Under Montana Skies. Darlene Graham
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want you to stay,” he stated simply. She didn’t reply.
DINNER WAS QUIET, uneasy.
Katherine had lit a kerosene lamp in the middle of the table, which alleviated the gloom, and the food was delicious, especially Katherine’s homemade bread, but Laura sensed Adam’s tension. And the way Doc and Katherine addressed him—so kindly, so carefully, as if he was fragile and needed encouragement—bothered her. It also began to bother her that the Joneses had so easily given up their own beds for this man. What was their relationship? It seemed more than neighborly.
“Adam, aren’t you having any brown Betty? I made it just for you,” Katherine said.
“You don’t have to cook especially for me, Katherine. I told you that.”
After dinner Adam and Doc busied themselves setting up a bed for the Joneses in the small alcove on the other side of the fireplace. Laura didn’t ask where the bed had come from. This place was full of unanswered questions, some less important than others.
After she helped Katherine with the dishes, Laura washed up at the kitchen sink, visited the outhouse with a flashlight, then retreated to the attic.
It was Katherine, she assumed, who’d thoughtfully placed a vase of wildflowers on the chest and made up the bed with fresh sheets—his bed. Laura shook the thought off. She had to remain professional and detached.
She turned on the small bedside lamp and settled herself in, ready to pore over the thick sheaf of Adam Scott’s chart again.
“All right, Ned-o.” She glanced at the dummy propped against the wall. “Let’s see what this guy is all about.”
Adam Scott had had a long recovery indeed. Ruptured spleen. Pins in his broken shoulder. Months of surgeries, antibiotics, treatments. Yet he appeared to be in good physical condition, considering all his trauma.
Strengthening the arm and shoulder muscles and restoring complete range of motion would be the last painful step. Except…She thumbed through the chart, looking for psychotherapy referrals. None.
“Patient refuses” notations next to entries documenting offers of counseling and pastoral care made it clear that everyone who’d tried to help Adam Scott had been rebuffed. There was something disturbing about this case, about this man, something she couldn’t see just by reading his charts.
She flipped back to the biographical data. All the blanks were neatly filled in, and she’d read it all this morning. She sighed. “All the same, I reckon we got us a real pitiful one, Ned.”
She closed the chart, scooted under the thick down comforter and tossed her way into a restless sleep.
SOMEWHERE IN THE NIGHT a sound, something softer than a moth’s wing, awakened her.
She opened her eyes a crack and without raising her head looked around the unfamiliar room. Rain pattered softly on the metal attic roof and the mountain air had grown so chilly that her nose felt cold.
Lightning flashed, and standing there, clearly silhouetted in the floor-to-ceiling window at the far end of the attic, was a man.
For an instant Laura was paralyzed by fear, as thunder rolled over the roof. Her heart raced.
Another bolt of lightning illuminated the figure. Though she couldn’t see clearly without her glasses, she recognized the build. Adam Scott. Of course. But what on earth…?
Waves of sheet lightning in the distance kept him constantly in view now. His pose was alert, still.
He faced the window, holding a pair of binoculars. They were bigger than normal, Laura thought, with a long extra piece in the middle, perhaps the night-vision kind she’d seen in thrillers.
She was about to let him know she was awake when, as the room darkened, she thought she saw him turn his head in her direction.
Laura lay stiffly in the dark, feeling that he was staring at her. The bed was under the eaves, cloaked in complete darkness, but even so, she wondered if he could feel her staring back.
She feigned sleep, waiting to see what he would do. After a long moment she heard him cross to the stairwell, cautiously, soundlessly. Just as he reached it, faint flashes of lightning in the distance made his silhouette visible. She watched him descend until finally his head disappeared below the landing.
Lightning continued to pulse in the distance, and she heard the sound of one stealthy creak as he opened the door at the bottom of the stairs.
The whole thing gave Laura a roaring case of the creeps.
THE NEXT MORNING she awoke before the sun peeked over the mountain. She padded barefoot across the cold wooden floor to gaze out the window onto the dewy green expanse of meadow between the cabin and the outhouse. What had he been looking at last night?
Doc was hiking stiffly up the misty path. When he spotted Laura standing in the window, he raised his arm and gave her a jaunty salute.
Everything below looked normal. So idyllic and beautiful, in fact, that she could hardly believe the unsettling incident last night had happened.
Beyond the meadow, Sixteen Mile Creek sparkled in the deep valley, the narrow road beside it winding lazily down, finally intersecting with a bigger road. The view from this window clearly showed the route up to Adam Scott’s property—the only route. He must have been checking that. But why?
Shivering slightly, she slipped into her plaid robe and slippers and made her way gingerly down the creaky stairs, concerned that she might awaken Katherine.
But Katherine was already bustling around the kitchen.
The fire crackling in the old stove, the eggs gently boiling in a pan, the teakettle steaming, all made the small room feel toasty warm and inviting. Laura hated to venture out into the chilly morning, but she needed to make a trip to the outhouse. After she returned, she started to wash her hands at the sink.
“Oh, use the basin, dear.” Katherine suggested. “That pipe water is freezing.” Katherine poured hot water from the kettle and cooler water from an old-fashioned pitcher into a matching basin. Laura submerged her hands in the warm water, then washed her face with the glycerin soap Katherine had provided, marveling at how this primitive setting seemed to enhance the simple pleasures.
When she was finished washing, she accepted a warm bran muffin and a fragrant mug of tea from Katherine.
“There’s a small jar of strawberry preserve in my basket,” Laura offered.
“No!” Katherine exclaimed. “You don’t need to use the things from your basket.”
“But I want to.”
“Well, I make gallons of cherry jelly every year.” Katherine reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a pint mason jar and unscrewed the lid. Then she opened a drawer and produced an ornate silver condiment spoon. All the homey touches in the kitchen were likely this older woman’s doing.
“Thank you.” Laura took the jelly, thinking how much nicer her stay would be with this lovely woman around.
“No trouble.” Katherine smiled. “By the way, Doc and I are strict vegetarians. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll do the cooking while we’re here.”
Laura took a bite of the muffin—heavenly. “Mind?” she said, and swallowed. “I’m a vegetarian, too!”
Katherine’ s smile grew wider. “Why don’t you sit down on that stool?” She pointed at a well-worn bar stool that looked hand-hewn. “We can chat while I finish filling these hummingbird feeders.”
While Katherine measured a batch of red nectar into a large bowl and slowly stirred the mixture, the two women talked about ordinary things.
How well Laura had slept: “Pretty well,” she hedged. “It’s so very quiet up here.”
Where she came from originally: “Texas—Dallas. But I