Definitely, Maybe in Love Page 23

  I took in a few breaths, like I was psyching myself up to cannonball off the high dive. “Yes, it was before,” I answered. “Henry and I…we could…talk. I miss it.”

  “Talking’s nice.”

  “It’s all we did for months. Of course we debated, too.” I exhaled a soft laugh, remembering fondly. “But the arguing wasn’t genuine, it was more like—”

  “Foreplay.” She winked and left the room.

  Part IV

  Summer

  “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”

  From Pride & Prejudice

  Chapter 30

  “Time to hit the road,” Mel said, her head sticking out the passenger-side window of my Subaru.

  I stared down at the large envelope in my hands, hovering outside the outgoing mailbox slot. The address of the house across the street from me at Stanford was written on the front.

  “You’ve been carrying that thing around with you for a week,” she said. “It’s a good plan. He lived there once, so the post office will have a forwarding address.”

  “I just…I want him to read it.”

  “You want him to see you scored an A.” Mel’s white sunglasses sat on the tip of her nose, shading the bright Montana sun.

  “We worked hard. He deserves to see how it turned out.”

  But it was more than that. When I’d started on the final draft of my thesis, it was do or die. And I was not going to die. I’d busted my ass for two years to get the opportunity I’d been given. Braiding my hair and angry chick rock were only symbols of what I wanted to be. I knew what I wanted to be now. I didn’t need symbols.

  All I had left were those final research notes Henry had given to me that last evening in the study room. The more I delved into that, while veering off with additional research of my own, the more I felt the fire return. I’d lost it for a while, but it came back. I wanted the world to know I was passionate again. Was it selfish that a part of me wanted Henry to know that, too?

  “So mail it already and let’s get going,” Mel said. “I’m about to faint from starvation.”

  I rolled my eyes. We’d stopped for food less than an hour ago. Something about road trips made Mel in need of constant nourishment.

  This was the end of our third week on the road, two more to go. My partner in crime was not enjoying herself on the same level as I was. Perhaps I’d been just a teensy misleading in my description of how exciting our summer excursion would be: Two single gals, freewheeling through Idaho, Wyoming and Montana while I did research for a new paper, picking up where my thesis ended, living off the tiny research grant I’d received from the Earth Science department.

  Last night, as we’d huddled together on one twin bed, dodging flying cockroaches at a seedy roadside motel outside Great Falls, Mel had very politely informed me that if we visited another effing cow pasture or toured one more sustainable-living-effing-farm, she would feed me to a buffalo.

  I believed her.

  “Do it, babe,” Mel coaxed. “Drop it down the slot and walk away. It’s called closure.”

  She was right. Mailing Henry my thesis was a good way to put a lid on that chapter of my life. And it was time; I really needed to get started on moving on, even if I didn’t feel ready. So I opened the gaping metal mouth, bit my lip, and let go.

  “I’m proud of you,” Mel said as I slid behind the steering wheel. “Now let’s get out of here. You promised me a normal hotel tonight. I need a decent shower and a mani-pedi like no one’s biz.” She dusted her arms like she was wiping off loose dirt. “I feel juicy and disgusting.”

  “Today’s stop is an extra important one,” I said, starting the engine.

  “I don’t give a rat’s—” She growled down into her open purse. “I know I have an emergency Kit Kat in here somewhere. Oh man, I’d kill for a cigarette.”

  “You don’t smoke anymore,” I reminded her.

  “Then I’d kill for some chocolate.”

  “You’re off sugar, too.”

  “Shut up, Spring. You’re ticking me off.” She stared out the window wistfully. “I’d strangle my own sweet granny for a chocolate cigarette.”

  I laughed and ran my fingers through my hair, starting at the scalp and proceeding all the way to the tips.

  The braids had come out a week before our trip. Since then, every time I caught my reflection, it was like I was seeing me again, someone who believed in herself and fought for those beliefs, someone whose hair blew all devil-may-care-like in the breeze again. Once that was established, my life made sense again.

  Julia and Anabel nearly fainted with joy when they saw my hair. I laughed at the memory and played with the ends, as if it was a validation of another New Spring.

  “It’s only about a two hour drive from here,” I said to Mel, pulling away from the post office. Mel stuck her fist in her mouth and nodded, still jonesing over chocolate. I was grateful she’d stopped asking where we were going. It would be hard to explain our next stop.

  The subject had come up between Henry and me a few times, but he was always vague about it. I knew his family had property all over the west. In fact, we’d been crisscrossing Knightly territory the past week. But it was the homestead just past Ft. Benton that I was interested in. According to my hasty research, it sat on approximately 50,000 acres. We’re talking hills, trees, a river and both farmland and some kind of livestock.

  On a purely intellectual basis, I was curious about how this land was maintained…if at all. Henry and I had long-standing debates about the pros and cons of land development. Now was my chance to see how his family treated their bit of earth.

  “Are we there yet?” Mel asked, cleaning out her purse for the fourth time in a week. She glanced up right as we passed the Welcome to Kingston sign. “Where the hell are we? Spring, it’s the Fourth of July.”

  “I’m aware,” I said, slowing down, checking my GPS then making a right on Main Street.

  “You promised me fun and adventure. Am I going to have to kill you?”

  “There’s a museum,” I said brightly. “Maybe it has more Lewis and Clark memorabilia. You like them, remember? I believe you used the term ruggedly sexy. We can take a tour.”

  “Oh, goodie-goodie,” she zinged. “More pictures of dead dudes no one under eighty’s ever heard of.”

  I bit my lip. The dusty town of four thousand seemed pretty slow-paced, and despite the charming, old-timey wooden buildings and patches of green, it probably would turn out to be a snooze fest. A sign on the side of a tall green building caught my eye: Restoration by the Knightly Family.

  Huh. So the lineage doesn’t just own the land, but it looks like they have a bit of vested interest in the town. That’s pretty cool.

  We pulled up to the museum and got out. Mel groaned all the way up the walk but wouldn’t look at me. I really did owe her a good time after this. The room was bright and cold, rows of framed portraits and other objects d’art lined the walls.

  A short, roundish woman appeared. She was probably about sixty and sported a bird’s nest of gray and brown hair. After welcoming us, she jumped right in, explaining that General Kingston’s great-great-somebody rebuilt the homestead in nineteen twenty-five after the storm of twenty-four. Gripping…

  As Mel trailed behind us, the bird’s nest woman moved to a group of black and white framed pictures, showing the actual renovating. “If you’ll notice, all the lumber for the reconstruction was harvested locally. Family’s very particular about that.”

  “And the Kingstons own all the timber, too?” Mel asked, probably trying to stay engaged so she wouldn’t fall asleep on her feet.

  “The Kingstons?” our guide repeated. “Oh, dear, no. That branch of the family moved from the homestead two generations ago. It’s the old General’s daughter’s family. The Knightlys.”

&n
bsp; “Knightly?”

  I closed my eyes, practically feeling Mel’s outburst against my back like a gust of wind.

  “Are we talking Knightly Knightly?” she asked, sliding to my side.

  “Shhh.” I eyed Bird’s Nest.

  “Wait. Did you know Henry lives here?” Mel added.

  “He doesn’t live here,” I said under my breath, not wanting to cause a bigger scene. “His family owns the land and some buildings in town, I guess. I’m sure the Henry we knew has never stepped foot in this place.”

  When I glanced at Bird’s Nest, she was smiling like a wise old auntie. “I take it you young ladies know Henry.”

  My heart seemed to freeze mid-beat.

  “She does,” Mel clarified, digging an elbow into my ribs.

  “That’s wonderful! Do you know him from Stanford?”

  As I nodded, my frozen heart gave three hard beats. “Wait. You know Henry”—I swallowed—“Knightly?”

  “He grew up here, dear. They spend most of their time back east now or in Europe, but the two children come home a few times a year.”

  I held up a hand. “You’re telling me Henry lived here?”

  “I believe she just confirmed that, Springer,” Mel said with a grin.

  “Shhh,” I hissed, knocking her away with my shoulder.

  “The children come home every summer and the occasional weekend,” Bird’s Nest said. “Trip is usually here in June and July.”

  “Trip,” Mel repeated, glancing at me.

  “That’s what everyone’s always calls young Henry.” She leaned forward. “He’s the third.”

  “Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “I know.”

  Mel snickered beside me, hanging onto my arm. “This is too delicious.”

  I looked at Bird’s Nest. “Do you know if… Is Henry—”

  “Trip,” Mel corrected.

  “Shut up,” I hissed. Then, “Trip.” I coughed, stumbling over the name. “Is he home now?” I held my breath, not knowing which way I wanted Bird’s Nest to answer.

  “No.” She frowned. “But they’re expected next week for the festival and ribbon-cutting. You probably already know this, since you know Trip, but the family takes great care of our town. Saved most of us from welfare or worse when the beef recession hit.” She ran a cloth over a gold frame. “A decade ago, they revamped all the schools. Eighty percent of the graduates go on to college, most of them on the Knightly scholarship. They bought and donated all the historical sites that help keep tourists coming through.”

  “So they’re do-gooders,” Mel asked Bird’s Nest while grinning at me.

  “Absolutely,” she replied. “They employ only locals to work the dude ranch during the summer season.”

  “Dude ranch?” I nearly choked again.

  “The Diamond W,” our guide clarified, “is one of the most successful working ranches for a hundred miles, and our town’s biggest commodity. Folks come to experience the Old West.” She rolled her eyes, but I didn’t miss the proud look she carried. “A team of retired ranchers takes groups on horseback up into the foothills. Rodeo every Saturday. Barbeque and cobbler. Folks sure love it.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I muttered.

  “About what, dear?” Bird’s Nest asked, tilting her head.

  Mel was literally doubled over, snorting and cackling. I gave her a shove and she staggered back. “Don’t mind her,” she said, popping up at my side, one arm tight around my shoulders. “She’s just in the middle of a nervous breakdown.”

  “O-oh, yes, well, should we press on? Or would you rather visit the Diamond W? Next bus leaves in ten minutes.”

  Chapter 31

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said as the bus rocked and bounced us up the hill. My fingernails dug into the torn vinyl seat in front of me.

  “This is epic!” Mel exclaimed. “Aren’t you curious?” She peered out the dusty window. “I know I am. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me where we were going today.”

  “I didn’t know he lived here lived here,” I defended. “I feel like we’re trespassing.”

  “No one will know you’re here.” She patted my arm. “We’ll just tool around for a while, check out the back of some Wrangler jeans, then split. It’ll be fun.”

  I exhaled, still mildly freaked, but at least Mel was excited about something and not complaining about the weird smell coming from the back of the bus.

  Along with the dozen other passengers, we were dumped off in the middle of what felt like an outdoor madhouse. People and animals bustled wildly, some loners rushed about, while large groups moseyed. Mel and I stood close together holding hands. Two city slickers.

  I spied the house farther up the hill. Of all places to see, that was first on my list.

  “Where should we go?” Mel asked.

  “I’m feeling overwhelmed,” I admitted.

  “Down by the gate”—Mel gestured—“there’re more maps and pamphlets. I’ll run down and grab some.” That seemed like a smart idea. “Hey.” She shook my arm. “You’ll be okay here?”

  “Sure,” I replied, nodding manically. “I’m good.”

  She eyed me skeptically. “Okay. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  All alone, I felt like a refugee fresh off Ellis Island dropped on an intersection of Times Square. The throng was a mixture of tourists, ranch hands, and what might’ve been local kids from the town below. Perhaps the Diamond W Dude Ranch was a popular hangout for teenagers.

  I tried to stay out of everyone’s way, settling on standing in place like a stuffed dummy, my arms pinned at my sides. After a few minutes, passersby started walking around me like I was a flag pole in the middle of the opening.

  During our fifteen minute bus ride, I’d thumbed through a slim guidebook that I’d snagged when first arriving at the museum. Seemed “Diamond Dub” (as it was affectionately known) was quite the happening place.

  For the adventurous camper, there was horseback riding, cattle drives, catch and release fishing at the trout stream, 4x4 racing, hiking, round-ups, and skeet shooting. City folks could enjoy the hot springs, stroll through wildflower strewn meadows, and visit a souvenir shop. At sunset, the ranch featured hayrides, firesides of cowboy poetry, and a square dance on Friday nights.

  On a more economical note, I also read that Diamond Dub raised, broke and bred quarter horses. Its 1,500 head of cattle and other livestock produced beef, pork, milk and cream, many of which were shipped across the country, and all of which provided hundreds of jobs to local families.

  “Cowboy up!” someone whooped over the crowd. People whooped back and yee-hawed in reply. I didn’t understand why.

  Still trying to keep my limbs intact, I pulled the guidebook from my bag and flipped through it again, in search of any information about the proprietors. There was nothing. I was about to toss it in my backpack, but what I spotted on the back cover made my heart stop.

  It was a picture of a sunset on the prairie, and silhouetted in the center of the orange and gold glowing ball was a man in a cowboy hat, down on one knee, petting a dog. Even though it was ensconced in shadows, the profile of the cowboy was easily recognizable to me.

  It was Henry.

  I stared at the picture for what felt like hours, until someone bashed my shoulder.

  “’Scuse me, ma’am,” a dude said over his shoulder as he walked past.

  Ma’am? What the snot? Seeing Henry’s picture rattled me. My body felt hot and sticky as I stood beneath the mid-morning sun, and I was suddenly parched. Maybe someone could direct me to a drinking fountain.

  I approached a guy who looked like he worked at the ranch. “Pardon me,” I said after clearing my throat. But the cowboy rushed past like a gust of smelly farm wind, probably not even hearing me. “That went well.”

  I tried again with a teenage girl wearing a bright western shirt and a frayed jean miniskirt. “I beg your pardon.” She shaded her eyes from the sun. “Can you tell me who I can spea
k to at the house?”

  She smiled, showing a chipped front tooth. “Dunno,” she said, then walked away with her friends.

  What was with this place? I thought the country was supposed to be helpful and friendly.

  Resolute this time, I zeroed in on the man coming straight at me. He was carrying a saddle on one shoulder. A battered black cowboy hat sat low on his sweaty head. He was wearing a dark T-shirt, jeans and brown leather chaps covered with what I hoped was only mud. By the way he was walking with long, powerful strides, I knew he was in a hurry.

  “Excuse me?” I said and tapped his arm that was suspending the saddle.

  He stopped walking and stood in place, staring straight ahead.

  “Hellooo?” I continued, annoyed when he didn’t reply. “Speak English?”

  When the grimy rancher finally lowered the saddle and turned to me, every corpuscle of blood gushed to my stomach. He lifted his index finger, nudging the front brim of his cowboy hat up, brown eyes wide like the centers of two sunflowers.

  “What…are you doing here?” I managed to mutter, once I remembered how to use my mouth.

  Henry unthawed and balanced the saddle against the side of his body. “What am I doing here?” he said, removing his hat. “I live here.”

  “But she told us you didn’t…I mean, she told us… We thought you weren’t here.”

  “I wasn’t.” He shifted his weight. “Who’s we?”

  “Mel,” I replied. “She’s down the uh…” I pointed toward the bus drop off like a mime. “I had no idea you were here.”

  Henry’s eyes left me and focused past my shoulder. “I flew in late last night.” He shifted the saddle to his other side. “The guys”—he dipped his head toward the stables—“were shorthanded this morning, so…”

  I offered some kind of acknowledgment to that, then we both stared down, kicking the dusty ground.

  “How long are you here?” he asked as he slapped dust off his chaps with his hat.

  “Just this morning—it’s for research.”