Dances with Wolf (7 page)

Chapter Ten

Wolf drove his 4x4 and trailer, Abby’s truck in his wake—she’d insisted on driving her own vehicle, waving off his offer to drive her back later—and headed over Route 89 toward Browning. Clouds had begun to amass in the foothills of the Rockies, making the bright June morning look more like a late winter day. He glanced in his rearview mirror every two minutes to keep her in view, even though he knew he didn’t have to worry about her. Like most of the no-nonsense Montana women he knew, Abby probably bought new tires every year. She seemed to keep her truck in as tiptop shape as she did that bangin’ body of hers.

Still, he breathed a sigh of relief pulling into Hook’s Hideaway, a caf
é
and truck stop just outside Browning. A light rain had started, and the road was getting slick. Last thing he needed was a fishtailing trailer with Bullet inside, Abby right on their heels. And not just that—he was starving, and Abby must have been, too. They could wait out this passing shower inside.

Abby slid into the spot next to him, cut the motor, and rolled down the passenger-side window for Stella. The dog whined in protest when she figured out she was being left behind.

“Go ’head and bring her in,” Wolf said. He stood, hands in his pockets and his worn flannel coat slung over his shoulders. “Hook’s wouldn’t care if you had a pet
llama
.”

“Dogs and women welcome,” Abby said. “A classy establishment.”

“For you, only the best.”

He opened the passenger’s side of Abby’s truck and reached inside for a leash. Stella came right to him and squatted at his feet. “She likes me.”

“Until you screw up, sure. She’s giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

He laughed, opening the screen door for dog and owner. Cigarette fumes billowed out as the three of them plunged into the dark recesses of the shabby little joint. Sawdust tamped down the stench of stale beer. The menu was limited: chicken tenders he knew were anything but; well-done buffalo burgers; French fries like charred fingers.

“Whew,” Abby said, waving away a curtain of cigarette smoke. “You sure know how to impress a girl.”

“You know when Kalispell passed that no-smoking-in-restaurants ordinance?”

Abby nodded.

“The bartenders here used the newspaper articles for target practice.”

“Oh, yeah?” Her eyebrows arched. “There’s a shooting range out back?”

“They did it right here in the bar.”

Abby laughed tentatively.

“Better think twice, Abs. Once we cross the Divide, you’re going to find yourself in the wild, wild West.”

She tucked one hand into her back jeans pocket as they stood together, contemplating the pock-marked walls surrounding the old mahogany mirror. “I’ve been to Choteau before. Stop pretending it’s the O.K. Corral.”

He laughed, then took the opportunity to look her over, to admire those shapely hips straining against her jeans. He felt a warmth in his chest that made him want to throw his jacket over her shoulders and button them both inside. Then he remembered the icy look her mother had given him when he’d showed up that morning. After offering him eggs—knowing that open-armed hospitality was practically a state law, he hadn’t gotten too optimistic—Marcie had given him a quick once-over that said in no uncertain terms,
you hurt my daughter, I’ll hand you your ass on a plate.
He’d said no thanks to the eggs, tipping his hat like a gentleman.

Abby slid into a booth and picked up a menu, then handed one to him. The table’s Formica surface glimmered with a thin coat of grease. He peered at her over the top of his menu. “You remember the time you, me, Bridget, and John Tanner went to that no-name barbecue joint opposite Swan Lake?”

“The Home of the Grizzly Burger. I remember ordering a double. It was so overcooked it took two beers to get it down.”

“Yep.” Abby laughed. “And they probably would have served beer to a ten-year-old in there, but I was too scared to order one, so that charcoal taste just stuck to the top of my mouth.”

“Well, the burgers are a
little
better here. Just avoid the tuna melt; it might be a little past prime.”

“Noted.” Abby nodded. “You know what else I remember about that place?”

“What?” Wolf felt his throat tighten around the single word.

“Bridge disappeared out back with John Creswell, giving us a few precious minutes to ourselves.” Wolf shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He knew exactly where she was going, but he sure wished she’d stop. “You were going to tell me something about your family, some big, carefully guarded secret, but you never got around to it.”

It was all coming back to him now, the Talk That Never Was at that godforsaken burger dive. He’d been two or three beers in, and wishing he didn’t have to leave home so suddenly. He’d wanted to tell Abby everything, he really did. But then, just in time, he’d realized he couldn’t tell Abby about his dad, about the debts, the ranch, the whole mess. She was only two years younger than him, but two years meant a lot in high school. She was mature for sixteen, sure, but he didn’t think she’d be able to handle hearing about his dad’s complicated ways. He regretted a lot of things about the way he left town, but he didn’t regret keeping his dad’s secrets to himself.

“I was going to tell you,” Wolf hesitated, “that I wasn’t long for the Flathead, that I’d be leaving home soon.”

“You knew, even then? That was over a month before prom.”

“I didn’t know I’d miss prom, but I knew I had to get out and start…earning my own keep…it was complicated.”

“You were eighteen. I was sixteen. How complicated could it have been?”

“One day,” he said, “I’ll tell you. That’s a promise.”

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m going to keep you to it.”

Wolf’s property was nestled in a valley that paralleled the Rockies, with a view that rivaled any ranch in the Flathead. There were two horses in the pasture, a mare and a yearling. Stella barked a greeting as the humans got out of their trucks.

“So, Abs, when I left here, I didn’t know I was going to have a houseguest, and—”

“The place is a pig sty, and you’d like to tidy things up without me sticking my nose in there first?” she asked.

“Your mama didn’t raise a fool.”

She laughed. “I’ll go see how Bullet’s doing after three hours in that musty old trailer.”

“Cool. See you in ten.”

He honestly didn’t know how bad the house was. He’d had some buddies over on his last night here, and couldn’t specifically recall whether he’d cleaned up the hungover morning after. But he was thankful Abby didn’t need a bathroom break. Picturing a push-up bra draped haphazardly over a lampshade—there’d been some female “buddies” present that night, too, though for his friends, not for him—Wolf shouldered Abby’s whispering equipment and walked through the unlocked door.

The two-bedroom house, an old fishing cabin Wolf had moved from the Teton River, was a work-in-progress and a labor of love. As soon as he’d realized his family’s ranch was going to be saved for good, he’d poured a few grand left from his rodeo earnings into the cabin’s restoration. The walls were plain pine and stained tobacco-brown, with a peaked ceiling like an old church. The floor was the original black and white linoleum, repaired or replaced in crucial corners. He’d installed a copper sink in the tiny white-tiled bath and re-enameled an old claw-footed tub.

An image of Abby luxuriating in a bubble bath popped into his head. His body started to tingle, and he tried to shake the vision off. She wasn’t staying long enough to get that relaxed, anyway. This visit was going to be over before they knew it, and it was going to stay strictly professional.

He couldn’t stop himself, though. He wondered how her body had changed in the last six years. He’d felt its taut contours shifting alongside him on the dance floor, and his guess was that she had only improved with age. She was fitter, stronger, sexier than before. If he ever did get her into the tub, he could have some candles around to set the mood, and some chilled-out music. Maybe a little wine. Then, maybe he’d give her a back rub, a slow, patient one to relax her shoulders and upper back after what would surely be a long day of training. Finally he’d turn his attention to her long, limber neck, and if she let him, her firm, full breasts.

“Get your shit together, Wolf!” he said so loudly that he almost scared himself, craning his neck around to make sure that Abby hadn’t entered the house without his realizing it. Gratefully, he spotted her leading Bullet around the ring.

A dishrag in one hand, some Lysol in the other, he made a sweep of the living room, gathering discarded clothing and newspapers, tossing the whole messy pile into the bedroom closet. The bathroom barely passed muster, but he’d have to wait until later to tackle a major cleaning. He opened the medicine cabinet and made a quick inspection. There was no evidence of female occupancy. Anyway, he couldn’t remember the last woman he’d had here who’d actually spent the night. Certainly it was no one he’d cared enough about to invite back.

His cleaning duties completed, he went outside to join Abby and Bullet.

…

Bullet was, plain and simple, the finest dappled gray mare Abby had seen in the eighteen months since she’d left veterinary school. And one of the friendliest, too. From the outset, the horse had approached her without hesitation, nosing Abby’s pockets for treats. But out here in Wolf’s pasture, she got a chance to see how strong and graceful the mare was, a true one-of-a-kind.

“Good girl.” Abby fed her a carrot. Horse whisperer sure was a glamorous job—she always had a carrot in her back pocket. She mounted the fence and let herself down the other side, without taking her eyes off Bullet’s. Stella raced around her back quarters, but the horse flicked her tail calmly, as if canines were beneath her royal consideration.

Abby reached for Bullet’s mane and untangled the days-old snarls with her fingers. She looked up at the sky. Though a storm hadn’t been in the forecast, the clouds were getting darker by the minute. She surveyed the pasture and saw only a lean-to to protect the two mares and the colt from the elements.
Where is Wolf’s barn?
she wondered, but then spotted it, a pre-fab two-stall building beyond a cluster of old tamaracks. She was relieved. Most rodeo guys didn’t coddle their horses; Abby was grateful that Wolf had too much respect for Bullet to be a member of that stupid pack.

Bullet stood quietly as Abby ran her hands down the mare’s back legs. She gently circled Bullet’s right hock with both hands. No reaction. Bullet was strong and in fantastic shape, an aerobic specimen. Bullet leaned into her as Abby probed, lifting her right rear leg again as if to guide her to the place that hurt most.

“Thanks very much indeed, my girl,” Abby said. She leaned back against the fence and took a long look at the horse. Then she walked away, letting Bullet follow her down the fence line.

Without benefit of halter or bridle, she walked a circle eight in the pasture and Bullet shadowed her, favoring her right leg ever so slightly. The water-walking was sure to help with the inflammation, though, and soon enough the mare would be comfortable again.

Abby heard his footsteps behind her as she stood in the center of the pasture. “So, how’s she doin’?” Wolf asked.

“Well, you see how she favors her right side, just a little?”

“I guess.” He scratched his chin. “Do I?”

She jogged with the lead in her hand, then guided Bullet through a gentle turn.

“Okay, I see that,” he said. “It’s definitely subtle, though.”

“It is. And I didn’t mean to suggest back in Vickers’ office that you weren’t paying attention.”

“Good!” he said, smiling. “Because I was.”

“Do you turn her more often on that side, though?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. I’d have to ride her to figure it out.”

“Okay, we’ll get to that.” She looked up at the sky, then brought Bullet to Wolf for him to inspect. “But you see how much quarter-horse weight she carries in her upper torso? She’s pure muscle and then you have this delicate cannon”—she bent and traced her fingers down Bullet’s lower leg—“and this even more delicate fetlock.” She tugged on the few hairs that sprang horizontally from the crease in the horse’s foot.

“What you’re telling me is she’s got ballerina legs and a truck-driver chassis.”

“It’s just that she’s more thoroughbred than quarter. And you know how short a racehorse’s career is.”

“Well, they don’t last as long as a dude-ranch nag, that’s for sure.”

“Hilarious.” She continued to massage Bullet’s hock. “Well, it doesn’t look like it’ll become a serious injury at this point…”

“Right, Vickers already told us that, didn’t he?”

“But if it becomes one, she’d be down for the count. One season, maybe two, then she’s out to pasture.”

“I knew the risk involved when I paid for her. But, Abby…she’s just so fast. W
ait
’til you see her. She’s got a lot of guts, too.”

“
I don
’t doubt it. But have you ever thought of breeding her?”

“Hold on, now. Are you trying to figure out what’s wrong with Bullet, or are you here to lecture me about the evils of rodeo?”

“Listen, I’m not completely anti-rodeo. In my profession, in this state—that’d be career suicide. I’m just saying you should play it safe. Riding this horse hard? In my opinion, that’ll never be a safe move. But if you breed her, and pick the right stallion, you’d be engineering Bullet’s best qualities into a future rodeo colt that you could win trophies with for twice as long.”

“I don’t know. Seems like a gamble to me.”

“What isn’t?” She put on the toughest expression she could manage, one that didn’t betray just how gorgeous Wolf was to her in this moment. The sun cut through a layer of clouds, throwing a gentle light across his face. His blond curls sitting on top of his Pendleton shirt collar, his blue eyes twinkling…it was all too much. Forget the emotions they’d shared, the family history between them—on a purely physical basis, no one else could stir Abby this deeply. Her mom had been dead-on—she must have been crazy to come out here.

“Why don’t I toss some feed into the lean-to, and then I can put us together an early dinner? You barely touched that crappy hamburger at Hook’s.”