Dream Country (17 page)

Pebbles scrunched underfoot fifty yards away. The steer must have found its way into the labyrinth of crevices. James felt himself wanting to follow the sound, but he made himself stay put. He stared at the ground, looking for tracks in the mud. Plenty of them to read: deer, wolves, elk, coyotes, birds, the steer. A human.

This wasn’t a place where people walked. There were no campsites or hiking trails. James bent over the saddle horn to see better. Size ten boots, from the look of them. The steer’s tracks went straight into the deepest part of the canyon; the man’s veered right. He had kept to the rock walls, using the overhang to shield him from the weather. Although the mud wasn’t so deep there, his tracks were easy to read.

Staying just outside the man’s trail, as if he was riding beside a ghost, James followed the footprints. They were fresh—hours, not days old: Time and weather hadn’t caved them in. Their depth, considering the relative dryness of the sheltered ground, told James the man had been carrying something heavy.

The canyon twisted around a long rock outcrop, splitting into five narrow chasms. Each crack was wide enough to enter, but James couldn’t freely see inside. They were too dark and constricted. At the same time, he lost the trail. The tracks disappeared mid-step, and James quickly saw why: Growing from the red sandstone were clumps of sagebrush and stunted cedar. It took him five minutes to find the broken twigs.

Someone had clipped a low branch. James found the fresh cedar wood, a white spot the size of a quarter, oozing sap. He saw where the tracks left the mud, climbing onto the rock ledge. The person had used the cedar branch to brush away footprints, hide his direction. James saw the trail branch off into five different crevices.

His muscles were so tense he thought he might crack. Again, he stopped to listen. Pebbles scuttled down from up ahead, as if someone was trying to climb the rimrock. But when James tried to tell which direction it came from, the sound stopped. The storm clouds were sliding down from the mountains, throwing the canyon into near darkness. James strained his ears, tasting primitive fear.

Someone was here. He felt it again. Suddenly James felt a deep, terrible blackness, the empty part inside himself that was missing two children. He thought of how this canyon had eaten his son, and he thought of how his daughter was supposed to be on her way home—here to the ranch—right now.

Were those tracks deep enough to have been made by someone carrying a sixteen-year-old girl? James felt wild, his eyes burning. He was panting hard, fighting to keep his breath from being too loud. He jumped off his horse and started scrambling. The chances of finding someone might have been slim, but James refused to think that way. He was ready to tear the sneaking bastard apart with his bare hands.

He skinned his wrist raw, just getting up the first rise. Thunder cracked down the valley, and from the top of the rim, James could see the snow coming. Paul was driving the herd home, half of them obscured by driving snow. James saw the dark lines of cattle, the men on horseback doing the work James should be taking care of, but he turned away. He shifted his weight on the unstable ledge, moving deeper into the crevice.

Unbelievably, he found the tracks again. The cedar broom had missed a print—James caught the outer edge of the left boot. Panting, he started to run. His left shoulder brushed the rocks, hugging tight to the inside. The ledge narrowed again, giving him a two-foot path. The cliff fell sharply to his left, a two-hundred-foot drop. James felt the altitude in his knees, and he touched his pistol as he ran.

James came to a bend in the trail, where he couldn’t see what came next. The cliff dropped straight down, and he dislodged pebbles that took a long time to hit bottom. Now he did pull his gun, because he wasn’t about to round a blind corner empty-handed. Edging around the protruding red rock, he burst into the last crevice before the trail ended.

Someone had been here. James found a dead campfire built deep under a jutting boulder. The ashes were warm, and the last smoke wisped up the rock chimney. From the pile, James pulled out three old Polaroids. They were charred and smoke-stained, but he could make out the images of his grazing herd. He found an empty can of beans and a folded road map. It was a gas-station map, folded open to the land around the DR Ranch.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. The camper had been furtive enough to brush his tracks away and build a fire where the smoke wouldn’t show. But he’d left other signs behind. James searched the ground for evidence that more than one person had been there. He felt frantic, tearing the rocks apart for signs of Sage. He checked the three pictures again, for hints of a sixteen-year-old girl.

Down below, the lost steer lowed. James had forgotten all about the roundup, and he didn’t give a second thought to the steer. It might be frightened, dead-ended in one of the dark crevices. The storm had finally hit. Snow fell hard, coming down in white sheets. Thunder cracked—so loud it could split the rocks. Sticking the three Polaroids into his pocket, James hardly heard.

“Shit,” he said, so loud his voice echoed down the canyon. “Don’t snow. Just don’t snow yet . . .”

He holstered his pistol and fell to his knees. The snow fell faster than he could look. He brushed it aside, wanting to keep the ground clear. The snow would blanket the canyon, the trail, this abandoned camp, and James would lose his chance.

An early winter,
his father had said.
Three feet this week,
Paul had predicted. James’s wrist bled onto the white ground, and his thigh seared from where Chieftain had fallen on him before, but he just kept looking for signs.

Chapter Seventeen

D
aisy hunched over her makeshift worktable, candles burning all around the room. Sometimes she knew she was just making jewelry—just stringing objects together, creating adornments for women to wear—and other times she had the sense of making magic. Her touch was quick and hot, her fingers hovering over the bones.

Outside, the snow came down. The wind howled through the rafters of her small cottage, and sparks flew up the chimney. She had made a tape—many years ago, when she had lived here before—of Shoshone chants. She had brought them from home, and they played now on the portable tape recorder, competing with thunder coming down the mountain.

She hadn’t slept much, but staring down at the bones had a hypnotic effect on her. Work, she thought. Make something, use your hands, stop thinking. Yesterday she had carefully picked burrs from Scout’s tail, and the rhythm and feel and mindless repetition had made the time pass.

She knew it was strange, but when she worked with bones she tried to be gentle, as if she could somehow avoid further injuring the animal from whom they had come. Daisy willed herself to imagine the creature: From the size of the bones, she guessed they’d come from a wolf. She thought back to the Bear Mother necklace she’d made for Louisa, and now she conjured up the wolf’s spirit.

Pulling her tools from a case inside her travel bag, Daisy used a scalpel to loosen the remaining tendons from the bones. She separated the metatarsal bones and claws; she found where the ankle had been attached to the shin. Feeling love for the animal, she prayed for the release of its spirit.

The region abounded with Coyote-Wolf stories. Wolf, considered good and benevolent, was believed to have created humans and stars. Coyote was a trickster, harming people and impeding Wolf’s efforts. Louis Shoulderblade had once told her that wolves were born of the Long Snows Moon, that they were quick, serious, and devoted to their young.

Devoted to their young . . .

As Daisy worked, she thought of other Shoshone myths. They taught of a time when humans could transform themselves into animals. Before written languages, the adornment of jewelry had been an important element of Native American communication. Hunched over her table, Daisy’s body was taut. Her hair fell over her eyes, glinting red-gold in the firelight. She thought only of the wolf spirit, of bounding across long distances to reach her brood, of devotion to her young.

Using her stylo, she etched markings in the bare bone. Initials for each child, a heart around “S” for Sage, a star around “J” for Jake. She would fill the grooves with black India ink, like scrimshaw. She would add polished beads from the streambed, and she would attach them with braided strands from Scout’s tail. Scout, the horse who had carried her and the twins on so many happy rides . . .

Daisy worked on the wolf bones, carving the faces of a man and a woman. The surface seared her fingertips. Back in Silver Bay, she had made necklaces that brought love to the wearers. Deep love—strong enough to hold magic—had been given to Daisy first by her parents, then by her sister. The daughters of English scholars, they had read Shakespeare and Austen and Bronte—all the great love stories—and these had seeped into their souls. Then Daisy had come out here to Wyoming, and she had met James. And the love stories had come to life.

The candles flickered in the wind. Daisy paused, pulling her sweater tighter. She wondered whether the men were back from their day, and she walked to the window. The snow was coming down so hard, Louisa had decided to stay at the hospital another night. Daisy thought of Sage out in that weather, then of James. She drifted back to her worktable, but the ability to make magic had temporarily left her.

Burying her head in her hands, she listened to the Shoshone chanting. She thought back to her first time here, searching for inspiration in the wilderness. Every part of Wyoming had seemed huge, extreme, and magnificent. The story of Sacagawea had moved her heart and soul. She had immersed herself in Native American lore, visiting the Crow and Shoshone reservations.

Girls from other eastern establishment families might have tried backpacking through Europe, baby-sitting for families on the Vineyard or Nantucket, crewing on schooners sailing the Maine coast. Daisy had grown up sheltered and loved. Being from a close family was the best thing in the world, but Daisy knew it could stunt her if she let it. At twenty-two, she had never gone anywhere alone. At art school in Providence, she’d lived in a house with six other girls, and returned home nearly every weekend. She had started to feel like someone walking miles in shoes that were too tight. She knew she had to do something.

Daisy had an artist’s temperament and training—there were plenty of artists in the nearby colonies of Rockport, Newport, and Old Lyme—but something in her spirit had pulled her west—alone. Her luggage had been cumbersome: riding clothes, a down jacket, binoculars, cameras, her easel, top-quality drawing paper, her jewelry-making tools. But she had no protectors or chaperones, and when she reached Wyoming, she had felt like a bird soaring free from the nest for the first time.

The rocks had astonished her: black mica, green hornblade, crimson sandstone, rose quartz, chalky white feldspar. The Wind River mountains soared above the plains, and from the minute she saw them, she knew she had to go deeper into their land. She wanted to make jewelry like the Native Americans—she knew she had something primal inside that needed to be unleashed, and she knew that wasn’t going to happen if she went home to Connecticut too soon.

She decided to go panning for gold. She found a dude ranch near Lander, and they gave her western riding lessons and a sense of how it felt to be a cowgirl. Her hacking jacket, canary breeches, and velvet hat stayed in the bag: She wore ranch clothes, just like everyone else. She stopped trying to post and learned to sit in the saddle. After two weeks, Daisy felt confident enough to ride off on her own. She packed up for the day, picked a spot on the map, and rode out to Midsummer Creek.

Wearing chaps and a Stetson made her feel like part of the landscape. Her red sleeveless shirt was all cotton, bought at the country store in town. Daisy had followed the trail, keeping watch on the sky—they’d told her thunderstorms blew up fast in the Wind Rivers, and although she had a poncho in her pack, she wanted to stay alert.

She rode through meadows of buckwheat and mountain sorrel. Buttercups and primroses bloomed everywhere. Her horse stopped to graze, but she’d learned enough to pull his head up and make him walk on. The sky was so big and blue overhead, the clouds pure white billows. Daisy was in heaven, and it was called Wyoming.

Panning for gold had been fun. Crouched by the cold stream, she had pulled her hat low over her eyes to keep the sun out. She had filled her saddlebags with a few bones left behind by an owl, a ram’s horn, and a handful of quartz. But here on the riverbank, she felt the thrill of prospecting. Easterners had been coming west for a hundred years, hoping to strike it rich. Maybe she would be next . . .

She had heard the rattle just in time. Reaching into the water to scoop up a pan of pebbles, she had nearly put her dry hand down on a rattlesnake. The snake was huge and coiled. It had slithered out to sun itself on the rock, and its camouflage was perfect. The gold and brown diamonds looked just like stones, and Daisy wondered how long it had been sitting beside her.

“Don’t move,” said a deep voice.

The snake rattled its tail. Daisy was frozen in place, wondering what the rattles actually looked like. This was happening in slow motion, as if another, braver girl was panning for gold and Daisy was just watching from afar.

“I won’t,” she said softly.

“This is gonna be loud,” the voice said.

“Uh-huh,” Daisy said.

The snake opened its ugly mouth to strike—the throat deep and black, the fangs curved and sharp as needles. A shot rang out, blasting Daisy’s eardrums, and the snake’s head disappeared—leaving its thick, disgusting, and impossibly long body writhing on the rock.

Daisy clapped both her hands to her mouth. She jumped up, knocking over all the maybe-gold pebbles she’d panned from the stream. A stranger walked out of the shadows across the way. Daisy smelled the gunsmoke and saw him sticking his pistol into a holster. They stared at each other across the narrow stream.

“You didn’t scream,” he said.

“What were you doing, watching me?” she asked.

“Not for long,” he said. “But, yes.”

Daisy tilted her head, gazing at him. He was a cowboy, tall and so lean he looked like a hard, straight line. He wore tight jeans and a dusty white T-shirt that said “Powder River Rodeo” in red letters. He held his black hat in his hands; the sun had bleached his brown hair, and although he wasn’t much older than Daisy, he had lines around his mouth and eyes.

“Thank you for killing the snake,” Daisy said.

“He was about to strike. I hope the shot didn’t scare you too much.”

Daisy nodded. She’d been having an out-of-body experience, taking in the beautiful parts of the scene—the sun, the blue sky, the handsome young cowboy—and blocking out the fact that she had nearly been bitten by a poisonous snake. Or that she could have been hit by the ricocheting bullet. Her hands began to shake, and she held them together to keep them still.

“Oh, brother,” she said, looking down at them.

“It happens that way sometimes,” the young man said. “It hits you later, when you think what might have—”

Daisy nodded, and she put her face down so he wouldn’t see her start to cry. She cried very easily—her emotions always embarrassed her. She felt everything strongly, and tears came with the territory—when she was happy, sad, elated, sorrowful, frightened, disappointed, hurt. It didn’t matter: Daisy cried.

Willows grew on Daisy’s side of the stream, but across the way was a thicket of pines, cedars, and stunted junipers. The smell of pitch carried on the wind, fresh and sharp. The cowboy watched Daisy bury her face in her hands, and then he walked right through the water with his boots on. It must have been deeper than he thought, because the water poured into his boots and nearly pulled them off. But he kept coming.

“You’re okay,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t be scared.”

“I didn’t see it,” Daisy said, shaking. “I stared right at the rock, and I didn’t see the snake.”

“That happens all the time,” he said. “It’s happened to me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re from around here?” she asked, unsure of whether to believe a real westerner would be so blind.

“Yeah, this is my land.”

Daisy jumped back. She felt even more embarrassed now. “No,” she said. “I’m staying on the dude ranch, and they sent me here. They gave me a map, showing me the good spots to pan for gold . . .”

“They always do.” He laughed. “They only own a few acres, and they figure we won’t mind a few tourists taking our stones. They’re not real gold, though. Hate to disappoint you.”

“I’m sorry,” Daisy said. “God, I can’t believe they’d do that—”

“It’s okay. I’m James Tucker, and you’re on the DR Ranch.”

“I’ll leave—” Daisy said, backing away.

“No, stay,” he said. “But tell me your name first.”

“Daisy Lambert. From Silver Bay, Connecticut.”

“Prospecting for gold?”

So Daisy told him about going to art school, designing jewelry, being fascinated by western materials and designs. When she told him she felt curious about the snake’s rattle, he cut it off with his knife and stuck it in her saddlebag. He told her if she made something with it, he’d buy it from her. Daisy asked if she could keep the pebbles she’d panned, and he said she could. But when she showed him, he picked one misshapen stone out of the bunch.

“It’s real,” he said. “I take back what I said before. You found real gold.”

“Honestly?”

Together they examined the small rock. It looked dull and dark, no different from any of the other stones she’d picked up. But James had seen the value, the sparkle under the river moss. Daisy knew she’d carry the small gold nugget home with her, use it in her first western-inspired necklace. The breeze blew, and she felt the first rush of wilderness inspiration—exactly what she’d been after on this trip to Wyoming.

“Oh!” she said, the force nearly knocking her over.

James had been holding his hat in one hand, and he took Daisy’s right off her head, letting her coppery hair blow in the wind. Cupping the back of her head in his hand, he’d let the hats fall to the ground and kissed her till she saw stars. She clutched the gold in one hand and gripped his forearm with the other—she had never known a man’s body could be so hard. It shocked her more than seeing the snake on the rock, and she dropped the gold.

James didn’t stop kissing her for a long time. He made it slow and gentle, the way he tangled his fingers in her hair, moved his lips from her mouth to her neck. The sun heated their bare heads and arms; every time Daisy felt a new muscle on his biceps or back, her knees went weak, and if she’d had more gold to drop, she would have.

When they stopped, James crouched down to find the nugget. Standing above him, Daisy looked at the shape of his narrow bottom in his tight jeans and wondered why she’d never looked at a man like this before. He handed her the gold, closing her hand in his fingers. His calluses were so rough, they scraped her skin.

“Cowboy hands,” she said softly.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing—” She wanted to think of something else to say, so he wouldn’t go. “Just that I like being here. Riding. Everything.”

“Cowboy hands,” he said, grinning. “You can have them, too. Just stay on the dude ranch for a while. Keep riding, panning for gold, you know?”

“I’m staying on a ranch that’s not a ranch,” she said. “It’s just a bunkhouse with a barn and a map of someone else’s land.”

“Come stay on the DR,” James said. “We have room.”

“Thanks for offering, but I couldn’t.”

“Why not? You can make your jewelry, ride when you want. It’d be nice to have you. Are you in a hurry to get back to Connecticut?”