Dances with Wolf (2 page)

Now he wondered if he had his priorities in the right order. Abadabun had jet-black hair, shiny and thick, and longer than she
’
d ever worn it as a kid. Big brown eyes that sparkled in the sunlight. Smooth brown skin that looked soft to the touch. And her body? Well, she was no child. Not anymore.

“Well, thanks for letting me watch,” he said, flashing a smile. “I may have learned a thing or two.”

“See you around,” she said.

He waved a wordless good-bye, his back to her already as he headed toward the house. Oh, the things he’d like to learn from her—his imagination ran wild. But Abby was untouchable. She was Bridget
’
s best friend, a second daughter to his mom and dad, and beloved by the entire community for her grit and generosity alike. As for Wolf, his reputation preceded him: he was a cowboy, a
play
boy, a rolling stone in an unstable profession. If he hurt Abby a second time, his family would fry up his Rocky Mountain oysters for breakfast, and his sister would be the one stoking the coals and oiling up the skillet.

Chapter Two

Abby parked her truck in the circle of ranch vehicles and strode toward her house. Stella chased her shadow up the stairs, barking exuberantly.

“Atta girl,” Abby said. Her hand skimmed the stack of mail on the hall table. Lilacs in a milk-white glass vase drooped in the heat. Their fragrance swept through the room like a sad song on the radio.

“I
’
m home!” she shouted.

“Obviously,” said her mom. She came down the wide stairs slowly, pulling Abby into a hug once she
’
d reached the bottom. There was no special occasion; Abby
’
s mom was always bestowing her with hugs and kisses—an only-child thing, perhaps. “Good day?” she asked.

“Okay, I guess. You remember that mare I told you Jess Olsen was having so much trouble with?”

Her mother nodded, then reached forward to brush Abby
’
s hair from her eyes. “She give
you
some trouble?” she asked.

“Not really. She
’
s a sweetheart. She
’
s just got a mind of her own.”

“That
’
s a pretty apt description for her trainer, I
’
d say.”
Her mom laughed.
Abby pretended not to hear her. Sometimes the compliments and the hugs and the kisses could be a bit much.

“So anybody
else
at the Olsen homestead today?” her mom prodded.

“Bridget wasn
’
t there. Luther and his dad were out fixing fences.” Then she put on the most innocent voice she could muster and added, “But
somebody
did duck in and say hi.”

Abby cast a look in the gold mirror over the hall table, then turned to face her mother. She could feel the burn start in her chest and course uninterrupted up her neck and into her cheeks. It took a lot to make this Salish girl blush. Her skin turned pure copper when she was angry or upset. Copper as in metallic, shiny, a conductor of heat and electricity.

“
Let me guess.
” Her mom smiled warily. “Wolf is back.”

“Bingo. How’d you know?”

“
I don’
t want you to take this the wrong way, but Karen Olsen stopped by specially about an hour ago, to ask me a favor.”

“I
’
ll just bet. She wanted to make sure Wolf was included on the guest list for Dad
’
s party.”

They’d be celebrating Doc Macready’s sixty-fifth birthday in just a few days, and since he was the most beloved obstetrician in the Flathead, it promised to be the biggest bash of the season.

Abby’s mom clapped her hands. “He
’
s taken the week off the circuit to be here for your dad, and to meet his sister
’
s new boyfriend.”

“Mark didn
’
t just start dating Bridge, Mom. They practically live together. Not that Wolf would know. He hasn
’
t been back here for more than a long weekend since he left.”

“I didn
’
t realize you were keeping track.”

“I am only because I love Bridget, and because the Olsens are like a second family to me.”

“Abby…” her mom said.

“What? The whole Flathead worships the ground he walks on, just because he
’
s some big rodeo star now. But he
’
s not exactly the world
’
s greatest brother. Or son. If you ask me—”

Abby stopped and caught another glimpse of her face, still a feverish red beneath her brown skin, in the mirror.

“Oh, Abby.” She turned Abby slowly around to face her. “I know Wolf hurt you. What he did that night was inexcusable, and you know
I’m
not the boy’s biggest fan. But the Olsens are our closest friends.”

“They
’
re my closest friends, too, Mom.”

“There was a time when you and Wolf got along so well. After you turned fourteen, and finally let somebody with less than four legs into your life.”

“Very funny. But it isn
’
t about that night, Mom. It
’
s about everything he stands for now. I care about family, and he sees his twice a year at best. Plus, I
’
m trying to
save
horses, and he
’
s in the ring, riding one beautiful animal after another into the ground.”

“That
’
s a little dramatic.”

“You think those broncos try to throw their riders because they
’
re enjoying themselves?”

Abby looked down at her paddock boots, powdered with the red dust of a month-long drought. Tears sprang unwelcome in her eyes, and she bent down to unfasten her boots. Wolf Olsen, her best friend
’
s older brother, had been her playmate, her friend, her
idol
, since before she could walk. He
’
d taught her how to jump rope and play hide-and-seek. He
’
d taught her how to ride Queenie, the Olsens
’
long-gone mare.

And without knowing it, he
’
d taught her how to fall in love.

By sixteen, Wolf had become one of those high school gods trailed by an entourage of blustery boys and admiring, hopeful girls. Abby had tried to keep her feelings at bay, but Wolf had spent one too many afternoons lounged on the Olsens
’
front steps, flexing his sleek, tanned muscles, letting the sun worship him. She
’
d tripped over him once, and he
’
d caught her with the deftness of a natural athlete, saving her an embarrassing plunge into the thorny roses that climbed a trellis alongside the yellow-frame farmhouse.

“Abadabun,” he
’
d said, brushing Abby
’
s bangs away from her face before he released her back to whatever game she was playing in the yard. He knew her name, her full name. She’d been too surprised to answer.

Too bad. He’d once been the most beautiful boy she’d ever known. And now he was just another rodeo cowboy, a man who could walk away from an injured horse, or a woman he
’
d scorned, without a second glance.

“You can handle this, right?” Abby’s mom interrupted her daydream. “You can be around Wolf without…well, without feeling hurt all over again?”

“Of course I can. It’s no problem at all.” She laid a reassuring hand on her mother’s, hoping what she’d said was true.

…

Wolf sprawled across the lower half of the bunk bed in his old room, taking his time as he woke from a dream about Abby. Until yesterday, whenever he pictured her, he
’
d seen the barely pubescent version: the girlish beginnings of hips and waist and breasts, and that was about it. But now her body was ripe and round. She was confident and willful, and she was showing up in the middle of his dreams, uninvited. He hoped it was a one-time thing.

But in the stall with Lolly yesterday, the way she
’
d worked the bandana around Lolly
’
s muzzle and let her hands run over the mare
’
s flanks, vibrated through him. He didn
’
t believe in whispering—not for the horses he rode, anyway—but Abby sure looked sexy while she was on the job. Beautiful veins coursed through her hands. He couldn
’
t help but imagine what it would be like if those fingers were running over him, touching his neck, his chest, his arms. He closed his eyes and rested his hand on his abdomen, still sore from five sets of crunches, and yet again spoke her full name aloud. “Abadabun.”

What stars had aligned nearly two decades ago when Doc Macready found three-year-old toddler Abadabun Red Feather in the Salish clinic in Ronan where he volunteered twice a month? The story of Abby’s adoption had been told in the Olsen household so often, to Wolf it had become as vivid as an actual memory.

“Well, who do we have here?” Doc had asked Osa Red Feather, who had brought the child in with a severe earache and a sore throat.

“This is my niece, Abadabun,” Osa Red Feather had said. “She
’
s been ailing a couple weeks. She can gargle aspirin, but nothing else seems to work.”

“And what a sweet little bun she is,” Doc punned. “She
’
s up to date on her shots, right?”

“Yes, doctor. My sister Pima never skipped a clinic day.”

Osa leaned over to whisper into his ear. “Pima and her husband? They died in that collision off Eighty-Two a month ago.” She shook her head sadly.

“That
’
s terrible,” said Doc. He looked closely into Abadabun
’
s brown eyes. “You and your husband getting the help you need to raise this child?”

“The tribe would never let us down.” Osa nodded. “But I kind of think I
’
m a disappointment.” She folded her hands in her lap while Abadabun let Doc look into her ears with his stethoscope. She was playing with his tie pin, twisting it back and forth.

“How
’
s that, Osa?”

“We have four to raise at home. I
’
ve got her sleeping in our bed, but it isn
’
t what her mama would have wanted for her. She had their complete attention. An only child. She needs to be somebody
’
s only child. You ever come across a nice family, my husband and I
’
d be open to meeting them. The elders understand. We all want the best chance for our children.” She opened her arms and Abadabun crawled across the table toward her. She clutched Doc
’
s tie pin in one plump hand like a trophy. (When Doc told the story, he never left out this detail.)

Doc Macready drove home with Osa
’
s words burning in his ears. Marcie was waiting for him on the deck, her arms full of lilacs from the bushes they
’
d planted twenty years earlier, the spring they
’
d bought the ranch. He ran up the steps and took her in his arms and whispered the words that were etched onto Abby
’
s life as clearly as a cross-stitch sampler hanging above a four-poster bed.
“Marcie, I think I found us a baby girl.”

Bridget
’
s voice called up the stairs, scattering Wolf
’
s daydream into little pieces, a jigsaw puzzle knocked off a table. “Wolf—it
’
s Dad, in the barn,” his sister yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “Get over there, will you?”

Wolf bolted into his jeans in one motion and ran shirtless down the stairs and past Bridget, his heart pounding.

“What
’
s wrong?” he called over his shoulder.

“How should I know?” she said with nonchalance. “He just needs you out there.”

“If it
’
s not an emergency, don
’
t scream bloody murder about it,” he barked. Wolf had had enough reasons to worry about his dad over the years—he didn’t need Bridget to give him another.

“Didn
’
t mean to cry wolf.”

“You need some new material, sis.” It was an old joke that had never been funny to begin with, though his mom chuckled while stirring half-and-half into her coffee.

“Don
’
t slam the door!” Bridget and his mom called out in sync, though it was already too late. Old habits died hard.

His dad stood by Lolly
’
s stall, feeding the horse from his hand. Lolly
’
s head bobbed up and down in a friendly way, nothing like the day before when she
’
d started up such a ruckus at Wolf
’
s approach.

“You saw Abby working with her yesterday, right son?” he asked.

“She seems pretty good. Patient, anyway. You figure this mare
’
s worth your time?”

“Yep. The mare
and
her trainer.”

Wolf ignored the comment. “So what’s on the agenda today, Dad? You said you needed some help around here—what can I do?”

“W-Well…” his dad stammered. What was up? Wolf took a close look. On his old man’s weather-worn face was a distinct look of embarrassment.

“Out with it, Dad. What’s up?”

Wolf’s dad talked without meeting his son’s eyes. “What I need is for you and me to get in the truck and drive to town and get us some decent gear for this party Friday.”

“You gotta be kidding me. I
’
ll bet you wore overalls to your own wedding. Mom or Bridge put you up to this?” Wolf asked.

“Both of ’em. And I figure they won
’
t let up until we do something about it.” Dad shoved his hands in his pocket and headed toward the truck.

“I was under the impression I came home for a lot more than Doc Macready
’
s party. I thought you needed some
real
help.” Wolf had been helping his dad in ways big and small since he left the Flathead six years before, but he meant the physical kind. He’d done nothing but sit on his ass for the two days he’d been home, and he longed to put a sweat on.

“Sure, I need your help. But the chores can wait. And Luther
’
s turned into something of a ranch hand. You
’
re not the only one who can hang onto a post-hole digger. But Luther? The boy’s twenty-one years old and has got no sense of style whatsoever. For that, I turn to my eldest.” Smiling, his dad put one arm around Wolf
’
s neck and guided him through the double barn doors toward the waiting truck.

…

Abby and her mother sat at the round oak table in the kitchen, waiting for their oatmeal in the big green pottery bowls to cool. It was her dad
’
s day at the Salish clinic. In the past few weeks, this had been a special time for the two Macready women, a time to gossip and hatch elaborate plans for the big party coming up. But this morning Abby felt out of sorts, overwhelmed by the memories of Wolf that loped along the surface of her mind.

“
I don
’
t mean to badger you, but have you thought about what to wear to Dad
’
s party?”
her mom asked.

“Yes. No. Bridget said she
’
d help me. We could drive down to Missoula to shop tomorrow, or even go into Kalispell today.”