Montana Dreaming. Nadia Nichols
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“Let me out, Joe,” Jessie said, edging toward the door. “I can tend my dog right here, and when Doc sobers up he can help me.”
“Not a good plan, little lady,” Joe said, powering up the Bell JetRanger as Comstock climbed aboard. “By the looks of him, that old man won’t be sober for a week. Pray all the cows and pigs in Katy Junction stay healthy, and just relax and enjoy the ride.”
KATY JUNCTION HADN’T known this much excitement since the day the outlaw Billy Bowden shot Lieutenant John Gatlin right in front of his entire regiment back in 1878. The whole town and half the regiment had chased after Bowden, but they’d never caught him. It took a U.S. marshal by the name of Joe Belle down in Arizona Territory to bring that outlaw to justice. Wouldn’t that just figure. An Arizona lawman! Probably shot him out of pocket, too. Them damn Arizonians were famous for hiding pistols in their pockets. But no matter. Bowden had deserved what he got.
Badger shook his head and cut himself a plug of tobacco, shifting on the cracked vinyl of the old truck seat and staring at the place where Bear Creek twisted and tumbled out of the foothills.
Yessir, this’d be a topic of conversation for months to come. What were the odds that Guthrie Sloane would come back to roost on the very night Jessie Weaver disappeared? And then he’d taken off after her in the middle of the night; didn’t matter that it was snowing like the blue blazes. Found her, too! Lord a’mighty. Surely this would soften her. Couldn’t she see that the boy was crazy about her? Always had been; always would be. Maybe he wasn’t perfect. Maybe he didn’t have a lot of money. Maybe he didn’t think exactly the way she did about everything. But hell, Guthrie Sloane was all wool and a yard wide. He’d do to ride the river with.
Badger caught a flash of movement through the pines that flanked the creek. Yep, there he was. Snowshoes over his shoulder, striding along in what was left of the rotting snow. Paying careful attention where he put his feet because the going was slick. Not noticing Badger’s truck until he nearly stumbled over it. Badger bumped the horn with the palm of his hand, leaned out the window and spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Hey, mister, wanna ride?”
Guthrie stopped and stood flat-footed, weaving slightly. He stared at Badger for a long blank moment and then recognition glimmered and he said, “She’s okay. Jessie’s okay. We found her.”
“I know that, son. She’s bringing the dog to Doc Cooper’s place. She sent me here to pick you up.”
Guthrie nodded. He looked worse than Jessie had. Hollow-eyed from lack of sleep and reeling with exhaustion. He and Jessie made a pair, that’s for certain. “I better go there, then,” he said. “Her arm needs tending, but she won’t see to herself until she’s seen to Blue. And even then she might just let it go.”
He explained this very slowly and carefully, as if Badger hadn’t known Jessie Weaver all her life.
“Son,” Badger said, “you might as well have something to eat first, before you pitch onto your face. You ain’t slept in a couple of days, nor eaten in that long, either, by the looks of you. C’mon. Crawl in the truck. Your sister cooks a mean breakfast, and she’s expectin’ you.”
Didn’t matter that it was well past noon. Nossir, it didn’t. Badger was right. Steak, eggs, home fries and lots of strong black coffee would go down real fine. Real fine. Guthrie nodded. Rubbed his burning eyes. Rubbed the stubble over his jaw. Hadn’t shaved since leaving Valdez. Must look like a rough-cut lumberjack. Didn’t care one damn bit. Nodded again. “Okay,” he said.
GUILT. Jessie crept into the sterile, high-tech room in the surgical wing and sat gingerly on the edge of a plastic chair drawn up beside McCutcheon’s hospital bed, completely overwhelmed by guilt. “I’m sorry about your ankle, Mr. McCutcheon,” she said. “This is all my fault, you lying here all stove up and Blue being hurt. It’s because I didn’t bring the mares down earlier. I should’ve known they’d sneak off that way when they saw me corralling the others. I should’ve brought them in first. Without Old Gray to help me…I should’ve known.”
“You can’t take the credit for breaking my ankle,” McCutcheon said in a gruff voice. “I did that all by myself, with a little help from my snowshoes and a low-flying helicopter that scared the bejesus out of me. And by the way, there’s nothing worse than listening to a Catholic at confession.”
“I’m not Catholic,” Jessie said, taken aback.
“No? Well, you should’ve been. Anyhow, no one forced me to tramp off looking for you—I did that voluntarily. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Mr. McCutcheon…”
“Caleb. Call me Caleb. Please.”
Jessie rose to her feet. “I can’t stay. Joe Nash, the helicopter pilot, is waiting for me. Blue’s all right. She’s been tended to and he’s keeping watch on her until I get back. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“What time is it?”
“Suppertime. I can smell the food in the hallways.” She smiled faintly. She had gone past the point of hunger a long, long while ago. She was light-headed, giddy; she felt as if she could float away. The pain in her arm was the only thing that kept her grounded. That, and the enormous guilt that burdened her conscience. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call your wife?”
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