Changes of Heart (14 page)

“Turnip’s head’s a little high,” Maggie mumbled to herself. “He’s not watching that right barrel...”

Tessa, leaning far forward in the saddle, cued Turnip for the turn a snippet of a second too early. The buckskin
started his turn perfectly but had to interpose a stutter step to avoid crowding the barrel. Even so, his inside shoulder brushed the drum, rocking it.

“Ohhh,” Sarah gasped as if she’d been punched.

The barrel rocked a couple of inches for an eternity—and then settled back in place. By then, Tessa and Turnip were long gone, digging toward the first left turn, the horse’s head lower now, his eyes—and Tessa’s—focused on the red and white drum with the letters NBRA on it as if it were the last thing either of them would ever see. Clods of dirt spewed into the air as Turnip and his rider leaned to the left and blasted around the barrel, as close to it as a coat of paint but not touching it.

Turnip’s flight to the final barrel was a thing of beauty that drew applause from much of the crowd. He moved like a greyhound, stretched to his limit, hooves sweeping over the ground, head extended and low, eyes again riveted to the barrel.

It was a good turn—not a perfect one, but a good one—that brought horse and rider around in good position to race home. Tessa’s whoop was pure joy as Turnip’s awesome power and speed carried them to the finish.

Sarah Morrison’s whoop was louder than the applause of the crowd. “Did you see that?” she shrieked.

“We saw it, Sarah,” Maggie smiled. “And I’m at least as proud of her as you are.”

Maggie turned the steering wheel of her truck into the gust that had attempted to muscle the vehicle off the road and onto the shoulder, and looked at the landscape around her. Winters in Montana settled in during late October and early November and didn’t relinquish their arctic stranglehold until well into May. The sky took on a cerulean depth that was breathtakingly beautiful and at the same time starkly intimidating, because the depth of the blue was hard, flinty, and offered not an iota of warmth. The hues of this Montana winter were vivid rather than soft and gentle to the eye—the fields of snow, the expanses of dead grass, the naked trees, the diamondlike ice of streams, rivers, and ponds, the endless lines of fence posts sharp-edged under the endless sky.

The intrusive, manic voice of a car dealer offering Thanksgiving specials at the best price ever grated in Maggie’s ears, and she snapped off the radio. Sarah and Tessa Morrison were hosting Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, and Danny and Ian had guaranteed Maggie that if she didn’t
show up at the appointed time, they’d come to her ranch and physically haul her to the feast. She didn’t doubt that they’d do it.

Main Street of Coldwater bustled with pedestrian traffic, with trucks and cars parked in front of each of the stores. Huge cardboard turkeys, cornucopias spilling fruit, and shocks of standing corn with leaves flapping in the wind as if trying to escape decorated the lampposts.

Maggie parked in front of the feed and grain store and used both hands when she opened her truck door. Even so, the pressure against her arms was sudden and strong, almost wrenching the door away from her. As she pushed her way down the sidewalk, tiny pellets of ice stung her face. It was a short distance, but by the time Maggie reached the bakery door, her face was numb.

Kornoelje’s Bakery had been a cherished institution in Coldwater for almost seventy years. Owned and operated by a close and loving Christian family, the store had barely made it through the bleakest years of the Great Depression. But it did make it—even though a large percentage of its daily production during those hungry years went over the counter to those who had no way to pay or was taken to the church for the soup kitchen there.

The warmth and the delightfully sweet scent in the bakery embraced Maggie like the hug of a grandmother for a favored grandchild. The individual aromas of spice, chocolate, fresh bread, sugar cookies, and pumpkin and apple pies, and the yeasty sharpness of fresh dough being shaped on the huge wooden table in front of the ovens created
an ambiance that was perhaps too heavenly to exist in an imperfect world.

Maggie waited in line behind the glass-fronted wooden display case, nodding to people she knew, smiling at the kids begging their parents for cookies. The youngsters behind the counter—family members—hustled about filling bags, wrapping pies and cakes, counting out various treats, giggling, and colliding with one another frequently.

Nevertheless, customers were served quickly and efficiently—and joyfully. Maggie wondered if any facial expression other than a smile could prevail in the bakery, and decided that it couldn’t.

Lonnie, a senior in high school, greeted Maggie over the counter. “It’s great to see you, Maggie. Made up your mind yet?”

“You too, Lonnie,” Maggie said. “How about a dozen cannoli and a loaf of your unsliced Jewish rye.” The cannoli were part of Maggie’s contribution to the Thanksgiving meal. The loaf of bread was for Maggie herself—and she’d tell anyone who’d listen that it was the very best rye bread in the world, including that from the famous Jewish delis in New York City.

Lonnie handed over the white box containing the cannoli, the loaf of bread in brown butcher paper, and a single oversized chocolate chip cookie. “I remembered these are your favorite, Maggie. Happy Thanksgiving.”

It was a simple and kind gesture, Maggie realized, and she was thankful for it. But the gesture exemplified the people and the life in Coldwater, Montana. She spoke
from behind a sudden lump in her throat when she said, “Thanks, Lonnie—and happy Thanksgiving to you and the family.”

The wind snarled at Maggie as she left the bakery and eased the door closed. She clutched her purchases against her chest like a girl with schoolbooks, feeling the warmth of the bread emanating through the brown paper. Her gift cookie rested on top of the cannoli box. She began down the sidewalk toward her truck and then stopped suddenly, halted by an image that was more real than the town around her. She turned her back to the bakery picture window and stood, transfixed.

We were right here a year ago today. We bought an apple pie and a pumpkin pie, a loaf of rye, and a dozen chocolate chip cookies. Richie ate five on the way home, and I ate three.

We had the
Cheap Thrills
cassette in the tape deck in the truck, had it cranked up to the top, and we were singing the blues with Janis Joplin—really getting into the songs, making our voices whiskey-harsh, stretching words and phrases, dragging the sadness, the despair, out of the lyrics. I was patting my knees as if they were drums, and Richie had his right arm across my back and was tapping along with those wonderful guitar runs, and we were as unself-conscious as a pair of children laughing together.

And as soon as the last notes of “Me an’ Bobby McGee” ended, Richie took his arm from behind me and shut off the tape. Then he touched my face very gently.

“We can’t be blues singers, Maggie,” he said, quite seriously.

“Oh
?”

“Real blues people live their music, like Janis and Muddy Waters and Leadbelly did. I can’t do blues because I’m the happiest, most fulfilled man in the world, with a wife who’s a gift from God. There’s no room for blues in my life. None at all—there’s too much happiness. And it’ll be like this for
—”

“Maggie? Are you OK? You must be an icicle by now—you’ve been standing here for ten minutes. Do you want to come on inside and have some coffee in the back room with me?”

Maggie blinked fast several times, disoriented. She looked down at her packages. The chocolate chip cookie had been stolen by the wind, flipped away to the grime and salt on the sidewalk.

“I’m OK, Lonnie,” Maggie said. “I’ve got to get back to the farm. You go on inside before you freeze. I’m fine—really. I was just remembering...”

“Can you drive? Why not sit down for a minute and drink some coffee?”

“I really can’t. I’ve got horses to feed and chores to do. Don’t worry, I’m OK; I was just spacing out for a minute. Thanks for coming out—and you’d better go on in before your brothers and sisters give away the store.”

Lonnie finally smiled. “Yeah. You take care, Maggie.”

Maggie smiled, waved, and fought the wind to her truck. She started the engine and let it idle for a minute before putting on the heater and driving off.
A few months ago what I just relived would have torn my heart out. It hurt today, but I can treasure that moment—at least a bit. No—a lot
.

It was unusual for the horses to be clustered at the back of the barn at midday. Dakota stood tail into the wind; Dancer stood next to him, using the older horse for a windbreak. Turnip danced in place, wide-eyed, and whinnied as Maggie hustled from her truck to the barn. Happy pawed at the dirt in front of the door as if she were attempting to dig her way to safety. Dusty, also wide-eyed, wheeled back, ears flat to her head, teeth snapping, as Turnip tried to shove her away from the closed door. Dancer tucked himself closer to Dakota.

The barn was as cold as a meat locker, and its structure creaked as the wind assaulted it. Maggie knew that a certain amount of flex was engineered into any building, from skyscrapers to garages. Still, the painful-sounding groans of wood grinding wood and the shrill shrieks of her barn were disconcerting, like the cries of an injured animal. The thudding noise at the back door told her the horses were jostling one another for position, anticipating her swinging the door open.

Maggie opened the gates to each of the stalls as she hurried to the back door. She’d mucked the stalls before leaving for town that morning, and each had fresh water, hay, and grain. Horses knew their own stalls from those of their peers; stalls were their safe havens where there was always safety, food, and security. On this day, as Maggie slid open the door on its track and Turnip, Dusty, Dancer, Happy, and Dakota muscled their ways into the barn, all five horses had
sudden memory lapses and stood in a nipping, tail-wringing cluster, like a gaggle of nervous chickens. Maggie snatched a lead rope from a hook on the wall and draped it over Dancer’s neck, pulling him into his stall. Dakota hurried into Turnip’s stall, while Turnip pushed into Dusty’s. Dusty, looking confused and frightened, stood gawking at Maggie until she led the mare into Turnip’s stall. Happy ended up in her own home and stood tight to the far wall, trembling. The safe haven of their individual stalls no longer mattered to the spooked and nervous animals—any stall was fine, as long as it was inside the barn. Maggie walked from horse to horse, touching each one, speaking softly, offering treats from the basket of apples she kept filled in the barn. Slowly, the animals calmed, and soon each was crunching away at the fresh feed in the grain buckets or on the flakes of hay each stall contained.

Maggie watched her horses eat for ten or fifteen minutes, constantly aware of the power of the wind howling outside. She left the lights on, and before she left the barn she took a long coil of cable-reinforced rope from a cabinet. Outside the barn, less than a foot from the door, a series of stout brass eyes were bolted to the barn wall, the first a foot above ground level, the second two feet, the third three, and the fourth five feet from the ground. She tied a very careful double knot to the third eye and started toward the house, staggering in the wind and uncoiling the rope as she trudged ahead. There had been little snow so far that winter, but Maggie knew that when it came, it would come hard and fast. When lashed by the gale-force winds,
snow could obliterate visibility and confuse a rancher who set out to the barn to feed stock.

Rich had read a story about a young Montana rancher who’d been found frozen to death within twenty feet of his home. That same day, Rich had driven to the Coldwater hardware store and purchased the reinforced rope and the brass eyes and fittings. He’d installed them that evening. Maggie kept another coil of the rope in the mudroom so that it could be attached at the house.

Maggie tied another double knot and secured the rope to the house. The strange moaning sound the wind produced as it stretched the rope made her shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. After tying the rope she went to her truck to retrieve her treats and her bread and sighed with genuine relief when she entered her kitchen. When she dropped the bread on the counter it clunked as if she’d dropped a brick instead of a loaf of rye—it was frozen solid. She turned on the kitchen radio before taking off her scarf and coat, catching an already started newscast.