Stony River (13 page)

“Then you’re lucky,” she declared. “Not the way you grew up, I mean—but lucky to know you are living the life you were made for. For me nothing is settled, and I don’t know what I will find for myself.” She would be the first to acknowledge that the future, so undetermined and waiting for her to shape it, intimidated her at times.

“And I am nearly ten years elder to your seventeen,” he pointed out. “In time you, too, will find what you are looking for,”—and the friendly assurance made her feel safer and not quite so adrift in the world at large.

Brook was wandering away from the others at a leisurely pace, as if trying not to attract attention. When Joel called his name, the stray turned his head speculatively. Another shout convinced him to change course altogether, and he sauntered unenthusiastically back to the others.

“Why don’t you have a dog?” Sevana asked, based on what little knowledge she had of a typical sheep operation.

“Well, I have Thistle,” he said humorously. “He’s almost as good as a dog,”—for Thistle was fond of tagging after him whenever he went someplace. “I was on the waiting list for a pup some years back, but when the time came, I had to use the money for something else. I still plan to get one someday.”

Sevana was surprised by this explanation. She had always been able to buy almost anything she wanted, so it was strange to think of Joel not having enough money for that relatively small expense. But on the other hand, she couldn’t associate him with money at all. He lived a life so free of materialism, it seemed he should be immune to such mundane matters as finances; and it was with a bit of sober reality she realized it was not actually so.

They ate their lunches on the hillside. Between bites of dry brown bread and lukewarm cheddar, Sevana told Joel the news about the warden’s suspicion of a poacher in the area, as well as Fenn’s skepticism about it.

“Fenn’s right,” Joel said when he heard it. “Summer’s not the time for trapping. But in any case, I hope it’s not true. Otters are one animal I could swear are born with a sense of humor. You can see them playing in the river in the summer and sliding down snowbanks in the winter, just for fun.”

For dessert he gave her some dried huckleberries that were so delicious, she wished she had something more special to give him than just a lion’s share of the sprawling ginger cookies she’d brought. But he seemed to find them a treat. Then he brought her a cup of spring water—Sevana again making a point to call it the ‘Community Cup’, for she still found it a good joke. “We should get Fenn up here,” she proposed, “so we can make the cup worthy of its name.”

“And all the loggers,” said Joel. “Then we’d have to call it the Metropolis Cup.” And their laughter rang out over the grassy hillside.

When he returned from hanging the cup, there came a low echoing sound like the raspy caw of a raven Sevana didn’t recognize—but Joel did. “Hawthorn’s gone,” he said instantly, scanning the pasture as he spoke. Aurora was standing apart from the flock looking toward the draw. “His mother’s calling for him. I found him over by the cliffs just yesterday. By golly, Sevana, I do need that dog.” He shot her a crooked grin as he grabbed a coil of rope from his pack. Convincing Thistle not to follow, he vanished in ground-consuming strides toward the trees.

Sevana was on her feet, feeling her nerves tighten with the knowledge that the only time Hawthorn could have wandered off was when Joel had gone to get water for her. Wanting to help if she could, she crossed through the trees after him, and spotted him on an open bluff. He held up a hand to caution her from approaching too quickly. Hawthorn was on a ledge below him, nibbling some shrubs that had taken his fancy. “He’s in danger of stepping backwards off that ledge, but doesn’t realize it,” Joel said to her in a low, controlled voice. “Maybe you could try to keep his attention while I find a place to tie off the rope.” He pulled up some violets at his feet. “These are his favorite.”

Again came the sound of Aurora calling for her lamb, a deep-noted, raspy lowing that echoed eerily among the spaces of the canyon.

Heart in her throat, Sevana began calling Hawthorn’s name. The lamb looked up, but went right back to nosing the patch of shrubs. She held the flowers forward temptingly—but Hawthorn couldn’t be persuaded to ignore his shrubbery, even for a handful of violets.

After a search, Joel returned to report, “There’s nothing nearby for an anchor point. I’ll go down without a rope. It was just a precaution anyway.”

Sevana eyed the stalwart man who was almost twice her size. “You could hold the rope while I go down,” she suggested practically.

Joel didn’t like the idea. “I could probably hold your weight if you slipped, but I don’t want to put you in any possible danger.”

“I’m not afraid, Joel,” Sevana said. “Give me one end of the rope, and I’ll go after him.”

She was so insistent that he consented against his better judgment. He cinched the rope around her waist, leaving a length free. “Ready,” he said. “When you get down to Hawthorn, tie the free end around his middle and lead him up. Trust me, Sevana, I won’t let you fall.”

Secure in that knowledge—knowing that if there were any truths in the world, one of them was that she could trust Joel Wilder—Sevana inched down the rocks calling Hawthorn’s name. And when she slipped a little, Joel didn’t waver but held her firm. Reaching the lamb, she tied the rope around him and began leading him back up the bluff. He followed on his thin little legs, his small hooves delicately grasping the rocks.

They were almost to safety when Hawthorn suddenly realized something was amiss. Not understanding the rope restricting him, he panicked and tried to sprint away from it. He jerked Sevana off her feet so she fell prone on the rocks, while he tumbled off the drop and hung there suspended. Scrambling onto her knees, Sevana frantically reached over the edge and tried to pull him up by the rope. “Joel!” she screamed, “the knot’s coming loose!”

It was true. The amateurish knot she had tied was unraveling under Hawthorn’s full weight. But Joel had already taken command of the situation. Jumping down to Sevana and diving flat on his stomach, he held her from slipping with one arm while he grabbed Hawthorn’s scruff and hauled him up to safety.

They were all a little shaken as they huddled on the bluff, Joel still holding onto both of them as if he was afraid to ever let them go. But then he stood up and tucked the lamb under one arm, leading Sevana with a sure hand back to safe ground. There, Hawthorn forgot about his ordeal as he discovered the heap of violets at his feet, and they laughed to see him gobble them so, breaking the tension. Nothing more was ever said of the incident, but Sevana knew it was Joel’s fast action and raw strength that had saved them all.

Soon after the wayward lamb was reunited with its mother, Sevana left the meadow, for she wanted Trapper home before his owner. She didn’t intend to hide the fact that she had ridden so far up the mountain, but if Fenn didn’t ask, she wasn’t going to volunteer the information. The less he knew of where and how often she rode, the less chance she felt there was of him forbidding her to continue.

Arriving at the homestead, she lost no time in starting a venison roast. It was impressive, actually, how long meat stayed frozen in the icebox after Fenn brought home a batch from the locker at logging camp. And he kept quite a store of smoked meat, along with sacks of vegetables and a pail of rendered bear lard, in the root cellar behind the house. This life might have its disadvantages, but it was by no means impossible.

Once the roast and vegetables were in the oven, she started a batch of biscuits. Now that she knew the lard in the can was bear fat, it bothered her—but it didn’t really taste any different than any other kind of shortening. She cut the dough in squares instead of dropping it from a spoon the way Fenn did, and put the pan in the oven.

But when Fenn stomped the mud from his boots and walked in the open door, she had more to concern herself with than simply setting the food before him, for he had a bandage around his left hand and a long rip in the trousers down his leg. “Oh, what happened?” she cried.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Fenn said harshly, setting his lunchbox on the counter with a clank. “The genius I was working with started tightening the haul-back line before I finished setting the choker. It’s a good thing it only got my hand.”

He unwrapped the bandage over the washbasin, and Sevana saw the red gash across his palm. As he opened it wide and began cleaning it out, she had to avert her eyes—and got a glimpse of his stoical, rock-hard profile as she looked away. “Here,” she said faintly, handing him some clean toweling.

He tore off a strip of cloth and stood at the counter wrapping it up again. “When I get enough money I’m going into business for myself,” he muttered, and went upstairs to change his torn trousers.

At dinner he had nothing to say about the quite-edible menu or the new shape for the biscuits; and although he wolfed his food in the usual quantity, Sevana doubted he even noticed what he ate. She could see he was silently seething.

While she washed the dishes, he sat at the table engrossed in a thick historical volume. He truly was smart, she thought, casting glances at his closed face as she moved about the kitchen. He probably did know more than most of the people he worked with, and had to endure the ignorance of those less perceptive than himself.

When an unfamiliar truck pulled into the yard, Fenn growled to say he wasn’t home—so Sevana went out somewhat reticently to see who it was. Luckily the visitor wasn’t for Fenn, but for her. It was Pete, the logger who had given her the phone number, and he wanted to take her to the moose wallow.

This was totally unforeseen, for she hadn’t thought anything would come of the names she’d thrown away. But now, fully aware of her dearth of social opportunities, and glad to escape Fenn’s brooding presence, she accepted the friendly invitation. She ran in to tell Fenn, and went to the wallow with Pete. Although no moose materialized, it was still interesting to sit in the tree-stand the loggers had built near their camp, waiting to see if one of those monstrously big—according to Pete—animals would appear below.

After giving up on the moose, Pete gave her a tour of the camp. He showed her the row of individual bunkhouse cabins, the cookhouse, the tiny office that housed a base radio programmed for emergency contact with the constable in Cragmont, the shop where they kept their tools and equipment, the shed with the droning oil generator that powered their lights and walk-in cooler. She asked what the loggers thought of living out there, and he said it was all right with them to be out where there was so much fish and game, although the drive to town could get old. The biggest complaint was the lack of communication: the canyon was too deep for radio or television reception, and it could be downright aggravating not to have a telephone.

Back at home, she told Fenn about her educational outing while he sat on the front steps greasing his boots with an old toothbrush dipped in a can of mink oil—but he looked a bit glassy-eyed, and she wasn’t sure he was fully cognizant of her report. She thought he might have been drinking again.

She went inside to do some artwork. Fenn came in later and set his boots behind the stove, building a fire so the waxlike grease could melt and soak into the leather. Even before the stove began to put out heat, the mink oil had a peculiar odor, and when the tallow was warm, its smell was strong and somewhat rancid. “How’s your hand?” she asked, as he clumsily tried to wash up for bed without getting his bandage wet.

“It’ll mend,” he said, with narrowed eyes.

The next evening, after a day of painting in the meadow and a dinner of fried ham and mashed potatoes, Sevana witnessed another truck pull into the yard, and this time it was Trick. He took her mushroom hunting, and she came back with a variety of little-known mushrooms Fenn said neither she nor he would eat, because he didn’t trust Trick to know the difference between a morel and a muffin. And the fact that Trick was still alive didn’t prove anything, because he was too dumb to know he was supposed to die after eating something poisonous.

“I doubt that,” she said skeptically. “He seemed pretty intelligent to me.”

“Intelligent?” Fenn was on the porch making an adjustment to his chainsaw, using his bandaged hand almost as freely as the other. “Hawk called him this morning to ask where he was. Perfectly serious, he gets on the portable radio and says: ‘I’m about a half mile from my present location.’”

“Well,” Sevana gave it some thought, “maybe he meant he was heading to where he was supposed to be, but hadn’t gotten there yet.”

“With Trick, there’s no telling.” Fenn was unwilling to cut him any slack. “He’s a one-delta-ten-tango from the word go.”

Sevana remembered that joke from her childhood. If you wanted to insult someone discreetly, you used the military alphabet: 1D10T.

Right on cue Clyde, the third logger, showed up the following evening to take her gold-panning in Willow Creek, and sent her home with a tiny bottle of sand he swore up and down contained a few genuine flecks of gold. And so on, until every bachelor from the camp had come, and Sevana had been shown Foxtail Falls and the finer points of animal tracking.

It wasn’t that she didn’t have a good time. And she liked very much the chance to see some of the country. But she was having trouble keeping Pete and Trick and Clyde and Emery and Milt straight, as they all had stocky builds and short-to-medium whiskers, wore white jerseys and suspenders with their sawn-off trousers, nursed perpetual wads of tobacco in their bottom lips, and lived primarily to fish and hunt. And since she couldn’t picture herself continuing to see all five of them simultaneously, and not wanting to single out any specific one, thereby hurting all the equally nice others, she told Fenn to pass on the word that she would regretfully decline any future outings because she was so busy in the evenings practicing her artwork. Excuse though it was, it was no untrue one—for she was dead serious about her talent, determined to become a great artist for as long as she could remember.