Reunited and it feels so good.

Beau

In all my life I’ve never seen storms like the ones pummeling the plains of Montana this spring. I’ve witnessed some bad weather, yes. But the selective bitch of a tornado that cut a path through the ranches of Eastern Montana two days ago was horrific.

She dropped down out of the sky, with no warning, a mile from Whiskey Hill Ranch and zig zagged her way across the state sucking up everything in her path, like a Hoover vacuum.

Thank God I was one of the lucky ones. She picked off a couple outbuildings and a chunk of roof from a small house on the property, but other than that my family ranch was spared the destruction that the surrounding ranches suffered.

When I drove out to see if any of the neighboring ranches needed help, my stomach turned when I saw, or didn’t see, the Rose Deardon Ranch.

I sat in my pickup and gawked at the absence of their big house on the hill, that’s been standing there for over a hundred years. The giant patch of Ponderosa Pine trees that lined one side of their yard, gone. The White Ash trees on the north side to break the bitter winter winds, gone. There was not one scrap, stick, animal or living, breathing thing left of that ranch.

I said a prayer that the Deardons themselves got to safety before the twister scattered their life’s work across the plains of Montana. If it were any other family I would have driven down their road and searched for survivors. But it wasn’t any other family; it was the Deardons, my family’s nemesis. The Hill/Deardon family feud has been going on for a century and I was forbidden from stepping foot on their land, even in life or death situations.

Today the gloomy weather mirrors the loss that every ranch in the area is feeling. The sun has yet to come out and the heavy, dark grey clouds are hanging low in the sky as if to say, I’m not done with you yet.

I steal glances of the empty space on the hill across the road as I turn and make my way to town. Charlotte Deardon’s face flashes in my mind. I used to see her standing on the porch of her family home on top of that hill with her beautiful silky blonde hair being whipped out behind her by the wind. We went to school together for twelve years and never once spoke to each other, but I remember the sparkle of her big round blue eyes. I also remember the way the curve of her ass hit the saddle in a pair of daisy dukes when we were at the same rodeo one summer.

She was perfection to look at but that’s where the appeal ended. She was a Deardon, gorgeous, popular, smart and she knew it, man did she fucking know it. I was glad to be two years ahead of her in high school. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I am a compassionate man and no matter how much bad blood there may be between our families I hope everyone who lived on her ranch made it to safety.

I’m sure Charlotte is fine, she’s been gone for four years, in Iowa, going to school to be a veterinarian. Thoughts of her have been creeping into my mind more often over the past six months, as my subconscious anticipates her return. I wonder if she’s still a brat. I wonder if she’s still cute. I wonder why I give a shit.

Dots of rain start to cover my windshield. I flip on the wipers and slam on my breaks when I’m faced with a 120-foot tall tree lying across the road. I haven’t tried to get into town since the twister hit two days ago and now I realize I can’t.

Stopping the truck, I hop out and walk the length of the tree, assessing what it’s going to take to break it up and clear the road. By the time I have a plan forming in my head the pitter patter of rain has turned into sharp prickles on my skin.

In my truck I crank the heat and switch the wipers on high. When the tree comes back into view, I see a set of headlights cutting through the dark rain, about a half-mile up the road. Whoever it is, they are about to find nature’s roadblock too. I’ll hang out and tell them that I’m coming back with a buzz saw tomorrow. Maybe they’ll want to come and lend a hand.

It’s another truck, a white Chevy like Jake and Sally Deardon’s. So they made it out alive, that’s a blessing and a curse at the same time, for them, not me. Living only to have nothing left, is like not living at all.

The driver’s side door opens and a gust of wind prevents me from seeing who drops out of the cab. The door slams, yanking the woman’s arm with it. Her tiny body is anchored ankle deep in the mud of the road. She’s dressed in blue jeans, a heavy jacket, a straw cowboy hat, that she’s holding on her head with her free hand, and a pair of well-worn turquoise blue cowboy boots.

Those boots. Even through the sheets of rain I recognize them. They were the talk of the school years ago when Charlotte wore them for the first time. That was back when her family was doing well financially and they could afford a three thousand dollar pair of boots for their Barbie doll daughter.

I wait and consider my next move. Should I get out and see if she’s really stuck in the mud like she looks like she is? Should I turn around and drive away? There’s nothing for her to see on this side of the tree anyway. Or should I get out and help her out of the mud and tell her to come back tomorrow, after I’ve had the tree removed from the road?

I want to turn around and drive away. This week has been bad enough. I don’t need the aggravation of a Deardon bitching at me about a tree in the road. But they’ve had a shitty week too, much worse than mine.

I sigh and get out of the truck, shielding my face from the needle sharp raindrops with the collar of my coat. I squish my way to the enormous tree and place my hands on the rough bark to lean forward and yell to Charlotte.

“You stuck?”

She looks down at her feet and back up at me, squinting as the rain pummels her face. The rain and wind is at her back so she can’t hear me. I point at her feet and she nods gripping the side mirror of the truck for balance.

I climb across the tree and close the space between us in three big, gloppy, steps. I don’t make eye contact with her when I reach her. I haven’t seen this woman in four years and I’m sure not much has changed. I imagine she’s still cute, petite, blonde and just as popular in college as she was in High School.

“Put your arm around my waist,” I say directly into her ear so she can hear me in the wind. Her arm circles my waist, and I try to ignore the electric current flowing between us, when I easily lift her out of the mud and plop her into the truck.

Our skin never touches, no taboo body parts make contact, but there is definitely a sort of electrical shock flowing between us, one I’ve never felt before. I didn’t even look at her face but I felt it, whatever it is.

She squeaks out a thank you and with my head still down, hiding under my cowboy hat like a fucking thirteen-year-old prepubescent boy afraid to look a woman in the eye, I slam the door shut and trudge back to my truck.

Not until I’m inside the warm cab do I look up again. Between gusts of wind and sheets of rain I see her sitting where I just placed her moments ago behind the wheel. It’s only for a second but her pretty mouth is set in an O, her cowboy hat has been removed, and her long blonde hair is stuck to her cheeks. I’m frozen staring, gawking. She’s fucking beautiful, not cute and peppy like in high school but natural and stunning. When had that happened?

Charlotte was always pretty, but this woman far outshines the cheerleader, 4H, ranch girl who disappeared to become a vet. College agrees with Charlotte. As much as I dislike the Jake and Sarah Deardon, I am undeniably attracted to their youngest daughter.

This is stupid. I’m a Hill, she’s a Deardon, and nothing’s ever going to change that, or our family’s one hundred plus year old feud. I jam my truck in reverse and turn around in the road, leaving the fallen tree and the most beautiful and unobtainable woman I’ve ever known behind me.