The doctor pulls on his glasses and says, “I sure enjoyed those biscuits last night, Millie. I’d never had figs before.” We follow him into the kitchen where he unwraps a biscuit, layers it with a fresh spread of honey-colored preserves. “I asked Kat for the leftovers.”

  I raise my chin and give Bump a look as if to say, “See, I’m not so bad after all.”

  Doc hands the biscuit to Bump, and my husband makes up for last night’s insult. “Millie’s one of the best cooks I’ve ever seen.” I smile.

  Doc spreads preserves on two more biscuits, one for me, and one for him. We stand together in the kitchen, eating without even bothering with plates or forks. I find comfort in the doctor’s casual nature, and even though my biscuits have nothing on Kat’s pie, every bite tastes like home.

  “I’d be mighty grateful if you could take a look at my horses. Got that batch of mustangs I mentioned. Wild as bears. Can’t get a whip-length within a single one of them. And I’ve got a Belgian who is head shy about the bridle. He’ll be worthless if he won’t pull a plow.”

  “Happy to help,” Bump says, “but we want to ask you about Millie’s stomach first. I think she might have an ulcer.”

  “Y’all go ahead with the horses,” I say. “I’ve got a few errands I need to run before you put me in a bad mood.” I smile, and the doctor does too.

  With that, Doc points Bump to the door and our first steady income. I leave the men, promising to come back and talk about that ulcer. Then I make my way to the post office. I need to mail thank-you notes for our wedding gifts. Plus, I want to send the tumbleweed to Camille. If only I could see her face when she opens it.

  Within minutes, the postman is helping me stuff a big box with Camille’s tumbleweed. Then he stamps: “FRAGILE” and says, “Well, that’s a first.” He is built square, shoulders and hips as wide as they are thick, and he stands on a step stool to see over the counter. He wears a starched federal uniform and seems to take his position very seriously, even though the entire post office is the size of a small closet, including a telegraph station in the corner. The two of us nearly fill the room.

  “You the folks living out at the Fortner place?” the postman asks.

  “Yes, sir.” I introduce myself, give him the information he seeks.

  “Abe,” he says, pointing to his name tag. “Got a package for you.”

  “You do?” I’m too excited to care what it is or who it’s from. I follow Abe to a narrow area behind the counter where boxes are stacked as high as his head.

  “It’s down here on the bottom.” We work our way through the stack until I see the label from Miss Harper, the librarian in Iti Taloa. I can hardly contain my delight.

  “Books!”

  Abe gives a quick dip of his chin and says, “It’s heavy, all right.”

  I tear into the box and find it filled with discarded titles from the library. For Whom the Bell Tolls, Gone with the Wind, The Yearling, It Can’t Happen Here. I flip through the top of the stack and nearly cheer from excitement.

  “Need help getting that loaded?”

  “No, thanks. I can manage.” I set the box on the counter to pay for my stamps.

  “So what’re your plans out there with that old ranch?” Abe steps back onto his stool, and makes change for me. I tell him about Mr. Tucker’s goals.

  “Well, I’m no rancher,” Abe continues, “but I know there’s a need for stock horses in these parts. Broncs, too. Got a rodeo not too far from here. Down in Estes Park. I suppose you already know about that one, though.”

  “You compete?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Not in this lifetime. But I do like to watch. The big ranchers all come out and their boys go against each other. MacMillan usually takes tops.”

  “MacMillan?”

  “Yep, big cattle operation just past the Stanley. Over in Estes. You been there yet?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s nice. See it sometime. Take a ride in one of those old Stanley steamers. They still have a few they run for tours.”

  “Sounds fun, I admit.”

  Abe’s face is dry and red, and when he smiles I fear it may crack into pieces. He looks as if he spends all his time standing in the wind. “You two have everything you need out there? It’s awfully remote.”

  “We’re just getting the place up and running, but we do hope to find a dairy cow soon. Get some laying hens while we’re in town today. Got any idea where we should look?”

  “You’re in luck.” Abe laughs and steps down again from the stool. He leads me to a line of holding pens behind the post office. Several scrawny horses and a donkey share a small pen. Another area holds four goats and a couple of pigs. “No one ever showed up to get these goats. I’m only required to hold them for three days. Been a few weeks already. Far as I’m concerned, they’re yours if you want them. Two mamas, three babies. Still milking.”

  I’m blown away by our fortune. “Bump will be thrilled. Think they can stand the winters up there? We’ve got good shelter.”

  Abe shrugs. “Seem healthy enough.” One of the kids cries, and it sounds as if she’s calling, “Mama, Mama.” Abe pets the baby’s soft ears and pats one doe on the head.

  “If we can carry them in the truck, we’ll take them home today. Would that work?”

  “That’s exactly what I want you to do.” Abe continues petting the goats, careful to give each equal attention. I get the feeling he wants to find them new homes before he becomes too attached. “I don’t have chickens, but there’s an old Indian woman about a mile from here who always has more than she can handle.”

  I follow Abe back into the station where I write down directions to the lady’s home and fold them into my pocket. “I almost forgot,” he adds, “you got a letter, too.” Then, he pulls an envelope from a wooden slat behind the counter and tucks it in my hand.

  “Thanks, Abe. I’ll be back for the goats.” Eager to read my mail, I hurry away. The box of books lands hard into the bed of the truck before I rip into the letter. It’s from Camille.

  Dear Millie,

  I miss you, Mabel misses you, and Mother is worse than ever. So many parties! She made Mabel clean the floorboards with a toothbrush! And when Daddy stepped on the rug with muddy shoes, Mother gave Mabel a spoon and said, “Scrape it up.”

  She’d die if she knew who came to our house. A GYPSY! He walked right up and asked about you. Quite a looker, sis. He played the harmonica for me, and he was very nice until Mabel told him you were married. Then, he just walked away.

  Please come home. Writing letters is hard.

  With absolute devotion and undying affection (that’s how I will sign when I’m famous),

  Camille

  P.S. Remember the Screenland cover of Lana in May? Wel
l, guess what? Mabel fixed my hair just like hers, and I’m about to paint my nails RED! Won’t Mother be thrilled!? XOXO

  I read the letter three times. Then I tear it into pieces and toss it into a trash can behind the general store before returning to Doc’s house. Along the way, I don’t think of Miss Harper’s shipment of books, or Camille imitating Lana Turner, or Mabel scraping the rug with a spoon. Only one thought rises to the surface with every step. River is looking for me.

  When I make it to Doc’s, I’m no longer worried about a silly little stomach ulcer. And it’s a good thing too. Doc’s got no time to treat me because Kat has beaten me here, and she is crying. “What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping lightly into the foyer that doubles as a waiting room.

  “Come on in, Millie.” The doctor stands to offer me his seat. Bump is sitting next to Kat, his arm around her, trying to console her.

  “Kat?” I ask again. I fear the worst—that something has happened to Henry.

  Bump looks at me as if he doesn’t know what to say. He stands and lets me move to comfort Kat. She wipes her tears. Then she hands me a crumpled yellow telegram. It is moist where her wet fingers have gripped the paper. The top line makes it clear the message has been sent from Washington, D.C. I read it silently as Doc Henley brings Kat a warm, wet cloth for her face.

  THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR HUSBAND SEAMAN GRANT COLEMAN GARNER WAS KILLED IN ACTION ON JUNE 5TH 1943 IF FURTHER DETAILS OR OTHER INFORMATION ARE RECEIVED YOU WILL BE PROMPTLY NOTIFIED

  All caps. No punctuation. Then the bottom line states the message has been given by the Adjutant General. I’m in shock. “What a cruel way to deliver this news.”

  “It’s okay,” Kat says. “There’s been a mistake. I’m certain of it.”

  “Kat,” I move closer to her, in case she wants a hug. She doesn’t.

  She takes the paper and stuffs it back into her pocket. “This isn’t how they do it. They can’t just post a telegram. He’ll be back. Just wait and see.”

  I pour Kat a mug of coffee from a corner pot and hold it out to her. She stares at it but doesn’t drink.

  “Where’s Henry?” I ask.

  She looks as if she’s going to cry again. “Daddy’s got him at the store.”

  “Do they know?”

  Kat shakes her head no.

  Doc excuses himself and Bump follows. I assume they’re going to find Kat’s father.

  “Oh, Millie. What am I going to do?” She covers her face with the cloth and cries. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  I sit with her but say nothing. Instead, I wait. Listen. The only way I know to show I care.

  Kat leans back, closes her eyes, and says, “Thank you, Millie. Thank you for being my friend.”

  Chapter 11

  June 28, 1943

  Kat finds me cleaning the coop for our new batch of hens. She carries a jar of jam and sets it on the ground for me while Henry struggles to climb a small scrub tree out by the river. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since we read the telegram in Doc’s office a week ago.

  “Kat?” I rush to greet her. “Thank goodness. I’ve been so worried about you.” I’ve wanted to check on her, but I was afraid I’d be intruding.

  “I’m fine.” She offers me a stiff hug, and I give her a look as if I doubt she’s fine. I’ve seen this look in other people’s eyes. A look of determined survival. “Really, I am. I won’t believe a thing they say until I have proof.”

  “Proof?”

  She pulls away, turns to look at the mountains rising behind us. “They say there are no … They weren’t able to find … They have nothing to bury.” She forces a smile and continues staring in the distance for a long time.

  “We could talk to the reverend,” I suggest. “I’m sure this kind of thing has happened before.”

  Kat watches the mountains, as if she hasn’t processed what I’ve said at all. Then it’s almost as if a switch has been flipped. She spins back in my direction, looks right at me, and smiles big, as if this has all been some sort of joke. She places her hands on my stomach, as if we’ve been friends our whole lives. I take a step back, confused. “Kat?”

  “Something you need to tell me?” She asks this happily, as if we’re chatting at a tea party. As if her husband hasn’t been blown to pieces over a foreign sea. I can’t imagine what she’s thinking. “Don’t you dare look at me like that,” she teases. “I’m no fool, Millie.”

  “What are you talking about?” I honestly have no idea, and I’m worried she’s losing her wits. The shift is so sudden, so drastic. I can only think of Diana and her polished ability to pretend herself an entire reality to suit her own needs. I’ve seen her dry her tears, give her head a few fast shakes, and stand with a smile, like a stage actress ready to play her part.

  “I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure it out.” Kat walks in a circle and counts on her fingers as she makes each point. “You were the first to smell the ponderosas, before we even made it to the glen. You’ve admitted yourself, you’ve been fighting an upset stomach, for-ev-er. You’ve said you’ve been feeling more tired than usual, and, forgive me for saying so, my friend, but your dungarees are a tad too tight.”

  I pull my hands to cover my waistline, ashamed she’s noticed my weight.

  “Don’t try to hide it, Millie. Motherhood is a beautiful blessing. Believe me. The upset stomach, the noxious smells, even the expanding dress size, it’s all worth it. I mean, just look at little Henry out there.” She pauses, smiles at her son. “He’s my whole life.” She sighs. “Wouldn’t trade him for the world.” She says this as if she’s trying to convince herself it’s true.

  “Kat, I’m not—”

  “Are you sure?” Kat interrupts and crosses her arms. “You certainly have all the signs.”

  “Sure I do.” I say this sarcastically.

  “Indeed, Millie. You do.” Then she whispers, “Are you … sore?” She motions toward her own breasts, and I blush at her frankness. Then I nod, admitting I am.

  “Have you missed your monthly?”

  “Several.” I’m certain my face has turned hot-pepper red. “But that happens to me sometimes. It’s no big deal. It’s probably on account of our limited diet and all this hard work.”

  “I knew it.” Kat snaps her fingers, as if she’s won a contest.

  “Kat, you’ve gone mad. I had planned to see Doc last week before …” I can’t look at her. I don’t want to bring up her husband again. She seems determined to avoid accepting that she is now a widow.

  “You’re pregnant, Millie.”

  I laugh. “Honestly, you’re wrong, Kat. Bump knows a lot about medicine from all that vet school, and he says I have an ulcer.” I scoop more waste into a bucket for compost and try not to let the smell get to me.

  “I don’t care what Bump thinks, my friend. He’s never been pregnant. I have. And I’m telling you, you’re going to have a baby.”

  I don’t know how to react. For some reason, this time, I don’t laugh Kat away as if she’s speaking nonsense. Is it possible that I’ve known the truth all along? That I’ve just been waiting for someone to say it out loud? Could I have been so determined to leave my past behind that I’ve been swimming in denial? Just like Diana and Kat, I’ve been weaving my own reality. But now Kat has put things together. She’s forced me to accept the ugly truth.

  I hold my head in my hands and trace the path that led me here. I square months in my mind and disappear into a desperate counting of days. Kat yells for Henry not to go too high, and I sink away into a deep, black pit of disgust.

  “Kat?” I grip my hands together as if begging. “Can you not mention this to anyone yet? Please? I want to tell Bump privately.”

  “Of course,” Kat assures me. “I don’t blame you, really. Once men find out, they treat you like you’re
contagious. The whole idea scares them out of their wits. On the other hand”—she winks—“you can use it to your advantage, and I highly recommend you do just that.”

  I am seventeen. Some girls my age wouldn’t know much about pregnancy, but I’ve spent too much time with the rodeo to be a fool about how things happen. I’ve read Bump’s veterinary books too, so I know all about how an egg drops, and a sperm swims, and a collision occurs, and how a split-second interaction can throw someone like me all off course.

  I rub my hand across my belly. I feel faint. Kat must notice me whitening because she turns for the pump and says, “Sit down, Millie. I’ll get you some water.”

  Maybe it’s the sudden thought of being a mother, but my mind takes me back to Mama, and her Bible stories. I’m betting the Virgin Mary didn’t have to deal with nausea when she was pregnant. Surely no sour smell sent her spinning. I count again and again in my head. The vomiting started before our wedding. Before our wedding! One thing is for sure. I have no sacred seed growing inside of me. This baby is no gift from God.

  Kat returns and hands me a glass of water from the pump. “Better now?”

  I can’t answer. Kat’s words swirl around me, a warped warble, as if the sound waves aren’t quite making it through. Kat laughs. “You better stay low to the ground for a while.”

  I lie back in the grass and stare at the trees. Above me, the monotonous shree of the waxwings reminds me of the fledgling sparrow Bump and Henry returned to the woods the night of Kat’s dinner party. I wonder if the mama bird came back for her baby. Did she want it? Or had she abandoned it on purpose, leaving it for a cat to find? Like the mama mutt dog who swallowed her own puppies when I was a kid. Do I have it in me to do such things? To take life away from my own child?