Dances with Wolf (3 page)

“But if you want to order something online, tonight
’
s about the last chance to do that.” Mom shook her head, then pulled Abby
’
s hair away from her face. “And don
’
t make me say it—there
’
s your hair to think about.”

“Go ahead. You want me to wear it up, right?” It wasn
’t just Wolf
—even her parents thought of her as nothing but a little girl.

“Well, off your face for a change. Like this, maybe?” She twisted the ends of Abby
’
s hair and held it to one side in a loose coil. Abby had to smile. She
’
d tried that Scarlett-Johansson-on-the-red-carpet look in the mirror only this morning. She was a drop-dead look-alike. If Scar-Jo were a Montana Indian instead of a Hollywood blonde, that is.

“Mom, it
’
s a birthday party, not a wedding. Who
’
d even notice if I had a new updo?”

“Well, for one, there
’
s Matt Markley. You talked him into horse whispering last week. I think you could talk him into a Texas two-step with you Friday night.”

“Matt Markley? The man
’
s got the roughest hands I
’
ve ever seen. I may get his horse calmed down, but he
’
s another matter entirely.”

“You
’
re probably right. That whole Markley clan
’
s sure had their share of run-ins with animals.”

“Matt should be running a Jiffy Lube, not a horse ranch.”

“Abby,
stop.
” Her mom chuckled.

Last week, in his rugged fashion, Matt had complimented Abby, calling her “a great-looking gal” before turning away to hide the blush that lit up like wildfire on his cheeks. A handsome enough guy, he
’
d asked her to dinner, though Abby had pretended not to hear the question. Markley was all right, but he
’
d didn
’
t compare to—

“Then, of course, What’s His Name will be there.” That was her mother’s preferred nickname for Wolf, her least favorite of the Olsen children. “Probably best to avoid dancing with him. Just keep it calm, cool, and polite. Let bygones be bygones…”

Abby allowed herself a memory of Wolf and Bridget practicing the foxtrot on the Olsens’ wrap-around porch as she
’
d sat speechless on the stairs, watching them. This was the day before his prom invitation, the day before her life had gotten a whole lot more complicated.

“He
’
s all yours now,” Bridget had said. “He
’
s a klutz, anyway.” The truth was, Wolf had never been a klutz. He
’
d moved with a feline grace, seemingly straight out of the womb. That night, after Bridget had gone inside, Wolf had danced a few steps with Abby on the porch, under the apple trees that lined the Olsens
’
property. Blossoms rained down on them, and to this day Abby didn
’
t know if she
’
d imagined it, but she could have sworn he
’
d looked at her in a new light, taken her seriously for the first time. He looked nervous almost, his hand trembling slightly at the small of her back. The next day, he
’
d surprised her by asking her to the prom. And of course, no matter what the Olsens or her parents would think, no matter what her best friend would think, there was only one answer.
Yes, yes, yes.

Abby flashed a smile and answered her mom’s question. “If you
’
re asking your Native American daughter to bury the hatchet, yes, Mom, I can do that.”

“Now you
’
re just being fresh.” She wagged a finger, and Abby breathed a sigh of relief.

“Anything for Dad. Anything for you, too.” Abby could do this. She could collect herself. She still had two days until she came face-to-face with Wolf again. “One thing, though. If he asks me to dance, I
’
ll take a cattle prod to him. Right where it counts.” She cracked a boot onto the hardwood floor and air-jabbed toward an imaginary male crotch, a merciless warrior going for the kill.

Her mom shook her head. “That
’
s my girl. Fierce as ever.” She picked up the mail and headed down the long hall toward the kitchen.

Inside, Abby
’
s heart continued to burn, a raging furnace of memory. She had spent weeks shopping for a prom dress and heels tall enough to look all six feet of him in the eyes. Like two supporting actresses in a rom-com, Bridget and her mom had come with her, giggling, offering advice, debating the virtues of sapphire blue over sunflower yellow.

The sunflower had won, though in the end it was all for nothing.

Chapter Three

Ever since Abby had decided to leave veterinary school in Spokane eighteen months earlier, she found herself explaining her decision to others, and even to herself. Why had she abandoned her lifelong goal of becoming a vet? Why had she broken things off with Ben, who was sweet and kind and handsome, to move back to the Flathead and live with her parents again? Wasn
’
t that the telltale sign that she had failed utterly at becoming an adult?

But Spokane hadn
’
t felt right, and neither had school. She’d been busting her butt trying to ace Organic Chemistry, while she hadn
’
t as much as mounted a horse since leaving Montana. No, living at home or not, she was on a new, more exciting path now. She was making up her own rules, one at a time, and building a career, a life, she could be proud of forever.

As for Ben, he was amazing on paper. And he loved her, in puppy-like fashion. But Abby wanted heat and fire and explosive passion, and Ben was lukewarm at best. She knew that something, someone, was out there waiting for her, just beyond the horizon. All she had to do was keep her foot on the gas and keep moving toward it.

That
’
s what she’d told Bridget, who totally got it because she totally got Abby. But to everybody else, she’d just said, “I missed the Flathead. It
’
s the only home I
’
ve ever known.” That line, designed to appeal to the regional pride characteristic of all Montanans, usually shut them up.

Her parents hadn’t given her a hard time about coming back. As an adopted only child, Abby was the focus of their devotion, and they trusted her completely. But when most folks in the area so much as heard the term “horse whisperer,” they snorted and shook their heads. They might have been thinking about that cheesy movie with Robert Redford. Or they might have had their own ideas about horse whispering. “A bunch of malarkey,” Jess Olsen, an old-school rancher who had ruled his horses with an iron first before Abby had gotten the chance to convert him, once said. “Hippie mumbo-jumbo.”

But if Abby were talking to a real horse lover, she
’
d mention the legendary Buck Brannaman, who was famous for taming wild horses in a matter of minutes. Abby believed that she could follow in Brannaman
’
s footsteps. She was able to sense when a horse was in physical pain and could spot an injury that might have gone unnoticed for weeks or months. Most importantly, she was able to detect when a horse was suffering from an emotional injury—a memory of abuse, for example, or of a fire in which stable mates had died. Abby made it her mission to try to understand what a horse was feeling before she ever laid a hand on her.

Lately, she
’
d wondered if the same principle applied to people. Brannaman had once said something along the lines of, “A horse
’
s nerves heal real slowly. Lots of things about
us
heal real slowly, too.”

Bridget was front and center with her own philosophy about men, telling her the other night over beers at the Rusty Spoon, “If only you could read men the way you read horses, you
’
d be set for life.”

“If only the men around here could read at all,” Abby had joked, nodding toward a middle-aged guy at the bar with a potbelly and three days of stubble. The man
’
s eyes had been ping-ponging between her butt and Bridget
’
s for the last two hours, until he
’
d gone nearly cross-eyed with the effort.

“Oh, Abby. So picky. Nobody’s ever good enough for you.” Bridget winked.

Even Wolf?
she
’
d wanted to ask. But she knew better than to bring his name into the conversation
.
Bridget would answer, “B
est friends don’
t let best friends date rodeo cowboys. And they definitely don
’
t let them date their brothers.”

Abby glanced at her watch. It was nearing ten a.m. She
’
d agreed to meet Bridget at ten fifteen to check out the slim pickings among the dress shops in Kalispell. Stella licked her paw and circled twice before settling on the seat beside her.

Abby
hated
shopping. She wore T-shirts and a snug-fitting pair of Wranglers every day of the week. Driving down Main Street looking for the dress shop Bridget had talked about, she muttered to Stella, “This is a waste of my precious time.” The dog stuck her tongue out and panted sympathetically.

She pulled into a parking place and drained her cup of Mountain High coffee. There were two clothing stores in Kalispell and both of them had ridiculous names: The Toggery and Blue Lagoon. Abby felt much more at home in the aisles of Ranch & Home or Cabela
’
s. Never mind. She could do this, with Bridget
’
s help. What was keeping her, anyway?

“Send a rescue squad for me if I
’
m not back in fifteen minutes,” Abby told Stella, who yawned and turned her face toward a spot of sunshine on the passenger seat. So much for sympathy. Abby swung her legs onto the street.

A block away she spotted Wolf springing out of his father
’
s truck. His height and wide-legged stance were unmistakable, but he looked out of place on the paved street, with a thumb hooked into his belt loop and an expression of bored distraction on his face. This was a man born to straddle the wide breadth of a horse, who appeared foreign and out of sorts when his boots weren
’
t in a pair of stirrups. His hair full and wavy, blue eyes sparkling in the sun. It was as if Abby had conjured him from nothing, or from the deep well of her hidden hopes and fears. Just as it had yesterday, her heart began to race. Without thinking, she pulled her unruly hair from its lazy-morning ponytail and shook it around her face. “Wolf,” she whispered to herself.

Sneaking up behind her on the sidewalk, Bridget surprised Abby with a wrap-around hug.

“Look who
’
s here,” she said, wriggling from Bridget
’
s grasp and nodding toward Wolf, who still hadn
’
t noticed her.

“Ugh, I know. He’s taking Dad shopping—Mom’s idea. God knows they both need a serious wardrobe update.” Bridget turned Abby around to face her. “Anyway, you saw him yesterday for a few minutes. Got past that awkward moment, right?”

Abby gave her a look, like,
you can’
t be serious.

“Well, you can rest easy because they
’
re headed for Hansen
’
s. We
’
re going here.” She grasped Abby
’
s elbow and steered her through the double doors of Blue Lagoon.

Nonsensically, Abby pouted in disappointment. Did she want to run into Wolf or didn
’
t she? How was she going to get her act together when she couldn
’
t even be honest with herself?

She sat in the dressing room while Bridget and a saleswoman picked out dresses for her. “Nothing strapless,” she called out.

“Don
’
t listen to her,” Bridget told the woman. “Bring out the bling!”

Ten minutes later, Abby was in midnight-blue chiffon with a beaded top, turning on a podium in front of a three-faced mirror. “I look like a tricked-out rodeo queen,” she said.

“It
’
s the perfect color for you.”
Bridget laughed.
“And it
’
s very sophisticated.”

“I hate the low cut. If I dance two steps with Dad I
’
m going to burst out of it. How embarrassing would that be?” In the back of her mind, an image began to form of wearing a dress this sexy in front of Wolf. “Forget this one,” she said. “Do you have anything in pink, or peach?”

Bridget shook her head. “You want to look like a Sunday school teacher?”

“No, I want to look like I
’
m not trying too hard.”

Bridget whirled from the dressing room and, after a whispered conversation with the saleswoman, appeared once more at the dressing room door with a short white-linen dress. “This one
’
s a sleeper,” she said. “Check out the back.” She turned the dress on its hanger. The bodice was draped and had two modest straps, but the back dipped so low that only a single rope of tiny rhinestones connected the two sides.

“You
’
ve got to try it on,” said the saleswoman. “Somebody from Whitefish ordered it for a May wedding, then never picked it up.”

“A bad luck dress, you mean?”
Abby laughed morbidly.

“No, girl,” said Bridget. “It
’
s never been worn because only a certain kind of person can pull this off. And that person is you.” She slipped the dress off its hanger, and dangled it toward Abby. “Come to Mama.”

Abby closed her eyes and put her hands over her head like a swimmer taking her first plunge into an unknown body of water. The dress fell easily into place.

Bridget turned her around slowly in front of the mirror. “
You sure don’
t look like a horse whisperer today,” she said softly.

“What
’
s a horse whisperer look like, Bridge?”

“Like Buck Brannaman. Not like…” She whistled, long and deep, and held Abby
’
s hair up. “Jennifer frickin
’
Lawrence!”

“J-Law.”
Abby smiled.
“I can live with that.” The front view of the dress was deceptively modest. Abby’s mom or, heck, even her great-grandmother Eunice (were she alive) would approve of it. The back, however, looked like a thumbnail on TMZ.com
.
It curved around Abby
’
s butt so perfectly that any seams were erased, and the single line of rhinestones adorned her bronzed, muscled back. Her neck looked longer, her shoulders strong and straight.

“But this was somebody
’
s wedding dress,” she said. “There
’
s no way I
’
m going to my dad
’
s birthday party looking like I
’
m about to walk down the aisle.”

The saleswoman rushed to Abby
’
s side.
“I may have a solution,” she said, returning moments later with a pair of fuchsia cowgirl boots. The toes were embellished with rhinestones and pearls, the stitching intricate and authentically Western.

Bridget grabbed for them. “They
’
re perfect. Nobody would ever mistake you for a bride in these.”

Reluctantly, Abby sat on the sofa and pulled on the hot pink boots. They, too, fit perfectly. “God, they
’
re even comfortable,” she said without realizing she
’
d spoken out loud. She stood up on the podium and struck another pose. Against the short dress, her long brown legs ran like a river, a river that ended in a shock of bright pink.

“Don
’
t bother thanking me,” said Bridget. “The dress is on sale, you know.”

“Half of wholesale,” the saleswoman said.

“And the boots?” asked Abby.

“Free,” shouted Bridget. “I just bought them for you.”

“Bridge,” she said. “
You can
’
t.”

“Sure I can. Don
’
t worry, I
’
ll be borrowing them real soon.” She reached up to embrace Abby, and pulled her off the podium. Abby hugged her back, hard. She wasn’t about to tell Bridget, but she couldn’t wait for Wolf to see her in this outfit. She was going to blow his mind.