Stony River (8 page)

“You flooded it when you turned it up,” he informed her. “If you’d just waited after you turned it down the first time, it would have gone out on its own. It’s not instant, you know, like a light switch.” Then he saw the wet spot on the table and the bucket beside it. “You threw water on it?” he asked, appalled. “It could have exploded!”

She was shocked. “Why would it?”

“Hot glass, cold water—didn’t you take science?” He reached up a muscled arm and examined the charred spot on the ceiling before addressing her again. “You know, Sevana, I never thought you would find this simple life so complicated.” But he broke off his lecture, looking suddenly toward the front window. “What’s that?” he asked in a different tone.

“What?” She tensed, just from his alertness of attitude.

“Voices.” Fenn went to yank open the front door and look out. “I thought I heard voices.” But after staring into the dark longer and satisfying himself with the quiet, he closed the door. “So, Sevana, is there any other trouble you’re planning to get into tonight? Because if there is, I’d like to hear about it
now
.”

She bit her lip without reply.

Without wasting further time with her, he extinguished the lantern and left them in the dark.

Sevana groped her way blindly up the stairs after him, and was glad to see the moon lighting her room. She opened the window and leaned on the sill, breathing in the sweet night air and listening to the river’s song while she watched the moon slip down to the ridgetop, balance there a moment on the serrated tops of those faraway trees, then sink slowly out of sight. When the last gleam of light had been extinguished behind the mountain, she lay down, but left the window open a crack so she could still hear the river.

In the darkness of the newly absent moon, her thoughts went to the implacable man lying in that same night-shadow just across the hall, and it hurt her to know she was no closer that day to finding his heart. But at the same time there was something higher than that disappointment—a feeling inspired by her rendezvous earlier out under the night sky, that her heart was still straining toward, trying to catch. It was like a wind blowing high above the earth, moving the clouds but not the trees…something calling to her beyond all she had known—dreams of the heart that had always been there, but had never been defined.

CHAPTER 5

Not wishing to be reminded of last night’s incident, Sevana stayed in her room next morning until Fenn had careened away in his truck, leaving her with another day alone. When she went downstairs, she was relieved to find the ceiling so blackened by years of woodsmoke that the newly scorched wood was barely noticeable.

She ate bread and butter and drank lukewarm coffee rather than build up the fire, then added the last flowers to her picture. When it was finished she propped it on an irregular log in the wall, and was thinking how the vibrant colors helped liven the kitchen when she heard a truck grinding up the lane. She ran out the door in time to see the black pickup passing the homestead, and realized Joel must only now be getting back from wherever he had gone last night.

She stayed out on the porch until the rumble of the motor was lost among the trees. She found herself wishing he had stopped to say hello. She still was not used to this reclusion, the heavy weight of solitude.

And in the emptiness of that beautiful day, the river was the only voice to be heard in all that silent land, talking to itself down in the valley in a conversation too far off to be heard plainly. And she thought she would see if she could find in it a kind of company, even if she couldn’t share its language. So she went seeking it—down the fast-falling lane, across the main road, and through the forest on a little game trail to the water’s edge. And from there it was no background murmur, nor reminiscent melody, but a mighty roar.

The jasper-green water was dashing by right at her feet, its surface choppy with whitewater and changing every moment. The current was stronger in the middle than at the edges, but it was all going by fast, determined—too powerful to be stopped or restrained by anything. It tossed a cold draft in her face as it went, and filled her ears with its raging.

A great cedar grew there at a slight lean over the river, and at the base of its spreading trunk was a flat rock only inches from the water. Sevana sat on that rock beneath the low, olive-green boughs, tucking her feet close to keep them dry, and stared at the dizzying current sweeping past her, until she felt it was sweeping her away with it.

As she sat mesmerized, the torrent became to her not one sound but many, blended together and yet distinct. Foremost was the steady rushing of a mass of water going by in a hurry. But from deep in its heart came the inconstant rumble of rocks dislodging on the bottom and rolling and colliding in the dynamic current. And in wake of the biggest boulders, full-size waves fell forward or backward and shot spray upward in an erratic, ceaseless pounding. On a lazier note, little ripples from the side eddies lapped lightly ashore at her feet. Altogether it was the unsubdued song of the river at highwater, and it was unlike any music she’d heard before. It washed away the noise of her other thoughts, until its song became her own.

When she took leave of the river at last, her ears still rang with its thunder and she felt slightly motion-sick as she walked down the road to Avalanche Creek. There it was, producing its own noisy turbulence and cool updrafts as it jetted down the draw and tumbled frothing over the road. How the folks back east would laugh at these primitive western ways, she thought, shaking her head at the so-called ‘low-water crossing’. But they wouldn’t laugh at the silky-white water fanning like gossamer over the round dark rocks of its course, or the mist-laden maidenhair ferns edging its banks with feathery circlets. She braved the spray to pick a few delicate fronds on threadlike stems. Then, enticed further, she stepped to the very edge of the stream and let a foamy rivulet shower in and out of her palm, while the cold spray tingled on her face. Invigorated and a little damp, she tackled the steep lane home again, adding sylphlike white windflowers and speckled orange wood-lilies to her ferns, and looking at everything around her.

She had the sensation of setting foot in a pristine world existing only for her, where shiny-needled conifers and newly leafed bushes glistened in the sunshine, lavish carpets of ferns tinted the forest floor with emerald iridescence, and the sky shone with the unvarying clarity of sapphire—while all the time the river spilled endlessly through the valley. Always before, her world of beauty had existed only in books and magazines, postcards and calendars—but this was real-life beauty. She was beginning to realize how fortunate it was for her as an aspiring artist to have this chance to observe such things firsthand. Despite the isolation, the lack of amenities, the wild meat and horrid powdered milk, the summer promised real possibilities if only—her thoughts rose suddenly in an earnest, almost prayerful, yearning—oh, if only things with Fenn could be as she hoped!

Something bulky and dark streaked across the road in front of her. She didn’t have time to study it, but after it was gone, she knew she’d seen a bear. Her airy contemplations took a rude tumble, speedily reshaping themselves into an earthly fear. She had to walk right past that place to get home.

She looked for a possible detour but it was vegetated all around, and she would rather walk on the open road than forge through thick woods where the bear might be lurking less visibly. Even though she felt suffocated with fright, she made herself march right past the place where she’d seen it. Fenn hadn’t said anything about bears when she’d asked him about potential dangers. She mentally added them to the list of hazards she would have to face here.

But she couldn’t dwell on the bear, not with the rigorous climb demanding all her energy. She was soon reduced to the heart-thumping challenge of matching her city-sidewalk strength against the unrelenting incline of the mountain. By the time she reached the homestead, she had to sink down on the cabin steps to recover her wind, before she went on to the spring to fill a jar with water for her bouquet.

On her way back to the house, she noticed the garden hose outside the bathhouse was lying in full sun. With the day to herself, she decided to attempt another shower with the solar-heated hose. And by being very conservative, and turning it off while she lathered her hair, she had almost enough warm water for an adequate shower before it shocked her wide-awake with a blast of cold at the end.

Her next chore was to tackle the cookstove. And this time, using the kindling Fenn had chopped, she achieved a fire with comparative ease. She had planned to look in Fenn’s cookbook for an idea of something to make, but the walk and the shower had taken so long she had no time for such study. She opened a cupboard—but the flour, cornmeal, dried beans, and rice that met her gaze offered no clue as to what they could be used to create. After viewing them in bewilderment, she went to take potatoes from the pail. The only meals she knew how to cook were the two she had watched Fenn make. By the time the red truck came to a halt in the clearing, she had a skillet of fried potatoes and sausage ready—and if it looked somewhat familiar, Fenn made no comment, but ate it just as heartily as the night he’d cooked it himself.

Several times during the meal Sevana tried to instigate a conversation, first by asking him of his day and then telling him of hers, including the bear sighting. But when he showed no interest in discussing any of it, she abandoned the attempt and ate in silence. The only thing Fenn volunteered of his own accord was to ask—upon leaving the table—why she had dragged in all the flowers, when any time she wanted she could see them outside. Sevana had no answer for that, but for the rest of the summer continued to keep the jar on the table well-supplied.

While she washed the dishes, Fenn chopped more firewood—though whether out of regard for his sister, or from a mental image of driving her four hours to the nearest hospital with an axe in her foot, it was not entirely clear. After dropping the sticks in the woodbox with a clatter, he dug in his pocket as if he’d just remembered something. On the counter he laid out five grubby slips of paper.

“What are those?” Sevana looked over from the dishpan.

He seemed entertained by something. “Word’s out that I have a sister living here for the summer. These are the guys on the crew who want to meet you.”

“Are you serious?”

He was enjoying her look of discomfiture.
“They
are. Serious enough to sneak up here last night and try to catch a look at you. You know those voices I heard? I caught them talking about it this morning.”

“They came up here without telling us?” She was stunned at the news. “I was standing outside for a while looking at the moon. I wonder if they saw me.” It was disconcerting to realize that in the solitude that had seemed so absolute, she might not have been alone at all.

“They saw you, all right—and they liked what they saw,” Fenn said pithily. “I told them to keep right on lurking around the place if they don’t mind dealing with me. But what can you expect? Girls are as scarce as level ground out here. So take your pick. They’re yours for the asking.”

But Sevana swept the papers into the woodbox with a soapy hand.

“What, you’re not going to give them a chance?” he taunted.

“Of course not.” Mystified, she wondered what they expected her to do—pick out the best-sounding name and tell Fenn she wanted that one? “Tell them I’ve got too many things to do.”

“Like they’re going to buy that,” Fenn hooted, and went outside.

As soon as he was out of the house, Sevana snatched the names out of the woodbox. Pete Brangan…Emery Hall…Trick Koviak…Milt Milburn…Clyde Moir. And their addresses, all box numbers in Cragmont—as apparently no postal carrier felt duty-bound to travel the two hours up the river to deliver the mail. No telephone numbers, either, although the good Mr. Brangan had the presence of mind to include the number of the Whiskyjack Saloon where he seemingly spent a fair number of his evenings.

She let her would-be suitors drift through her fingers and returned her hands to the dishsuds. As ridiculous as the whole thing was, it had been nice of them in a way—if she overlooked the fact they’d been spying on her. It made her feel more welcome, as if the neighbors of the land had acknowledged her presence, extending their greetings. But she couldn’t see herself making any attempt to return the overture, and she wouldn’t.

When she went out on the front porch, she found Fenn polishing a riflestock with a flannel cloth. She thought about taking another walk, then remembered the bear. “Fenn,” she asked, eyeing the gun, “will you teach me how to shoot?”

That wasn’t a question he’d been expecting. “Shoot what?” he parried.

“A gun. Not that kind,” she pointed to the rifle, “but a smaller one, you know, a—pistol.” She wasn’t quite sure of the correct term.

“What for?”

When she reminded him of the bear, he snorted. “You’ll see a hundred bear before you see one that gives you trouble.”

“I’d just feel safer if I could carry a gun.”

“I’d feel safer if you didn’t,”—continuing to rub the cloth vigorously over the hardwood.

“Please, Fenn, I’d enjoy my walks so much more if I just had it as back-up.”

All at once he relented, a gleam in his eye that should have warned her. “Well, I don’t know about bears, but you might have to scare off those lughead loggers.”