Dream Country (36 page)

Epilogue

A
nd when it was spring, the horses rode through the tall green grass and bright new wildflowers, down to the part of the ranch where the pony barn had once stood. The land was full of legends and mysteries, and while it would have been fun to grow up there, it was almost as great to rediscover it—as if for the first time—now, at the age of seventeen.

“It looks so different without snow,” Sage said.

“Yeah,” Jake agreed.

“You sure this is the way?”

He glanced over at her, his expression wry. “Want me to draw you a map?”

Sage shook her head. With more important things on her mind, Jake’s teasing wasn’t going to bother her today. She was on Scout, Jake on Ranger—the two oldest horses in the barn. Maisie, her puppy, ran along behind—she followed Sage everywhere.

Their father wanted them to take it easy at first. Although Jake swore he’d been riding all along—on horses at the puppy farm—their father wanted them both to get used to riding the horses that would move slowest, the horses that had known them when they were children.

He wasn’t taking any chances, he said. And even though Jake did seem to know what he was doing on horseback, he didn’t argue very hard.

The horses plodded along the well-worn trail, through thigh-high waves of new grass. As she rode, Sage leaned down to pluck every wildflower she could reach. The range looked like a riotous bouquet of flowers, and she already had an armful of buttercups, primroses, kittentails, and saxifrage. Burying her face in them, she inhaled the heady fragrance.

“Got enough?” he asked.

“Not quite.”

“You’re big on flowers.”

“I know.”

“You act like it’s the wedding of the century.”

“It is,” she said. “To me.”

He did what he always did when he thought something was stupid or he didn’t want to think about it: lit a cigarette. Sage felt like reaching between the horses and snatching it out of his lips. What was tolerable in their mad journey down the logging road, when he was just a savior-stranger, seemed much less so now that he was her bonafide twin brother, making everyone’s life miserable by threatening to move to a foster home every ten minutes.

“They were already married once,” he said. “Why even bother having a wedding the second time? They sleep together—”

“Like that’s the important thing.”

“Then what is?” Jake asked.

“You’re not planning to attend the ceremony,” Sage said coolly. “So what do you care?”

Jake blew a stream of smoke into the brilliant blue sky and rode on in silence. Sage kept picking buttercups. He was right: She did go a little overboard with flowers. As her parents’ wedding day—today—kept getting closer, she had gotten her mother to order zillions of white roses from the florist in Dubois. They had arrived just before breakfast that morning, and she and Daisy and Louisa had spent hours placing them in vases all over the house.

She slid a glance over at Jake. He had that intense I-don’t-belong-here look on his face. She was getting to know the expression well, so well that it hardly triggered her anger or frustration anymore. Her mother had explained to Sage that even though Jake was her brother, part of the family, he had grown up apart in such a horrible place that it would take him a long, long time to feel okay again.

But she wished he would go to the wedding. He had decided not to go at all. Making everyone upset, worried that he was even more troubled than they already knew—they wanted him to see a psychologist, and he said the psychologist could kiss his ass. He had the option of living with a foster family—his so-called adoptive parents, the ones Sage referred to as the scum-sucking kidnappers, were in jail—and he frequently said he was planning to exercise his option.

Jake never seemed very happy. He kept to himself, taking care of the dogs in their corner of the barn. He skipped school half the time and didn’t even pay attention in class the other half. He had six new tattoos, and it infuriated Sage that her mother had let him give her one—a tiny wolf, baying at the moon, on her right shoulder. At the puppy farm, he had often slept in the barn—first as punishment, then by choice. He liked the smell of animals and straw; he preferred his bedroll to a mattress and soft sheets. So that was where he slept here—in the barn.

Even though Daisy didn’t allow him to drive, he took off on the ranch tractor whenever possible. Lately, James had been letting him drive the pickup, but only after school when his homework was done, out of sight of their mother’s window. After a life of having her mother all to herself, of worshiping her father from afar, there were days when Sage truly resented the intrusion of this ungrateful, unwilling boy and wished she and her parents could just be happy and love their lives without him.

But those days were few and far between.

Now, riding Scout through the meadow, Sage stared at Jake’s back. He was just a few paces ahead, leading the way down to the pony barn just because she had told him she was coming here. He had been her protector from the day they had reunited on that dark Nebraska road, and although they didn’t talk about it, she knew he considered himself her protector still.

“Aren’t you gonna be late for the wedding?” he called back.

“No,” she said, holding her huge bouquet. “There’s time.”

He exhaled, as if he disapproved, but he didn’t try to talk her out of it. He wouldn’t: Of that she was sure. Jake had learned those first few days together what meant the most to Sage: her parents, her brother, her baby. Nothing had changed.

When they got to the ruins of the old barn—just a few gray timbers sticking up from the tall grass—Sage put her free arm around Scout’s neck and slid out of the saddle. Jake had already dismounted, and he held the horses’ reins as Sage led them all to the spot. She paused, gazing for a minute at the old boards, imagining where the ancient barn had stood.

“Our grandmother died here,” she said.

“Don’t let Louisa catch you saying that,” Jake said. “She thinks she’s our grandmother.”

Sage nodded. She knew Jake loved Louisa. He had taken to her right away—her brash manner, her tough-talking, showy don’t-mess-with-me style. Although Sage loved her, too, she felt the fine threads of family stretching back through far generations, to the sharpshooting Bostonian who had given birth to James Tucker. Sage had deep respect for the bond between any mother and the child she carried, and her throat tightened as she stared down at the broken roof beams.

“Right there?” Jake asked, following Sage’s gaze.

“Yes,” Sage said. “Right there.”

“And Dad tried to pull her out?”

“Tried to save her life,” Sage said, gulping. “But he couldn’t. His leg was broken.”

“Man,” Jake said.

Sage was thinking of mothers who died too soon and babies who died too soon. Pushing aside the tall grass, she found the thin, new path that led to the two small crosses. The grass had been scythed along the path, and the clearing had been mowed. Sage knew her father came here once a week to keep the crosses clear.

The crosses were made of stone. On one was chiseled the name “Rosalind,” and on the other, “Jake.” Sage knelt in front of them, and she kissed the ground in front of the cross where her son lay. The grass smelled new and sweet, and she imagined it was the skin of his shoulder.

He had died before he could open his eyes, but to Sage he was her son, the real little boy who had brought her home. If she hadn’t had this baby, she might not have come out to Wyoming. She might not have met her brother on that lonely road; she might not have brought him home to the ranch. Her mother might not have decided to follow. Sage might not have finally, after all this long, long time, been reunited with her father. And her parents’ wedding might not be happening this afternoon.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sage pictured her father’s face. It was lined and tan, and at times his blue eyes were so sad—as if he couldn’t quite forget, or let go, of all those years he’d spent alone, scouring the canyons for Jake. But her mother loved him so much, and so did Sage, that some mornings her father would smile across the breakfast table, and the sadness would be all gone.

“Jake,” she whispered. “You brought us all together.”

The tall grasses swayed in the spring breeze, whispering like the voice of a tiny child. Sage had a little of her mother’s gift, and she heard her son’s voice saying, “I love you. I love you. I love you forever.”

She thought of Sam Whitney, the midwife. She knew midwives were supposed to help babies be born, come into this world, but Sam had been good and wise enough to help Sage let her baby leave. If only Ben could have been there. Sage knew they were too young to be married, but she still loved him so much.

She could hardly think about him. He was her first love, and sometimes it seemed he would be her only love. At night she dreamed of his face, staring at her. He had such deep regret and longing in his face, and Sage would reach out to touch him, and he would be gone.

“Ben, Ben,” she would say in her sleep, but nothing could bring him back.

She had written him a letter, to tell him about the baby. Such a long time passed without hearing anything that she thought he had forgotten her. But then, one day two weeks ago, a letter had arrived.

He was sorry, he said. He had never meant to hurt her, never meant for any of this to happen. He said he was sorry to hear she’d lost the baby, but that it was probably for the best. For the best; how those words had hurt! Sage had crumpled up the letter, thrown it into the garbage. But then, after a little while, she had taken it out again.

She had stared at his writing. The way he wrote her name with such careful, precise letters. The way he had referred to their son as “the baby,” as if that was as close as he could let himself get. He had signed the letter “Ben.” Just “Ben.” No matter how long she gazed at that wrinkled sheet of paper, Sage couldn’t make the word “Love” appear anywhere.

Sage still loved him, though. The love wasn’t growing any smaller yet, but every day it hurt a little less.

“Hey,” her brother said, touching her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “I’m fine.”

When she was ready, she knelt and separated two small bouquets from her enormous bunch of wildflowers. She handed one to Jake, watched him lay it down on her son’s grave.

“Your nephew,” Sage said.

“I know,” Jake said. “I remember.”

Sage placed the other bouquet at the foot of her grandmother’s cross and prayed that Rosalind somehow knew how happy her own son—James Tucker—was that very day.

The snows had melted weeks ago, but some of the birds and animals of Wyoming had not yet finished their spring migrations. Herds of antelope and elk scrambled up mountain trails, flocks of songbirds gathered in the cottonwood trees. Watching them for a minute, Sage reached for the two gold cords that hung around her neck. One held the twins, her two-sided necklace. The other held the Owl Child.

Sage’s mother had made it for Sage’s baby. Carved from wolf bone, marked with circles for protection, it bore a carving of the same owl Jake had tattooed on his arm. He had sat still while their mother had copied his drawing, as patient as it was possible for him to be.

“An owl for the baby Jake,” Daisy had whispered to Sage that morning, wanting to remember her grandson on her wedding day. “Because he is wise and sage as an owl, because our family owes him so, so much.” Her mother had handed the medallion to Sage, placing it in her palm. “I made him the Owl Child.”

Sage had cried for a long time. Holding the amulet, she thought of the years of comfort her mother’s necklace had brought to her. For so long, half-gone because her twin was missing, Sage had hung on to those bone faces. Her mother told her she could keep the Owl Child, wear it around her neck with the other. But Sage had known what she wanted to do: The amulet belonged with her son, to be with his spirit and remind him of his wisdom, of what he had done for his family.

“I love you,” she whispered now, kissing the amulet and hanging it from baby Jake’s stone cross.

“Are you ready?” her brother asked her. He frowned, looking at the bright blue sky, as if he thought the sun was moving too fast toward the appointed hour.

“Why?” Sage teased, wiping her eyes. “Are you afraid I’ll miss the wedding?”

“It’s just a wedding.”

“Ever been to one before?”

“No.”

“You might like it.”

“I think I’m gonna hitchhike to Lander,” he said. “Look at cars to buy. So I can get out of here.”

“You could do that another day,” Sage said, climbing back on top of Scout.

“I could,” Jake said, mounting Ranger and immediately lighting up.

They circled back through the long grass. When they got to the main drive, Sage saw the ranch sign shining in the sun. Brand new, bright blue with gold letters, this sign replaced the old one that had been standing since before her father was born.

“JD Ranch,” she read.

“Can’t believe Granddad changed the name,” Jake said.

“James-Daisy,” Sage said, holding on to the saddle horn. “Dad and Mom.”

“At least Louisa’s happy,” Jake said. “She sure didn’t like having old Rosalind’s initial out there.”

“I still can’t believe she and Granddad eloped—in their own house.”

“It’s how they wanted it,” Jake said.

“We were all there! It could have been so great!” Sage said. “Granddad’s idea of being romantic is calling a judge and telling him to change the ranch’s name, then ‘By the way, can you marry us?’—when he was signing the papers! Poor Louisa.”

“Louisa’s all right,” Jake said. “She’s taking me down to the Stagecoach soon, let me hear the new song she wrote about it. Her and Granddad and the new sign. Louisa’s name’s not even on it, and she’s happy anyway.”

“What’s the song called?”

“It’s called ‘I’m Mrs. Tucker.’ ”

“I want to go with you,” Sage said. “To the Stagecoach.”

“Just me and Louisa this time. She said.”

“You get your way too much. Everyone just wants to make you happy, and you won’t even go to the wedding—”