I opened one eye, feeling the cold air against my eyeball, wishing dawn would put off its arrival just a little longer. I pulled the blankets tighter around my ear, which was numb. A still, warm body lay next to me, and I knew that Bob had crawled into my bed again to get relief from the cold. A square of dim sunlight broke the frozen air, casting a faint glow into the sparcely furnished bedroom. I heard animated voices and smelled bacon and coffee, and after savoring a few last moments of relative warmth, I crept from my bed, adjusted my union suit, and dressed.
When I entered the kitchen, the conversation between my parents stopped. Mom sat at the table, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. She was bundled in her coat and hat, having just come in from the milking. Dad scrambled eggs in our iron skillet. I immediately knew two things—they had been fighting, and Dad was the one who was angry. It was the only time he cooked. I winced as I sat, thinking about his undercooked eggs, with glistening slugs of whites oozing between what managed to get cooked.
“Mornin’,” I said.
“Morning, son,” Mom answered.
Dad didn’t say a word. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the saucepan on the stove and stood with my back to the heat. Outside, the snow fell steadily, as it had for a week—soft flakes the size of downy feathers.
The next several minutes were silent aside from the simmering eggs. I finally decided to prompt whatever discussion I’d interrupted and leave it to them to tell me to mind my own business. “Well?” I said.
Dad responded immediately. “Your mother volunteered to go to Alzada to help with the balloting.”
I looked at Mom, then back to Dad. “The election’s today, right?”
Mom nodded, sucking her upper lip under her lower one.
I shrugged. “So what’s wrong?”
Dad turned, glaring at me, indicating that I should know—which of course I did. He shifted his gaze outside, indicating the storm. Then he wrapped a flour sack around the skillet handle and lifted it from the wood stove. He scraped helpings onto three plates.
“It’s not that bad out,” I offered. “We’ve traveled in a lot worse.”
“Not alone,” Dad muttered. This was true.
“I’ll go with her,” I said.
They both raised their brows at this suggestion. I actually knew before I even said it that I couldn’t go—that I had to stay and help with the feeding. I shrugged, then sauntered to the table.
“Why don’t you go, Dad?” I sat down.
Dad set full plates in front of Mom and me, then one at his place, where he settled. “Son, you know it’s going to take both of us and Bob too to get the stock fed in this storm. We’ll be most of the morning just finding a place to water them.”
“I’m going,” Mom said, scooping a bite of eggs. “If I can’t vote, I’m going to at least do what I can, especially with Jeanette Rankin on the ballot.”
My mother’s reputation for being tough and independent was well chronicled, and well deserved. It actually began with an event that occurred on the day she met my father. She was in her mid-twenties, and her outspoken, direct manner had apparently scared off several potential suitors, a situation that would have devastated many young women of that time. But Mom had taken a job as a bank clerk in Spearfish. She liked the job and was in no hurry to find a husband.
One day in the fall of 1897 three men came into the bank and drew guns, announcing a robbery. They demanded that all the cash be stuffed into the worn saddlebags they tossed across the counter. Mom happened to be in the back when they came in, and she ducked down and crept over to the bank manager’s desk, where she knew he had a small derringer stashed in a drawer. She quietly retrieved the gun and stood up, drawing the gun, telling the robbers to get the hell out. They took one look at that little gun and busted out laughing. They told the other clerk to keep bagging the cash. So Mom pulled the trigger. But the gun wasn’t loaded, and the harmless click only amused the robbers more. They laughed louder, and one of them called her Wyatt Earp. So Mom threw the gun at him, nearly smacking him in the head.
They got away, of course. But the story gave Mom a legendary status. A status that was enhanced when they found out later that the men who robbed the bank were none other than the Hole in the Wall Gang. It was Butch Cassidy and his boys.
Coincidentally there was a young ranch hand in the bank who was quite taken by the character of this clerk. Dad had also been informed by his boss just a couple of weeks before that he would give himself a much better chance of moving up to the foreman job if he could find himself a wife.
Little did Dad realize when he married Mom a few months later that she would inspire him to seek more than the position of foreman. They filed their first homestead claim a year later, and the Arbuckle Ranch was born.
We ate silently Dad and I both aware that the decision had been made. I tried to keep my eyes away from my plate and swallow quickly so that I didn’t see the runny whites mingling among the scrambled eggs.
“What about Muriel?” Dad asked in a last-ditch effort. “What are we going to do about her?”
No doubt anticipating this, Mom answered without a pause. “I’ll drop her off at Glassers’. She’ll be fine.”
Dad nodded—a concession of sorts.
I hefted a sack of corn onto my shoulder, my gloved fingers stiff after only fifteen minutes in the cold. I carried the sack out of the barn, then flopped it into the wagon bed. Back inside the barn, I dug George’s baseball from inside my coat, pulled my right glove from my hand with my teeth, and flung a pitch toward the stick figure I had whitewashed on the inside wall for winter practice.
As much as I was convinced that I would never consider doing what George had planned, I had been thinking a lot since Katie’s death about the train ticket buried in the corner of the barn. And of what Art had said about life out here beating hell out of you. I had noticed more than ever how right he was. I practiced my pitching whenever I had a spare moment. I started a scrapbook, collecting box scores from major-league games. I had one section devoted to the Cardinals. And I began sending away for whatever I could get my hands on about the cities in America that had baseball teams. I had a box filled with pamphlets about New York, Chicago, Boston, and Philadelphia. And I read through them time and again, trying to imagine what it must be like walking among thousands of people.
The ball bounded back to me. I tucked it back in my pocket, put my glove back on, and retrieved a second sack of corn, flopping it next to the first.
Dad hitched the team to the wagon. Bob loaded the pitchforks and a couple of axes.
“Where were Mom and Muriel going?” Bob asked.
I was worried that Dad would be brooding about Mom’s decision, so I shot Bob a warning look, shaking my head. But Dad answered him, although his mood was far from happy. “Your mother’s gone to Alzada to help with the election. And Muriel is at Glassers’ for the day.” His tone was dismissive, and Bob looked at me with wide eyes, wondering what he’d done. I shook my head again, trying to convey with a look that I would explain later.
Bob and Dad climbed into the wagon, where our dog Nate was waiting. I mounted Ahab. Dad clucked his tongue, and Pint and Ed started their trot toward the haystacks, as they had every morning since the first winter snowfall.
It had been a dry year, the first in ten, leaving us with less than our usual amount of hay. It also followed the worst winter we’d had since 1896, with temperatures consistently lingering around twenty degrees below zero. The snow came in great flurries, throwing itself against the east side of everything that had sides, piling in hard drifts as high as horses. We lost almost fifty head of cattle, and we were among the more fortunate. Many families left once the thaw came. The new homesteaders had their first introduction to what Montana winters could be like, and the loneliness got to many of them.
Riding along behind the wagon, I had so little feeling in my limbs that as I maneuvered Ahab’s reins, it felt as if I was watching someone else’s hands. Streams trickled from the corners of my eyes. I had to wipe my nose every few minutes to keep the moisture from freezing on my upper lip.
At the stack, Dad and Bob wordlessly pitched clumps of hay into the back of the wagon. The stack was crowned with a thick blanket of snow, and as they tore chunks from the stack’s belly, tunneling into the core, the top hung down, and sheets of snow slid to the ground. I grabbed a pitchfork.
“Dad?” Bob paused and looked up at him from beneath the brim of his hat.
“What?” Dad answered brusquely.
“When’s Jack coming home?”
I groaned at the mention of this topic, as I suspected this was the last thing in the world Dad wanted to talk about that morning.
“I don’t know, Bob. Let’s just get this job done, what do you say?”
A year and a half had passed since the funeral. And in some ways, it seemed like only a matter of days. The silence in the fields became more profound every time we were out there. And any effort anyone made to break up this silence only reminded us of who used to provide that distraction. So we remained silent, bending our backs to our work, keeping our heads low, eyes averted.
Katie was missed more around the house. Her absence pervaded our home, nibbling at our spirits. From early on, Katie had been the idea person, the one full of suggestions for how to fill what little idle time we enjoyed. It didn’t faze her at all that we ignored most of them. She simply kept firing new ones until something stuck, or until we gave in just to keep her quiet. She seemingly never tired of card games, or crafts. I remember her spending an entire day building a giraffe out of matchsticks. The finished product looked more like a piece of farm machinery than an animal, but she was as proud as a bantam rooster.
Mom went into a self-imposed exile in her bedroom. She came out only when she had to milk the cow, or gather the eggs, or prepare the next meal. She never missed a meal. But other than those times, we rarely saw her. She often took her supper into the bedroom, eating alone.
Even Dad was afraid of disturbing her. One afternoon I watched him come into the house after he had somehow fallen into a puddle. His clothes were soaked and muddy. He started to go into the bedroom, but stopped himself as he reached for the doorknob. He paced back and forth a few times, brow furrowed, head bowed, and finally left the house.
We seldom heard anything from behind that bedroom door, but she sometimes emerged with swollen eyelids, and red rims, her hair in a wild frizz of pink.
And then it stopped. About three months after it began, the exile ended. Outwardly, it seemed that we were back in the old routine. But it soon became apparent that Mom had changed. The patient, calm assurance was still in her voice most of the time. But the measure of patience that had once seemed to have no threshold now had a moveable ceiling. Mom had always been gruff, blunt, but her frankness now had an edge.
The deaths had driven Dad further into the fields, where he worked with his head down and mouth closed. He absorbed Mom’s attacks with the same posture, never fighting back, seldom arguing.
Muriel, who had never liked going outside in the first place, also retreated to her bedroom, trying to avoid the tension. She found books, and sought refuge from the stories within. But she became a fragile little thing, susceptible to every hint of conflict around her. She watched the world with a gentle curiosity, at the same time as if she expected to be hurt by it.
But because Jack was now the oldest, he bore the brunt of this family crankiness.
When George Jr. was alive, he had been Dad’s foreman. When something needed to be done, Dad told George. When something was done wrong, Dad yelled at George. And George passed these commands and complaints to the rest of us with a gentler hand. George was the buffer, and the job suited him, because when he’d had enough, he let Dad know. He yelled back, sometimes standing toe to toe with the old man until they’d both emptied their lungs.
But contrary to his indifferent demeanor, Jack’s skin was as thin as boiled lettuce. When Dad talked to him the same way he had with George, the words seeped through to Jack’s soul, pounding, bruising him inside. And it only got worse when it was busy, when Dad’s only concerns were that the work get done and that we had fewer backs to do it. When Dad gave orders, his eyes were out on the fields. He didn’t see Jack’s lips tighten and his eyes grow narrow and cold. But I did.
So I was the least surprised the first time Jack disappeared. It was early June, and we had just finished docking the lambs and branding the new calves. The hay wasn’t ready to cut, so we had a bit of slack time. So Jack’s three-day absence, after Dad yelled at him about a saddle Bob had left out, didn’t have the impact it could have. Dad didn’t even seem that upset when Jack dragged himself home with a new shirt and a headache.
Jack didn’t get off so easy the second time. Toward the end of summer, things got hectic. We were finishing up with the haying, so the crew was underfoot, keeping Mom frantic with the cooking. Harvest loomed just around the corner, and Dad and Jack planned to take a small herd of heifers into Belle Fourche for a sale. Dad apparently hadn’t learned anything from Jack’s first disappearance. Day after day, he ordered Jack around, scolding him like a child. There were several times I considered intervening, but I just didn’t have the backbone. The night before they were supposed to leave for Belle, Dad asked Jack whether he’d packed his saddlebags yet. When Jack said no, Dad said, “Well, when are you planning on getting around to it, after everyone else is asleep?”
The comment, though biting, seemed harmless enough, but it was apparently the last straw. Jack went outside, and we just assumed he was packing his saddlebags. We didn’t see him for another three days. So Bob had to join Dad on the trip to Belle, and we were a hand short on the haying crew, which was in my charge. Each stab of pain in my back as I pitched hay that day reminded me of his absence. We were all dead tired, not to mention furious, by the time Jack showed up that third evening.
We had just finished dinner when the door swung open very slowly. Jack ducked in, and although we were all sitting right in plain view, he turned and closed the door as if he had just entered a room filled with sleeping children. Then he walked on the balls of his feet toward our bedroom, not acknowledging us, not even looking our way. As an added element to this strange attempt at being inconspicuous, he was wearing a brand-new, bright yellow shirt.
He didn’t make it halfway across the room before Dad pounced from his chair like a bobcat from the bushes. He lowered his shoulder, head down, and barreled into Jack. Dad’s arm began pumping like a flywheel, and despite the fact that I acted as soon as I realized what was happening, Dad had dealt Jack several blows before I wrapped him up and pulled him back. Dad’s taut, wiry muscles strained against my arms. His face was blood red, veins swollen. But Jack slowly and deliberately climbed to his feet, like someone just getting out of bed. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. Dad’s elbows thumped against my chest.
Jack’s eyes never did connect with Dad’s, or anyone else’s, but I don’t think it mattered. I’m sure he felt what I saw in Dad’s look, and I realized that night how useless words can be sometimes. Dad’s glare said it all.
Jack simply turned and walked out.
It would not have surprised me if we didn’t see him for another three days. But the next morning, Jack was out in the fields before any of us, sporting a nasty bruise on one cheekbone. Nothing was said, and in Dad’s case the words that went unspoken solidified into a wall. He stopped talking to Jack. Instead, he told me what to tell Jack. I became the new buffer. And I resented hell out of it. For one thing, I was just as angry with Jack as Dad was. I didn’t want to talk to him. But the work had to get done. So I gritted my teeth. I endured. But each time Dad called me over, my shoulders tightened up around my neck, and my jaw clenched.
Jack started sleeping in the old homestead house, where our haying, harvesting, and shearing crews slept when those seasons rolled around. This upset Mom, who simply wanted peace.
“You need to sit down and straighten this out,” she told Dad. But she might as well have been talking to the wood stove.
For the rest of that summer, and into fall, Jack worked harder than ever. He ignored whatever temptations drove him to leave, and he only went to town when work required it. But the minute we sewed the last sack of wheat from harvest, he was gone. This time, his disappearance had a more permanent feel to it. We didn’t hear a word for a week, then two.
For a brief time, I was relieved. But it didn’t take long to see that the tension caused by Jack’s presence was nothing compared to what his absence brought. With more work, Dad became a tyrant in the fields. We needed help, but for months, instead of hiring an extra hand, he held out hope that Jack would return. And Mom felt the same way. So we worked seven days a week, dawn to dusk, and still couldn’t keep up. The worry that we were all accustomed to in my father transformed into anger at the slightest wrong turn by a cow, or the appearance of a rain cloud. His weathered face became drawn, the tanned skin sagging, his blue eyes murky.
I suppose I was too young to see that after losing two children, my parents simply couldn’t bear the possibility that something tragic had also happened to Jack. All I could see was that now that I was the oldest, I was catching the worst of whatever evil now inhabited my family.
The worse it got, the more I questioned my decision to stay. The more I sneaked off to the barn and rocketed fastballs off the wall, or dug up the ticket to St. Louis, and the pamphlets of other cities. And eventually, the more I hated my brother.
The first news finally arrived in the form of a telegram.
Joined the army. Don’t know where
I’ll be stationed. I’m fine.
When Mom read this, her initial reaction was to storm from the house, grab a chicken, and chop its head off. But over the next few days, her smile came a little easier, and I even caught her humming to herself one morning. She was clearly relieved to know Jack was all right.
It was harder to tell how Dad felt about it. “At least he’s fighting for his country,” he said one day, to himself. So I guess he was relieved in his own way. But he remained as grim and focused as he had been. Always expect the worst.
I was furious. First of all, the telegram asked nothing about how my parents or any of the rest of us were. But most important, Jack made no apologies. He must have known how his disappearance and this news would affect us all. But he apparently didn’t care. It seemed to me that in Jack’s mind, he’d left with best wishes and a handshake. The one good thing that came out of it was that Dad finally hired another hand. I was temporarily soothed.
But we heard nothing more for another six months. We had no idea where Jack was. We scanned the Ekalaka Eagle each week, taking a more vested interest in news about the war, which until then had seemed almost fictional, like a novel in installments. And we held our breath each time we opened the mail sack.
Finally, an envelope in Jack’s tiny, deliberate hand arrived from France. The letter was short, a half page, and again it contained very little news. The line that drew the most interest was, “Don’t worry. I’m not close to the fighting. I’m stationed in a supply unit miles from the front.”
Mom began writing regularly—she sat at our worn dining room table and crafted long, detailed letters filling Jack in on the livestock and the crops, and news about our neighbors—who had died, or left, or been discreetly shipped off after a case of loneliness. She asked him questions, probing for information. But we only received one more letter from Jack. Although it mentioned nothing of Mom’s letters, and answered none of her questions, he did ask how everyone was doing. And he mentioned a girlfriend, which made a big impression on my brother Bob.
Bob buried his pitchfork into the haystack, then jumped, putting all his weight on the handle, prying a tangle of gray hay from the center. “You think Jack’s going to marry that gal?” he asked.
“Hard to say,” I answered.
“She sounds real nice.” Bob pressed on, and I realized that he had invented this detail, as Jack hadn’t said a word about the woman other than that she existed. We didn’t even know her name.
“Bet you a nickel he marries her,” Bob said to me.
“Blake, you goin’ on ahead?” Dad muttered impatiently.
“I was just about to do that.” I tossed one last forkload of hay into the wagon, then planted my fork in the hay.
“Bet you a nickel Bob’s going to marry that gal,” Bob said to Dad.
“If you had a nickel, I might take you up on that, partner,” Dad answered brusquely. “Let’s just get this work done. What do you say?”
I whistled for Nate, who trotted out from behind the stack.
Ahab inched gingerly across the frozen river. I led him, keeping the reins taut but not hurrying him.
The cattle huddled close to the river, their tails to the wind, their backs covered with snow blankets. Some lingered along the bank, looking for a break in the ice. I pushed the herd toward the river, covering my frozen nose with a gloved hand. The snow had let up, but a few thick flakes wafted to the ground. I chopped holes in the ice, and the cattle pushed their noses into the freezing river. Steam rose from their nostrils.
Mounting Ahab, I heard the clatter of the wagon. I looked downstream to see the straining team climb the bank. The sound perked the cattle’s ears. They lumbered toward the wagon, some trotting, their heavy skulls swinging from side to side. They crowded around the clumps of hay that Dad launched from the bed. I guided Ahab through the cluster of snow-covered backs, dismounted, and tied the reins to the wagon. Then I joined Dad in the bed, grabbing a pitchfork.
I caught Dad glancing toward the house several times, although we couldn’t possibly see that far through the drifting snow.
“She’ll be all right, Dad.”
He didn’t answer. But for the rest of the morning, he tried to disguise his frequent glances.
We scattered hay along the river, leaving clusters of munching cattle. I hopped off the wagon, running in place for a second or two to warm up. I pulled myself into Ahab’s saddle, then galloped toward the next pasture. Nate trotted alongside, tongue hanging loose, steam rolling from between his teeth.
For every bit of plodding predictability that you get from a herd of cattle, you can expect twice as much skittishness and lack of common sense from a flock of sheep. I found all seventy of ours tightly crowded into the corner farthest from the river, completely exposed to the wind. They had drifted with the breeze, although thirty yards from where they stood was a small grove of cottonwoods that would have provided perfect shelter.
I cut between the flock and the fence, telling them how stupid they were, but mostly hoping I wouldn’t find any corpses crushed by the cluster. The sheep milled away from the fence, their thick woolly coats dirty gray up to the snow on their backs. They moved along the fence line like a low fog bank. Thankfully, none had been trampled.
About halfway to the river, a young lamb on the opposite side broke away from the flock. She scampered unprovoked toward the middle of the pasture, her rear hooves pounding the powdery snow. I was pinned against the fence, so I couldn’t make a move to go after her. But I assumed she would stop and wander back to the flock anyway. However, Nate started after her, and instead of turning her back, he scared her further away. I whistled for Nate, but six more ewes followed the lamb, and this got Nate excited. He chased after them. I swore, nudging Ahab through the flock. Then I took off after the lead.
Ahab snorted, trying to catch his breath as we cut through the icy air. We overtook the six, who turned back as soon as we passed them. Nate cut back to herd them toward the flock. I hoped the lead would follow, but she was too far ahead to notice. As we closed in on her, Ahab picked up speed. Within ten yards of the ewe, I shouted, and a rush of cold air filled my chest. I coughed and pounded my ribs, trying to relieve the burning in my lungs.
Ahab overtook the ewe, but the minute he did, she skidded to a stop. She circled behind us, then took off in the same direction. I gritted my teeth, prodding Ahab’s flanks, although he’d already jumped ahead. “Get back here,” I shouted.
But the ewe raced on, unaffected by the cold. Ahab grunted with every stride as the freezing air stung his lungs. It took another thirty yards to catch her again. I tried approaching from the opposite side. But the second we drew even, her head dropped, and her front legs stiffened. She cut behind Ahab, and bolted ahead again before I could even tug at the reins.
The ewe emitted a confused, gurgling “Baaaah” as she rushed by our left side. Ahab shook his head, as if he took the utterance personally I swore, because I did take it personally. Then I raked my boots along Ahab’s ribs.
We went through the same routine twice more, with both sheep and horse slowing a little each time. Usually, I would not have bothered with this chase. Deep down, I knew it was a waste of time. With so much around me feeling so much out of my control, I was determined to prove I had control over this one small situation. But this determination weakened as my face became more numb. I wiped snow from my eyes and couldn’t even feel my glove move across my skin.
The fourth time the ewe circled behind us, I reined Ahab in sharply and shouted, “All right, run away, you bastard. And don’t come back.” I felt like a fool yelling at an animal out in the middle of nowhere. But the anger burned like a chunk of coal in my chest as I turned Ahab around. And then I heard laughter.
Next to the flock, Bob stood in the wagon, buckled over and pointing. As I approached, his laugh echoed past me, and my ears warmed. But when I looked up, I realized he wasn’t pointing at me, but behind me.
“Blake, you got yourself a friend,” he shouted.
“Quiet, Bob,” Dad told him.
I didn’t even have to look. I realized from Bob’s laughter that she was following me back to the flock. “You stupid goddam sheep,” I muttered. I wheeled Ahab around and chased the ewe for a few strides. Then I stopped, turned around, and continued my humiliating return to the flock, with the ewe trotting along behind me.
I buried my shovel deep into the pile of corn and flung the feed out over the sheep’s backs.
“Blake!” Dad scolded.
I ignored him, filling my shovel again. I sniffed and heaved the second shovelful out over the flock, dotting their snow-covered backs with yellow pellets.
“Son, you’re not going to do much good taking it out on those poor animals.”
“They don’t know the difference.”
“Well, they don’t give a damn about your problems, either. But we don’t need them digging in the snow for every kernel of that feed. It’s going to freeze their noses up and keep ’em hungry besides.”
I buried my shovel one more time and cocked my arms.
“Blake!” Dad warned.
I swung the shovel, and just as the corn flew out in a yellow arch above the sheep, Dad grabbed the shovel, shouting, “Stop it now. Goddamit!”
The shovel jerked from my grasp, and because I was already off balance from the motion, I nearly fell. I caught myself by propping my hand against the side of the wagon. Dad glared at me, and I met his gaze head-on. We stared each other down for thirty seconds, and the anger swelled a little more in my chest as each second passed. Dad shook his head.
Bob, who was sitting in the driver’s seat, clapped a glove to his mouth, trying to muffle a laugh. “Little Bo Peep,” he muttered.
I went for him, and the next thing I knew, a gloved hand smacked me across the cheek. I froze. I couldn’t move. My cheek stung, and I wanted like hell to hold my hand to it. My father had never hit me before. My jaw stiffened. I heard Bob sniffle behind me.
“I’m sorry, son. But goddamit…” Dad stood there looking at me, but he finally turned his back, unable to continue. “Goddamit…” he repeated.
“Your turn.” Bob lay sprawled on the floor, an old coffee can full of marbles in front of him.
I lowered The Red Badge of Courage from my face, still angry from that morning. “You think I can’t keep track of a two-man rotation? I know it’s my turn.” My jaw was sore, stiff, my pride still bruised. Dad had not mentioned the incident again.
“Boys!” Dad was planted at the window, looking toward Alzada.
I stood and laid my book down, then bundled up, donning my wool coat and cap, and my gloves. I grabbed our two largest wooden milk buckets and stepped outside. The snow had stopped for the moment, but it had snowed off and on all day, and would likely start again. Our pastures glistened with white, and the clouds mirrored the downy blanket they had created.
I took a deep breath, smelling nothing but the sweet scent of clean, cold air. But I was in no mood to appreciate it. I tromped into the yard, set the buckets down, and scooped snow into them. Once they were full, I straightened my back and turned an eye toward the road. I saw no sign of anyone, so I hauled the buckets inside, setting them with a clump next to the wood stove.
Dad paced, making a strained attempt to not look out the window. Finally, he gave up pretending and parked in front of the frosted pane.
He had reason for concern. In that previous brutal winter, several people had frozen to death in the county. In the worst of conditions, the trip from Alzada took a couple of hours. Mom had planned to stay until noon. It was now four o’clock.
Because Dad and I had not exchanged a word since that morning, I didn’t let it show, but I was just as concerned as he was. I scooped snow from the buckets into two large pots on the stove. Then I added wood to the fire, bent my head over the pot, and watched as the cast iron warmed. The snow turned a dull silver around the edges before dissolving.
“Here comes somebody!” Dad shouted, half standing. His body coiled, as if he was going to run right out the door. But he didn’t move. He studied the horizon. “There’s two horses,” he announced.
“Two?” I couldn’t maintain my indifference at the prospect of Mom returning. I moved to the window.
“Yeah.” Dad took a step, and I thought he’d really leave this time. But he stayed at the window, rubbing his neck. “Gary must have decided to ride along with them to make sure they got back all right.”
“Probably,” I agreed. Bob joined us at the window. “Does that look like Gary?”
Hard to tell,” Dad said. “They’re not close enough.” The snow started drifting across the window again.
Dad rushed over and grabbed his coat, with Bob right on his heels. “You comin’, Blake?”
“Nah, I’ll wait.” Although I was happy Mom was back, I didn’t see much point in rushing out into the cold just to say hello a half minute sooner. I pulled my gloves on and emptied the pots of boiling water into our big metal tub. Then I dumped snow into the pots, which hissed on the stove.
Outside, moments later, there was a hell of a chatter, then feet stomping, and a round of laughter. A rush of cold air hit me as the door flew open. Dad burst in.
“Look who’s here!” Dad’s cheeks were as red as a bad sunburn. He stepped to one side.
“Jack?” I stood transfixed. Jack stood proud and tall in an olive-green uniform, his cheeks flushed, his nose running. As much as I hated my brother, I didn’t realize how deep it was rooted until I saw him standing there in our doorway. I turned back to my pot of water to hide my face. Nevertheless, the sight of my older brother also sent a strange thrill through me. The mixture of these emotions left me paralyzed.
“That’s a hell of a welcome,” Jack said. “Come on, little brother.” I heard his footsteps moving toward me. “I been out there protecting you from all those enemies.” Jack’s jovial, lighthearted tone was completely new, unfamiliar, and hard to gauge. “Come on, Blake. Didn’t you miss me?”
I shrugged.
“Ah, don’t worry, Jack. Blake’s had a bad day,” Dad said. “Come on, Blake. Don’t spoil a good thing here.”
I kept my back to the whole scene, feeling betrayed by my father. Mom and Muriel came in, stomping the snow from their boots. They made a beeline for the wood stove. I moved out of their way, and Jack joined them. They all warmed their hands.
I was overwhelmed by the power of my anger. For the past year, every blister, every pulled muscle, and every bruise I’d sustained in my work on the ranch had been magnified by the knowledge that Jack’s absence was partly to blame. My tongue was lodged hard against my teeth. I felt as if I would be better off leaving the house.
Jack’s olive-green overcoat stretched to his knees. His earlobes were shiny red beneath his watch cap, and the uniform made him look taller, although we still stood eye-to-eye. His left arm was in a sling.
“What happened, son?” Dad asked.
“Ah, it’s nothing,” Jack said, lifting the arm slightly. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Dad nodded.
I felt dizzy. We had just endured the most horrendous year and a half of our lives, a year and a half of lost livestock, frayed nerves, strained backs, and constant worry, and here stood the cause of much of it, receiving a hero’s welcome. I thought of how often I had tempered my desire to lash out at my father, and that while I had quietly devoted my life to this place, my brother had betrayed us all, and now he was the savior.
“Who’s ready for a bath?” Dad asked as he dumped the last two pots of boiling water into the tub.
“You must be reading my mind,” Jack said, laughing.
“Muriel, you go after Jack,” Mom said. “Then I believe I’ll have to take a turn. That hot water would feel awful good about now.”
Jack pulled the old cotton curtain around the tub, and his clothes dropped to the floor. I resented even this, his gall of climbing into the bath, as it had always been traditional in our family that the kids went first. Not only was he not paying for his betrayal, but he was asking for special treatment, and getting it. Dad fired question after question at Jack, as we listened to the water splashing, and as Jack answered them in his new character—this confident, joking manner—the laughter filled the room, pushing me further into the corner.
Steam rose above the curtain. Mom and Muriel shed their coats, and huddled closer to the fire as Bob tromped outside and filled the wood buckets again, then emptied them into the pots. Mom took a couple of bricks from the top of the wood stove and laid them on the floor. She took off her boots and laid her stockinged feet on the bricks, lifting a toe that stuck through a hole in her sock. “Mmmm,” she sighed.
Jack stayed in the bath forever, and the banter continued.
“So was there a good turnout?” Dad asked Mom.
“There sure was.” Mom rubbed her hands together. “Especially considering this storm.”
“I even got a chance to vote,” Jack shouted above the sloshing water.
“Who’d you vote for?” Bob asked.
“I’ll tell you one thing, I sure didn’t vote for that Socialist Rankin.”
I looked at Mom, who idolized Jeanette Rankin, the first woman ever elected to Congress. But the mood could not be spoiled by anything.
“That woman voted against the war, can you believe that?” Jack shouted. “Of all the crazy things that happen in Washington, that’s got to rank right up there with the craziest. She was the only one.”
Mom shook her head again, but she had a slight smile on her face.
“Anyway, enough about politics,” Jack continued. “I’m just giving you a hard time, Mom. I know she’s your hero.”
“Yes,” Dad agreed. “Yeah. Let’s talk about something else.”
“All right…well, since you opened the door there,” Jack said. “How much land we got now? You guys buy any more land?”
The question seemed odd, and out of place, but the pause that it brought was only brief, as it seemed that everyone was willing to overlook everything on this day.
“Yeah, actually,” Dad said. “Yeah. We did get some more land.”
“The reason I’m asking,” Jack said, “is that I got an announcement.” He paused, amid a flurry of splashing water.
“Well, don’t keep us hanging here. What is it?” Dad scooted to the front of his chair, like an anxious kid.
“You’re gonna marry that gal, aren’t you?” Bob squealed.
Jack laughed loud and long. “You got it, Bob. You’re right. She’ll be here in a few weeks.”
“That’s great!” Dad exclaimed. Muriel started jumping up and down. And Mom was beaming, her face flushed.
But I didn’t really hear the part about the wife so much. I was more focused on the part about “a few weeks.” Up to that point, I assumed that Jack was just home for a visit, on leave.
“Are you staying?” I asked. “Are you planning to stay?”
“Hell, yeah,” Jack said. “I’m done. I’m home.”
I turned to Dad. “Are you going to let him stay here?”
There was a short pause as my father frowned at me, and everyone else stopped what they were doing.
“Why not? Blake, what’s gotten into you? Of course we are. You know as well as anyone that we can use the help. Besides, he’s going to have a family.”
Finally, we could hear Jack climb from the tub. “Damn, Blake, you are in a bad mood,” he said.
A silence settled into the house. For several seconds, no one spoke or moved. Only a slight crackle of fire from the wood stove echoed through the room. But Jack started laughing, quietly, from behind the curtain. He pulled his clothes on, still laughing. “Damn,” he said. “I forgot how grumpy living out here makes people. I might have to think twice about this.”
Dad laughed nervously, and the rest of the family looked at me with wide eyes, as if they had no idea what to expect from me, as if I was a different person than I’d been that morning, and every other day of the sixteen years they’d known me. For the first time in my life, I felt like a stranger in my own home. I felt as if I was the only one there who was looking at the picture that was our family and seeing the opposite of what everyone else saw.
I now know that I was just too young to realize how much it meant to my parents that Jack had come home. I was too young to realize how many people didn’t get to enjoy a similar scene during those years. I was too young to know how lucky we were.
So I stood in the middle of that room, staring at the floor, feeling all eyes on me, humiliated, with my brother’s quiet laughter only adding to the humiliation. I turned and walked back to the corner.
There was little else said. Muriel took her bath. To my relief, when Jack went to bed, he said he would sleep in the old homestead house. As the water in the tub cooled, and Mom prepared to take her turn, Bob turned from his marbles.
“Your turn,” he said.
I shoved a finger down between my neck and the new starched collar that rubbed like sandpaper against my skin. I loosened my tie.
Jack punched me in the shoulder. “You look pretty spiffy there, little brother.”
I rolled my eyes, and turned away from him. The train station was quiet. Although the cold had broken, it was not a good time to travel with the heavy snow. It was also several weeks before the holidays. So our family accounted for almost half of the people waiting for the 47 Line to arrive from the East.
We were all wearing our finest clothes, as Jack and Rita’s wedding was planned for just a few hours after she arrived. But because I had grown three inches, I was the only one with a new suit.
The three weeks since Jack’s return had been horrible. Although the subject wasn’t one I put much thought into at the time, Jack’s absence had affected his position to take over the ranch. By the singular act of coming back home, Jack had stepped back in front of the line. Not only that, but by bringing a wife into the picture, he had strengthened his hold on the position. Subconsciously, I think I realized that the reward for my loyalty to the ranch and my family would be a polite, thankless escort to my old place in line.
On the other hand, it was the first time since we’d lost George and Katie that my parents seemed relatively happy. Jack’s status as a war veteran inspired a sense of pride in them. And Jack surprised me by not taking advantage of his celebrity to avoid working. As soon as his unexplained wound healed, he took to the fields early each morning. But I was skeptical of the whole “new man” routine. I had a strong feeling that Jack wasn’t giving us the whole story.
“How much longer?” Bob asked, tugging at his jacket sleeves, which were just barely long enough.
“Any time now,” Jack said. “Just hold your horses there, partner.” He scuffed Bob’s head.
Moments later, the faint trail of smoke appeared in the distance. Jack moved to the end of the platform, leaning so far forward that he was in danger of falling. He stood on his toes. I’d never seen him so excited. My parents stood right behind him. And Bob and Muriel just behind them. Only I hung back, thinking that as unpleasant as this was, I couldn’t let my mood affect an occasion that was so important to everyone else.
The train grew, its flag of smoke unfurling behind it. And the closer it got, the more animated Jack became. He bounced up and down at the knees.
The locomotive slowed, easing toward us, and then it passed, and then a few freight cars passed, and finally the passenger cars passed. Jack ran alongside, jumping to try and see inside. There appeared to be less than ten passengers on the train. It stopped, and the conductor opened the door, and two people stepped off, and then I saw why Jack was so excited. I understood immediately.
It wasn’t that Rita was beautiful, although she was about as pretty as any woman I’d ever seen. Her face was round, with broad features, full lips, and big green eyes. A band of freckles crossed her cheeks, from one ear to the other. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, green with a tiny green rose tucked against the crown, lying along the brim like a tired baby.
Rita also had perfect teeth. But what got me was the way she looked at everyone. Her eyes had an open quality, a straightforward sincerity, that had a powerful effect. As Jack introduced Rita to each member of the family, her eyes took that person in like a warm pool. She engulfed each of us with a look that oozed with curiosity and a willingness to welcome, and to be welcomed.
I stood there feeling as if I had just run several miles. As if breathing was an ability I had been very capable of at some time in the distant past. A lost talent. And then it was my turn. Rita took my hand, saying, “Blake, I’ve been so anxious to meet you. I’ve just been so excited to meet all of you.”
And she whirled around, turning those incredible eyes to each of us, in turn, and I had still not moved, or breathed, or spoken. From that first moment, I was hopelessly in love.