Gnome On The Range (4 page)

It was true. I hadn’t.

“Didn’t know one end of a man from the other, either.” She chuckled. “You met Nate right away. I bet he was your first too, hmm?” She winked at me.

No way was I answering that one. She knew the answer.

“Then you up and married him. Your first. Your
only
.” She casually rearranged the basket of foiled condoms we offered like mints to customers. “Your Mama has always entrusted me to be there for you. I swear Savannah’s gotta be on the other side of the world and you needed all the help you can get. Still do, for that matter.”

Goldie had been a fixture in my life from the very beginning of my fateful relationship with her son. Sweet and kind, yet over the top crazy, I’d fallen in love with her almost as fast as I had Nate. Since I’d grown up in Maryland, Bozeman was as far from home geographically as possible, barring moving to Alaska. Lifestyle-wise, it would have been more familiar to me if I’d been launched into space.

At the time, I’d wanted something different, something far away. My dad had walked out and my mom divorced his sorry ass lickety split. I’d figured I’d
find
myself in Montana. I was still working on that one. During my college years, my mom moved south to Savannah to find
herself
, and Goldie became a substitute mom as I settled into Bozeman. My real mom, more apt to wear Lily Pulitzer than Levi’s, had forged an unusual bond with Goldie and was comfortable with her acting as mom-by-proxy.

“The way I see it, you’re due.”

I groaned and shook my head. Not because she annoyed me, which she did, but because she was right. The night Bobby was conceived was the last time Nate and I had sex. The last time I’d had sex
period
. I’d discovered I was pregnant the same day I discovered Nate with another woman in the store’s storage room. Pants around ankles, Nate’s white butt thrusting Bimbo into the shelves of porn. I’d had his clothes tossed out across the front yard an hour later.

“Ty seems nice. I don’t even know if he’s got a girlfriend. Besides, I’ve only talked to him for about five minutes. Total. I think I need a little more foreplay than that.”

She winked at me again. “Don’t worry, Sweetie. I’ll help.”

This was so not good.

***

Four hours later I unzipped the tent to haul my kids back to their rooms. They weren’t up for an all-nighter yet. I whispered goodnight to the Colonel as he climbed out and went into his house.

It was really dark.

No street

lights shined, the Milky Way easily seen stretching across the sky. All was quiet. Even though we lived only a few blocks from MSU, and on the Southside of town near Main, not much happened this late at night in the summer. Except snoring. Or sex.

The college students were off partying in their hometowns. The locals had church in the morning. I was inside the tent lifting Bobby into my arms when I heard the ruckus. It sounded like a large animal foraging through my yard. Plodding footsteps, leaves rustling. Had a dog gotten loose? A deer eating my tomato plants? I froze in place, Bobby’s heavy head cozy on my shoulder. He—nor Zach—would have woken up for a parade coming through the Colonel’s backyard. They were no help.

Wild animals didn’t scare me. Bears hadn’t been seen in town since spring when they’d woken up from their long winter’s nap. All other creatures of the night were more afraid of me than I of them. Except snakes. I was definitely more afraid of them. But snakes didn’t have feet, or hooves, so I ruled them out. Figuring all the noise I’d make to get Bobby—and myself—out of the tent, across the Colonel’s yard, through the gate and into mine would scare away any animal. By the time I got to the fence, I heard its retreat across the grass and past the lilac bush separating my yard from Mr. Blumenthal’s behind us.

The next morning, bright and early, my right eyelid was pried open by little fingers. “Mom! There are footprints in the backyard!” Bobby exclaimed. “I think Santa was here.”

My brain was slow and foggy. I blinked several times and peered at the clock on the nightstand. Eight. Not too shabby for a Sunday. I wouldn’t have minded ten, but beggars couldn’t be choosers with kids around.

“Mooom!”

“Shh! Zach’s still asleep.” Footprints, right. “It’s July. No Santa. But I think Shrek or Donkey was out there rustling around when I came home last night.” The previous winter we had a family of deer visit the crab apple tree in the side yard, rooting around in the snow searching for fallen crab apples. The family of four made a path through the snow in a circuit around the neighborhood. They’d known where to forage for food in the lean months. Stopping to paw at the crusty snow and frozen ground, they’d eat up the rotten fruit. The cold winter morning we’d first seen them the boys were watching Shrek II on DVD. Thus Shrek, Donkey, Dragon and Fiona joined the family, if only extraneously. Once spring came, they’d moved to greener pastures. Literally.

Bobby shook his head, kneeling next to me. “No, Mommy, people footprints.”

That woke me up faster than a cup of coffee. “What? People footprints?”

Bobby nodded.

“Wait, what were you doing outside by yourself while I slept?”

“You didn’t bring in the gnomes from the tent last night. They were out there all alone. ‘Sides, the Kernel is out having his coffee so I wasn’t by myself.”

The gnomes. Couldn’t leave the gnomes alone outside.

“Okay.” I sighed as I hoisted myself out of bed. I wore pink and white striped cotton drawstring jammie pants and white tank top. Following Bobby out the back door, I crossed my arms over my chest in deference to the coolness of the morning and my lack of bra.

Bobby ran to the lilac bush. “See!” He pointed to the ground and walked all around the yard. I decided to follow him, careful not to step in deer poop with my bare feet. Where there were deer, there was always poop. Shrek and family were nice leaving little presents like that. But instead of deer poop, there were footprints. Bobby was right. The ground was soft from the sprinkler and slip-and-slide and it was easy to see indentations of footprints all around the yard. My arms fell to my sides as I took in the big man prints shaped like work boots. It looked like someone had been blindfolded for Pin the Tail on the Donkey and hadn’t found the donkey.

Who was in the yard last night and why?

Crazy things happened when you lived near the University. One summer night a car had driven up on the front yard, realized there was a house in the way, did a three point turn and kept going. I hadn’t seen—or heard—it happen as my bedroom was at the back of the house, but the tire marks gouging the front grass was proof enough. Having someone in the backyard though was way too creepy. A little too close to home.

As I looked around assessing the nocturnal activity, I saw the Colonel, coffee cup in hand, head into his house. He hadn’t seen me before he went inside. Left standing at their shared fence was Ty. He too, held a mug. It must have been the morning coffee klatch. His gaze was intense, his look serious. No smile. I gave a small wave and noticed Ty wasn’t looking at my face, but a foot lower. I felt heat rush to my cheeks as I remembered.

White tank top. No bra.

I crossed my arms over my chest for modesty’s sake. Even with the Colonel’s yard between us, I could see Ty’s mouth drop open. His gaze was aimed on my chest like a heat-seeking missile on a target. I dared a glance down. Instead of covering myself, I had all but hoisted the girls up so that inches of cleavage showed. One nipple had popped out the scooped neckline. Holy crap! I tugged the tank back into place, then dashed into the house to get dressed before anything more mortifying, if even possible, could happen.

Chapter Three

Ty and the Colonel couldn’t make heads or tails of the footprints and were not happy, to say the least, about someone traipsing through my backyard. We sat on my patio having second and third cups of coffee. I pretended I wasn’t absurdly embarrassed about the whole nipple incident. The Colonel was oblivious to the whole thing and Ty was a gentleman and didn’t bring it up. But his lips quirked up frequently as the three of us talked and I caught him furtively glancing at my very covered chest. Nothing was falling out now that I wore a big, baggy sweatshirt. It didn’t stop him from looking though, nor from my nipples getting hard wondering
exactly
what he was thinking.

We chocked the footprints up to some college kid, drunk and lost. Happened often enough to be plausible. We debated what to do about preventing another late night visitor. Options ranged from Zach’s idea of setting booby traps to the Colonel’s thoughts about adding motion sensors to my exterior lights. The motion sensors won.

Zach and Bobby weren’t completely convinced so they strung some red velvet holiday ribbon with little sleigh bells attached—dug from our Christmas box in the garage—over the fence gate. Just in case. They believed this might notify us of intruders or bad guys. Worked for me.

Two days later, the hubbub had died down completely. No nighttime motion had been sensed. Thunderstorms had passed through which made the ground even softer and the grass taller. The footprints all but disappeared. The boys moved on to the excitement of the upcoming camping trip with the Colonel. Every summer we ventured up to Hyalite, settled into our usual spot at the base of the reservoir with a view of the peak for two nights of wilderness splendor. Even though it was still three days away, they were super excited.

So far we’d ridden our bikes to morning swim lessons at Bogert Pool, peddled home and eaten lunch on the patio. Sounded simple but getting two kids to ride a mile down a straight, flat bike path—two ways—was super hard. Someone complained about something. Tired legs, thirst, heat. A chain usually came off or something was dropped more times than humanly possible. To me, it was almost worth depleting the ozone by driving to prevent me from strangling my children. But they had endless reserves of energy that needed draining and bike riding wore them out. Besides, when the first snowstorm hit—most likely mid-September, only a short six weeks away—I would think longingly of the leisurely summer days cruising around on our bikes.

I was folding clothes in the laundry room when I heard Zach call for me, launching himself down the basement steps like a crazy man. He had that Holy Crap look on his face. “Mom, come quick. Bobby’s stuck.”

“Stuck? Stuck where?” I had a beach towel half folded but dropped it and ran up the steps like the house was on fire. “Bobby!” I called, panicked.

“On the patio,” Zach said.

I skidded to a stop, did a U-turn in the family room and headed outside. There I found Bobby standing next to the patio umbrella stand, bent at the waist, his left arm inside the PVC pipe. Stuck. “Hi, Mommy,” he said calmly.

I grabbed gently at his upper arm and tugged. Definitely stuck. “How on earth did you do this?” There was no blood, his arm was still attached, and Bobby wasn’t freaking out, so I didn’t freak either.

“Zach put candy down the pipe and dared me to get it.”

I gave Zach the evil eye and he had the smarts to look contrite. The situation was actually really funny and I tried not to laugh. First I had to get Bobby’s arm out, then I could go laugh in private while the boys contemplated life in their rooms for an hour or two.

The umbrella stand was of the homemade variety. Wind in Bozeman could gain hurricane strength without trying too hard. A thunderstorm or just the summer version of Chinook winds could take down trees, whisk kiddie pools away to another county and blow down patio umbrellas. To combat having to replace a broken umbrella every thunderstorm, the Colonel and I made our own sturdy variety. Sure to keep the strongest winds from blowing over and damaging the weakest of umbrellas. Even though I had a covered patio, the umbrella shaded various spots in the yard, like the sandbox, on the hotter days.

We took a five gallon paint drum, dropped a three inch PVC pipe in the middle and filled the drum around it with quick dry cement. The PVC pipe stuck out the top about a foot and the patio umbrella slid right in. Nothing tipped that much concrete. Unless it was a tornado—but living in a valley between three mountain ranges—made that impossible.

“Are you hurt at all?” I knelt down and talked to Bobby at his level.

He shook his head, although his dark eyes looked a little wary. I was sure mine did, too.

“Okay, let’s think about this.” I took in his arm, the PVC pipe and contemplated. I could cut the pipe above the concrete, but I’d have to measure Bobby’s other arm to see how far down his fingers went. Didn’t want to lop off any necessary appendages. But I didn’t have the tools to cut through PVC. Screwdrivers, a hammer and a couple of wrenches. No major power tools or saws. There wasn’t much choice but to call in reinforcements.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Bobby calmly. I dashed into the kitchen and got the portable phone. I found the non-emergency number for the fire department on the side of the fridge and dialed.

“Is Ty Strickland there, please?” I crossed my fingers he wasn’t out on a call. Was it his day on shift or had I forgotten? What had he said the other night? I walked back out to the patio to sit with Bobby. After a minute Ty came on the phone.

“This is Jane West. I’m sorry to call you at work but I’ve got a problem. No one’s hurt but Bobby’s arm is stuck in our patio umbrella stand.”

He was quiet for a moment, probably processing this and trying to formulate a mental picture. I heard him chuckle. “We’ll be right there. Tell Bobby to hang tough.”

Ten minutes later a fire truck worth of firemen traipsed through the kitchen to tend to Bobby’s arm.

“We’ve taken bets on how this happened,” Ty told me, his eyes bright with humor. They briefly dropped to my mouth, and then lower still to my breasts.

Why did my nipples get hard whenever he was around? One glance from him was all it took. My eyes darted to the other firefighters to see if they noticed. The way Ty’s mouth ticked up at the corner led me to believe
he
had.