Crow Mountain (11 page)

‘I . . . do believe you, but . . .' Such a discussion was impossible. I pushed the wetness from my cheek, curiosity battling my tears. ‘Isn't it terribly lonely here?' Perhaps that was it. Perhaps you were lonely.

You shrugged. ‘Had a dog when I first came up here, but he went and got himself killed. Still miss him. I ain't lonely for people though. Or at least, not the kind you find in towns. Ain't much interested in bars. All that noise and getting pestered by whores . . .'

‘What are whores, please?'

You looked at me. ‘English, I'm getting the feeling you and I are from whole different worlds.'

I frowned, bemused. ‘But you were in the hotel bar. In Helena.'

‘I'm a railroad scout. And a horse trader. That was what I
was doing in Helena, trading a horse.'

‘And you scout for the railway companies?'

‘Yep.' You took a sip of your tea, letting your head fall back against the cabin. ‘When I'm not up here, that is. Figured this year I'd stay up here for summer again. There's a horse I have my eye on around these parts.'

‘A wild horse?'

You smiled, and suddenly it was as if you were lit from within. ‘The horse of a lifetime. Maybe more than one lifetime. Been looking for him near on two years. That's what I was doing when I saw your vehicle crash.'

The birds were singing and squabbling rowdily.

‘My fiancé . . . Mr Anthony Howard Stanton. His family are the ones who want to build the railway through here.'

You looked at me then, pale eyes taking me in. ‘They'll never build the railroad through here.' Waving a hand at the landscape, you pulled a face. ‘Look at it. You couldn't.'

‘The railways are going to conquer the West, Mr Stanton told me in a letter—'

‘
Railways. He told me in a letter
,' you mimicked. ‘Has Mr Railroad ever been out West? Does he know what Montana is like?'

I drew back, snubbed, putting down my cup and retreating on the bench. ‘Mr Stanton's family are some of America's greatest pioneers.'

‘Pioneering in their fancy San Francisco drawing rooms,' you sneered towards the lake as you got up and went to look at something on the porch. It was a butterfly, beautifully
coloured, wings spread. After going into the cabin, you came out a few seconds later with a spoon and sat down next to the insect.

I was exasperated. ‘Are you trying to catch it?'

‘What for?'

‘Then what are you doing?'

Your intense eyes were still on the butterfly. ‘These little critters rest with their wings up. This one is wings down, all tuckered out. Sometimes you can get them going again with honey.' You pointed to the spoon resting on the boards, the butterfly's tiny sucker in the sugary smear at the end. As we watched, it fed, flexed its wings in the sunshine, and fluttered away.

You weren't inclined to talk more, and went about your chores as if I wasn't there, so I went for a walk. I couldn't go far, because of the lack of shoes, and the brisk breeze outside was cutting me to the bone now I wasn't wearing my many layers of travelling clothes. I found my gown hanging on a line strung between the cabin and the outhouse. The silk was still damp but stiff, shrunken and ruined with watermarks. It was nineteen guineas of useless and I left it where it was. Nearby was a henhouse perched on a post with a strange, comb-like ladder leading up to it, and scrawny roaming chickens strutting in the grass.

The cabin itself was very fetching, for a wilderness hovel. It was organized in an unusual fashion, in that it was almost square. The porch was prettily designed, with rails, and above
in the gable, antlers and twisting branches were nailed up. There were eight shuttered sash windows, two in each wall, making the inside as light as outside. And an astonishing luxury in such a place.

As I climbed the porch steps and went into the cabin, you looked up from where you were standing at the kitchen table up to your elbows in flour, kneading bread on the table. I had never seen a man, outside a servant, engage in a domestic task. That must have been written on my face. You straightened up slowly, watching me.

‘Well, do you want to do it?' you asked, tone not entirely friendly.

‘I don't know how.'

‘No time like the present.' Gesturing to the mound of dough, you shook your hair back. ‘Come on, English,' you said, with your funny smile. ‘Ain't hard.' You reached out with a white-floured hand and took my wrist. Taking my fingers in yours, you placed them on the ball of dough. ‘Just do what I did.'

I tried, my fist not making the impression yours had.

‘Try again,' you said patiently. You watched over my shoulder, encouraging. ‘You'll feel it in a minute. Starts to give. That's when it's getting there.'

I kneaded as you explained the bread recipe, and how it was just a knack to get it right, not a precise science. ‘'Sides, better enjoy this while you can, as we'll be back on hot water cornbread soon enough.'

I pushed a strand of hair from my face with a floury finger.
‘It's harder than I thought.'

You brushed the flour from my cheek with the back of your hand, making me shy away from your touch. ‘Everything good always is.' Putting the dough into a greased, blackened tin, you placed it on top of the stove. ‘Has to rise a little first, or it'll be like old rocks.' You smiled to yourself in genuine amusement, shaking your head. ‘A no mark bachelor like me giving domestic instruction? Don't sit right.'

I couldn't help but smile back, shy in the sudden warmth of your attention. ‘Doesn't it?'

‘Nope. But Momma taught us how to make stuff with whatever we had. Though she'd be patting out that dough into rounds and frying it in oil. Then we'd eat it with corn and beans and whatever meat there was going.' You beckoned to me to follow and we went outside to the stream, washing our hands in the clear water. As we straightened up, Tara came up, nudging your pockets for a treat. You scratched beneath her thick forelock.

‘Your mother? With your first family?'

‘Yes. She and my pa came out from the East in forty-three, thinking to settle in Oregon. The government were giving away land to married couples.'

‘John Gantt's Wagon Train. I read about it.'

You looked at me, surprised. ‘You did? Well, I think things were all right for a while. Momma had a girl, Faith. Then Faith and my pa died while my momma was carrying me.'

‘I'm so sorry.'

You shrugged. ‘Before I was born. Anyways, she was
frightened of being out there with a new baby and took the first ride she could back East, to her folks. I was born on the road, and she ended up at the trading post what's now Fort Shaw. Then she married an Indian brave when I was a few weeks old.'

I stared at you. ‘But your mother was . . .'

You laughed. ‘Yes, she was white. Like you. And yes, she married an Indian. Red Feather. He was my father, as far as I remember one.'

‘That's why you're so good with horses?'

You shrugged. ‘Maybe.'

‘Tara dotes on you.'

‘Yeah, well. You should-a seen Tara when I first brought her off the plain. As wild as wild. Mainly on account of being frightened, a-course. But we shook down.'

Your meaning wasn't lost on me. I cleared my throat. ‘Then what happened? To your family?'

‘Momma died, poppin' out one too many babies. Red Feather married again straight away. Same time, my grandaddy put out word that he knew I was still living and he wanted me back East, to my mother's family. They'd made good in Massachusetts. My mother's brother, my grandaddy's heir, had died and I was his only family left. Some gospel sharp convinced him he needed me home and should pay any price to save me from the heathens.' You paused. ‘So I was traded, in exchange for a fair number of horses.'

‘Traded?' I couldn't keep the rise out of my voice.

You looked down at me. ‘Think what you're going into is
any better?'

I closed my mouth.

‘So I went back, and on account-a me being a savage they cut my hair, put me in breeches and into school, made me sit still and go to church. Sit on my own on a bench up front for sinners, beg forgiveness for my Indian ways.'

I didn't like the sound of that. Papa said it was a cruelty to humiliate anyone. Nor did he go to church. Mama and I went alone. ‘And then?'

You took a breath. ‘It was more'n I could stand. So I joined up and trailed around with the Union, ended up in Sheridan's cavalry. And then there was the war and near got my leg blown off. Came back here. Lived in Fort Shaw for a while but it weren't for me. Man gets no peace. Or at least, I didn't get none nohow.' Your voice was dark. ‘Something bad happened and I figured it was best for me not to be there any more. Came upon this place on the scout two years ago, as if the tenants had walked out and would be back any minute. Decided to stay until they showed up. But they never have.'

I patted Tara's neck with caution. She was totally focused on you, butting her nose into your cupped hand. Her skin was warm and satiny. I could feel the veins beneath her smooth coat.

‘Was it terrible, the war?'

‘Yes. Saw things I never want to see again, except now they're in my head, so that's just too bad.'

I watched you. The way you narrowed your eyes. It
happened to Papa sometimes. He had fought in the Crimean War when I was a little girl. He said that, as an officer, he'd been far better off than what he called ‘the men'. You had been a regular soldier.

‘So much chaff,' Papa said, when I overheard him talking about it. I had asked him about the war, once. He was looking out of the library window, at the rain, and I could see he was somewhere else. But he would not talk about it, only patted my cheek and told me it was not the business of a young lady to fill her head with such things.

You slid your fingers under Tara's thick white mane and stroked the length of her neck. The memories my question had roused were bleak, clearly. To voice an apology right then would have been clumsy, so on the next stroke I placed my hand next to yours and copied your movement. You looked at me warily, then limped away. I stood with Tara, both of us staring after you, confused.

We ate a midday meal on the porch. The bread was still warm. A light rain was falling steadily, as it had for most of the morning. All around us, I could hear it pattering, on the roof of the cabin, on the leaves of the trees by the stream.

‘What meat is this, please?'

You looked at me for a long second.

I swallowed. ‘I don't want to know, do I?'

‘Doubt it.'

‘When are you taking me back, do you think? Will the weather clear tomorrow?'

You glanced up from your food, out at the drizzle, and shrugged.

‘I don't mind getting wet,' I continued, ‘so we could travel in this weather anyway.'

Putting down your spoon, you placed your hands flat on the edge of the table. The breeze blew and the rain spattered against the porch. ‘I'm not taking you back.'

The words stretched tight between us.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Ain't taking you back.'

‘But . . .' I was entirely at a loss. ‘I'm from London.'

‘That means about as much to me as saying you're from the moon.'

‘I need to get to Portland.'

‘Em—'

‘Please stop calling me that. My name is Emily.'

‘As far as I can see, your name is whatever I choose to call you.' You thought about it. ‘Maybe I'll give you one of those old religious settler names. Providence, or Purity. What about Helpless?'

I shrank from you. ‘Emily. My name is Emily.'

You got up, stepping off the porch to check on Tara, who we could see sheltering from the rain under a tree.

‘My name is Emily and people will be looking for me,' I called from the porch.

You came back and climbed the two steps, the first a big step up from the sloping earth, the second shallow and giving on to the planks. ‘They can look. I'd imagine they think you're
dead, along with the others.'

‘But I'm not dead!'

You went inside, picked up and unpacked a box from beneath the table, scattering bits and pieces of what looked like harness over its surface. My breathing was unsteady and I kept trying to start speaking, but couldn't. You glanced at me, amused.

‘What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?'

Having been taught, from an early age, to be gracious and obedient in all things I struggled with my words. ‘What's the
matter
?! You're keeping me here, that's what's the matter.'

‘I ain't
keeping
you here. You can leave any time you like.' You pointed out towards the mountain. ‘Go.'

‘But I . . . don't know where I'm going.'

‘Oh, really?'

‘This isn't fair,' I whispered, eyes wide.

‘Life isn't fair. You'll shake down.'

‘Stop saying that! I'm not Tara. I'm not a pet,' I said fiercely.

You shrugged, comparing two different buckles against a strip of leather. ‘Looks to me like you ain't never been nothing
but
a pet,' you said, almost under your breath.

‘I'm not a pet and my name is Emily! Not English, not anything you say. It's Emily!' On the table was a steel bit for a horse, one of the d-shaped rings cracked all the way through. I snatched it up, fingers curling through the ring, and hurled it at you. You ducked, but not quickly enough, and it glanced off your shoulder, clattering to the floor.

‘Dammit, Emily!'

I had no idea what I was thinking when I grabbed the rifle hanging by its strap from a peg; I had never even held a gun before. I put my finger on the trigger, aiming unsteadily.

You shook your head at me, rubbing the angle of your shoulder. ‘What you gonna do now?' Silence. You gestured beneath your ribs. ‘Go for a gut shot. You'll likely hit me at this range, and if it doesn't kill me outright, I'll suffer real good for a few days.'