Montana Standoff (14 page)

Instead of calling home, Molly returned several phone calls she'd missed and worked halfheartedly on the papers she'd begun earlier, but the restlessness inside of her increased by the moment until finally she pushed away from her desk and paced the room. There was something she didn't understand about Skelton's reticence to discuss the Soldier Mountain mine and the lawsuit Steven had brought against it for polluting the river and ground water that provided the Rocky Ridge Reservation with most of its water supply. There was something she didn't understand about why they felt it was so important to discourage Steven from representing the opposition to the New Millennium mine. Surely if they were doing everything aboveboard and by the book, nothing Steven could do would be enough to stop the Madison Mountain project.

It was so puzzling. On the one hand, Skelton pegged Steven as a two-bit podunk attorney, yet on the other, he clearly felt Steven was a big threat. Why? How could one attorney representing a handful of people with no financial backing possibly pose a threat to a powerful law firm like Taintor, Skelton and Goldstein representing a huge corporation like Condor International? She couldn't help but feel that if she could access the sealed files at the federal courthouse, she would find the answers. Perhaps she could convince Steven to tell her, but how? He was as reluctant to discuss the Soldier Mountain lawsuit as Skelton had been.

Molly paced and brooded and glanced at the clock on her desk. Somehow lunchtime had come and gone,
but no matter. She wasn't hungry. She had tons of work to do before the weekend and hadn't even made a dent in it. She thought about Dani's advice. She thought about Brad's warning and Steven's safety and the accidental drowning death of Steven's legal assistant, Mary Pretty Shield, during the Soldier Mountain lawsuit.

“What to do…” she murmured aloud, and a tap on her door made her jump. “Yes?”

Mr. Skelton entered. He looked more somber and self-important than usual. “Would you join us for a late lunch, Molly? Ken Manning's here to speak with Brad, and we thought the four of us should talk before we give our statement to the press.”

“What statement?”

“We've had so many calls from the media that we decided to hold a brief press conference right here in our boardroom at 4:00 p.m., and it would be most advantageous for all those who will be present to discuss the New Millennium permitting procedures in advance. That's what they'll be asking us about.”

Molly drew a deep breath. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was have lunch with Ken Manning, but Mr. Skelton was right. The press and the public needed and deserved some answers, and the firm needed to get to the bottom of what went wrong with the permitting process. There had to be some perfectly logical explanation to this awful mess. Brad was experienced. He knew what he was doing. He wouldn't have deliberately jeopardized the project by ignoring important legal protocol. Could
she
be fired for Brad's indiscretions? She had a feeling she was about to find out.

“Of course, Mr. Skelton,” she nodded. “I'd be glad to.”

 

I
T WASN
'
T OVERLY LATE
when Steven's phone rang, but he was already in bed, trying an ice pack on his ribs to see if it eased the pain of breathing and brought sleep to him any easier. So far nothing he'd tried had worked. “Young Bear,” he said.

“Ferguson,” came the voice he'd grown so hopelessly addicted to.

“Tomorrow's Saturday,” he said.

“The day I've been waiting for all week,” she said, sounding both distracted and exhausted.

“If you meet me here, we can go together in my Jeep,” he said, shifting the ice pack.

“Fine,” she said. “I'll be there by noon or a little after. Are you okay?”

“Better and better, but if you want to ride wild horses up into the mountains tomorrow, you're on your own.”

“I've never aspired to ride wild horses. All I want tomorrow is to be with you.”

There was a forlorn drift to her words that clutched at him. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I just called to find out how you were feeling, and make sure we were still on for tomorrow.”

“You sound kind of down.”

“Oh, Steven,” she said, her voice changing, breaking.

He lay on his bed, ice pack held to his aching ribs, and felt a pain far worse than anything the truckers had bestowed upon him. “Did something happen at work?”

“Politics happened at work,” she said. Did he imagine the tremor in her voice? He said nothing, waiting for her to elaborate, but she didn't. “I guess I'll see you around noon, then,” she said softly. “Good night, Steven.”

Even if the ice pack had worked, he wouldn't have
slept. He lay awake staring into the darkness and wondering what abyss Molly had stared into that day to have cast such a pall on that indomitable spirit of hers. He could only hope it had nothing to do with the New Millennium mine proposal and Wednesday's confrontation on the access road, but he had a strong hunch that it did.

S
TEVEN
'
S HUNCH
was verified the next morning when he walked out to his mailbox to retrieve the newspaper. There it was, plastered on the front page of the
Bozeman Sentinel.
Law Firm Representing New Millennium Mine Admits to Jumping Gun on Road Permitting. He scanned the article as he walked back down the gravel drive and read it a second time more carefully while drinking his second cup of coffee. He read it a third time because he really couldn't believe what he was reading, couldn't believe that Molly Ferguson was being named as the inexperienced attorney whose misinterpretation of the permitting process had led to the ugly confrontation on the access road. Couldn't believe she was actually quoted as saying, “I want to stress that in no way did my actions represent the law firm of Taintor, Skelton and Goldstein. I accept full responsibility, and want to apologize to everyone involved.”

The article then went on to quote Skelton describing Molly as a good attorney but “young and impulsive, and obviously needing much closer supervision until she fully understands the complex and critical process of mine permitting.” And Ken Manning: “It's extremely unfortunate that Ms. Ferguson's lack of judgment
caused such a major conflict, but I'm sure she's learned a valuable lesson. Needless to say, she's been removed from the legal staff representing the interests of my company until all the permits are properly in place.”

Steven threw the paper aside and pushed out of his chair with a surge of anger. “God, Molly, what have they done to you?” He took another handful of aspirin and a long hot shower, dressed in blue jeans and a red-and- black plaid flannel shirt, and padded barefoot into the living room with the newspaper to read the article yet again. By the time Molly arrived in her fancy red Mercedes he had practically memorized every infuriating word. He met her at the door and stared for a moment, the newspaper headline momentarily forgotten. “You look great,” he said.

She was wearing a black flared skirt with silver conchas, a white pleated blouse with an embroidered vest of a dark brown-and-green tapestry, and a pair of expensive hand-tooled cowboy boots. Her hair was pulled back into a French braid and she looked like a very beautiful red-haired cowgirl standing before him. She stared up at him, eyes wide and face pale enough to show all her freckles. She said nothing, just stood there until he reached a hand and drew her inside. He could feel her hand trembling in his as he guided her into the living room. Her eyes fell on the newspaper and then lifted to his face. “Please, Steven, let's not talk about it,” she said.

He remained silent for a few moments longer, then nodded. “Have you had any lunch?”

She shook her head. “I'm not hungry.”

“You'd better work up some kind of appetite by the
time we get to the Bow and Arrow,” Steven warned with a faint smile. “There's a woman who lives there, a fat old Mexican woman named Ramalda who cooks and cleans and grumbles a lot in Spanish. She gets really upset if people don't eat her cooking. She thinks they must be sick, so she tries to make them better by cooking more and more things for them. You're so thin to begin with that if you don't eat everything she puts in front of you, she might bundle you off to bed and keep you there until spring, which probably wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

Molly gazed at him as if he'd just related the saddest story she'd ever heard, and then she dropped her face into her hands and burst into tears. After a shocked pause Steven reached for her and pulled her into his embrace.

“I'm sorry,” she sobbed while his arms tightened around her protectively.

“Don't be sorry. It'll be all right,” he soothed.

“No, it won't. It'll never be all right again. Oh, Steven.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath and leaned her forehead against his chest. Drew another breath, turned her head and rested her wet cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt, eyes closed, lashes dark against pale cheeks. She was still shaking like an aspen leaf in a steady breeze. Steven stroked the back of her head. They stood like that long enough for him to reflect that being so close to a woman had never felt so right as it did with Molly. In spite of the fact that she was so distraught, he was sublimely happy to be holding her in his arms. Finally her trembling subsided, and she pushed away from him, raised her eyes to his and gave him the sweetest little beginnings of a smile. “Thank you,” she said.

He kissed her then. It would have been impossible for him not to. He lowered his head and kissed her very gently, very tenderly. Her lips parted beneath his, and she opened herself to him and kissed him back. He was unprepared for the response, unprepared for the transition from sweet to questing, from needing to demanding. Unprepared for the fire that swept through him, ignited by the heat of her kiss and the feel of her body moving against his. He was totally and completely unprepared for the way he lost all control in the presence of this extraordinary woman.

When at last they broke apart, it was a move initiated by him, because to have gone any further would have been to go way beyond the point of safe return, and he knew what Molly needed now was safety more than anything else he could offer her. She was too vulnerable right now, too much a hostage of her turbulent emotions. He kissed her forehead, ran his thumb along her lower lip, and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“We'd better go,” he said.

“I know.”

“Because if we stay here any longer, we might not go at all.”

“I know,” she repeated.

“But we can come back.”

“Yes,” she breathed, reaching on tiptoe to kiss him again. Her hazel eyes brimmed with tears. “Thank you so much for being here for me.”

He closed his hand around hers and brought it against his chest. “What they did to you yesterday was unforgivable,” he said, and then, reading the unspoken rebuke
mingling with the fierce hurt, he kissed her one final time. “I'll speak no more about it, I promise. But it was unforgivable.”

 

S
TEVEN DROVE HIS
J
EEP
toward the Bow and Arrow, cruising the quiet roadways in the bright blue and gold of a fine September afternoon. Molly sat quietly in the passenger seat, eyes drowsy with fatigue, looking like she hadn't gotten much sleep in the past few nights. Even his stolen glances were enough to kick his heart into high gear, remembering what had almost happened between them just a short time ago. Her kisses had been a mingling of honey and habanero chili peppers. Like icy spring water in the midst of a desert, and like the scorching desert itself. Her kisses had brought something long dormant within his heart to life, reawakened him to the universe, connected him once again to all living things.

He was so lost in his silent reverie that he nearly forgot his promise to Pony to stop at Luther Makes Elk's shack in the foothills and get a definite answer from the old man about his sister's upcoming wedding ceremony. Steven glanced at Molly. Her eyes were completely closed now, head back against the rest. He cleared his throat and spoke softly. “Sleeping?”

“Dreaming,” she replied, eyes still closed.

“Good dream?”

“Wonderful,” she murmured. “We're climbing a mountain together, the same mountain you climbed on your vision quest. Brave Heart. You're holding my hand, helping me up a steep section of the trail.”

He was startled that she remembered the mountain's name. “Are we near the top?”

Her lips curved in that small sweet smile. “I think so,” she said. “I think we're almost there. I see an owl sitting in a tree, watching us. It must be night.”

Steven's eyes narrowed on the road. “You see an owl in your dream?”

She tilted her head to look at him. “It's not a real dream. It's just a wishful dream, and the owl just flew away.”

“How do you know wishful dreams aren't real?” He had to ask because, after all, an owl flying through one's consciousness was an omen of death.

She sighed. “I think they can become real. I mean, when I was young I dreamt about becoming a lawyer, and those were wishful, waking dreams. I wanted to change the world for the better. I wanted to influence the universe. I wanted to make my parents proud of me.” Her laugh was small, bitter. “And look at me now. I've made the front page of a newspaper I can only hope to God my parents never see.”

“Go back to the mountain,” Steven said. “
Cante Tinza.
Where are we now?”

“Brave Heart,” she echoed softly, her thick eyelashes brushing her cheeks. “All right. We're almost to the top….” Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze was beseeching. “Can we go there, Steven? Just the two of us? Can we climb it together?”

He glanced at her and then back at the winding road. “When?”

“Soon. Maybe we could camp there, make a little fire, count the stars in the sky while we wait for the dawn. Maybe the spirits will come and speak to both of us and tell us all the secrets of the universe.”

He drew a deep breath, his heart thundering in his
chest like a war drum. They were approaching the turnoff to the reservation. “You tell me when you want to go, I'll have everything packed and ready,” he said, slowing for the turn.

“Are we almost there?” she asked, confused.

“Not really,” he said. “I have to make a brief stop at my grandfather's place to ask him if he'll marry my sister.”

Molly sat up straighter and looked at him. “Is he a priest?”

“A holy man, the Indian equivalent. Pony wants to do the seven sacred steps for her wedding, but Luther Makes Elk, my adopted grandfather, has never wed a full-blood to a white man. I'm not sure he will.”

“What if he says no?”

Steven's laugh surprised them both. “Then we'll have to climb
Cante Tinza
tonight and hope for a good vision, because if Luther Makes Elk says no, I don't dare go to Pony's barbecue.”

 

T
HE OLD MAN WAS SITTING OUT
in the sunlight outside the door of his shack. He had a blanket draped over his legs and was bundled in a faded wool peacoat to turn the crisp autumn wind. A black wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over his brow.

“Good to see you,” Luther said as Steven and Molly approached. He studied Steven's battered face and then nodded to indicate Molly. “I guess you didn't go on that vision quest, but red was the right color.”

“Grandfather, this is Molly Ferguson, a friend of mine. We're on our way to Pony's for a barbecue. Pony wanted you to come with us.”

Luther shook his head. “I just ate, and my bones are
tired. I think I'll have a nap, maybe. Maybe you should, too. The world you live in moves too fast. Keep the sacred bundle I gave you, and go on your vision quest soon, before it's too late.”

“Pony's wedding ceremony is in two weeks, the first Saturday in October.”

“I know,” Luther said. A rusty pickup drove past, lifting a cloud of dust. “I made some food, a pretty good stew. This time, I know what's in it. The pot's on the stove. It would probably be better if it had more time to age. A stew always tastes better the second or third day. Some stews need a week. You should eat some of that stew. It's powerful medicine and you could use some.” Luther reached into the pocket of his coat and drew forth several feathers bound in a strip of rawhide. “I saved some of the owl's feathers for you,” he said, extending the offering toward Steven. “The feathers are blessed, but I didn't bless the stew. I wasn't sure if it was going to be good or not.” He paused and looked up at Steven. “You sure you don't want some?”

“Grandfather, we should be going. About Pony's wedding…”

“Wait. Before you go, I better give you something.” Luther pushed off the bench and in his bent, shuffling gait he entered his little shack. He switched on the single bulb that hung from the ceiling and rummaged among a pile of clothing heaped on his narrow bed. He pulled out a long object wrapped in oiled canvas and laid it upon the battered metal table in the center of the room as Molly and Steven watched.

“This rifle is older than me, even,” he said as he unrolled the object from the protective cover. “It was at the
battle of Little Big Horn. My great-grandfather was a scout for one of the bluecoats. He gave it to my grandfather, who used it to prop open the cabin door on hot days, because back then, there was nothing left on the rez to shoot.” He held the heavy rifle out to Steven. “Take it.”

Steven took a step backward and shook his head. “I don't need a gun.”

“Not today, maybe. But sometimes, a gun comes in handy. I kept it clean. Look, no mouse nests in the barrel.”

“There's been enough violence.”

Luther Makes Elk nodded his agreement. “That's so. Now take Red Hair and go, so I can have my nap.” He gestured with the rifle, and Steven took it from him reluctantly. The heaviness of the old weapon surprised him. The cold steel carried the weight of deaths that spanned three centuries. “Take this, too,” Luther said, handing him a small pouch tied with a leather thong. “There's a bullet for the rifle, and some big medicine. Better keep it close to you.” He gestured again. “Now go,” Luther said, “and tell your sister I'll marry her to that white man, but only because his heart is good. Otherwise, I would never do such a thing.”

Steven began walking to the Jeep but Molly paused behind him and he heard her say, very gravely, “Goodbye, Luther Makes Elk. It was a great honor to meet you.”

 

F
OR A WHILE AFTER THEY LEFT
Luther's shack they drove in silence, long enough to restore the timeline and reaffirm contact with their modern lives. When they reached the main road Molly swiveled in her seat, drew her knees up, and said, “Wow. He's your grandfather?”

“I got him out of jail once, and he adopted me,” Steven explained, eyes on the road. “We're not blood relatives. Most white people think Luther's just a crazy old man.”