Tell Me When It Hurts (33 page)

Archer dried her tears on the backs of her gloves and put a lead rope on Allegra’s halter. Patting the mare’s neck, she murmured, “Let’s go, Allegra,” and slid open the stall door. She stepped out, and the horse followed her down the aisle and outside to the waiting trailer. Allegra went up the ramp of the trailer without hesitating, as if this were all exactly as she had expected. She stood patiently as Archer fastened the trailer hitches on either side of her nose, latched the padded safety bar behind her rump, lifted the ramp into its locked position, and closed the door behind her.

“
Now I’m ready, Allegra,” Archer said as she shut the trailer door. “Ready to see if we have any life left in us.

CHAPTER 37

Eight days after picking up Allegra, Archer arrived in Little Tempest, Wyoming. She liked it immediately. The main street was wide, and the buildings were log structures. A covered board sidewalk ran in front of the line of shops on each side, and a crossroads bisected the street with a single traffic light.

Archer stopped at the light. Stores selling cameras, jewelry, and outdoor equipment lined one side, and a leather store occupied most of the block across from them. A pretty bar/restaurant/cafe called the Hangout stood on the corner. Plants dangled from the café’s outdoor porch, where four tables were set for early dinner customers. The sun hung low in the west. In another hour, they would need blankets to dine outside, Archer thought.

As she pulled into the parking area of a small gas station to check her map, she was struck by the chrome blue sky and the fresh, brisk breeze. Late September was cool here. She pulled a spruce-green fleece from the backseat of the Jeep and put it on, then pulled her reading glasses from her pocketbook, spread the map out on the hood of her car, and looked at it carefully. Yes, this was it, but where was Three Chimneys?

Archer was scanning the map again for some clue to where Connor’s ranch might be, when she realized she was not alone. She looked up to see three men staring at her with friendly curiosity.

“
Hi, there, ma’am. Need any help?” asked the eldest. He was tall, sturdy, about sixty, wearing jeans and a black cowboy hat. He tipped his hat to her. “I couldn’t help noticing the Massachusetts plates on your car.”

She smiled, squinting at the sun in her eyes, and lifted her left hand to shade them. “Well, yes, thanks. I’m looking for Connor McCall’s place, Three Chimneys. Do you happen to know how to get there?”

The older man nodded and smiled. He moved closer to look at Archer’s map, when one of the younger men, who wore stovepipe boots, said, “Hey, isn’t that the girl from the picture?”

The third man, with a black ponytail to his shoulders, looked over at Archer with new interest. “By God, I think it is!”

They all turned toward her as if choreographed, and the one who had spoken first actually reached into his inner jacket pocket to put on glasses. They examined Archer like an unusual biological specimen. She flushed.

“
Yup, that’s her,” said the first man, taking his glasses off and replacing them in his pocket.

“
Hey, look! She has a horse back here,” said Ponytail. Allegra stared out through her barred window.

“
Um, gentlemen, can you help me with this?” asked Archer, interrupting their examination of her and her horse.

Ponytail poked a finger into the trailer’s open window, petting Allegra’s smooth nose. The horse accommodated him, thrusting her nose out through the opening in the bars. “Oh, yeah, this is a nice mare. She just needs a little legging up. Muscles a little slack, but she’ll work up real good,” he declared with authority, still petting Allegra and peering into the trailer to look at her feet.

Archer glanced at the two younger men. The one in stovepipe boots was now petting Hadley, who by now had her head out the driver’s side window, while the other was still gauging the roping and ranching potential of Allegra, equine star of the 1993 Bridgehampton Classic, and Reserve Champion in Amateur Hunters on the East Coast in 1994.

The older man turned back to Archer. “Well, ma’am, yes, I sure can direct you there. It’s not too far. You go back out the road you came in on.” He paused and tipped his head back. “Let’s see, I want to take you as direct as I can. Take the wrong road, and over the mountain you go. Okay, go back the way you came, for, oh, I’d say about seven, no, eight miles. Then turn at John’s ranch here, where I’m puttin’ an X, and go right.”

“
No, Joe, I’d take her around Tupper Lake. It’s longer but it’s marked better. The way you’re taking her, one mistake and she’ll go over the mountain,” piped up Boots.

“
You’re crazy, Jimmy. That’s five miles out of the way. She’s smart. Anyway, after that right, just keep going until you see Three Chimneys’ gate. It’ll probably be open, but if it’s not, just drive around it and back onto the driveway. Connor won’t mind. He’s . . . well, you’ll see how he is. He may be out on the range at this hour, or putting up hay. Probably hay. It’s pretty late in the day to still be out in the hills.”

“
Well, thanks a lot,” said Archer. “You’ve been very kind,”

“
No problem, ma’am,” said Joe, tipping his hat. “Nice horse you got there. Hope to see you again.”

Archer smiled and got back in the Jeep. And after taking another look at the little map, she pulled out, going back the way she had come. The three men stood smiling and waving. As soon as she was gone, she was sure they went into the Hangout to report that Connor McCall’s New England woman was in town.

* * *

Archer drove along the empty road. It took her almost an hour to get to the arched wooden gate reading three chimneys ranch. Underneath, in smaller letters, was carved “Ramboulliet Sheep   World’s Finest Fleece.” Archer had, in fact, taken a wrong turn and gone “over the mountain.”

The gate was open. She drove a few hundred feet, then stopped. Sky and hills spread in every direction; it wasn’t quite like Joan Fontaine on the driveway to Manderlay, but just as breathtaking—and as nerve-racking.

The driveway stretched up a slight incline, and the hills rolled away yellow-green to the horizon. Archer could not see a house, barn, or any other structure. Now she was scared. What if Connor told her to leave? What if he hated her? Worse, what if he had someone else, someone less neurotic and less troubled than she—someone who made him happy? Hadley looked at Archer, tongue lolling, and shook her head. “I’m not ready, Hadley.”

She backed out of the driveway, and headed back into town, such as it was. Back at the gas station, she asked about local lodging.

“
No motels within twenty miles, ma’am,” said the young man at the counter. “We don’t get many visitors, but Mrs. Winslow takes in people all the time. Just six miles south, direction you just came from. Can’t miss it. ‘Circle J Ranch’ on the gate. Just tell Dolly Winslow I sent you.”

“
Shouldn’t I call first?” asked Archer.

“
Naw, that’d just confuse things. She’ll take care of your horse, too.”

Archer got into the Jeep heading south and found the Circle J easily. Once on the front porch, she knocked on the open screen door. “Hello? Anyone home?” she called.

“
Just a minute. I’ll be right there,” a woman’s pleasant voice called back.

As Archer surveyed the farm—or “ranch,” as they called it out here—a plump, elderly, smiling woman, her long gray hair tied up in a bun, bustled up to the door. She had to be at least seventy-five, though she moved briskly.

“
Well, hello there. Can I help you?” she said, opening the screen door. “Come on in, dear. It’s getting cool out there. My, what a lovely fall we’ve been having. Come on in. I almost have my piecrust done, so forgive the flour on my hands.”

She looked at Archer expectantly.

“
I was sent by . . .” And Archer realized she had not gotten the name of the young man at the gas station. “Well, I wondered if you had a room I could rent for a few days. I have a dog and horse, too. I’m sorry; I didn’t realize I would need to stop somewhere out here, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“
Well, of course I do, dear. I’m Dolly Winslow, and I have a room at the top of the stairs you can use. I assume your dog can stay with you, and your horse can go into the little paddock out front. Just turn him out there and let him romp, why don’t you? I’ve been a widow for almost eight years now, and I like the company. No bellhops here or room service, but I think you’ll be comfortable.” Dolly turned to go back in the kitchen.

“
Oh, thank you so much,” said Archer. “I’ll just turn Allegra—my horse—out, and then I’ll be in with my bags.”

“
Fine, dear. Just show yourself up. Dinner’s at six if you don’t want to go to the Hangout
.
I’m afraid that’s the only place open at night for twenty miles. If you want a real dinner, sorry to say, you have to go the forty-five minutes into Jackson.”

“
Oh, dinner here will be lovely. Thank you again.”

“
You’re entirely welcome, dear,” said Dolly, with a wave of her floured hands.

CHAPTER 38

Dinner was a wonderful concoction of chicken in a crust with celery, potatoes, and onions. Dolly kept up a stream of talk, especially when she learned that Archer knew Connor McCall, her neighbor just over the hill.

“
Oh, Connor. What a nice young man he is! Just needs to meet the right woman. I thought he was sweet on Charlotte, you know, from the Hangout. Beautiful girl, lovely figure. In my day, she’d have been snapped up years ago. But the young people these days—“Can’t commit,” they tell me. In my day, you saw someone you liked, you got married, you had kids, and that was that. No thinking it over for years.

“
Oh, my, yes. Connor came here seven years ago. Almost lost his shirt, he did. Ha! But then he got the hang of things and is doing right well. Everyone is real happy for him. The ranchers like him. He employs a good number of the boys and treats ’em well, so I hear.

“
He’d be a catch, I’d say. Good-looking, clean, makes a good living—oh, dear, listen to me, going on and on. Now, how do you come to know Connor, dear?”

Archer looked up from her cherry pie, still mulling over this woman named Charlotte.

“
Oh, he inherited some land next to mine in Massachusetts. Our paths quite literally crossed out there. He’s from Boston originally, you know.”

“
Oh, yes. I did hear he was from the East. My eldest son, William, lives back there in Providence, Rhode Island. Loves it there. And my little one, Taylor, is out in Hawaii. Can you imagine? Can’t keep them home, much as you’d like to,” Dolly said, chuckling. “Now, do you have any children yourself, dear?”

Archer hesitated, on the brink of saying ’no’, then put down her own cup of coffee and said, “Yes, I do, Dolly. Thank you for asking. I have a daughter who died several years ago but she was the most wonderful child any mother could have asked for.”

Then Archer talked about Annie while Dolly Winslow listened.

* * *

The next morning, Archer woke to the sound of a milk truck pulling up to the Winslow front door.

“
Tommy, I’ll take two extra quarts today and another dozen eggs—I have a guest staying,” Dolly called out the front door, a touch of pride in her voice.

Archer rolled over and stretched on the clean white sheets, opening her eyes. Looking up from the soft, plump pillow, she studied the yellow and purple flowers on the ceiling wallpaper, which covered her like a sheltering canopy. She turned onto her side and squinted at the clock: 8:34. With a yawn, she slipped out of bed and pulled on a flannel plaid nightshirt before walking over to the window. She pushed her long hair behind her ears and gazed out at the ranch, arms crossed, hugging herself.

From the window, she could see that the fields were no longer green but not yet brown. In the near pasture, Allegra lay in the sun. She must be at peace, Archer thought, knowing horses were ever ready to flee on the smallest whim, and lay down only if they felt safe. Clique almost never lay down, nervous Nelly that he was, eyes darting, ears forward, tail high. He was always busy looking for the next fence to jump, the next troll to stomp. Ah, but he flew, galloping steady as the rain, pounding rhythmically, gaining pace and volume, greedily gobbling up the ground beneath them, and finally stopping in a lather, full of glee and good intentions. Clique. Truest of friends, fearless collaborator, keeper of secrets, soaring partner, his hoofbeats now silent.
Rest in peace, dear one
.

Pulling herself back from her reverie, Archer showered, got dressed, and went out to the corral to saddle Allegra for her first time in over six years. Dolly had nodded and smiled when she saw Archer dressed to ride, as though it was the most normal thing in the world for someone to drive across the country with a dog and a horse, park in her yard, and then go out for a ride on the horse she had dragged along.

Archer approached the paddock where the horse had spent the night. Allegra was alone in the field but for a lone cow, short and black, mechanically chewing its cud. At the gate, Archer stopped and watched the mare graze. Every so often, her tail would flick lazily, and, she would trot forward to a new patch of grass. For Archer, it never got old: the thrill of seeing a raised head, a flicking tail, and a horse taking off at a dead run.
My addiction,
she had always called it.