Dream Country (34 page)

“Did you see him?” Sage gulped.

“Who, honey?”

“Jake.”

Daisy was confused. Hadn’t she just held him, given him back to Sage? Had her tirade mixed everything up? But when she asked as much, Sage shook her head. “The boy I was with—”

“The one who drove you home?”

Sage nodded.

“I saw him. Why?”

“Did he remind you of anyone?” Sage asked.

Daisy thought. She pictured his green-gold eyes, his brown hair, the shape of his head. Her skin tingled. Those beautiful eyes, staring into hers as he held her cheeks between his small, flat hands . . .

“He has tattoos,” Sage told her, “that remind me of your drawings.”

Daisy began to tremble, picturing the owl—his feathers, his startling eyes. Once again she pictured the boy’s face, his own hazel eyes. Her heart began to race, and her mouth was suddenly dry.

“I kept telling myself he was
him,
Jake—but I must’ve been fooling myself. Like I had to believe it or something.”

“But he reminded you of—”

“Mom,” Sage said softly. “Don’t be mad, but can I be alone with him?”

“With your baby?”

“Yes.”

Sage stared blankly at her dead infant, as if she had absorbed all she possibly could, as if all the emotion had drained out of her.

“Of course,” Daisy said, kissing her head.

“I wish David had been my twin brother. It doesn’t matter now; it just seems crazy.”

“What seems crazy?”

Sage spoke through exhaustion, still clutching the baby, the words tumbling out. “So many coincidences seemed to fit. We’re the same age. We met in the West. We kept saying the same thing at the same time, and we look alike. He draws so much like you . . . I missed you so much. I guess I wanted to think he was my brother. But mostly, he knew that word, that name you used to say for courage . . .”

“What word?”

“The name. Washakie.”

“Oh, God,” Daisy said. And she ran outside.

James caught up with the boy as he was loading the animals back into the car. One of the dogs seemed to be sniffing the snow, finding the right spot to relieve herself, and the boy was just holding the door open, waiting. James relaxed a little and approached more slowly.

The teenager, aware he was being watched, raised his eyes slowly. He regarded James with suspicion and something just short of contempt.

“Hey,” James called. “I want to talk to you.”

“We’re out of here,” the kid said. “C’mon, Petal. Hurry up.”

Now James focused his attention on the dog. It was a tricolored pit bull, white, black, and brown. Her big jaws were clamped down on a ratty old toy as she kicked back clumps of frozen snow, finished with what she was doing. Then she hopped up into the car. James walked over and caught the boy’s wrist.

“She called you Jake before.”

“So what? She was having a baby. She was mixed up.”

“Did you tell her that’s your name?”

“My name’s David,” the kid said coldly.

“David what?”

“Just David,” he said, trying to yank his arm away.

Thinking of Todd Rydell, of what he had said about his nephew hiding on the ranch, James held him tighter. He didn’t know the circumstances of how this kid had met up with Sage; he had seen him helping her, and he believed that he meant her no harm. Had he figured out who she was, grabbed the chance to present himself as her brother?

James didn’t know—none of it made sense to him. But he could see from the kid’s expression he didn’t think much of James, and that was a Rydell trait. Plus, he was positive he had seen this old car before, years ago, that it belonged to someone he knew. Now the kid started to pull harder, clearly wanting to get away.

“Hey, man,” he said as James tightened his grip. “What’s your problem?”

“You like to hurt animals?” James asked, thinking of the butchered calves and steer.

“What are you talking about? I help animals—”

James stared into the car, at the cowering dogs and frisky cats. As James bent his head to look in, the Scottie and spaniel started to cry. The pit bull dove under the seat. Someone had beaten those dogs, to get them whimpering like that. “You’re a liar.”

“You’re full of shit,” the kid said, shoving James in the chest.

That was all it took: James felt the fight sizzling through him. He wished the kid were bigger, at eye level; he wished he were older than sixteen. The desire to deck him took hold, and he had to step back. Breathing hard, he looked hard into the boy’s eyes. They were bold and green, flecked with gold fire. The boy was defiant, but wary, as if he sensed James’s emotion.

“I had a son named Jake.” James breathed the cold air, looking up at the mountains to calm himself down. “I don’t like people using his name.”

“I save animals,” the boy shot back. “I don’t like murdering ranchers telling me I hurt them.”

“You kill a steer?” James asked.

“Kill a
steer
?”

“That’s right.”

“No.”

“You shoot some calves this summer?”

“I told you—I don’t hurt animals.” David rubbed his wrist. Then, sounding like someone very young, he added, “You do.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You breed calves and treat them kind, and then you sell ’em off for hamburger.”

“Not my favorite part of the job,” James said, eyeing the kid in a new way. He sounded like a man of conviction, not someone who’d kill a steer and cut off its head.

“
You’re
the liar,” the kid said. “You just want to make money. Anyone who raises animals does it for the same reason. I know—my parents did it.”

“This your parents’ car?” James asked, leaning down again to look inside.

“Yeah,” David said evasively.

“They know you have it?”

“Yes.”

“They don’t, do they?”

“They do.”

“What are you doing out here on your own?” James asked. “I should call the police on you. This thing’s so rusty, it’s probably not registered. Is it? That, plus the fact you’re—what? Seventeen?”

“Sixteen.” The kid flashed him a thrilled, wicked smile—as if he’d put a big one over on James.

“Sixteen years old, and driving my little girl around in the snow. You could have run off the road.”

“I saved her,” David said.

“Yeah, you probably did. But you could have killed her.”

James began moving around to the other side of the car. The kid’s mouth was half open. He looked upset, probably trying to think of something to say, to convince James not to report him, too distracted to notice James opening the passenger door.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” David dove into the car to grab James by the forearm. “Stop—put that back!”

But James had pulled open the glove compartment, started rifling around for the registration. He found it, long expired, he was sure, in a yellowing envelope. David’s fingers scrabbled, trying to get him to drop it. James was tempted to let the kid go. He obviously wasn’t the butcher, and James was grateful to him for helping Sage. But James was thinking of his parents. Whoever they were, wherever they lived, they must be missing him. They might be half crazy with worry.

“You’re going home, buddy.” James stuck the old registration in his pocket. He grabbed the car keys at the same time, climbed out of the car.

“Don’t, mister,” the kid said, chasing him.

“Sixteen’s too young to be on your own. Your parents deserve better.”

“You don’t know.” David’s tone was dangerous and pleading at the same time. “Gimme the keys. Please—”

“Come on in here,” James said, opening the barn door. There was a phone in the tack room. He thought of Sage and Daisy up in the house, didn’t want to disturb them with this. He wanted to go to them now, but this seemed so important, he had to make this call first. If he could save another set of parents one more sleepless night . . .

“I don’t want to go back,” David pleaded. “Don’t send me back.”

“Things can be worked out.” James fished the registration out of his pocket. “You can talk to them. They’ll be mad you took the car, but—”

David grabbed for the registration, extreme strain showing in his face. James held the paper out of reach, wanting to open it so he could read the name, call information for the right number. David was grunting, trying to reach the envelope, but James caught sight of something happening behind him.

Paul came driving into the yard, talking on his truck radio. Gesturing at James, he beckoned him over.

“Give it to me,” David said, climbing James’s arm to get the registration. “Come on, please.”

“James!” Paul called, climbing out of his truck. “There was trouble up at the house. Dalton called the police, and—”

James turned slightly to face Paul. “Trouble?” he called.

“Some young guy with a gun. I’m thinking it’s the one who—”

James must have dropped his arm along with his guard, because suddenly he felt David grab the registration and keys from his hand and bolt. He fled out the barn door toward Paul.

Right on his heels, James expected Paul to do the honors: with all the trouble they’d been having, what choice would he have but to stop a fleeing boy cold? But instead, it was David who stopped himself. The snow had started falling harder—James knew it was time to go inside with his family, finish the business with strangers—but David’s voice stopped James in his tracks.

“Uncle Paul,” David said, sounding shocked. “What are you doing here?”

Chapter Thirty-Three

J
ames couldn’t believe his ears. He stopped short, watching David look up at Paul March. Paul’s color drained away and his expression was pure shock. His eyes had been trained on David; suddenly they wanted to look everywhere but at him.

“We’ve got to get out there, James,” Paul said, as if David wasn’t standing right in front of him. “Search the ranch.”

“What did you call him?” James asked David. When the boy didn’t reply at first, James looked at Paul. “What did he call you?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.” Paul was ashen.

David said nothing. James’s pulse picked up—just a little. He stared at David for a long time, and his heart began to pound.

“It’s a mistake,” Paul said. “Mistaken identity, whatever. Right?”

James watched David’s face. His eyes had looked happy for a moment—seeing Paul had made him start to smile. But now the happiness was gone, replaced by an angry scowl, and then a stone mask. Watching him shut off his feelings, James knew: He’d done it himself all these years. In counterpoint, James’s own emotions were running high. His throat hurt—too much to swallow or speak. He had just remembered where he’d seen the black car.

James looked at Paul. His voice wavered. “That old Willys you had. What’d you ever do with it?”

“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?” Paul asked, slapping his thigh. “The guy’s out there, James—the one’s been killing our stock. I told you. Dalton saw him with a gun.”

“The Willys Jeep,” James said, the fire starting in his chest. He tried not to look at David. “You gave it to your sister, didn’t you? Lives up Appleton way?”

“James . . .” Paul said, licking his lips.

“Your sister June—her husband’s some sort of farmer?”

“Raises dogs,” Paul said. “Marshall raises dogs. Never mind about that old car—it was shit. The kid made a mistake, calling me that. Now, about—”

James’s arms were shaking as he lifted them to take hold of the boy’s shoulders. He could hardly breathe: The fire was banked, and his body was charged with the urge to kill. But right now, turning the boy called David around, James looked into those cool green eyes and, feeling his own heart crack open, asked, “What’s your father’s name?”

“Marshall Crane,” David said, staring down at his feet.

James could barely speak. His hands were shaking and he stared into the sullen boy’s face. He saw faded lines and dots on the skin, like faded warpaint. “You called Paul your uncle. Is that what you meant to say?” he asked when he could.

“Yes,” the boy said. “He’s my mother’s brother.”

Was it possible? James began to tremble. He thought of Sage’s story, and he held the boy at arm’s length, remembering the day he’d lost Jake: He had been sitting on that rock in the canyon, smiling and waving as James rode off after the stray. James’s last sight of his son had been over his shoulder, riding fast after a charging steer. He would know him anywhere. Suddenly, the color of this boy’s eyes, the shape of his face, the curve of his mouth all came together in James’s mind into the face of a smiling three-year-old boy.

“Sage called you ‘Jake’ on her own, didn’t she?” James asked, his heart pounding out of his chest.

“Yes,” he said, frowning.

“She knew.”

“Knew what?” the boy asked.

“Hey.” Paul was pure white now. “The kid admitted he made a mistake. Now let’s—”

“They told you you were adopted, didn’t they?” James asked.

“Yeah,” the boy said, raising his eyes.

Thinking of Daisy, of his two children, knowing everything they could have been—all of them, to each other—James couldn’t stand it anymore. The fire was raging, licking his skin and his eyes and his organs. He stared at Paul, and he threw his head back and shouted: “WHY?”

“James,” Paul said. His tone was steady; he had talked James out of rage, grief, near-insanity so many times before. He had been a friend—James’s best and sometimes only friend. He still thought he was going to pull it off; James could tell.

“You took our son,” James said, the feeling boiling over.

“James, quit this—”

“You took Jake.” James grabbed Paul by the throat, trying to break his neck.

“Stop. Jesus Christ—James, let go.” Paul choked, trying to get air, fighting back. He threw a punch, but James caught his arm and threw it down. He shoved Paul down on the ground, slamming his head into the snow. Paul clawed at his eyes, but James just slapped his hands down. He pounded Paul’s face, seeing it smile all these years, seeing it offer comfort and friendship and solace.

“You . . .” James said, smashing Paul’s mouth with his fist.

“James, stop.” Paul’s voice was garbled with the blood he was swallowing.

“You killed my family, Paul,” James yelled, “and I swear I’m gonna kill you.”

Paul broke his grip, smashed a fist into James’s ribs. He tried to scramble out, but James was filled with superhuman strength, and he knocked him back down.

James grabbed for his knife. As he did, blood came off on his hand. He stared at the hilt: It was sticky and red, and now so was James’s hand. It was the blood of Sage’s baby, her boy who’d been born dead, the other Jake, and the sight of it stopped James from killing Paul. Because even though that little boy was dead, there was another who was still alive.

Pushing himself up from the ground, James stared down at Paul. His face was bruised and bloody, and he lay there in the snow without trying to move. James knew there was a story to get out of him, but he also knew it didn’t matter now. He turned to the boy.

The kid just scowled. He looked tough, as if he’d been living in that old black car for a long time. James took a deep breath and stepped forward. The boy kept trying to look away. His eyes would dart down to Paul, then to the mountains, then to snow falling into the trough of running water. Everywhere but at James.

“Jake.” James’s throat was so tight the name barely made it out.

“No,” the boy said.

“Yes.”

The boy shook his head harder.

“Your sister knew,” James said.

The boy stood taller, not speaking.

“Sage knew.”

“Just thought she did,” the boy whispered.

“Jake.”

The boy just stared at the trough. Snow was coming down hard now, and it hit the water’s surface. He stared as if mesmerized by every flake, as if the water was his enemy. James walked over to the trough, scooped up a handful of water, and drank it. Paul had put the bubbler in three winters ago, to keep the water from freezing.

“Drought’s over,” James said.

“What?” the kid asked.

“You should have been here this summer. So dry, we had to truck water in.”

“Huh.”

“But the drought’s over now,” James said. “It’s over, Jake.” He put his arm around the boy’s shoulder, to walk him toward the house.

Right then, Daisy came flying across the yard. Her cheeks were pink, her coppery hair streaming out behind her, no coat and no hat. She flew toward the boy, but she stopped short as she caught sight of Paul lying in the snow. Then her gaze returned to the boy, and she looked expectantly up at James.

“Daisy . . .” he murmured, just saying her name. His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t quite look from her to the boy.

“I have to tell you something,” she began, her eyes glowing, edging toward him.

“So do I,” he said, folding her into his arms.

“I like your tattoos,” Daisy said, staring at his arms.

“Huh,” he said, frowning. His expression said he bet she didn’t, that she was just saying so to make conversation. Hunched over at the kitchen table, he let the kittens walk across his shoulders and the dogs curl around his legs. The animals seemed anxious in this new environment, frightened of the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and smells.

Daisy put her hand down, trying to get the dogs to come to her. They wouldn’t even look, hiding their heads in the boy’s shoes. The animals looked shaggy and matted, as if they’d spent weeks or months in that black car. Trying to call them, Daisy’s heart was pounding. Making friends with shy animals was much easier than trying to talk to the boy she was starting to believe was her son. She had asked him what he remembered, begged him to tell her about what his life had been, but he wouldn’t say a word.

“I had a Scottie when I was little,” she said, holding out her fingers.

“Huh.”

“Did Sage tell you?” Daisy asked. She wanted him to say more: She wished to soak in the sound of his voice, see what it did to her heart. Close up, he looked like Sage, like Jake might look if he was sixteen. But it was too incredible, too much of a miracle even for Daisy.

“What’s her name?” Daisy asked.

“Gelsey.”

“Here, Gelsey . . . here, girl. . . .” Daisy said. The Scottie ignored her.

“When can I go?” he asked. “When’s your husband gonna give me back my keys?”

Daisy swallowed, not answering. James had given her this time alone with the boy. He was with Sage, waiting for the midwife to arrive, and he had called the police and told them what had happened. The boy—David, Jake—refused to talk. He kept staring angrily at the table, smoking cigarettes, sighing audibly like a captured man. Daisy’s skin tingled, but no matter how much she wanted to hold him, she wouldn’t move till she got a sign.

“I meant what I said,” she repeated. “I like your tattoos.”

He shrugged. Shaking another cigarette out of the pack, he stuck it between his lips and lit it. Throwing the match into the ashtray, he missed, retrieved it. But as he brought his hand back, Daisy saw him glance down at the circle-and-dot markings on his right wristbone.

“Circles are important,” she said. “They’re symbols of protection—but you know that, right?”

Again, he shrugged, shaping his cigarette ash on the edge of the ashtray.

“Encircling,” Daisy continued. “Native people practiced it, to protect against spiritual invasion. Like, they’d walk around strangers in a circle, so their footprints would enclose any evil spirits that might have entered with the newcomers.”

He stared at his hand, at the circle-dot image, then turned his arm over so she couldn’t see it anymore. Daisy closed her eyes. She was repeating this First People legend as if it had no bearing on her, as if she hadn’t wished a million times that she had drawn a magic circle around Jake, to protect him from being taken. When she opened her eyes, they were bright with tears.

“Ellam iinga,”
she said. “It means ‘the eye of awareness,’ ” she said. “The circle-and-dot image.”

“Yeah?” He frowned at his knuckles. They were creased and dirty, as if he hadn’t bathed in a while. Daisy stared at them, remembering when they were tiny, when she had held her son in the tub, scrubbing the ranch dirt off his hands. One of the dogs started to cry, and he reached down to scratch her.

“I like your owl.” She leaned over to see his wrist better. “Your feathers are so precise, and the eyes—God, they look real! As if he might swoop down—”

“He’s not real,” he said harshly.

“But you’ve studied owls,” she said. “Watched them carefully. You know owls, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “They’re everywhere in Wyoming.” That was as much as he had said so far, and Daisy’s heart soared. They were going to have a conversation: She could tell him how she was an artist, how she believed he had inherited her gift, how they were mother and son and they never had to be apart again. But just then, raising his eyes to meet Daisy’s, he asked, “Can I go now?”

Daisy winced, but she tried not to let him see. He was sixteen; they weren’t about to let him drive away. The police were going to question him, arrest Paul, learn the whole truth of what had happened thirteen years ago. But if the boy didn’t want to stay, if he wanted to go back to where he’d been living, or if he chose to go into foster care, nothing she said or did would be able to stop him.

The dog who had been crying now began scratching the floor at Jake’s feet. Her claws scrabbled on the wood, as if she wanted to burrow somewhere very safe, far from sight. Leaning over, Daisy took a second to still her racing heart. Her mouth was dry, and she felt the panic of knowing that the boy sitting across from her was her son and a stranger at the same time, that he was just counting the minutes until he could get away.

But as she bent down, her head under the table, she caught sight of the crying dog, and she held her breath. It was an old white, black, and brown pit bull. Her eyes were brown, encircled by pink, and she held a filthy brown toy in her strong jaws. Breathing with the stuffed toy in her mouth was difficult, and she seemed to shudder with every exhalation. But as Daisy watched, she saw that the shudders came from emotion. The dog’s eyes were red with grief.

“That dog with the toy,” Daisy said, looking at Jake. “What’s her name?”

“Petal.”

“Why . . .” Daisy began, staring at him. “Why does she have the toy?”

He shrugged, glaring at his cigarette. Blue smoke rose to the ceiling.

“Please tell me.”

“She needs something to carry,” he said sullenly.

“Why?”

He shrugged. Brown hair fell in his eyes, and when he pushed it back, she saw the scar along his hairline.