Dream Country (30 page)

So much love—first for Rosalind, now for Louisa—and even with all of passion’s power, he wasn’t able to guard his youth. How could it all go so fast? His broken leg stuck out straight in front of him, mocking him. It told him there wasn’t going to be a happy ending to this story.

Dalton was going to keep getting older. More of his bones might break. He would forget Louisa’s name more often. His days of making love were over, and the most he could hope for was a little hugging and kissing now and then. Tenderness—all that crap he’d shunned like the plague as a young man full of spit and vinegar. That was all that was left to him now. Much more than he deserved.

“Good morning, darlin’.”

At the sound of Louisa’s early-morning voice—sexier and sandier than at any other time of day—he glanced around. She stood there, lush as a tropical oasis in green silk and maribou mules, messing her long chestnut hair in a big overhead stretch. Knowing she wasn’t needed, Alma walked away.

“Good morning,” Dalton said.

“What’re you doing up at the crack of dawn?” Louisa bent down to embrace him from behind, kiss the side of his neck. Oh, her lips still felt so good. Dalton closed his eyes and wished she wouldn’t stop.

“Just watched James and Daisy head out for a ride,” he said.

“Pretty early,” Louisa said. “Maybe they’re eloping.”

“Now, there’s a thought.”

“Nice, how they’re getting along. I wasn’t sure how that would go—her coming out west and all.” Louisa rubbed her cheek against Dalton’s.

Just then, in the midst of him getting all ardored-up, he remembered: He was supposed to be mad at her. She had rifled through his vault, searching for his last will and testament. His woman didn’t trust him to leave her fixed after he kicked the bucket! Recalling that moment of shock, he pulled away.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Damn nasty business, you not trusting me.”

She jumped back. “Do you have to start that up again?”

“I just remembered it.”

“I apologized,” she said. “Are you so ornery you’ve got to hold a grudge for the rest of your life?”

Dalton narrowed his eyes, staring out over the frozen fields. The horses had been dark dots on the snow, and he watched the direction they’d gone, wondering when they’d be back.
The rest of his life
. He wondered how long that would be. He felt the haze closing in, taking his memories away. Right now he felt clear, but before the hour was out he’d be asleep again. He had something he wanted to say, but he couldn’t quite get to it—

“The rest of my life?” he asked, buying time.

“Yes. You plan on being mad all that time?”

“Maybe,” he snapped. “Maybe I will.”

Louisa exhaled. She strode away, giving Dalton time to rack his brain. What had he been about to say? As he gazed across the snowy fields, he saw a formation of snow geese flying south. They were dark silhouettes against the sky, and he knew if he was on horseback out there, they’d sound like thunder going over.

Snow geese.

He thought of his old friend Shoulderblade. He had told Dalton snow geese were the luckiest creatures—they married once, and that was that. Dalton had taken it to heart. Louisa thought he had never proposed because of James and his loyalty to his mother. But Dalton had another reason: He believed in snow geese, in their devotion and love for each other, that you only got one real love in this world.

For Dalton, it had been his first love, his only wife—Rosalind. He had spent a lifetime telling himself that. He kept her portrait on the wall, her shooting medal in the dining room, her initial on the ranch’s name: the DR Ranch.

Dalton-Rosalind.

Snow geese. Staring outside, Dalton wondered about James and Daisy. Were they smart enough to realize they’d been given a second chance? That fate had brought them back together for one last try—that they had all the love they’d ever need; all they had to do was decide to stay with each other?

For better for worse, for richer for poorer, through sickness and health . . .

Dalton blinked, trying to stay alert, trying to push back the haze of age. Sickness and health: Would Rosalind have loved him the way Louisa did through this miserable decline? He had to admit, when he looked into Louisa’s eyes, he saw the same mad desire he’d noticed way back when he was a young buck. She couldn’t possibly want him, but she still knew how to treat him like a man.

Snow geese.

As he watched, the great V circled around and landed in the field. He wondered about their ages, how many migrations they’d taken together. If he was a gander, he’d have passed twenty-eight winters with that goose in the next room. He and Louisa had had many more migrations together than he and Rosalind.

“Louisa!” he called.

She took her sweet time coming. Probably mad as hell at him, letting him cool his heels till she got good and ready. A fat three or four minutes ticked away—more and more of life passing every second. “Louisa!” Dalton bellowed.

Finally, she showed up. She was still in green silk, still had her hair down, still had those sultry bedroom eyes. Maybe she’d been at the makeup mirror, because Dalton hadn’t noticed her in eye shadow and mascara before—but she was now.

“You called?” she asked frostily.

“C’mere,” he said, sticking out his gnarled old hand.

She ignored it, like the elegant lady she was. Dalton left it there, the effort of holding his arm out straight just about toppling him out of the chair. He thought of his will, and shame filled his heart. Thank God he had stopped her before she’d read it. He wouldn’t have wanted to hurt her like that for anything.

“Hold my hand, sweetheart.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re the love of my life.”

She gazed down with full lips and steady eyes. He stared up at her, praying that he would remember to call Wayne Harding—his lawyer in Dubois—at the stroke of nine, the minute his office opened. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to consider his own death, imagine Louisa going on without him. But where had he thought she would live?

“Life is long,” Dalton said, “but it’s over in a lightning flash.”

“Your life’s not over,” Louisa said.

“I’m a tired old rancher.”

“And I’m a tired old saloon singer.”

“You’re my beautiful Louisa,” he said.

She shook her head, but he could see he had pleased her: She was hiding a small smile. He thought of Daisy and James out riding the range: Let them be the snow geese. Some people were given more than one love in their lifetime, if they weren’t too foolish to miss it.

As Louisa took his hand, Dalton was filled with peace. They were going to be okay; he knew it deep inside—as long as he remembered to call the lawyer. But James and Daisy: They were another story. Dalton stared out at the ranch, the land that he and his son had kept going all these years, and he hoped that their family would carry it on: James and Daisy and Sage.

And whoever would come after.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T
reacherous driving lay ahead, but David had convinced Sage they should dig out of the wildlife station and try to get to a main road. He was a Wyoming local and he said that even though the sun was shining today, they shouldn’t be fooled: Another storm was right behind the last one. Silver threads of thin cloud told the story, way up in the blue sky.

They found shovels in a utility closet. Sage helped the best she could, but every time she lifted a shovelful of heavy snow, she felt a twinge in her belly. After a while, she sat down to rest, letting David do the work. It was hard not to follow him around: Sage wanted to ask him a million questions, prove that he was actually Jake.

Once he had the car dug out, he brought all the animals outside and loaded them up. Then he went back to help Sage. The heater was on, blasting like a furnace. David checked the gas gauge; it had been a while since he’d filled up, and they would need to find a station soon. Sage let him get them started—backing onto the logging road, getting stuck, engaging the four-wheel drive, pulling onto the flat surface. Then she took up her theory again.

“Everything fits,” she said. “You have brown hair, I have brown hair. You have green eyes, I have green eyes.”

“You have two legs, I have two legs,” he said.

“See?” she asked, laughing. “That’s exactly my humor! We’re both sarcastic!”

David lit a cigarette, scowling.

“You’re him,” Sage said. The more she stared, the more she became convinced. She adored him, every bit of him: his eyes, his nose, the scar on his forehead, his long fingers, his thin arms, even his tattoos. Would she feel this way about someone who wasn’t her twin brother?

“Why are you staring at me?” he asked.

“You’re him, you’re him!” She touched his sleeve, the back of his hand.

“You’re crazy.”

“Just start with the coincidence!” she said. “
What are the odds
that two people the same age would meet on a dark road in Nebraska, one of them being attacked? And there you were to rescue me?”

“So that makes me your brother?”

“That fact, plus others.”

He exhaled smoke, shaking his head as if he wished she’d just quit talking. But his curiosity must have gotten the best of him, because he glanced over in spite of himself. “What others?”

“Your tattoos—”

“Your family likes tattoos?”

Sage shook her head. “No, but they remind me of my mother’s work. Wait till you see. She makes these necklaces that everyone wants. They’re very mystical, made of bones—”

“You showed me.”

“That’s right.” Sage started to reach inside her shirt to show him again. But just then, two of the kittens who had been burrowed in her jacket woke up and began to circle around and around her arm, wanting to be petted.

“She likes Shoshone legends, and she uses circles and dots all the time. That owl on your hand? She’s drawn the same owl—the exact same bird! Identical eyes, feathers, wings—wait till you see!”

“She draws owls?”

“And dots and circles and hawks. She’s magic. I know you think that sounds strange, but all the women in our town say it’s true. She can make love happen for other people, just by concentrating on the bones.”

“Love?” he asked skeptically.

“Yes. For other people,” Sage said, feeling momentarily sad. “Not for her and my dad. They ended back when . . . you disappeared. Oh, God.” She put her hands over her mouth, overcome by emotion. “Those tattoos you draw—they’re how she stayed connected with you.”

“What?”

“It’s true!” Sage exclaimed, shimmering with the magic. “If you knew some of the people my mother brought together—why couldn’t she do it with her own son? Wherever you were, even though we thought you were gone forever, she sent you those owls and hawks and circle-dots!”

He grimaced in disbelief, shaking his head.

“Well, how did you learn to draw? Did you go to art school?”

“No. I just pick up a pen and it happens. No big deal.”

“Why owls? Why circles around dots? I’ll tell you: They’re messengers from her to you.”

“Messengers . . .” David said, the word striking a chord with him.

“Between realms,” Sage said. “Her realm and your realm.”

“You’re crazy. I don’t even know her.”

“You do, you do.”

He frowned, shaking his head. Holding the wheel, he pulled out of a bad skid, steering around the next patch of blue ice.

“How is it we both know about Washakie?” Sage demanded, her adrenaline flowing from the skid and from the emotional current running through her body. “Is it one of your earliest memories, learning his name?”

“So what?” David glanced over.

“Our parents talked about Washakie. Our father’s spiritual but doesn’t know it—that’s what Mom says. He just works the land, runs his ranch, looks for you. He passed certain legends on to her, and she gave some to him. She uses them in her jewelry. Just like you use them in your tattoos. You’ll see how similar your designs are when you meet her.”

“Like that’s ever gonna happen.”

“Oh, it will,” Sage said confidently, rearranging the kittens to reach across and take his hand. “Jake, Jake.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“I have your booties! Blue booties—yours—hanging in my room. Oh, my God.” She was gazing down at his boots. “They were on your feet, those feet right there—this is incredible.”

“You saved your brother’s
booties
?” he asked, as if such a thing was unbelievable, too sentimental and corny for words.

“Jake,” she said again. “Does that sound familiar? Do you remember hearing us call you that? Jake—that was my first word. Your name.”

“Stop.”

Sage closed her eyes. The joy and pain were almost too much to bear. To be reunited with the boy she had loved so much. What could have happened to him? How had he stayed alive, yet failed to return to her family home? She was positive she was right—about her mother magically sending him images and talent, about their father teaching everyone about Washakie because they would need so much courage in their lives.

Tears pressed against Sage’s eyes, but she willed them back. She touched her heart, felt it thudding. Her heart felt full—yes, that was the truest test of all. Sage’s heart felt fixed, after all these years.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she said throatily.

“Don’t say ‘you,’ ” he said. “Say ‘him.’ You’ve missed your brother—”

“I’ve been half-gone.”

“Half-gone—” His eyes were bright and sharp, his mouth open.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” she asked through glistening tears, her smile widening. “You know it’s true.”

He didn’t reply, but she could see the flush starting in his neck. It rose into his face, the back of his ears. Sage watched him recognizing what she knew by instinct, way down in her gut: They had been together before birth. They were part of each other, separated all these years, together again. No longer half-gone, but whole. Feeling for her necklace, she worked it free and stared down at the faces.

Sage looked at the girl’s face first, then turned the carved surface over and looked at the boy’s. Now she glanced at the boy sitting beside her: His profile was sharp and handsome, the planes of his face even and noble. Same forehead, same cheekbones, same nose, same chin.

“It’s you,” Sage said. “You’re Jake.”

“That’s wishful thinking,” he snapped.

“No—”

“It is.” The blood in his face made him look angry, rageful. “You’re a dreamer, Sage. Just a fucking dreamer.”

“Jake—”

“Shut up! Don’t call me that!”

“But you’re him! I swear, just look at my mother’s carving—it’s you! And I’m not a dreamer—I’m being practical. This is evidence!”

“A goddamn dreamer,” he said. “Hitchhiking across the whole fucking country to a father who didn’t want you that much in the first place.”

“He did—” Sage said, aghast.

“Bullshit! He let you and your mother go just like my first parents let me go. You’re nuts if you think someone like that wants you.”

“He wants me.”

“They want you to think that because it makes them feel less guilty. But parents are only out for themselves. You’re tricking yourself, just like you’re trying to trick me right now. Give it up.”

“Never.” She was trembling.

“Did he invite you?” he asked. “Did your wonderful, perfect father ask you to come out? Go home before he tells you to.”

“He loves me,” Sage said.

“So much he never wanted to see you.”

“He loves me,” Sage screamed, pounding the seat. “He adores me! He only stayed on the ranch to be there, in case you—in case Jake—ever came back! That’s the kind of man he is! The kind of wonderful father!”

“So wonderful he lost both his kids,” he yelled back.

“Lost us! Never—” Sage started to shake. “Someone took you. Kidnapped you—it’s the only explanation.”

“Don’t say ‘you,’ ” he warned.

“Kidnapped!” Sage yelled. “He would never lose us! He only let me go because my mother couldn’t stand being there anymore. Hanging around the place where my brother was taken from her . . .” The emotion was so great, she began to cry. The sobs poured out of her as she pictured her mother and father, as vague memories of those horrible days without Jake came pouring back.

“Sage,” he said. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? You say something like that, about my father, and . . .” She gulped, choking on tears.

“The animals are getting upset. Petal’s hiding under the seat.”

“I’m . . . sorry . . .” Sage sobbed, trying to reach back and touch the dogs. She heard Petal whimpering, and she realized that the animals had probably heard many people crying and yelling; that’s the kind of place puppy farms were, the kind of home Jake had been delivered to. Sorrow and compassion made Sage weep harder.

Outside, the road was dangerous. The four-wheel drive worked, taking the car through two feet of ice-crusted powder, but in some places the land fell away in sheer drops. Sage clung to her seat, noticing for the first time that the topography had suddenly changed to rocky terrain, with big craggy bites taken from the road’s shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes . . . Jake,” she said defiantly.

“Call me David, okay?” he asked. “That’s my name. I gotta concentrate on my driving right now, and you calling me that screws me up.”

“Jake . . .” she whispered so low he couldn’t hear.

“What?”

“Okay,” she said. “David.” But she kept hold of her necklace, rubbing her thumb over Jake’s face, just to remind her of the truth. The car skidded slightly, and she grabbed Maisie. This part wasn’t fun; she didn’t want him to feel any more nervous than necessary.

“Thanks,” he said.

They didn’t talk. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, driving one mile at a time. The gas gauge had dipped below a third, and there didn’t seem to be any sign of a main road anywhere. The logging trail just kept winding along. Although they were on flat terrain, the mountains rose all around them.

“What are these mountains?” Sage asked, looking at the red rock ridges and soaring purple peaks. She was certain she had a poster of this exact scene hanging on her wall; her father had sent it to her.

“We’re in the Wind River Range.”

“How far away are we?” Sage asked.

“Twenty, fifteen miles . . . I’m not sure.”

“The DR Ranch,” Sage whispered to the baby inside her. “We’re almost there. Almost there!”

If David was her brother Jake, what would she call the baby? She could still name him “Jake,” or she could call him “James.” Suddenly, it seemed possible that the baby was a girl; Sage could call her “Rosalind” after her awesome target-shooting grandmother.

“Oh!” she said, feeling a twinge. “What a strange coincidence.”

“Don’t start again.” David’s eyes looked tired from staring into the blinding snow. More storm clouds had started to gather over the mountains, boiling up into dark anvil shapes. He was right—another storm was coming. “No more about me being your twin brother.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Sage reached beneath her.

“Then what?”

“Just that, I was thinking hard about my baby and his name and being so near the ranch, being almost home . . . and I’m pretty sure that my water just broke,” Sage said, bringing out a wet hand.

James and Daisy had spent an hour cantering along the main road, keeping their eyes open for Sage. A snowplow sped by, spraying wet snow ten feet in the air, creating drifts a story and a half high. James waved at the driver; he had once been employed—as had many local men at one time or another—as a hand on the DR Ranch.

Daisy wanted to ride slowly, taking it easy on Scout. Every so often she would stop, so Scout could rest. Daisy would dismount, shading her eyes as she looked around.

She’d watch and listen, taking in the cloud patterns in the blue sky and cedar formations on the sandstone ridges. Wind rushing through the pine boughs would bring her hope and peace. The white moon in the daytime sky meant protection and watchfulness. Drawing circles in the snow with a broken stick, she put a dot in the center of each one: James knew they symbolized members of their family. Daisy had magic in her heart, and she never gave up. James wished he could say the same for himself.