Stuart

Evan Robertson sits across from us at the table, tracing his finger over the rim of his coffee cup. Conway Hendricks is beside him, and it appears the two of them have been here a while before us.

“So you’re thinking about staying, I hear.” Conway lifts his mug and takes a long drink of coffee.

I look down at the half-eaten Spanish omelet in front of me weighing my response. My uncle is clearly older, on the edge of retirement, and they’re the vultures circling.

“It’s something we’re talking about,” I say, which is pretty much the truth.

“Interesting.” Conway stabs a piece of sausage on his plate. I watch as he puts the salty pork in his chubby mouth and evaluates me with a calculating glare.

What the fuck? When did these assholes get so mercenary?

“What difference does it make?” I’m not worried about what they think of me. I’m making decisions based on my little family. “Nothing would change from the way we do business now.”

Evan nods, scooping a bite of bright yellow scrambled egg onto his fork. “You’re right,” he says, putting it in his mouth.

I sit back and sip my coffee as I watch him. Clearly these fellows think they’re dealing with a greenhorn.

“The difference is if you decide it’s not what you want to do. We need to know how soon that decision will be made.”

My brow lines. “It sounds like you think it’s going to be made.”

Conway clears his throat and shifts in his chair. “That’s a pretty little gal I’ve seen on your arm, Stuart.”

“What of it?” My eyes blaze into this bastard who has the audacity to drag Mariska into this.

Evan exhales a nervous laugh. “Just past experience. Seems the only women who want to stay in Great Falls is the women who grew up in Great Falls. Nothing more.”

He has a point, but I’ll be damned if I concede. I won’t leave Bill at the mercy of these guys. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Mariska has a lot of spirit. She likes it here.”

They both make subservient grunting noises and hastily back away from any insult to my fiancée. “I’m sure she’s quite a gal,” Conway says. “We wish you both all the best. And in the meantime, we have to think about our plans.”

I’m about ready to tell him what he can do with his plans when my phone buzzes. I glance down, ready to dismiss it, but I see the words on the face. All the air leaves my lungs as the words materialize on my brain.

Mariska injured. Go to Missouri River General ASAP.

I’m out of the booth, a distant roaring sound in my ears. Where is Missouri River General? I have to believe a cab driver can take me to her. I’m out the door on the street looking up and down. Not a lot of cabs around this part of town. My lungs tighten and it’s difficult to inhale.

“Stuart.” My uncle grabs my arm roughly. “Come on. Truck’s over here.”

---

My sister is crying softly in the background. My mother holds her, stroking her hair, but even Sylvia’s face is pale with fear.

She’s not waking up.

I’m standing in the doorway of the hospital room, fighting to breathe against the pressure in my chest. The fucking nurse almost wouldn’t let me back here because we’re not married. I think the fire in my eyes was enough to convince her she’d better get the fuck out of my way.

Mariska’s tiny body is in the bed. A white bandage covers her head and an array of tubes run from her to monitors and machines making whirring and beeping noises. I want to hold her, soothe her, but I can’t seem to move my legs.

The doctor is talking to my mother and Bill. His words float around me just outside the scrim of torment clouding my brain.

We’re keeping her sedated so her body can rest and heal itself without stress, he says.

A bandage covers one arm. She’s lying on her back, with her eyes closed, her beautiful face pale.

She hit the back of her head pretty hard when she fell, but we haven’t detected a concussion, he continues. Since the injury is near her occipital lobe, I’ve ordered a full brain scan and test of brain function.

Sylvia asks what that means.

The occipital lobe is the primary visual cortex, he says. Extreme blunt force trauma in that location can cause blindness.

My mother does a little wail, and my shoulders collapse. I grip the wall unable to imagine my beautiful artist blind, the light forever extinguished in those sunset eyes.

Let’s not anticipate disaster. Her injuries are severe, but she has no broken bones. The doctor takes a long pause, drawing all our eyes. It appears she tried to protect her stomach, but… I’m so sorry to have to say this. The placenta abrupted. We did all we could, but the fetus was expelled.

My eyes squeeze shut, and I grip the doorjamb. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. All I can see is the little body lying on its back with its feet up. That little baby Mariska was sure was a girl.

…the fetus was expelled.

Pain rips through my heart, leaving it bloody and torn. My mother’s sniffling joins my sister’s tears. I turn my head slightly to look at Mariska lying on the bed, her body still and empty.

“Will she be all right?” Sylvia’s voice is shaky.

“Oh, she should make a full recovery,” the doctor assures her.

He has no fucking idea what he’s talking about. Mariska will not recover from this. He leaves the room, and I hear Bill’s deep voice soothing my mother. I hear Amy’s whispering sobs.

“I couldn’t get her out,” she weeps. “That little horse kept screaming and kicking. I didn’t know what to do. I was so afraid.”

At that, the tension in my chest explodes. I said I would protect her, and when she needed me the most, where the fuck was I? I gave her that horse. I taught her to trust it. I gave her the thing that killed her dreams. All of this is my fault.

My mind clouds, and I turn on my heel stalking out of the room. I vaguely hear someone call my name, but it’s a small hospital. I’m at Bill’s truck in less than three minutes, jerking the door open without a backwards glance. I shove the transmission into drive, jam the accelerator to the floor, and squeal out of the parking lot.

So many questions torment my mind as I drive. How could I leave her this morning? Why did we come here? Mariska wanted to go to summer school. We didn’t need to be here. It was a selfish trip, motivated by my wants and desires. I did this.

These thoughts torment my mind. Rage and guilt war in my chest, until I pull into the yard of the ranch house. Slamming the stick into park, I throw the door open, storming into the main house. Winona is at the kitchen table, and I vaguely recognize she has several small candles lit. She’s clutching a rosary, and when she sees me, her eyebrows lift expectantly. I don’t stop.

I know what I’m looking for, and I know where to find it. I’m in Bill’s office, going to the cabinet behind his desk. The glass door is locked, but the key is on the top. I use it to access the row of six heavy rifles.

When I was younger, before I entered the service, Bill would let me take one out and hold it, admiring the craftsmanship. Sometimes he and I would set up a target on the prairie and practice shooting. He would show me how to load a gun and care for it. Those days were long gone, and I’m a fucking Marine.

Pulling out the largest rifle in the case, I grab the box of ammunition, tossing it on the desk. A few shiny bronze bullets the length of my thumb fall out, and I grab two. Bending the long, metal barrel down, I shove them into the chamber and snap it shut with a loud clatch.

I stride through the main room, my boots making a dull thump on the floor as I head for the door. Another exclamation from Winona, but I don’t stop. I’m in the yard headed for the barn. My boots are a sharp thud as I enter the large, open space. Ranger’s head lifts over his stall, but I don’t stop. I’m moving quickly to the last two boxes in the row.

Freckles moves back and forth in her pen. First her head is over the door then she turns and goes to the back of her stall. It’s the final one I’m interested in.

Lifting the latch, I allow the wooden door to fall open beside me. Standing in the entrance, I level my gaze on the little horse stamping in place at the back of the small corral. She lets out a soft whinny and pushes her body against the back wall.

The taste of metal is in my mouth, and resolve solidifies in my chest. Dumb beast. Mindless killer. I hear my sister’s hysterical cries. She wouldn’t stop kicking. I was so afraid. I didn’t know how to make her stop.

Lifting the gun, I position the stock against my shoulder and hold it straight. The little horse stills as I level the barrel at her head. As if remembering something, she turns to face me. She takes a step toward me as if to put her nose into my chest, but I halt her with the cold steel of the gun. I set my aim on the white circle directly between her eyes.

Time seems to slow. We’re in a place of justice and revenge. The guilty stands before me convicted. Her black eyes locked on mine, and I tighten my finger slowly on the trigger. My breath stills as I wait for the blast of the gun. Only those dumb black eyes make me hesitate, and in that hesitation, in that half-life between conviction and wavering, I hear my name.

“Stuart! NO!” The gun is shoved up just as my finger pulls the trigger.

A deafening blast shatters the quiet of the barn, and all the horses react. I stumble against the wall, Ron on top of me, pushing me back. The little horse, already spooked from before, is now wild with fear. She jumps and runs, pushing past us into the alley, and then, as if knowing it’s her last chance, she bolts, spread out in a full gallop, from the barn and into the prairie.

Ron pushes off of me, his face creased with sadness. He grips the barrel of the rifle, and my hands drop. I don’t move from where I’m collapsed against the wooden wall.

“I couldn’t let you do it,” he says in that raspy voice I’ve known since I was a teenager.

I don’t answer. My eyes fix on a stain of blood, a messy disturbance in the damp hay on the floor.

“How is Miss Mariska doin’?” he asks.

For a moment, I can’t speak. I can only see how she must have looked, a broken little heap on the floor of this stall. Someone said it was Ron who finally got in and pulled her out. Darkness floods my brain.

“Let them cut it up.” My voice is as rough and broken as I feel. “I don’t want it anymore. Cut it up and sell it.”

Pushing past him, I stagger to the house and grab the unopened bottle of Macallan off the wet bar. Without even packing a bag, I grab the keys to the rented Silverado and head out across the plain. I can’t take this pain. I have to go to the cabin.