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Storms Never Last Ch. 01

By: JakeRivers



Author's Note:

This is my seventh semi-annual "invitational." The initial one was based on the Statler Brother's song, "This Bed of Rose's." The most recent invitational included songs written or performed by Willie Nelson. The current effort consists of stories based on song titles that have a weather term in them, such as "Stormy Weather, "Foggy Mountain Top," "Dusty Skies", "Heat Wave", "Summertime Blues," and "Ballad of Thunder Road."

For this story I've chosen, "Storms Never Last." This was written by Jesse Coulter, and the version I have is by Jessi with her husband, Waylon Jennings.

"Storms never last do they baby? Bad times all pass with the wind. Your hand in mine stills the thunder, And you make the sun want to shine."

 Thanks to Raoul Tirant for his editing assistance. Regards, Jake

PART 1—Humpty Dumpty

Prologue

I didn't mean to surprise her like I did. I was somewhat irritated with Annie, but not really mad. I've always been a very direct person. By that I mean when something bothers me, I don't sit around and stew about it ... I react at once and say what I feel. Sometimes that's good. I have some buddies I talk to, and when a bump in the road comes along, they worry and worry at it—like a dog gnawing at a bone, making themselves upset over something that usually turns out to be trivial.

I like to think of the problems that arise in life and in a marriage as a storm. Forgetting to stop at the store was like a gentle spring rain. Losing a job might be like a summer thunder storm—lots of flash and noise but not an insurmountable problem. A death in the family would be like a tsunami bringing terror and disruption. What works for me in this analogy is it makes it easier to wrap my head around the "storms" that life brings.

A good example of how I am happened a few months ago. I'd noticed that the tires on Annie's Lexus weren't showing very much tread depth. I mentioned it to her, "Honey, the tires on your car are starting to wear. I'll keep my eye on them, but they're good for another six months or so." It wasn't important—she didn't really need to know about it—but I like to keep her informed. It wasn't two weeks later she came home from work with new tires on her car. Now I could have stewed about it and worked up a good mad for her wasting the money for new tires that weren't needed yet. Not me. I went to her and casually mentioned,

"I noticed your car has new tires."

"Oh,Terry. I forgot to tell you. I got a call yesterday from the dealer. They had an emergency recall notice. It was something about the tires overheating at higher speeds on a long trip on a hot day. They said that since it was a safety item they would be replaced by the tire manufacturer at no charge. I dropped the car off on the way to work and picked it up on the way home. Their shuttle bus took me right to the hospital and picked me up after work."

See. No worries. No incipient ulcer. I had a concern. I addressed it ... not a big deal.

Of course it doesn't always work that way. One day, a year or so after we got married, she spent the day at the spa. She got the works: massage, manicure, pedicure, hair fixed up, and whatever other secret things women do at these places that men don't really understand. She walked in the door, pleased with herself—and rightfully so. She had a smile on her face; she looked good and she knew it. I walked around her, doing my own admiring.

"I like, babe! You look great!" I paused; there was one little thing. So in my direct way I added, "With your hair like that it does make your face look kinda round."

Okay, that didn't work. I shoulda thought that one through a little more. Generally, over the years though, I think my being straightforward has saved me a lot of heartburn. Until today, that is.

We have this deal: for birthdays, we have agreed to a limit of a grand for each other's presents. That might sound like a lot, but we are pretty well off. Annie is an ophthalmologist with a specialty in ocular oncology, tumors of the eye and its appendages. I'm a writer, mostly adventure novels. I'm not top tier or anything like that. I do crank out two or three books a year and make enough that we could live quite comfortably, even if Annie didn't work at all. In addition I write articles for several magazines, mostly outdoor oriented, or anything involving wine. The last effort was for a well-known fishing magazine, and was about a fly-in fishing trip I'd taken to northern British Columbia. It had been a great vacation to Muncho Lake where I could fish for any mix of walleye, northern pike, lake trout, arctic grayling, rainbow trout, or Dolly Varden. The article paid quite well for the small amount of time I put into it, but it was more of a labor of love than just for the money.

I'd been rummaging around in Annie's desk looking for an extra key for the lock on the gate on the side of the house—somehow I'd lost the one I kept in my glove box of my truck. I noticed a manila envelope with the logo and address info for Travis Marine, a local high-volume boat and trailer dealer. Curious, I opened the flap and pulled out a birthday card and a yellow, folded up form. It was a copy of an invoice for a new boat, a fifteen foot 2008 Boston Whaler Montauk.

Damn, that was my dream boat. I'd drooled over it at the boat show at the Cow Palace in San Francisco the previous January. Annie almost had to drag me away from it. This was a hard one. We did have a deal about limits for birthday presents but, damn! This was something I'd been lusting after for years. But the price! With the new trailer that was on the order form it was as much as the new Ford 250 with all the bells and whistles I'd splurged on a few months ago when I got a particularly nice royalty check. (The nice thing about writing was that I didn't get money just for my latest book, but royalty payments for all the ones I'd written over the years.)

So, in my direct way, I walked into the kitchen where Annie was making a Grand Marnier soufflé for dessert. She'd just put the eggs on the counter when I walked in. She turned her head and smiled at me, surprised to see me in the kitchen. I announced, with no inflection— it wasn't a big deal—I just wanted to discuss it.

"I know what you did."

She froze ... a look of horror on her face. She put her hands on her face and in lifting her hands her finger gently nudged one of the eggs. It started rolling, slowly, toward the edge. It was like watching a traffic accident; time seemed to freeze; a movie played a frame at a time. The egg was six inches from the edge of the counter. I had a feeling of impending disaster. Five inches. In one of those strange associations the brain makes, the story of Humpty Dumpty came to mind:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses,

And all the king's men,

Couldn't put Humpty together again.

Four inches. It was clear there was no stopping the egg; disaster was imminent. Three inches. That was a strange reaction from Annie. I mean, it's not like I'd make her return the boat. It was merely something we should talk about; make sure we were on the same page. Two inches. The egg was gathering steam. One inch. The brain in its miraculous way makes lightening fast connections. Would the egg stop on the barely noticeable lip on the edge of the tile, or did it have enough momentum to get past that barrier? I'd recently watched the movie, "Match Point," again. The opening scene is the playing for the key point in a tennis match. The ball hits the net and drops, barely over ... or not, and decides a championship on a turn of the ball. The egg would roll over and crash like Humpty Dumpty ... or not, on a turn of the egg.

Of course, the egg had a full head of steam by now, and almost jumped over the edge (passing thought, did good old Humpty commit suicide? Inquiring minds want to know), and, almost ponderously, rotated ass over teakettle. One oval end wobbled over the other, slowly, inevitably down to the hard tile floor.

Normal speed. Impressions: pieces of egg shell scattered hither and yon, egg white splashed on the counter base, bright yellow yolk on the toe of Annie's blue sneakers. Colorful, really; a new fashion statement? A sob from Annie. Her face was as white as the remnants of the egg shell scattered like confetti over the rust colored Italian terra cotta tile; nice contrast.

Conclusion: Something is seriously wrong.

Chapter One

I am somewhat unusual in that not only am I a native Californian, but I was actually born in San Francisco. The name on the birth certificate is Terry Fisher, the same name as my dad and grandfather used. When I was twelve my dad told the Bank of California exactly where they could put their Senior VP position (hint; the sun don't shine there!), whereupon he purchased a couple hundred acres of Zinfandel grape vines in Dry Creek Valley, in Sonoma County. The owner was an old time Italian grower and after he died of something related to old age, his equally ancient widow was willing to deal fast and cheap. The vineyard was close below the dam under construction that would hold back the future Lake Sonoma, and was spread on both sides of Dry Creek. The valley was almost the exact size of Manhattan Island, but as bucolic as New York was citified.

Dad sold our quasi-mansion in Pacific Heights for enough moola to buy the vineyard. This was before property in Napa and Sonoma counties suitable for vineyards went through the roof. We moved, and found the vineyards and outbuildings were in great shape but the house was marginal. It was a rambling ranch house with rooms added over the years since the original three room house had been built around nineteen hundred. Dad did a lot of the work but farmed out the new electrical and plumbing systems, a new roof, and new kitchen cabinets and appliances. That still left a huge amount of work that we didn't finish until I was fifteen. Yeah, we. I helped, and learned a ton of skills that were to prove useful for the rest of my life.

Everyone kept telling him that he could make a lot more money if he started making his own wine, but he didn't want the hassle. His favorite time was winter when there wasn't much to do. I'd come home on the school bus from Healdsburg of an afternoon, and he would be sitting on the front porch fidgeting with one of his ever present briar pipes and gazing over the vineyards at peace with life and with himself. He neither needed nor wanted the added complexity (and inherent laws!) of owning a commercial winery.

Not that he couldn't, or wouldn't make wine. Tucked in a corner of the property, cut off by a small rise, were two acres of Zin vines planted somewhere around the early 1890s and just under an acre of Alicante Bouschet, much younger at forty years of age. In an ancient redwood vat in the barn he would make wine of various mixes of the two grapes depending on the relative productivity of the two fields, or our regular tasting of different blends ... which I participated in from the beginning. He and I would sit in the barn doing blind samplings of the various mixes. We would argue back and forth about the relative merits of each glass.

The wine was a bit different each year. The original settlers of Dry Creek Valley were mostly Italian immigrants... with a healthy influx of French predating the Italians by a few years. In Italy at that time it was common that famers would all make their own wine. When they got to Sonoma County they did the same as in the old country: they would pick whatever grapes they and/or their neighbors had on hand. A typical wine of that early period might contain a mix such as some combination of Petite Sirah, Zinfandel, Alicante Bouschet and Carignane. The end product was hearty red wines that the farmers either consumed themselves, gave to family, friends or neighbors, or bartered for other needed items—such as barrels.

The tasting of the aging wines was something formal: it might take us a couple of hours and the reloading of Dad's pipe several times before he—seriously considering my input—would decide. Some days we never reached a conclusion and had to try again the next day. I don't remember that we ever spit, but I clearly recall that I enjoyed the wine and became very close to my father. We would drink some of the bottled wine, give it to family or friends, or drive around to different wineries and trade for some of their wines. He particularly liked the wineries up in the Anderson Valley in Mendocino County, where I picked up a lifetime love of late harvest dessert wines, especially Gewürztraminer and Riesling.

I got started on fishing—and the associated boating—through Annie, Annie Fielding. She was one grade behind me in school, and we caught the bus at the same stop. It was about four blocks for her and twice that for me. I had to go by her place before and after school and stopped by often on the way home to eat a slab of pie, help her with homework, or ride one of their horses with her. Neither of us had siblings, so we gravitated to being best friends. She was mature for her age, and I was just as immature for mine, so it worked out.

Her folks had about forty acres of orchard, mostly prunes and peaches, with enough apple trees to provide an inexhaustible supply of fruit for pies. I was amazed at the number of different ways Annie's mom could make apple pie. The plan when they bought the property was to work out a deal with a winery for them to plant and maintain vineyards, so all her dad would have to do is fish and collect an annual check depending on market price of grapes and the yield for that year. Debra, Annie's mom, had an annuity from her grandfather that didn't make them rich, but did allow them to live in the country, and keep him with a good fishing boat and trailer. It took a few years to make the vineyard thing happen, and for a local winery to rip out the orchard (except for the several apple trees in back of their house).

Annie loved to go with her dad, Allen, out on some lake—mostly Lake Sonoma (after it was completed) up behind Warm Springs Dam—and spend several hours dawdling more than anything. Truth be told, she was a better fisherman (fishergirl?) than her dad. He mostly liked to float around in the boat, smoking on some God-awful smelling cigar (that he wasn't allowed by the little woman to smoke anywhere near the house), and sip some of my dad's wine, or maybe polish off a couple of cans of beer. I was invited to fish with them about the fourth or fifth time I was at their house, the first time I'd been over for dinner.

When we first moved up there, Allen would mostly go to Lake Mendocino, sometimes Lake Pillsbury and rarely Lake Berryessa. Twice our combined families went all the way up to Lake Shasta, which was huge. We would rent a houseboat there, towing Allen's boat behind so we could go off and fish when the mood struck us. Warm Springs Dam was under construction when we moved from San Francisco in nineteen eighty. Five years later it was finished and started filling up with water. It took a while for Lake Sonoma to fill and the water to clear, but it became the place to go, and as it turned out, after that we almost never went anyplace else. The fishing turned out to be great; mostly trout, bass, catfish and sunfish. There were two main arms of the reservoir opening up behind the dam; one about four miles long and one about nine miles, so there was a lot of room to find a quiet spot.

Up to the time I was fifteen, the "best pals" relationship held solid. We were close friends based on proximity, common interests, and the relative isolation of our houses. Then, after school on an overcast day in December, everything changed forever between us. It had been raining intermittently all day and, just as the bus pulled away after letting us off, it started pouring. I grabbed Annie's hand as we dashed for a large oak tree about fifty yards away. By the time we got there, we were both soaked. Annie was wearing an open sweater with a skirt and a white blouse. Her blouse was transparent from the soaking we got, and her bra was some thin lacy material that certainly wasn't opaque.

When we got under the tree, we turned to each other, laughing as we were wont to do all the time. I stared at her chest and felt almost dizzy with shock. I'm sure I realized at some level that Annie had breasts, but I had never really thought about it. I mean, she was Annie, that's all. She was my fishing buddy, my playmate, and my study partner ... all of those. But the thing was, she never had tits! Well, she did of course, but now, for the first time, I could actually see them. They were about the size of a small tangerine (and sometime later I found out they were just as sweet), and they seemed, to my not exactly discerning eye, to be mostly nipples. I swear I was having hot flashes.

She saw me staring and looked down to see what was absorbing all my attention. She looked up with a confused look on her face. She started, "Terry, what ..." and I panicked. I threw my arms around her, pulling her close. I pressed my mouth on hers with it open as I'd heard guys at school talking about. I hadn't been paying that much attention at the time, but they called it French kissing and it was supposed to make the girls hot. At the time I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded good. She stood there for a minute while I slobbered all over her face. I was big on enthusiasm and lousy on skill.

She suddenly tore away from me and ran in the still heavy rain to her house. I stood there; flummoxed as only a teenager can be, frozen between a fully expected, and just, retribution from her father and a strange excitement coming from a feeling that life would never be the same again in some mysterious, exciting way. I made my way home, slowly, knowing my life wouldn't be over until after I got home. There was safety in meandering around the rows of dormant grape vines. Finally, I got home, half frozen, having ensured I would have a nasty cold that would keep me home from school for three days. That night, in my feverish state, I imagined phones ringing, doorbells dinging, heated arguments with Old Testament fury. I wasn't sure if it would be Annie's father or mine; I was afraid of one of them coming in and yanking me out of bed, and ... I couldn't imagine past that point.

Finally, I was back at the bus stop on a cold, crisp, sunny morning, as beautiful as anywhere on earth could be. Annie wasn't there, but just as the bus driver started to close the door she came running up. When she saw me, she blushed furiously, and walked past, pretending not to see me. I was crushed. In all my worrying, I hadn't really thought about what Annie was feeling. Nothing I had done had changed the closeness I felt for her. Added to our existing relationship was, for me at least, a new sense of excitement, of undiscovered (was I really thinking at the time, uncovered?) things waiting to happen.

I, probably somewhat naively, assumed she would be feeling the same way. When she walked down the aisle of the bus, pretending not to see me, I was humiliated. She always sat by me. In the three years that we had been riding the bus to school, there wasn't a single time we hadn't sat together. Teens being what they are, there was an immediate twittering floating around the bus like confetti. All the girls in the rows ahead of me were turned around, staring at me with unabashed curiosity. I started to turn, to see how Annie was taking things.

I didn't know my feelings then, but some years later I heard a song by George Jones that pretty well covered my confused feelings on that momentous day:


Storms Never Last Ch. 01



"Now the race is on,

And here comes pride in the backstretch.

Heartaches goin' to the inside, My tears are holdin' back, they're tryin' not to fall."

I had a sudden upwelling of pride along with a good dose of stubbornness. I refused to give in and turn around. I felt betrayed. I'd watched Casablanca with my mom the year before, but it was clear now that they had it wrong: a kiss is not just a kiss. A kiss changes everything, and for the first time I had glimmerings of how sex—in any and all of its manifestations—could ... would change a relationship.

Nevertheless, I was above that. I didn't need Annie. I started thinking about other girls at school, Janis in my math class, María, the quiet, but pretty girl in that I worked with on a project for science class. Faces, bodies, kept floating through my mind in some strange montage. By the time the bus pulled up at the junior high (this was a small school district with few students towards the east end of Dry Creek Valley—normally intermediate school and high school students would be on separate busses, but for this small district there just wasn't the money), I was feeling better. I'd never thought much about pride, but starting then and for the years to come, I thought about it a great deal. The kids piled off at the last stop before the high school and started making their way down the aisle, pushing and shoving, taking twice as long to get off as they would if they walked off in an orderly manner.

I was looking out the window when I felt something drop on my lap. I turned around to see Annie stepping off the bus when a tightly folded piece of paper dropped on my lap. I looked to see if anyone noticed my red face, but I was isolated within the crowd. With more than a little embarrassment, I pushed the note down into the deep pocket of my coat. I left it there until lunch time, and then walked to the football field and climbed up to the highest row of the bleachers. I looked around but no one was anywhere near.

I slowly unfolded the paper and started trying to decipher it. The letter had clearly been written on the bus. The pencil took off in random directions, words, and even lines were scratched out. I mean, really scratched out, the pencil having gone over the word or line many times. I eventually made out the contents, and then read it again with trepidation, followed by wonderment, then excitement, with a grand flourish of fear at the end.

Dearest Terry,

I've so looked forward to seeing you these last days. It wasn't until yesterday when your mom was visiting that I learned you had a cold.

That day was so strange. You were looking at me --there—and when I looked down, my God, you could see everything! I was so embarrassed but at the same time I felt weak. I couldn't breathe, my knees were shaking. Then you kissed me and it was like I must be in Heaven. Then I was confused. What were you doing? What did you want? I didn't know but whatever you wanted, I was ready to give it to you.

You were kissing me! Oh, Terry, you really were. Then suddenly the only thing I could think of was ... I didn't know how to kiss. What if you were disappointed? I was confused; what should I do? So I just ran.

Terry, darling, I've loved you since I met you, but I didn't know what it meant until that wonderful kiss. You changed my world, my life. I die a thousand times a day waiting for your next kiss, wanting you to hold me in your strong arms again. When I got on the bus I didn't know what to do, so I panicked and ran for the back of the bus. Forgive me, dear Terry, for not sitting with you.

Yours until the sun sets a million times,

Annie

I read it and read it, but it said the same thing each time. The rest of the day went by with me in a constant daze. I kept thinking that Annie was there for me to ... enjoy. It was exciting. Then I had a new feeling. Annie was something precious. I felt—protective. The two traits my folks had always instilled in me were honesty and responsibility. I was responsible for Annie. It was a sobering and scary thought.

After school, when the bus stopped at the junior high, Annie got on, quietly walking down the aisle and sitting next to me. When the bus started again, she put her hand under my arm and snuggled close. I felt a peace, and sense of pride, in me that I'd never felt before.

When the school bus let us off, we stood there for a minute, watching it pull away. Without a word being said we started walking towards her house. When we got the big oak, Annie pulled me off the road and, standing in front of me, she hugged me tight, putting her head on my chest. After a minute, I held her too, and we stood there together as one for a long time. Finally, she stepped back and turning her face up, gave me a quick kiss.

Taking my hand, she started skipping down her lane, pulling me along with her. When we got to her porch, she caressed my cheek, and smiled. I walked home, feeling all was right with the world.

Chapter Two

The next few years seemed to fly by as our love grew. We made no pretenses that we were just pals, and openly showed our affection in front of our families. We had an ongoing discussion, which years later gave me the feeling that we were more mature than we thought at that time. About six months after that first furtive kiss we talked about our relationship. We were in her barn sitting on a bale of hay, just after finishing one of our ever more progressive petting sessions. For the first time, I'd had my hand on her bare breasts—she not having a bra on certainly facilitated my being able to do that.

"Terry, I love you, you must know how much. I realize that you care just as much for me. We haven't talked about it, but I can't imagine that we won't spend our lives together."

I took the opportunity to pull her close, nuzzling my face in her hair. I can take a hint.

She continued, "We haven't said anything to our families, but I'm sure they realize that our feelings toward each other have changed. I don't want to hide our love; if they know about it, I'm sure they would feel more comfortable if we showed it naturally. Do you see what I mean?"

"Yeah, I do. My dad has always expected me to be honest with him. Do you mean that we should maybe, like hold hands and maybe even share a kiss when we see each other and when we leave?"

"That's it, Terry. I don't think we should be, well, crude, but they know we have something special, and if it's not visible, they are going to worry that more is happening than is really the case." She leaned back and hit my arm, "I know you want a lot more than what we are doing, but I don't think we should do anything more than that," she blushed furiously as she looked down at her lap, "You know, down there."

Yeah, I knew exactly what "down there" meant.

I actually did agree with her, which probably made me some kind of nut case for a sophomore to be. I pushed her hair back and looked into her eyes, "Sure, Annie, I know. I want to spend my life with you ... I can't imagine a world without you in it. There are some things we can do when we are alone." I put my hand on one of her small, but growing breasts, caressing it gently. "But I'm okay with showing our affection. Shoot, they must be okay with it, or they would have said something."

A couple of days later I followed up with mom and dad at dinner. "Unh, can I talk about Annie?"

Mom smiled and nodded.

"Well, umm, this is hard for me, but Annie and I like each other, a lot!"

Mom put her hand on mine and rubbed it, but dad faked a look of shock and said, "My God, I had no idea."

"Come on, Dad. This is important. You know how you have always talked to me about responsibility, right?" Looking more serious, he nodded. "Well, Annie, well, we talked about, you know, sex and stuff. We want you to know that ... nothing will happen until we are in college. I mean, mom, dad, you can trust us. We don't want to hide our love from you. We want to share it."

Mom stood up, and with tears welling in her eyes, and gave me a big hug."

Annie had a similar talk with her parents and after that we were gradually more open with our love. We agreed that we shouldn't do anything in front of them that would embarrass us if they did the same thing. We were somewhat surprised how easy it was. After a few months, it was nothing for Annie to come in and plop down on my lap while I was watching television with my parents.

~~~~~

The next several years flew by. We had a fight once in a while, but never anything serious. Sometimes I think we invented a problem just so we could have the ever sweeter make-up, make-out session.

I graduated first and started the following fall at the University of California at Davis. I entered their renowned Enology program ... I had a vague idea that I wanted to be a winemaker. I enjoyed the classes and knew that what I learned would always be valuable no matter what I did. In high school, I'd gradually started writing more seriously. In particular I had an English teacher that took an interest in me. I had two classes from her, but even when I wasn't in her classes, she bugged me to keep writing, mostly short stories and critical essays. I wrote some poetry, but when Annie kept laughing at my efforts, I quickly gave that up.

Mrs. Stewart, the English teacher, said I had talent, and over my four years of high school, I began to believe in myself. I was on the school paper—the editor my senior year—and while I enjoyed journalism, I knew that wasn't for me. It was the same with non-fiction writing in general. I had some skill, but the excitement for me was in creating an environment, a world if you will, from nothing. I always felt a strange sense of excitement as I created people, the personalities, their relationships ... everything about them out of thin air. I felt a wonderful sense of satisfaction when I got it right; and was happy even when I didn't.

My junior year, I bowed to reality and changed my major to creative writing. I'd talked it over with my dad, almost feeling like I should apologize to him.

"Terry, let me tell you how it was with me. When I got out of college the first job I was offered was with the Bank of California. I never worked anywhere else. You know, son, I came to hate it! However, with a family and a mortgage I was locked in. The more my responsibility and salary increased, the more I came to hate what I was doing. All I really wanted to do was to sit on a porch somewhere in the country, and have my family near while I smoked my pipe and sipped a glass of good wine.

"With my vast experience," he laughed at this, "I can only say, do what you enjoy. If you don't get satisfaction from your work you will certainly be unhappy. Keep in mind what I've always told you about responsibility though: do what you want, but do it in such a way you can care for yourself and your loved ones. You know you have my blessing in any case."

So I changed my major. Even though I preferred fiction, I quickly realized there was (for me) some relatively easy money to be made doing other things. The first opportunity was something I stumbled into. At a dinner party at the home of the owner of one of the local wineries I made a contact with someone from the local Santa Rosa paper. After a couple of glasses of wine and much discussion, he suggested I try writing a series of articles on tasting rooms of wineries in Sonoma County. He suggested trying the winery of our host first, an idea I liked since I knew him well.

He literally dragged me over to talk to the winery owner. The guy loved the idea. I wound up visiting the place a couple of times. Jeff, the guy that we had been talking to, suggested I go in blind the first time. Later I talked to the winemaker and several other members of the staff and eventually wrote an article that both paid well and was well received. By the time I finished, I'd written over thirty weekly reviews and made enough to pay for my senior year of school.

~~~~~

During my first year at Davis, I came home most every weekend and holiday. Once or twice I needed to stay at school to complete a project or study for an exam, but it was rare when I didn't see my folks and Annie at the end of each week. I'd stayed in the dorm for my first year—the school required it—but I had no interest in continuing to do that. With what I got for a few writing efforts and a bit of help from dad, I was able to find a small studio apartment close to the school for that next fall term. Annie, of course, when she started at Davis a year after me, would also have to do the dorm thing for her first year.

We each told her folks when we got ready to go back for my third year and her second that she was moving in with me. We weren't sure what they thought, but they didn't say much. I think they were just happy that we had waited that long to have sex. And we did wait. It wasn't easy, but the wait was well worth it that first night after we moved in together. In a way it was anticlimactic, but still passionate in a caring sort of way. We knew each other so well by that time that it seemed loving each other was the most natural, but wonderful, thing in the world. What we had just felt so right, though to make sure of that we kept trying with some frequency.

Annie had always dreamed of being a surgeon. She had lost a cousin, who was also her best friend, to leukemia when the girl was ten. Since then, her dream was to help people with cancer. Her first four years at UC Davis were spent in an aggressive pre-med program. She was a much better student than I was, more focused on learning, not just going for results. When she was studying, she was so tightly focused that I might not as well have existed. She had this gift of walking away from whatever class she was working on and turning that same intense focus on me, totally bringing me into her life almost instantly. I never felt shut out; I had a great admiration for her intensity because I was the happy recipient of that same dedicated attention.

When I graduated, I split my time between our small studio apartment and living at home. As Annie received her BA and moved on to her medical studies I began writing seriously. I started a novel based on a short story I'd been able to get published. I also started a wine column that I was able to get into several local papers and tourist magazines. I had a different focus than some of the other wine writers. Instead of comparing a few wines each week, I would discuss a varietal such as Pinot Noir, its history, and a couple of wineries that produced it. It was in depth reporting: info about the winery, the winemaker, interesting things about the winery such as gardens, picnic areas and if they had a restaurant attached what the menu was like.

I started getting known in the area and had a number of wineries asking me to write fluff articles for them. It felt it bit like not being real writing, but it paid well.

Annie had this amazing ability to live in two worlds. When I was with her, she made me feel like the most important person in the world. When I wasn't there she was totally wrapped up in what would turn out to be both her vocation and avocation. Throughout our later life, she mostly read trade journals and technical articles about her specialty, ocular oncology.

When she finally got her degree, we decided to go ahead and get married. We had a small ceremony at her home, and instead of a honeymoon we moved on down to Mountain View. She had been accepted for her internship at Stanford, but since we clearly wouldn't be able to afford to live in Palo Alto, we looked at the neighboring cities. We found a nice two bedroom apartment a few miles south of the campus. We set up the second bedroom as an office for both of us, putting in two desks.

We moved down right after the wedding, so we could get acclimated to the area. The bonus was a plethora of fine restaurants. Annie spent the summer as a research assistant at Stanford helping to classify results of cancer studies. She did volunteer some time at their hospital getting to know people, particularly doctors and nurses in her area of interest.

Chapter Three

After her internship, Annie was offered a position at the UC Davis Hospital. Moving back to Davis worked out well for me. We found a nice three bedroom, two bath house in a good area in Vacaville, just a twenty minute drive from the hospital. The distance for my work wasn't bad; it was maybe a half-hour drive to Napa. When I needed to drive to western or northern Sonoma County, I'd just stay overnight at my folks place. I usually did this every other week or so. I'd generally stay for two nights on those trips.

One thing that caused us a lot of unhappiness and stress was that Annie suffered a miscarriage. We hadn't specifically decided to have children, but if it happened, we agreed that this would be a good time. Initially, of course, her pregnancy was a time of joy and triggered much excited planning. We, and her gynecologist, had no expectations of any problems. Annie was healthy and the baby looked fine. Afterwards we met with her doctor, Ginger Wilson. She had run a wide spectrum of tests to try to isolate the cause.

"There's no easy way to put this. A developing baby is half made up of foreign genetic material from the father. Some women have miscarriages—I should say repeated miscarriages --because their bodies see a baby as an invading organism and attack it with antibodies. Normally, many elements of the immune system work together to ensure that your body does not reject the baby. However, when this coordination fails, a miscarriage virtually always follows."

Annie turned white, and asked, "Is there any treatment?"

The doctor put her hand on Annie's, holding it tight. "No, honey, there isn't. There are some experimental procedures, but I would strongly recommend against them."

Annie was silently crying, and grabbing at straws, I asked, "Is it just my "contribution" that her body rejects?"

"No, Terry, it doesn't really make any difference who is the contributor. Her body just rejects the intrusion."

We were both down for several months, Annie more than me. She didn't want to take any drugs for the depression that came upon her, it being no surprise to either of us. She did meet with a therapist for a while, and that helped. In any event, we were both scarred by our loss.

We had a few desultory talks about adoption—in vitro fertilization was also a no-no. I don't think either of us was ready to consider it seriously. That became even clearer when we moved to Austin. We both wound up so busy that we wouldn't have been able to give a child the time needed.

With the major exception of the miscarriage, life was good for us ... we had been happy for the last year and a half. That changed after Annie was accepted for a two year Ophthalmic Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery fellowship at the MD Anderson Cancer Center. The center was at the University of Texas in Austin—known to every Texan (and to those wannabe Texans living in Oklahoma, who fervently wished they were from Texas) as UT. The cancer center was a huge place with thousands of employees.

Living in Austin changed us—in retrospect, mostly in ways that weren't so good. It seemed that each plus came with several minuses. Boating, and the associated fishing, was great. There was any number of good lakes and rivers to fish. Restaurants and nightlife were also great, as would be expected of any city with a large, world famous university and all the extras that being a state capitol added. The climate was good ... though not like the wine country in Northern California. The weather bureau called it "humid subtropical" with hot summers and mild winters. We found that the evenings cooled off to be quite pleasant most summer nights.




Storms Never Last Ch. 01



A third real plus was the cost of housing. It was a bonus after living with the cost of houses in California. Annie wanted to get a town house close to her work, but since I worked mostly at home I needed more space. After a lot of arguing—which added even more un-needed stress—we decided on a house in Rollingwood, west of downtown and the University. It was on a heavily wooded, oversize ell shaped lot, a little over an acre. The house wasn't large; two bedrooms with two baths. It worked though, since the kitchen had a fairly large breakfast area, I was able to convert the dining room to an office. It worked well for Annie, also. It was a short three or four miles to the hospital.

Things went well at first. Annie was moody but upbeat about her job. It covered the areas she was interested in, ophthalmic plastic and reconstructive surgery and orbital oncology. The program was essentially a series of surgical rotations, including one of non-ocular plastic surgery. She performed surgery with some of the best cancer surgeons in the nation, sometimes several times a day. She became compulsive about being the best. Over time, I met several of the doctor's she was going through the program with, and in discussions they said they worked about sixty hours a week. Annie was averaging around eighty.

We just weren't seeing each other that much. I was lonely, but I understood what she was going through, and I tried not to bitch too much. Over the first six months we were in Austin, she gradually started becoming nervous and restless and wasn't sleeping well. I finally sat her down to see what was happening.

Her response left me underwhelmed. "I know I'm working too hard, Terry. Damn it, I just want to be the best. I'll try to cut down, okay?"

What was I going to say? "Sure, Annie. I miss you and we hardly ever have a chance to play around in bed anymore."

She responded to that by dragging me into the bedroom and destroying me. From no sex to a surfeit in a couple of hours. I didn't know how to make her understand that I was not complaining about one specific time here or there, but the regular sex that provides the intimacy that makes a marriage something special.

I worried about her behavior but didn't know what to do. And then things came to a head on a day I not-so-fondly remembered later as "the day of the broken egg." (A side note: the night that the egg broke, I had a nightmare that my mind somehow inter-mixed "The Day of the Broken Egg" with "The Day of the Triffids." This ghastly plant with a face reminiscent of Humpty Dumpty was attacking me, and I could see, in the distance, that Annie was kissing Howard Keel, in a very sexy manner.) The next morning I had lingering flashes of the dream and for the first time wondered if Annie was cheating on me. That kiss with good old Howard had to come from somewhere.

I also forever associated Humpty Dumpty with that day. For the rest of my life, I would remember the nursery rhyme, when for some reason that day came to mind. I'd go for a walk, and I'd mentally write a story I tentatively called, "Humpty Commits Hara-Kiri." I knew the film would be an instant cult favorite. I could see an old Howard Keel in the lead role. If the Triffids didn't get him, the long fall and the shattering stop would. Not even all the king's horses and all the king's men could fix him. Mess with my woman at your risk! Worst case was it would be a particularly bad B movie and sink faster than the Titanic.

~~~~~

The egg had described its end of life with a graceful dive into nothingness. Annie sat sobbing at the table, her hands covering her face.

Conclusion. Something is seriously wrong.

I was confused for a moment; was she upset about the broken egg? Then I remembered the sequence. I'd remarked, "I know what you did." Was that what generated her histrionics? I called her reaction histrionics because, at the time, I couldn't believe anything was seriously wrong.

Something is very seriously wrong.

I had no context for this, for the way she reacted. It was clear there was a problem, one that I was in the dark about. It was also clear that whatever it was had very little chance of being something that would make me happy.

Something was wrong. Quickly, I decided to vacate the premises and let her apparent guilt work on her, hopefully leading to full disclosure when I returned. I stared at her, my poker face on, no tells, nothing to let her know that I thought something was wrong ... and nothing that would let her know that I was particularly happy about anything. I turned, and grabbing my coat, I walked out the door.

It was a cold, blustery day in January. The sky was gray. My heart was gray. There was a trail near our house that I liked for my longer walks. I wound up walking along a dirt trail between Zilker Park and the Colorado River. There was a rock under a large Live Oak, which protected me from the wind as I sat there. I watched the current moving debris downstream from a couple of days of heavy rain. I could see that "I know what you did," could be construed in a number of ways.

So what had she done? It had to be something she knew would make me unhappy if I were to find out. Her reaction showed some serious guilt. I tried to clear my mind, but it was impossible. Thoughts tumbled into my head like lemmings tumbling into the sea. Get the heavy stuff out the way first. Murder? No way, it just didn't compute. Was she having an affair? Not the Annie I knew and loved. Maybe she was having trouble with the fellowship? I couldn't see that. She's too smart and talented for that to happen. The thoughts chased each other around my head until I almost felt dizzy. The one that kept insidiously slipping back in was infidelity! Cheating? An affair? Sex with one of her colleagues in her fellowship program?

Ugly thoughts; impossible thoughts. Not Annie. No ... impossible. Then the clincher, maybe Annie wasn't the same girl now as the one I'd loved for so long. Maybe she wasn't the same girl I'd kissed under that tree that led to what I'd thought was a love for the ages.

I sighed. There was nothing to it. I could think about this forever and not make progress. I had to talk to Annie. Walking home I considered everything. She not done nothing wrong that I knew of—she acted a bit strange ... and guilty. Anything else was my overactive imagination. I knew she still had problems with losing the baby and she certainly had been working hard. I decided to stay calm and let her explain things. Offering my support, and, if necessary, some gentle prodding. We had shared a lot of love over a long time and she deserved my respect for that.

Chapter Four

When I got back to the house, Annie had finished crying, but her face was still red and blotchy. Clearly, she hadn't been having fun while I was out freezing my butt trying to figure things out. I took her hand, and led her to the sofa in the living room. We sat down, and I pulled her close, with my arm around her shoulder, in an embrace that showed the love I felt for her.

I waited for a long moment—I guess to make a quiet emphasis on what was to prove a total break in our way of life. "Okay, Annie. I'll listen without interruption. Say what you have to say, and then we will figure out what we need to do."

She looked up at me with a glance that clearly expressed her love, and then never looked at me until she finished. She had to stop several times when she would break down sobbing. I would hold her then, but said nothing. I wanted her to get her story out in her way. As she started, I became surer that she hadn't cheated, but I was hardly an expert on the subject. If she had, then we would have to address our future and try to see where that led us ... either together or apart. The thought of being apart from her made me feel like my heart was stopping.

"Terry, I'm sorry. I'm a mess ... I ... I need your help. Don't stop loving me; God I would die!" Even with that she did not look up. She was bent over, her hands clasping at her stomach like she had cramps. She was looking down at the floor—or had her eyes closed. "I guess it started after I lost the baby."

She started the first of her heart rending crying jags after saying that. When she had recovered somewhat, she continued, "It wasn't only the loss of something that was a part of me, of us, but that we would never be able to have children. I know it bothered you, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I threw myself into my work ... and I know I didn't give you the time you wanted and needed from me. I was doing a lot of surgeries, even volunteering to cover for other doctors whenever that came up.

"I was having trouble staying as alert as I needed to be when doing an operation, so I got a prescription for amphetamines from my doctor. She renewed it once but wouldn't do it again. She said it was too dangerous. I didn't listen to her. I got more from other people at the hospital—it wasn't hard. I was close to being addicted, and it scared me. I was at the point becoming addicted when the fellowship came about. I stopped, but it was really hard.

"Then I was okay for a few weeks, until I started doing surgeries regularly. I got stressed out and finally the nurse anesthesiologist that I mostly worked with noticed my behavior—I guess he was an expert at this—and after a short discussion, he got me a bottle of amphetamines."

Time out for another period of sobbing, this one longer. Annie finally got up and washed her face in the hall bath. I heard her in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water. When she came back, she avoided looking at me. She slipped back in her former position, curled over as if hoping the world wouldn't notice her.

"My life became hell. Sometimes I'd be dizzy and I worried about what would happen if that occurred while I was operating. Thankfully, that never happened, though I'm sure it probably would have at some time. I would be either drowsy or not able to sleep; it seemed sometimes like both at once. I had headaches and nausea. Terry, I was, am, a mess. When I took a pill, I would be on top of the world, feeling wonderful, and then I would sink into the most awful depression. I was trying to find courage to talk to you. I knew you would help me. Then the nurse, Donald, started charging for them.

"At first it was a dollar a pill. Then two; then five. Lately, I've been paying ten dollars a pill, and I knew I couldn't keep on paying that. You would notice. Yesterday he told me that we could work out a deal, and I could go back to paying a dollar a pill, and he would never raise the rates.

Terry, he told me, "I gotta ask that much 'cause that's what I pay for them"

At first I was excited; I could go on with my life like I had been. Then I realized that I didn't want that—I had a horrible life ... except for you. Then Donald said the most awful thing."

"Annie, I really like you. If you have sex with me once a week I'll give you all the pills you want for a dollar each. Hell, baby, I'll give them to you for nothing as long as I get to enjoy your body."

"I was aghast! I had never heard such a horrible thing in my life. Then he made it worse. I guess he saw the revulsion on my face."

"If you won't put out, bitch, the hospital will get an anonymous note letting them know that someone in their fellowship program is hooked on drugs. It won't take long for them to find out it's you."

"He said he would give me two days; that he was reserving a room at a motel, and I'd better show up." She finally glanced at me, a look full of pain and humiliation. "Tomorrow is the day. I would never have gone; God, I couldn't have. I could never do that to you or to myself. Terry, you have to believe me. I was going to talk to you tonight, to ask you for help. Then you told me, 'I know what you did.' "That killed me. I didn't even think how you found out. The thought came to me that you thought I was going to cheat on you and ... and, I just died."

She looked at me again, and then looked down like she was afraid of me ... or of what I was going to do. I thought about what she had said. I wasn't that upset at what she had done; I knew we could get by that. I felt the pain she had been carrying—it must have been terrible for her. I guess the only thing I was bothered about was that she hadn't come to me earlier. In my direct manner I didn't get hung up on that. I needed time to think things over and figure out what to do. I took Annie's hand, helping her up, and led her down the hall to our bedroom. I lay her on the bed, took her shoes off, and covered her with a quilt. I pushed the hair out of her eyes and kissed her softly.

"Honey, you're exhausted. Lie down for a while. I'll help you—you're stuck with me, so we have to find a way to move on."

I got a beer and went into my office. Sitting in my chair I thought over everything that she had said. It was pretty clear to me, at least in broad brush strokes, what we had to do. I knew I would have to be firm with Annie. She would push back but I felt strongly that, "it was my way or the highway." I didn't think it would come to that. I was sure that Annie's love for me was bigger than her dreams. It was more a question of whether or not she realized that. I got on the computer and made a list, in no particular order, of what would have to happen.





Storms Never Last Ch. 02



Copyright© 2009 by Jake Rivers 

Author's Note:

This is my seventh semi-annual "invitational."  The initial one was based on the Statler Brother's song, "This Bed of Rose's." The most recent invitational included songs written or performed by Willie Nelson. The current effort consists of stories based on song titles that have a weather term in them, such as "Stormy Weather, "Foggy Mountain Top," "Dusty Skies", "Heat Wave", "Summertime Blues," and "Ballad of Thunder Road."

Song of Wyoming was written by Kent Lewis and famously sung by John Denver.

"Lord I feel like an angel Free like I almost could fly Drift like a cloud out over the badlands Sing like a bird in the tree The wind in the sage sounds like heaven singin' A Song of Wyoming for me."

 Thanks to Raoul Tirant for his editing assistance.

Be sure to read Part 1 first.

I have reprised two characters from an earlier story, "View From the Top," and one from an in process story titled, "Sophie," a sequel to "Crystal Chandeliers."

Regards, Jake

PART 2—Song of Wyoming

Chapter One—Terry

I lay there in the dark, in the unfamiliar room. Sleep was both desired and not. To sleep was to still the mind of turmoil, of pain. Yet sleep would call forth unwanted dreams, dreams of happier times, times now gone.

I had been back in Lima for two days, back at the Crillón, back to a new world of confusion, loss, and anger. Yes, anger. It was God that held the power of life and death for us. How could I be angry at God? Yet there was the interminable bureaucracy of trying to solve the simplest problem in a Latin country. "Si, Señor. Mañana, por favor." "No, Mister Fisher. You must go the Mayor's office to do such a thing."

Even the Embassy with their pretentious, "You just have to wait, Mr. Fisher." Or, from a friend, a soon to be ex-friend, "Terry, you just have to keep hoping. Maybe she was at a nearby village. You can imagine the horrendous confusion."

I knew she was gone. I saw the incredible number of photos of the devastation. I saw the video's that ran over and over on the television. It was like the worst war scene, nothing left standing. It was disaster beyond imagination. If I had written about this as a book, I would have been laughed at as being too fanciful. I saw Annie in a crude room with a dirt floor. She was leaning over a patient with an ophthalmoscope in hand; the characteristic crease in her forehead as she squinted in deep concentration at the mysteries to be found in the eye of a twelve year old girl with a cancerous retina.

I tried to imagine the wall of mud, rocks and water that came hurtling down the valley floor at a hundred miles an hour. Was there a moment when some small distant noise made her stop and think about her impending doom, the end of her destiny? After the forty-five seconds of the quake ended, did she pause and think of me, a brief smile lighting up her face? Was there instant oblivion, with some god-like referee in the heavens putting his hands together in a divine time-out, calling a halt to life, love, pain ... hopes and dreams, even the most basic sense of "I am?"

Restless, I got up and turned on the light. I looked on the unopened bottle of Pisco, the local brandy, sitting on the dresser. I knew that offered nothing for me other than momentary oblivion. I had to decide what to do. Should I stay here, wallowing in my anger and despair? Should I go home and try to put my life back together, making something when I felt as if I had nothing?

I made a commitment to myself to end this indecision tomorrow. I had cadged a flight on a news helicopter with a photographer who had done the photo work for several of my wine articles—not his usual line of work, but as a favor to me. We would be making low and high level flights over the devastation zone, and would land on a hill about a half-mile from of where the clinic had stood. I resolved to move on, and try to invent a new life without the sweet girl that had meant so much to me since that kiss in the rain fifteen years ago.

The flight was a combination of catharsis and confusion. From high above it was beautiful in a way, majestic in the sheer size of the flood of mud. As we flew low over Yungay, my friend waved his hand at what had been a moderate sized city. "There were twenty-five thousand people living here. They have found ninety-two survivors. Most of these were on a slightly higher part of town where the cemetery and stadium were located." Neither of us could find a possible remark on the horror of that.

We parked on the hill, and the pilot pointed out where the clinic was. He had been there a number of times and remembered a group of three palm trees, close together, making a perfect triangle. We could see the top part of these trees standing forlorn above the mud. It was a sad tribute to a former place of hope.

I wanted to go to the trees and dig deep looking for my love but I knew it made no sense. It would be like looking in the ocean for a particular drop of water. Later the Peruvian government would make this town a national cemetery, forever not allowing excavation of any kind.

I cried my tears, and left to go home and search for life. A new storm was upon me and I didn't have Annie to help me reach the point when the storm would inevitably end, as storms always do. I

had no one to hold my hand, no one to make the sun shine.

~~~~~

"Dammit, Terry! I know how you feel but you just can't sit around and mope."

"I know, Dad. I've thought a lot about it and I guess it's that there isn't any closure. I know Annie died in that mudslide. I know it in my mind and in my heart. But still ..."

"Yeah, I know. Listen, I know you've been helping around the vineyards, but there really isn't that much to do at this time of year. Why don't you take your boat and go up to Shasta for a week. Rent a houseboat and just fish for a week. Or, hell, finish that Western. I tell ya, if he kills off her dad he will never ride off into the sunset with her."

I laughed a little at that. Actually, that was the problem with my latest novel I was trying to solve. I'd been keeping dad up to date with the story as I wrote it, but with a tough plot problem and what happened to Annie I was kinda stuck. The protagonist was in love with the girl at the ranch next to his, but he had just found evidence that her dad was rustling cattle all over the basin, including his. I needed to make some progress, because I'd been avoiding calls from my agent. I had a lot riding on the success of, "Death Rides the Range." Mostly, it was I wanted to do more work like this but I had to do a good job on the one in hand first.

"You are right, Dad. That sounds like a great idea. I'll call and see if they have something available, and maybe take off tomorrow."

I called and was pleased to find that they had a small one available. They had sizes from sleeping over twenty to sleeping eight. In reality, it was just a one bedroom with beds that pull out, and a kitchen/living area. It would do fine for one person. I'd find a quiet cove and stay there for a week, taking my boat out to find some good fishing holes.

I left early the next morning, knowing that it would only take me five or six hours, even stopping off for breakfast at a great place just east of Red Bluff (the other great breakfast place—we're talking world-class—is in what passes for downtown Yreka, about twenty miles below the Oregon Border on I-5).

I pulled into the marina around noon and was on my way just before one. I'd stocked up at a Safeway in Redding with everything I'd need. I took it slow towards the east on the Pit River arm of the huge lake ... it has a surface area of about thirty-thousand acres. About six I turned off to a side arm that cut off to the south, where a small creek flowed into the lake. It was a place I knew well and as expected, there was no one there. I got the houseboat anchored and everything set up, and then made a light dinner.

I read for a while. I'd found a book written by some cattlemen's association about the history of cattle in the area of Wyoming I was writing about. It was interesting reading, but that had no effect on keeping me from nodding off from time to time, finally into a restless sleep and into the middle of a range war.

I found Tom, my foreman, in the bottom of the ravine. It was clear he had been gutshot and left to die in solitary agony. I felt a surge of hatred at Millie's father. As much as I loved her I had a killing anger towards him. I stood up, looking at Tom's horse, one he raised from a foal and was the one thing in life he'd ever truly cared for ... his leg crippled with a careless shot and left to die like his master. I slid the .44 slowly out of the holster, dreading the task, but knowing it was my job to do. I raised the gun carefully, lined it up and ended his misery with the sudden noise in the quiet woods sounding a discordant note.

As I eased the pistol back in the holster, I felt something slam into my side, knocking me to the ground. The flat sound of the rifle almost sounded like an echo to the more robust bang of my .44. I wasn't sure how badly I was hurt, but I knew if I moved I was dead. I held still and after what seemed like a long time, there was another flat whang as a bullet kicked broken rock into the side of my face. I waited, and shortly I heard his horse sliding down the side of the ravine. It slowly walked towards me, kicking small rocks or clopping on the hard ground.

Mu gun was underneath me, so I carefully eased my hand down to finally feel the hard smoothness of the bone handle. The horse stopped, and a smooth whisper told me I had run out of time. At one with the loud click of his pistol being cocked I rolled over, shooting as fast as I could. The gunsmoke cleared and I saw the range tramp lying dead on the hot rock. It was clear that I owed my life to his surprise at my sudden movement.

I looked closer and I saw it was Doggie Lewis, a no account drifter that would shoot his mother for a double eagle.

I woke later with the shadows deep on the ground. My horse, a large pinto with large splashes of black and white coloring was kicking me gently with his forefoot. The reins were still trailing ... I grabbed them, and pulled myself up. I had bled a lot from the bullet that passed through my left side, right above the belt. The bleeding had slowed, so I stuffed my bandana under my shirt. Blood was dripping slowly from the rock cuts on my face, but I just wiped it on my sleeve, catching most of it. I dragged myself up to the saddle, and holding as best I could, I whispered, "Home, Storm, get me home.

I came to when my horse stopped in the yard. I saw the black mare that Millie rode, hitched to the rail in front of my ranch house. She stepped through the open door, looking as lovely as ever. Her hair was the color of whiskey, the good stuff always hidden under the bar ... the soft brown eyes that could enchant you or freeze you with an icy look, depending on her mood. The lips a fresh red, needing no artificial help, her rosy face white now with shock. I felt dizzy and slipped out of the saddle, not feeling the hard slam as I hit the ground. I was unaware of her kneeling over me, crying, as she wiped the blood from my face and held me tight.

Waking, feeling lethargic, sensing a dull numbness in my side, I looked around, seeing the seemingly strange place I was in. I walked out the open door, the fresh warm evening air finishing the job of waking me up. The numbness in my side tingled for a bit then went away. I rubbed my face, and looked at my hands, half expecting them to be bloody. I came fully awake and marveled at the reality of the dream. It seemed I could feel the slam of the bullet, hear the echoing shot, and smell the sweaty horse. I saw the beauty in the girl, and knew that if she was real I would love her.

~~~~~

The week went both slow and fast. Each day was a slow-moving panoply of fishing, reading, writing notes on the novel that came to me fully formed from the dream, and occasional naps. I had no more dreams and caught few fish. I drank a couple beers a day, usually in the late evening as I would relax on the back deck of the house boat. I ate when I felt like it and a couple times had fish to fry for breakfast. I took my boat out a couple of times, not fishing, but looking around, enjoying the rugged beauty of the area.

I thought a lot about Annie, and the quiet world I was hiding in slowly worked its magic, as I more and more remembered the good times and let the rest slide off into the quiet sunset each evening. I knew I needed some kind of closure on her death, but had been putting off thinking about it. Dad had suggested some kind of memorial service, maybe we should go ahead with that.

Also I'd been in regular contact with the embassy in Perú, but they kept putting me off. I could understand their problem, there just wasn't any information. Well, I guess I'd better get it wrapped up when I got back. I wasn't putting off grieving for her. I knew that by now there was no hope.

I actually got a lot done on my book. I worked out the plot to my satisfaction, and wrote a number of scenes, including my dream as intact as I could make it. I'd almost decided against going to Wyoming in September, it wasn't in my heart. After the progress I'd made and reading the history of cattle in the area, I knew I had to go. I made a note to call Gene Taylor, the guy I talked with a couple of times on the phone, and set up the details.

All-in-all, as I turned the houseboat in and loaded my boat on thetrailer, and started home, I felt better than I had in some time. Thinking about it, the last time I'd felt this relaxed was before we moved to Austin. The drive home was a lot quicker than I expected, and I had everything cleaned up and put away before dinner.

As we ate I talked with my folks about the memorial; they both had some good ideas, so I let them run with it. I gave them a list names for the ones I wanted to attend. After dinner, dad gave me a stack of mail. The first was a letter from my agent wanting me to call him. He lived in San Francisco, so I'd call him and drive down when he had time for me.

Next on the stack was an official looking envelope from the embassy. I looked up my folks, and then opened the letter with trembling hands. There was an attachment first, it was a death certificate issued by Peruvian authorities and stamped by the embassy. It was in Spanish, though I had no trouble reading it. The letter was fairly long, and in polite bureaucratese stated that since the locals had called an end to searching for survivors. The government, had, in fact, made the entire area covered by mud into a sort of national shrine, a national cemetery.

It went on to express their sorrow and assured me that the death certificate would be honored by all governmental agencies as valid. What they didn't tell me was that I'd have to have it translated and certified as a true copy to be useful.

I handed the stuff to mom, and walked out to the porch and sat, listening to the evening noises, the wind whispering through the trees, insects chirping, the sigh of a bird floating overhead. Dad came out about fifteen minutes later, put his hand on my shoulder, and then sat down and fired up his pipe. We didn't talk for a long time. Dad was puffing away on his pipe, once knocking the dottle out on his heel, and after some time had passed, reloading and lighting up again. I felt the tension flowing out of me, the sadness easing into that sense of melancholy we feel for things of the past. I still felt the pain, but also knew I was ready to move on.

Oh, Annie!

~~~~~

I called Jerry Cantfield, my agent the next morning to see when I could drive down to San Francisco for a meeting.

"Terry, it's good to hear from you. Uh, have you heard anything more about Annie?"

"Yeah. I got a letter from the embassy in Perú with a death certificate. I hate to give up hope, but I have to face reality."

"I know, sorry to hear it—she was a great lady. About coming down, I think I can save you a trip. I need to meet with a new client in Sausalito, and I thought we could meet there. You know Eddie Dawson, don't you?"

"Sure. I've been to a couple of book signings with him and was over to his place once for barbeque. What's his wife's name, Nara?"

"Right. Anyway, I was thinking you could drive down with him. We're meeting at a restaurant a friend of his owns. I need to meet with all three of you. I was thinking we could meet at about ten, and then go to lunch at Scoma's in Sausalito. That work for you?"

"I'll give Eddie a call. If there's a problem I'll call you back, otherwise I'll see you Friday."

"That works; he's expecting your call."

"Consider it a plan then. Who is this new writer?"

Her name is Sophie Adler, and her pen name is Judy Rivers. She's from Rhode Island by way of Texas and lives in Sausalito. She's put together a book of short stories, with each story based on a photo that's included. It's actually quite nice. She's got some great ideas. Nice lady, tall and willowy ... volleyball player if that helps."

"Okay, see you in a couple of days."

Mom and dad were ready to talk about the memorial.

"It will be two weeks from Sunday, at that winery over on Yoakim Bridge Road. Annie's parents are contacting people she knew in high school, college and from her work. Let us know if you want anything special or have any ideas."

"Okay, Mom. Thanks for taking care of this for me."

I called Gene Taylor in Wyoming and we worked out the details of my visit. I talked about the types of people I'd like to meet with and asked him to think about the areas I should look at. I felt pretty good about traveling there. It would be about a three week trip, but I'd be open about staying longer. I called my travel agent and asked her to set the trip up.

Friday snuck up on me and I drove over to Eddie's place. It was about ten miles from where I lived. He lived on West Dry Creek Road, just a short half-mile from where it began at Westside Road. I went in to have a cup of coffee with him. I kissed the beautiful Nara on the cheek, then turned to Eddie and said in a falsetto voice, "Hi Jessica. My you look lovely today."

"Funny. Hey, Terry. Do you know just how long a walk it is to Sausalito?"

He mumbled something about "... stupid pen names," and grabbed his keys. Waving to the smiling Nara, I ran out before he left me there. It was a nice drive down, after the worst of the rush hour, and for some reason people were driving somewhat saner than usual. Or maybe it seemed that way since I wasn't driving.

I had a nice chat in the car with Eddie. I wasn't crazy about his romance stuff but Jerry had given me copies of his historical books, and these were quite impressive. I told him about my planned trip, and he replied, "It's an area I've been interested in. If you see something good, let me know. Maybe we can do something together or else I can use some of your background stuff and do an historical novel of the time." He chuckled and added, "Romance, of course!"

Sophie was a seriously good looking woman. She was as tall as I was, and clearly very smart. It was too close since Annie for me to be interested other than at some esthetic level. Not to mention the looks she was giving Jerry made me smile. Jerry was a confirmed bachelor, but I think he was going to find himself surprised some sunny morning. I talked to Kendra, the owner of the restaurant, getting to know her while Jerry and Eddie talked. We reversed after a while, and I sat down with Jerry.




Storms Never Last Ch. 02



I gave him an update on where I was at and showed him the outline for where I was going. He was the one that set up my trip to Wyoming, so we chatted about that for awhile.

"He's a great guy, Terry. I've known him for years, and you never find a friendlier man. He's fairly well off, but he runs that ranch for real. He's got over six thousand acres in one of the most beautiful spots in the world."

"Great, I'm looking forward to the trip." I went on to give him a brief outline for my next two books. One was a sequel to a previous book and the other would be another western, placed in the area of Arizona under the Mogollon Rim

When we finished, he asked, "Are you okay for money? I can probably get you another advance from the publisher?"

"No, I'm fine. Just let it ride for now."

After that the four of us had a great lunch at Scoma's. It was good to get to know Eddie better and fun to talk to Sophie. I had a feeling she was going to be a great writer—and give Jerry a lot of heartaches.

~~~~~

The memorial service was both a sad and somewhat happy occasion. We all remembered why we were there, but at the same time it was great to hear the things people had to say about Annie. I hadn't realized how many people considered her to be that special person, friend.

The service did help me come to closure with my feelings. I'd felt somewhat cheated that she just kind of disappeared on me. I never got that last talk with her, or gave her that last kiss. I kept busy, working on the story and coming up with a detailed list for future work. Knowing what I was going to do down the line helped when I wanted to take a break from "Death Rides the Range." I could do research, make some notes, outline characters, etc.

I went fishing with dad a couple of times—he really enjoyed spending time together. Then before I knew it, I was ready to head off to Wyoming. I had no idea of the changes this trip would bring to my life.

Chapter Two—Acey

My name is Acey Rose Jones. Mom hadn't filled out my name for the hospital, which was supposed to have been Millie Rose Jones. Unfortunately when dad gave them my name it was after a couple hours of boozy celebrating. Millie just went out of his head and Acey flew in. She was a girl dad knew well in his rodeo days—she was popular at the time.

My friends and everyone at school called me Ace. My dad called me Acey. My mom, never having forgiven dad and making sure he knew it, always called me Millie, or when I was in trouble, Millie Rose. When I started competing in rodeo after high school, dad convinced me that calling myself Ace might not sit well with the other competitors, so I started using Acey. Somehow I never got confused, and was comfortable with it.

I was the only girl with three older brothers, so mom wanted me to be her little girl. Much to her disgust and dad's delight, I turned out to be a hard-core tomboy. We lived on a ranch outside Amarillo, and from the time I was six I had my own horse. I worked on the ranch right along with dad, my brothers and the different hands that worked there over the years. In high-school, I couldn't care less about being a cheerleader, or going to the prom, but becoming one of the top school rodeo competitors in the state really excited me.

I was planning on going to college locally at West Texas A&M, but I was bummed 'cause they don't have a rodeo team. My folks did okay, but not enough to send me away to school. Then one day I came home from school, and mom was waiting for me with a grin, and something held behind her back.''

"Momma, whatcha hidin' there?" I said as I tried to reach around and grab it.

She smiled, and replied, "Nuthin', Girl, only this scholarship from University of Wyoming, in Laramie."

I opened the flap and pulled the papers out. I looked them over, and then glanced back at mom. "This is real nice, Momma, but this is for tuition and books. You know we can't afford this.

"Millie, honey, your uncle Gene is paying for everything else. You knew he made all that money on somethin' to do with computers and automation or some such. He says he'll pay any of it not paid by the school. He even said you can stay with him weekends or whatever, and he'll pay you any work you do. Summer too, he says."

I looked at the papers and saw I'd be competing in barrel racing, breakaway roping, and goat tying. It was exciting and I gave my mom a big hug.

"There'll be a bit more," my mom said," My brother, Gene, says you can come up and work this summer, so you'll have some spending money. You think on it some, and we'll all talk it over."

Wow! This was neat. My specialty was barrel racing. I done a lot of the other two but in that I knew I was as good as anyone. I had several horses I used, and always competed with the one that seemed the sharpest at the time. Gene said he would send one of his hands to bring them up to Wyoming. The women's team just had these three events and only four team members, so it should be a great experience. They competed both fall and spring, but the season was short so competing in Rodeo shouldn't hurt my studies.

I had no idea what I wanted to do so I figured I'd take general courses the first year and get as much required stuff out of the way as I could. I was excited as I packed, looking forward to a new life but not really having any idea of what to expect. Mom took me to the airport, where my excitement level dropped fast. I was flying from Amarillo to Houston, to Oklahoma City, to Denver, and finally on to Laramie. It's just a bit over seven hundred miles to Casper, so I'd take a full day to travel what should be about two hours.

Uncle Gene was there to pick me up. He'd been to Amarillo around Thanksgiving last year for a quick visit. He'd been in Dallas on business and stopped by on his way home, so I recognized him right away. He was there with his twin daughters, Terry Ann and Merry May. They were identical twins, but they each had always wanted their own look, so they went by Ann and May. Their dress was completely different, and Ann wore her hair long and May had it cut fairly short. They were one year older than me, and had just finished their first year at the University.

In the car, Ann told me, "We drive back and forth with no problem. They keep the roads clear of snow—or if they don't the school closes anyway. We really like the school."

"That sounds great! It looks like fun."

We chatted about the school, their boyfriends ... and generally got caught up since we hadn't seen each other for almost four years. Before I knew it we pulled into the ranch. There were a lot of buildings, barns, sheds, corrals, and a pretty log cabin on a small hill that turned out to be much bigger than it looked.

"Wow, Uncle Gene, This is huge. How big is your ranch?"

"Oh, about several thousand acres. I keep adding to it once in a while, especially if I can pick up additional water rights."

"Wow, that's big."

He laughed, "Well, not so big. Its small compared to some of ranches in Wyoming. Our neighbor to the north has over seven thousand acres."

I settled in quicker than I thought. Gene didn't exactly rent out any of the four cabins he had in a shaded grove of large cottonwoods, but it seemed like he always had company. My job was to be a wrangler for them, keep the horses they would ride, and go with them whenever needed, especially if they had kids.

I'd always hunted with my dad and my uncle wanted me to help out on that also. Sometimes he would go and other times I'd take them by myself. Most of this was in the fall—I didn't have classes on Fridays, so I could always be available on weekends; I'd drive home in the two-year-old F-150 that Gene had given me to use. Mostly we hunted on the property, but sometimes went elsewhere depending on what game was in season.

During the rodeo season we competed in the Central Rocky Mountain Region of the National Intercollegiate Rodeo Association. The teams in our region were from schools such as Chadron State, Gillette College, Lamar Community College and Colorado State University in Fort Collins.

There was both a fall and spring schedule that essentially cycled around with each of the eleven schools hosting a competition. Sometimes all schools would show up, but it was common for several to miss any one weekend. I was doing performing at a higher level than they expected of me, and I knew I was better than most I would encounter in college. Mostly I'd win in barrel racing and at least show in my other events.

There were five weekends in the fall, in September and October, and five in the spring, in late March and in April, so it wasn't a major burden on either my class work or helping my uncle out at the ranch. It was during the fourth weekend of competition, this at Lamar CC, that I slept with my first man. I wish! He turned out to be a fumbling nineteen year old from Lamar who invited me over because his folks were out of town.

It started out kinda fun. I couldn't drink anything because we had bed check at midnight and if the coach smelled alcohol you were off the team. The boy's name was Jeremy, and he had the petting part down cold. But it turned out it was his first time too, and after he got me so hot and literally bothered, the rest was just a fumbling let down. I guess he technically did the job, but it was nothing I would look forward to doing for a long time. All in all I was majorly disappointed. Maybe I needed a man ... not a boy.

In mid-September, Uncle Gene had a guy come visit. He was some writer and wanted to look the ranch over and see what Wyoming was like. He was cute for an older man ... he must have been all of thirty. I overheard my cousins, Ann and May, saying what a cute tush he had. I agreed, and gave him a close look. He was in good shape, tall, dark hair and eyes, kind of rugged good looks. His name was Terry Fisher and he was to have a major role in my life—I just didn't realize it at the time.

Dad introduced his girls and me at the same time, but it evolved to me to do most of the stuff to take him for rides and show him the ranch. Gene would take him to other ranchers and to several historians. I had to give him credit—he was at home on a horse. He had a nice easy style, and seemed completely at home.

The next morning after we met, I took him out for the first time. It was fairly early on a Saturday morning, ground still wet with dew. His hair was tousled; I guess he figured why brush it out when he was putting on a new Stetson he'd bought. He still had bedroom eyes on when I met him for coffee early on Saturday. He was kind of cute ... I guess.

I packed a brunch to eat on the ride. It was a warm morning after the sun had been out a bit. I took him to the high point on the ranch, a twisty mile through a heavy growth of pines. The top of the hill was clear with a great view. I had a thermos of coffee and some bacon and egg sandwiches.

"I envy you, living here."

"Well, I'm not sure if I live here or in Amarillo, but I agree this is beautiful country. Where do you live?"

"Oh, in the wine country, out in Northern California. It's a lovely area, but doesn't have the sheer majesty that Wyoming has."

I laughed, and replied, "Well, you're probably right, but I'd trade the weather there for either that of Texas or Wyoming. "You married, Terry?"

He looked startled, then sad ... and finally shook his head and answered, "No, I guess not."

I thought that was a strange answer, but I didn't pursue it. It was funny, 'cause when I asked him he was nervously twisting what looked like a marriage ring around on his finger. Oh, well. Not my problem.

We ate the sandwiches and then I led him on a roundabout course back to the ranch house. That night I sat next to him at dinner and got to know him a bit.

The next weekend I had my first rodeo competition, so I didn't see him again for several weeks. I was swamped with the competitions and school, and it wasn't until the fall rodeo season ended just before Thanksgiving that Terry came out to visit. May told me about his wife dying, so I could understand he was having a hard time. On the Friday and Saturday after Thanksgiving my job would be to take him around to look at ranches. It seemed he was interested in moving to Wyoming. It sounded to me like he was running away or trying to hide from life. I tried to imagine having something like that happen to me, but I guess I was too young to really understand.

We saw a couple of good properties on Friday. The first was a ways north of our place, and the second was about southeast of town. After looking it over, he invited me to dinner so he could see what Laramie was like. The town had several good steak houses, but our family liked Calvaryman the best. It is located on the old site of Fort Sanders.

He had to try the Bison Ribeye, and loved it. He had given them explicit instructions as to his expectations, he was happy with the way they cooked it. He had brought a bottle of wine with him, which most likely had a lot to do with his being happy. I tried a little, but it was what he called "a big wine" and it was too much for me. Since I was driving I stuck with iced tea.

I asked him about his wife on the drive home. He was mellow from the meat and wine, so he talked about it. He sounded okay, just a bit sad.

"You know what was really weird? Last week I got an email from a woman whose sister was killed at the same time. Someone had taken a picture of her sister, my Annie and another woman doctor, and from the time on the email, it was sent about fifteen minutes before the earthquake, which caused the avalanche. It took the woman a while to find me—her sister had identified the people in the picture. But she didn't know who I was until a friend loaned her one of my books to read. When she finished she read the part on the back flap about the author. Then it took her another two weeks to get hold of my agent and she sent the picture to him.

"It was just the weirdest feeling knowing I was looking at a picture of her taken a few minutes before her death. She had a big smile on her face and just looked so damn happy. We'd had some problems, and this was right after we felt we had fixed things." He looked out the window. I knew he had tears in his eyes so I looked straight ahead and gave him time.

It was about ten minutes later that he put his hand on my shoulder. "Thanks, you're a good listener. My mom keeps telling me to talk about it, but it's been hard for me to do. You don't mind, do you?"

I really didn't. He was a nice guy and I liked him. He was very personable. The kind of man you just want to spend time with ... not for any overt sexual reasons, but just because he was a nice guy with an engaging manner. I seemed to have a connection with him ... and he was cute. And I was interested in what had happened.

I don't think he meant to tell me everything, but I've always been a good listener. He showed me the picture, and then showed me one he had taken when he visited the site. Both showed the three palm trees, though from opposite sides. It was really sad to see them, realizing what had happened. He appeared more relaxed later, so his mom must have been right about him needing to talk. I was glad I had been in the right time at the right place at the right time. I had to go back to school Sunday night, and didn't see him again for some time. Uncle Gene told me later that Terry had decided on a place to buy.

It was a bit west of Laramie on Highway 130, just past Centennial. It was about eight hundred acres bordering on the Medicine Bow National Forest, not far off the highway. It was fairly rough land with about two hundred acres on the eastern part leased to a neighbor to grow alfalfa. He was going to close on it the day before Thanksgiving, then stay another week with us.

School went on and we took a break in the rodeo until the spring season was to start. I kept thinking how worried I was about being pregnant after my little escapade in Lamar, and how relieved I was when I had my period. I decided I'd better do something before I even thought about having sex with anyone else. Since I wasn't dating anyone I didn't rush out to the health center at the school. Then when I had my period mid-November, I thought I'd better get it taken care of, so I made an appointment for the next week.

The instructions from the doctor was pretty straight forward, "Take one the first day of your next period and daily thereafter." Well, that means I would start on the eleventh of December—one thing for sure, I was regular as a clock. I picked up the prescription and put it with my pads, so I wouldn't forget.

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Gene asked me to pick up Terry Fisher on my way home from school. The timing worked out perfectly and he was waiting at the curb when I drove up. He threw his bag in the back of the truck and I drove off.

He gave me a big smile, and said, "Thanks for picking me up. I do appreciate it."

"Sure, no problem. The timing was right. You close on your new place tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yeah, Acey, I do. I'm really excited about it. There's some work to do on the house, but nothing major. I want to refinish the floors; they are a bit marked up. I'm also having the master bathroom and kitchen redone—the appliances are a bit dated. It's a big log cabin, about twenty years old. You have to see it."

We chatted on the drive to the ranch, but it didn't take that long. Gene took care of him and I helped Auntie with fixing dinner. The next morning Gene took Terry to close on the property. They came back with Terry all excited and full of plans on what he was going to do with his new ranch to make it what he had envisioned.

We had a big Thanksgiving dinner the next day, and I couldn't help but notice how much more Terry was smiling since he had brought the property. I guess the ongoing passage of time was in play here also. It was now six months since his fateful trip to Perú had ended with his loss of his Annie. He sat across from me giving us a chance to get to know each other better. I asked him about his Western novel.

"I'm going to base it a few miles north of this ranch. There are several large ranches that started up in the early 1880s. I'll change their names and some of the details to make it fit my story, but the area there is exactly what I'm looking for."

We chatted back and forth on some of his plot ideas, and he told me of his dream and how realistic it was. "Damn, when I get cold I swear my side is stiff as if I had really been shot. I've never had a dream that realistic. Well, maybe it will add something to the story."

He told me that on Monday he would start working with contractors. "I'll be back at Christmas to check on the work, and then move in sometime in April.

Gene call down from the head of the table, "Hey, Terry, you should go Turkey hunting while we are here. The best place is couple of hours up the creek that runs through our place."

"Yeah, that sounds great."

"I'm tied up tomorrow, but maybe Acey can take you."

I nodded my head, and looked back at Terry, "Let's go over to your cabin. You stayed in the main house last time, but there are some tricky things about the water and heating you need to know about."

We walked over to his cabin, and I grabbed a mostly full bottle of wine on the way over. I showed him what he needed to know about the cabin—it was really a small, one-bedroom log home—and we covered what he needed to know for hunting turkeys. The weather was supposed to be clear and five to ten degrees above freezing, so we wouldn't have any problems. I started a fire for him in the fireplace, and stayed for an hour or so. He was easy to talk to, and I felt like I'd known him forever.

The next morning we mounted up—I'd packed a picnic lunch—and rode up the creek to a hilly area covered with brush and scrub trees. Uncle Gene was a licensee for Wyoming Game and Fish since he regularly had people in to hunt. He had the permit ready for me. Gene gave us a couple of Benelli-Nova pump 20-guage shotguns. When hunting in brush he liked the smaller gauge because it was a pound lighter and easy to handle.




Storms Never Last Ch. 02



Terry had hunted various birds before, but never Turkey. I talked to him on the way up about what I liked to call, "Turkey Tricks." Things like, patience, more patience, Turkeys are more likely to go uphill to a call, don't shoot at a strutting bird: wait until the bird comes out of strut and extends his neck, enlarging the target area and allowing for a better target and cleaner hit.

We ate lunch, and then started hunting. Terry had his bird with an hour, so we started back home. Aunt Bea said she would fix it for Sunday (we had venison and ham for Thanksgiving Day). That night there was dancing as usual at The Cowboy's Saloon and Dance Hall in Casper. I asked Terry if he wanted to go. He was up for it so we went.

We had a great time. Terry was a good dancer and the band was first-rate. I couldn't drink yet, but Terry did enjoy a few beers. When we got back, he invited me to his cabin—we were in the middle of a long conversation topic. So we, somewhat stupidly I guess, started drinking Jack and coke. Yeah, I know that's not a proper use of good bourbon, but we weren't at the top of our game.

Somewhere along the line we started dancing, then there was a long period that was kinda hazy ... then I woke up in his bed at five-damnAM with a headache and no clothes on. I looked over at him—he was kinda cute as he lay there all curled up looking like a kid. He was no kid; I did remember that much.

I found my clothes in his living room in front of the fireplace, and from the stain on the rug we must have done something in there too. I made it back to my room, took a quick shower, and slipped into bed. As I dozed off I heaved a contented sigh, and told myself that at least it had been a hell of a lot more fun than the first time.

He was nervous and shy when I talked to him the next day, but I made it clear that I wasn't upset. "Hell, Terry, I'm a big girl. I don't remember for sure, but I don't think you had to twist my arm. We laughed at it, but didn't really get a chance to get together before I had to head to school on Monday, and he had his closing and flew back to California.

I felt real dumb when I checked the calendar on the fifteenth of December and realized I'd missed my period. Damn pills don't do any good if you never get started taking them. I went to the school health clinic to make sure, but I wasn't a bit surprised to find out I was pregnant. Damn and double-damn!

(continued with Part 3, the completion of this story) 




Storms Never Last Ch. 03



Copyright© 2010 by Jake Rivers 

Chapter Nine - Terry

Wow! I couldn't believe I'd committed the revenue from my next three books on a ranch in Wyoming. Yeah, I had the first book in the editing process, but the second, my first western, "Death Rides the Range," seemed to be taking over my life. Last night I'd had another dream—one so realistic I remembered everything when I woke up in a sweat.

I awoke in a feverish daze, glimpses of reality coming to me in fitful spurts. The room was feminine, curtains, flowers, several handmade dolls on a large dresser. The pillow smelled like Millie, so I made the not unreasonable assumption that I was in her bed. The memories came to me only occasionally; eventually I was able to piece together what had happened. Millie's father, Colonel Tom, had sicced the dogs of war on me. I remembered that phrase from the story I'd read once by that Englishman, Shake Spear, or somthin'. It seemed that this guy, Antony, felt guilty about what he'd done to that Caesar fellow and cried out, "Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war; that this foul deed shall smell above the earth with carrion men, groaning for burial."

The door opened, and a snowy vision—Millie in a white gown, looking like a vision of an angel—came through the door and sat on my bed. Her hand cool on my forehead, she asked, "Are you feeling any better, Lane? The doctor said with rest you should be fine, but that I had to watch for fever."

As she tended me I looked at her, marveling over the miracle that she shared her love with me. "Millie, your dad ...?"

"I know, Lane. Do what you have to do. I love my father, but he hasn't been himself since mom died. He fired all of our old hands and hired a bunch of gunslingers. I hate them. They don't do any ranchin' at all."

She left so's I could get some sleep, but her presence stayed with me. I got to thinkin' more about that "dog of war", that had shot me from ambush. Well, I knewed whose those dogs were that had shot me, and I knew who had done the siccin', that damn rustler, Tom. Millie had given me my .44 Russian S&W, to slip under my blanket. I guess she really did love me, since she knew I'd use it if I had to—even on her dad.

Later that night, I was awakened by the noise of the door swingin' slowly open, just a slight squeak. My hand slid over the familiar feel of the bone handle and I pulled the hammer back automatically. I saw from the dim light from the lamp in the hallway, the barrel of a shotgun sneaking around the corner of the door. I quickly fired three shots through the door, just to the right of the shotgun barrel, and a dirty, long bearded man crashed to the floor as the door swung in.

I reached over to turn the lamp up just as Tom rushed into the room, pistol in hand. "You damn killer, I should have taken care of you when you were a whelp, just like I killed your dad."

He raised his pistol, but my shot took him under the chin before he could pull the trigger. I slid my legs over the side of the bed, trying to stand up. I felt the blood start anew, and as Millie ran in the room, screaming, I collapsed on the bed.

I hurriedly typed it all into my computer as I remembered it—hell, as I'd lived it, it seemed. As I wrote about Millie, it came to me. Millie was Acey. I damned sure wasn't Lane, though. I was about the age that Lane was in my story, but I felt ten years older. It came to me then that Acey had been on my mind a lot. I wasn't sure exactly how that night in the cabin had happened; I figured it was the combination of the wine, my loneliness, and a beautiful woman. I felt bad—she was so young!—but she had been more than willing.

I was excited about moving to Wyoming. There would be so much to do to make the place the way I envisioned it. My mind was dwelling less and less on Annie. She was gone. I had to live—live without her. One thing I felt bad about was that we had never had any children. One thing for sure, the ranch would be a great place to raise kids. Of course, it never occurred to me what problems I would be facing just now if I had kids to deal with on top of everything else that was going on.

"Death Rides the Range" was in final edit except for the last chapter. I was still thinking about whether to split the long final chapter into two parts. Jerry, my agent, was excited about it. Talking it around to publishers was generating a lot of interest. He mentioned that there had been a couple of calls about a movie. I had mixed feelings about that. Several authors I knew had problems with screen writers butchering their stories. I vowed that I would never give up creative control, even if that cost me money from film rights.

My dad helped me pack things up getting ready for the move, and I was astounded I had so little for the years I'd lived. I left the boat there for him to use. Jerry and one of his other clients I knew, Eddie Dawson, also expressed their willingness to help keep it from gathering dust. I didn't bother with a moving company, just rented a trailer and took off heading east. I didn't need a GPS for this—just get on I-80 heading east and go about a thousand miles. I stopped in Winnemucca and Rock Springs at generic interstate motels: starchy sheets and food. The rooms were clean though, and I slept well.

I went straight to my new ranch, turning south on a county road a few miles before Laramie. It was mid-afternoon on a cool, drizzly April day, and I was surprised to see a truck from Gene's ranch parked in front of the house. I assumed it was Gene, and tapped my horn to get his attention. To my surprise, it was Acey, looking good in a sweater and jeans. I jumped out and walked out up the stairs.

"Welcome home, Terry."

I gave her a brief hug and answered, "Hi. I didn't really expect to see you here?"

"Oh, I had time, so I brought over the clothes you left at Gene's. They are hanging in your closet. I also stocked up on some food and put in some sheets and blankets. Gene came by a couple days ago and checked out the heater, and brought in some logs for the fireplaces. Are you hungry? I brought some pizza and beer with me."

That drew a smile from me—I could already taste the pizza and god knows the driving had worked up a thirst for a cold beer, "You're gonna make some man a great wife."

Acey gave me a funny look for that, but like most men I had no idea what that particular look meant. They should provide a manual so we men would at least have a clue. Deciding to quickly change the subject, I commented on her obvious increase in her waistline, "Damn, Acey, you look like you're gaining a bit of weight."

Okay, maybe that wasn't the most delicate way of putting it. Acey had been putting a couple of plates on the tile counter and now both of them were on the floor in innumerable pieces. The noise from the crash was totally out of place in the quiet ranch house. Acey ran from the kitchen, crying like her heart was broken. I followed her down the hallway and saw her laying on a freshly made bed in one of the guest bedrooms.

I sat down next to her, gently rubbing her back. "Acey what's the matter? You haven't really gained that much weight. I'm sorry for mentioning it."

She looked up; her teary eyes making me feel like a heel. "Dammit! I'm gaining weight because I'm pregnant."

Well, shit. This was a surprise. "Uh, whose is it?"

She stared at me, confused for a minute, then in a voice heavily dripping with sarcasm—which I totally missed at the time, "How the hell should I know!"

Well, that silenced me. I felt a vague disappointment as I got up and left the room. Jeez, I never expected this of her. I didn't figure Acey for one to sleep around. I went back to the kitchen and called my real estate agent and asked her if she could send a couple of handymen over to help me unload. While I was waiting for them I grabbed a pen and pad and walked over to the barns and corrals. I needed to be organized on what needed fixing right away and what could wait. I already knew the barn needed a new roof and to be painted. I got a better than expected price for the place by taking it "as is." So I could begrudge spending the money I'd saved to fix the place up.

I was away from the house for about a half hour when I heard the workmen's truck driving up. I saw that the ranch truck was gone. This surprised me, I had assumed Acey would take a nap and we'd talk later. That's what Annie had done whenever she had shed tears: go sleep it off and awaken refreshed and ready to address whatever issues were between us. So I thought I knew how women's minds worked after being with Annie since we were kids. But then, maybe not.

After the guys had helped me unload the trailer and the back of the truck, I gave them the pizza and beer and drove into town to drop the trailer off at a rental place. Later that night I drove over to Gene's to talk to Acey. Gene didn't know where Acey was and we talked for a couple of hours and he gave me some good ideas on priorities for my new ranch.

"Particularly get someone to plant hay everywhere you can. Alfalfa does particularly well around here. You can't have too much hay—what you don't use you can sell anywhere."

As we were talking, Ann and May came in.

I asked them, "Have you seen Acey? I need to talk to her."

"I thought she saw you this morning?"

I was somewhat uncomfortable, since I didn't know what Acey had told the girls. "Well, yeah, I did. There was just something I needed to tell her."

May piped in, "Well, she's gone."

"Gone?" Gene said.

I echoed, "What do you mean, gone?"

Ann said, "Well, it's a simple concept. We helped her load her stuff in the truck and she took off. Dad, she asked if it was okay to borrow the truck. I told her it was fine, but if it's not, May and I can go down and pick it up."

Gene shrugged his shoulders and waved it off. "Well, tell your mom. She will want to call my sister and figure it all out." With that he left, shaking his head.

Ann grabbed some beers and gave me one. Looking at both of them, I said, "Umm, I'm confused. I saw her while ago and she didn't say anything about leaving. She's ahh—well—she's pregnant."

"Well of course she is. She was pretty upset, just what did you say to her?" May threw at me.

"Well, I asked her who the father was. She said she didn't know."

"Oh, great. Men can be so dumb. You doofus, it's your baby!"

"Mine, but how ..."

"Well, the boy has a penis and the girl has a ..."

I interrupted Ann with, "Dammit! That's not what I meant. I should have said—oh, damn! Thanksgiving. It's my fault. I'm the father. No wonder she was so upset. I'd kinda forgotten all about that."

With a heavy dose of sarcasm, May responded, "I guess it was a real memorable occasion for you, huh?"

"Well, I didn't mean that. It just, kinda, sorta, slipped my mind."

"Oh, I see." Ann helped me out. "Like you kinda, sorta got her pregnant and she kinda, sorta got highly pissed at you and kinda, sorta went home to Amarillo to kinda, sorta get as far away from you as she can."

"Oh, man", I groaned. "I'm so screwed." This time I grabbed the beers. "What should I do?"

May contributed, "Do you love her?"

"Sure, I think?"

"You think? Now you think. You should have thought earlier, before you opened your mouth."

"Well, yes. I love her. I'm pretty sure of that. How does she feel about me?"

"Boy, you're really into this love and romance stuff. If you wrote a story about this, no one would believe you. I'll tell you one thing; don't try to see her for a while. Otherwise you might never father another child. She is hurt, bewildered, hurt, pissed, mad ... and hurt," May advised.

I decided I needed to go home and think this over. I got her address and asked the girls to have her call me if they talked to her.

I spent the evening organizing things and making more lists. I tried not to worry at this like a dog does a bone, but to put it aside until I was ready to address it. I found a steak in the icebox and a grill on the deck, so I put the two together and had a nice dinner. I called dad to let him know I got there okay. I called Jerry Cantwell and let him know that "Death Rides the Range" was progressing nicely. I was finishing the last couple of chapters and resolving the editing issues. I invited him out for a visit for Independence Day. My mom and dad were coming out at that time.

At sunset I sat on the deck looking over my ranch. It was a bit cool and I had a thermos of coffee with me. I felt Annie's presence so strong it was as if she were there. I told her all about Acey and asked her what I should do.

I could hear her voice in my head. "I can't be with you, Terry. I'm sorry for leaving you the way I did. I know it was hard on you. About Acey, she sounds like a fine person. I'm glad you are getting a chance to be a father. I'm jealous of her for that.

"Don't worry too much about trying to figure out the love stuff. You are a good man and I know you will do the right thing. In a class I had, the professor defined love as, 'a strong positive emotion of regard and affection,' and I know you feel that for her. Make her feel wanted, and cared for. That's mostly what women really want anyway. Don't worry Terry. You deserve a good life and it will come to you."

I knew Annie wasn't really there but I felt her presence somehow and these thoughts came into my head somehow. It had been just a few weeks short of a year since that totally unforeseen landslide had taken my life and love from me. I felt ashamed that when I pictured Annie the edges were fuzzy—I had to refer to old photos to recreate the images of our life together. Along with that fuzziness had come over me recently a profound loneliness. Not that I didn't have people around me; I did, but this was a different kind of being alone. This was reaching over in the middle of the night to touch a warm loved one, only to find a cold pillow at best.

I ached to wake up in the quiet mornings with someone I cared about next to me. I had been through unbearable pain—but now it was a constant ache. Uncomfortable, but not enough to call for relief from a Vicodin or a nice, twenty year old, single malt. I wanted to be with someone; in all senses of the word. Be close to, be a part of, be intimate with, be in love with.

Maybe I was infatuated with the idea of love. Did I love Acey? I had no idea. No question she would be a pleasant handful to reach for in the long dark hours of the night. I'd learned from living with and loving Annie for all those years that there are rhythms to life and love. What were the rhythms of sleeping with a pregnant woman? Different? For sure! What would it be like to lay with Acey—to reach out in the quiet hours and touch her swollen belly and feel a healthy kick for your efforts?

I knew Annie would want me to actively father the child I was producing with Acey. She knew how disappointed I'd been with her miscarriage and the resultant finding that we couldn't even try again. Now I had a child coming with seemingly no effort. Which led me to try to understand how it had happened? Not in the sense that Ann and May were teasing me about; Christ, I knew how it had happened. But why? Was my loneliness that desperate? Obviously it was. Was it hormones? Or did I have some deeper feelings for Acey, feeling that had snuck up on me unawares. I remembered a stanza from a poem called, "Aspects of Love and Desire," by Joel Ash:

"A kiss from the depths of a dream, Emotions beyond all extreme; Lips loving caress, Ardent throes of excess, With enchanted affections supreme."

It seemed to fit. I realized I had been subconsciously noticing more and more the females I'd been around. I guess it was an atavistic need in all men to ensure the survival of the species. (Not that it was as analytical as that. I remember a hot passion that night such that I'd never felt with Annie.) Did I love Acey? Yeah, dammit, I did! Was it sex I wanted with her? Well, yeah, of course. But more, it was a sharing of intimacy I needed from her.

I sat down and wrote Acey a letter. I basically fell on my sword. I apologized for seemingly being unfeeling. I made sure she understood I cared about her and our baby. I threw in a few mea culpas as appropriate and offered to commit seppuku (hopefully she wouldn't take me up on that!) A couple weeks later, I got a reply.

Terry,

Come down if you want, but understand I'm still upset with you. You hurt me a lot with your unfeeling comment. I do understand your desire to be part of the baby's life regardless of what might happen between us. I do have feelings for you, but I offer no promises.

She gave me the directions to her parents place, in atypically (for a woman, in my humble opinion) clear, concise directions: best roads, best places to gas up, to sleep; places and roads to avoid. All in all, I chose to interpret the letter as being quite positive. (No, I wasn't smoking anything. Why do you ask?) She didn't want me to come down until early August. I assumed it was to give me time to decide (is it true that love is a decision?) about us. Later I found out it was so that I would find her—well, big is the word. She figured that if I could care for her at eight months pregnant, then maybe I really loved her.

So I got on with life. My folks came out for the 4th of July along with my agent, Jerry Cantwell and his new wife Sophie. Dad loved the ranch and wanted to move out to Wyoming. I offered to remodel an old bunkhouse on the property for them. Mom told him, "Okay, if you still want to next year, we'll talk about it."

I drove Jerry around to some of the sites I was using for the story, and he made some suggestions on adding to my descriptions in the book. He also spent a few days driving around and talking to people about filming the story ... looking for shooting locations and buildings. All in all, it was a great visit. I was calling Acey about once a week now, and sending flowers at random times; I finally got tired of waiting and just took off right after everyone went back to California.

I packed a few clothes and my dopp kit, and headed south on I-25. I was in Denver for lunch and Trinidad for Dinner and motel. I got an early start and drove into Acey's folk's place around noon. Acey opened the door wearing old sweats and having—at best—a bad hair day. I quickly realized I should have called before coming to the house.

At the same time I noticed her appearance, I also noted that she was big. It dawned on me she was eight months pregnant; her face was drawn, eyes red and she clearly hadn't been sleeping well. I was part of the problem, not the solution.

"Uhh, maybe I should come back later?"

"Oh, no you don't buster! You are not getting off that easy. Get your butt in here and give me a back rub. I haven't had a good night's sleep in over a week and my back is killing me." She lay down on a long leather sofa, and I scrunched down next to her and did my best to be useful. I started telling her why I'd come, how much I'd missed her, what a fool I'd been, could she ever forgive me? Oh, I was eloquent! I'd always been good with words, and I was using them well. She wasn't making any replies at all, so my pleading were quickly becoming more desperate. Then I realized she was sound asleep—she'd started snoring—and probably had been asleep for some time. Damn, I wished I'd recorded all that; I'd never reach such heights of eloquence again.

Her folks had a ranch, a few miles south of the Amarillo International Airport ... such as it was. I didn't know where anyone was so I snaked a beer from the fridge, and sat at the kitchen table reading the wonderful things that were happening in the area according to the Amarillo Globe-News. I heard a truck outside, so I went out to see an older couple getting out of a crew cab. I assumed they were her folks. They were looking at my truck, trying to figure out who would be visiting from California.   




Storms Never Last Ch. 03



I introduced myself—her mom gave me a hug and her dad gifted me with a dirty look. Oh, well, can't win them all. They started walking towards the house, and I told them, "Acey fell asleep on the sofa. She looked pretty tired."

Her mom gave me an appraising glance, "Okay, thanks." They walked into the house, taking care not to let the door slam.

At loose ends, I walked around the place. In the tack room, everything was in good repair and neatly hung on pegs. The stalls were clean as was the floor. The building had all been painted fairly recently. The house was white and all the other buildings were in a color I could only describe as "barn red." The horses in the corral were top horses. I recognized several of Acey's from pictures she had shown me. All in all, it was an impressive operation.

Later, I saw Acey and her mom on the porch, so I wandered over and took a seat near them. Acey looked a bit better, and gave me a wan smile. "Thanks for the back rub. That reduced the pressure enough I could go to sleep. That's something I haven't been getting enough of lately. As a reward, you can take me to dinner tonight. Don't worry, I can't eat very much, so I will be a cheap date."

So I did. I took her to a family style place, and based on her recommendation, I had the Bison pot roast. It came with garlic mashed potatoes and gobs of gravy—everything I didn't need. Acey settled for a chicken salad and some ice tea. She was right, a very cheap date.

We talked, and maybe healed some of the hurt feelings. I hadn't really spent enough time with her to realize how funny she was. She had a sharp, intelligent wit and was well read on current events. After a couple of good one-liners, she asked, "Do you want to know the sex?"

"Uh, the sex?"

Smirking a bit, she said, "You know, boy or girl?"

"Oh, I guess I rather be surprised. Don't tell me.

With a sly smile, she said, "Sure, I won't. I talked to mom and we decided to name the baby the name what I was supposed to be, Millie Rose."

"But that means ..."

"Oh, sorry. You didn't want to know the sex. Sorry again, I just forgot."

I glared at her, but all she did was laugh.

"Look, Acey, we need to get to know each other better. I don't know for sure where we are going, but it's clear that I need to explain my views on corporal punishment. I'm a firm believer in spanking!"

"Oh, my. I'm scared."

She sure didn't look scared. Maybe we already knew each other enough!

Well, I took her out to dinner and she seemed fairly happy. I wanted to go to a local motel but they insisted I stay in one of their guest bedrooms. In the middle of the night, Acey came in and climbed in bed with me. It took her a few minutes to get settled, and then she went right to sleep and was snoring almost immediately. I woke up early and slipped out. Her dad was doing chores, so I took him out a mug of coffee and we chatted for a few minutes. Surprisingly, he didn't ask any questions about where my relationship with Acey was going, but he didn't look like he was going to grab the shotgun either. He did let me know that he and his wife knew that Acey had spent the night with me.

I wound up staying for a week, and then had to get back home to put my final manuscript for "Death Rides the Range" together and ship it off. It would be nice to get it wrapped up and get a progress check. With all I'd been spending on the ranch it would come in handy. I spent some time on horseback checking out the nooks and crannies of my new home, trying to get a better feel for what I wanted to do with it.

I thought a lot about Annie and Acey. They were so different—night and day. I realized I enjoyed being with Annie a lot; she was fun and generally easy-going. We'd done some cuddling while I was in Texas, but nothing really passionate. I knew I was ready to ask her to marry me. I just had to pick the right time to ask. I took Ann and May with me to pick out an engagement ring; we were happy with the result.

By the time I had left Amarillo, Acey's folks and I were getting along fairly well. Along about the third week in August, Acey's mom called me. Her water broke and she was in labor at the local hospital. I jumped in my truck again, this time driving straight through. It took just over nine hours. I drove straight to the hospital, and when I found the room, Acey was laying there with a pink faced, pink swathed bundle of noise. I hoped it wasn't me she was unhappy with.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, and in return for a kiss, Acey handed me my daughter. The feeling I was having were like nothing I'd ever felt before. There were no words for it. I was immediately lost in love with this tiny bundle.

I was admiring her lusty lungs when Acey told me over the din,

"I put your name on the birth certificate. Looking at your face, I guess you have no objections to that."

"No, I don't. As a matter of fact, I want her forever. As soon as you and the baby can travel I want to take you home."

"What, we going to live in sin?" She gave me a dirty look with that.

I just looked at her for a moment while I considered how to respond to her comment and look.

"No, you don't give me enough credit." I leaned down to kiss her while digging the ring out of my pocket. I took her hand and slipped the ring on her finger. Acey, I've fallen in love with you—maybe not in the conventional way, whatever that is, but nevertheless it's real. I want to make my life with you and Millie ... and any others that might come along."

We talked for a while, and she convinced me that it would be better if after she and Millie went to her folk's house, I should drive back, and she would fly up with her mom a couple of weeks later.

"I'll make a list, crib and other stuff, and when you get back go shopping with my Aunt and the girls and get everything on a list I'll make. When you have everything ready, we will fly on up."

(To be continued with the final chapter -- please read the first three parts before going on to the final chapter.)



Storms Never Last Ch. 04



Author's Note:


Thanks to Raoul Tirant for his editing assistance.

Regards, Jake

Part 4 – Wyoming

Chapter One - Acey

I'd had any number of people tell me how much their life had changed when they had their first child. This from a friend in high school, "It's amazing. It's like putting a diaper on a boat anchor and carrying it around with you. From the first day your life changes in expected and unexpected ways. No more grabbing your purse and heading out the door. You almost have to have a checklist just to go to the store. There are times that by the time I've found and restocked the diaper bag, changed the diaper a final time after just having changed it, finding the baby's coat somehow under the bed, putting her in the car seat, I've been so tired I just took her back in the house and collapsed.

"Jimmie and I can't decide at the last minute to go out to dinner. I spend an hour getting all pretty so Jimmie will see how sexy I am and get him sniffing around—then, just then, the baby starts bawling. I'm beginning to think sex is just something to watch on television."

It quickly became obvious with Millie that this was all true. She was the sweetest thing, and she slept like a baby, but still, she was a baby. And I wouldn't undo it for the world. Terry and I never thought that our hurried coupling would produce something that demanded—and received—such love from us. I knew Terry had come to love me, but it was something to watch him with Mille. He had a degree of tenderness about him that I never expected. I was coming to understand just how much I loved the both of them.

After we got settled in the new ranch house, west of Laramie, we worked out an arrangement for his writing. I knew—and understood what it meant to us—that he was a writer. If he was working he went into his office and closed the door. I wouldn't bother him unless it was something urgent. When he wasn't working he was great with Millie. If I were tired I could take a nap knowing our baby was in good hands—and that meant diaper changes, feeding and bathing, and naps.

He did have to travel some, but it wasn't too often, and usually just for a day or two. His writing was progressing nicely. His first Western was finally released and was doing well. In working with his agent he came up with a new model he wanted to try, one that combined his interests in both fiction and non-fiction. He wanted to do the research first, and publish that. If there was enough, he would publish it as a novel, otherwise in one or another historical journals. He was doing the first one at the request of the University of Arizona Press. It was to be a small volume on the seceding of the Southern New Mexico Territory from the Union during the Civil War. This was formalized in the "Ordinance of Secession of Arizona Territory," in July, 1962.

He was there for a week doing research and lining out the outline for a novel. The Journal article was already published and he was deep in the plot of the novel. He already had the second of these planned, a treatise and novel based on the "Pleasant Valley War" in the Tonto Basin of Arizona in the 1880s. In an extended feud that made far overshadowed the Hatfields and McCoys, the fighting between the cattle-herding Grahams and the sheep-herding Tewksburys, was almost literally, a fight to the last man. We were planning on spending a month's stay in a cabin under the Mogollon Rim, while he worked on his research.

~~~~~ 

Time flew for the next couple of years. My folks, Lee and Kate, decided to retire. We talked it over and they sold their ranch in Amarillo and had a house built on the flats, the lower part of our property. It was closer to the road and didn't have the great view, but I loved having them close. My mom was a big help when I gave birth again two years after Mille. We named him Terry Lee. He was a cute baby, but as soon as he started crawling he became a handful. As soon as he hit the floor he would take off at full speed for the nearest horizon. It was worse when he started walking. I swear that just a couple weeks after his first step he did nothing but run at full speed.

Terry and I grew in our love. He was always thoughtful and considerate of me. I never had any reason to doubt his love, but at the same time he gave me space to do the things I liked. With my mom to help with the kids, I started with rodeo again. I didn't have any plans to compete, but I did work with the girls at the University and Laramie High School. I enjoyed working with the girls, and watching them improve. I guess I became a role model for them. It wasn't uncommon for me to come home and have Terry look at the wet spot on my shirt from teenage tears. I learned more than I ever wanted about the angst of young love.

Then about ten years into our marriage, our lives were rocked to the core.

~~~~~ 

Hector Ángel Elizondo was like any other kid living in Ciudad Juárez, until his parents were killed in a drive by shooting when he was ten. He went to live with his uncle, Eyahue Elizondo, more commonly known as, "El Charro." El Charro was one of the top leaders in the Barrio gang. This gang had been dealing drugs and stealing cars in El Paso, Texas, but over time became contract killers—mostly across the border in Mexico—but they would go anywhere if the money was good. They did the dirty work for the Cartels that wanted to keep their hands clean. The Barrios locate targets, stalk them and finally kill them in ambushes involving multiple chase cars and radio communications by masked gunmen in body armor, who vanish back into safe houses in Juárez or El Paso.

Ángel, as he became known, was immediately started in training to be an assassin. He showed a natural flair, and at thirteen, made his first hit. His Uncle, to give him motivation, found the men who killed his parents and prepared his nephew for the job.

Ángel, because of his young age, was able to move around freely. The small gang he was looking for frequented a tired, not too clean restaurant in Juárez. Angel got a job for pennies a day as a dishwasher and he watched for several weeks as the men wandered in and out. On the evening they were drunk and strung out on drugs, he retrieved his Belgium made FN 5.57-caliber pistol, known as "asesino de policia," or "cop killer" in Mexico.

Calmly walking through the door into the dining room he cut down the four men responsible for the deaths of his parents. Within a year he was known as, the Ángel de la muerte, or the "Angel of death."

El Charro had a contract to kill a drug dealer in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He didn't need a written agreement, or a reason, just a handshake and the money, in advance. Ángel flew to Los Angeles, where he was provided with a car and the necessary weapon. He drove east on I-80, following the maps he was provided with. He was told to stay overnight in Rock City, but wanting to get it over with and get out of the driving snow, he pushed on through. A few miles west of Laramie, Ángel started feeling drowsy. He passed by a roadside stop, and less than five minutes later closed his eyes for a brief, but fatal, five seconds. It was 8:07pm.

~~~~~ 

Terry left the ranch at seven, right after dinner. He was going to a friend's house to pick up a present for his daughter, Millie. For her tenth birthday, he was buying her a pony. She had been taking riding lessons, and wanted a horse, "more than anything in the world." Terry had a number of well trained horses, but none the right size and training for his daughter. Pulling his trailer he arrived at his friend's house and loaded the pony. The wind had come up and a ground blizzard made visibility almost non-existent. His friend wanted him to wait, but Terry wanted to get home. He did accept a mug of coffee to drink on the way home. At 8:06 he pulled slowly onto the entrance ramp to I-80 heading east. As he shifted up, he took a sip of the coffee, and finding too hot, so he quickly tried to put it down. As he was pulling onto the interstate lane, he was trying to put the mug down, but couldn't find the holder. Briefly, no more than two seconds, he looked down to place the mug in its holder. As he did, the clock on the dash changed to 8:07 in the dark evening.

~~~~~ 

Clarence Jones was pissed off. The foreman at the Circle K ranch insisted he go pick up a load of hay. He protested, until he was reminded he was going to take a few days off. "Now if you want to tell Jenny that you are postponing your vacation..."

So now at a little after eight he was gingerly driving down the road at a relatively sedate fifty miles an hour. He normally drove faster, but due to the marginal conditions he wasn't pushing it. Having lived in the area for all of his forty-seven years he knew how the road could ice up with conditions like this. He was approaching an exit, and thinking about pulling off the road, when a car flashed by at what must have been seventy or so. The car cut back into his lane too soon, and without thinking he slammed on his brakes. He was driving a thirty year old F-350, built back when antilock and antiskid brakes just weren't happening. The brakes locked and started skidding on the ice, the trailed with its several tons of hay whiplashing to the side. He saw in sudden horror a truck pulling on the road from the eastbound entrance lane. He braced for a crash, but felt only a slight bump as he edged into the other truck. He skidded for what seemed forever, and came to a stop facing backward, with his trailer blocking both lanes of the interstate.

Almost in shock, he staggered out of the cab, almost as a reflex grabbing some flares. Hit lit them up and threw them across the road, hoping against hope that oncoming traffic would see them. As luck seems to balance out, a highway patrol car pulled up within seconds, and took charge. Before the arrival of help he ran forward to see what had happened to the truck that was on the entrance ramp. He saw some flames down the embankment, and as he got closer, he could see a man behind the wheel. With no conscious thought, he slid down the embankment and could see flames coming from the engine compartment. Grabbing the door to the truck, he pulled it open and dragged the man out. He was unconscious, with a nasty wound on his forehead.

Concerned with fire, he pulled the man up to the freeway, just as a highway patrolman ran over.

~~~~~

Hector Ángel Elizondo knew nothing of the wreck. He drove on to Cheyenne where he found his target better protected than he expected. He didn't realize this until a millisecond before a cut off twelve-gauge shotgun like to cut him in half.

Clarence Jones suffered no physical effects from the crash, but caught tons of grief from his foreman and his wife. The foreman he could understand, but he was forever mystified why his wife was so upset. Women!

The pony miraculously had no serious injuries from the crash.

Terry Fisher was lucky to arrive at the hospital within twenty minutes of the crash. The doctor was convinced that ten minutes later would have been too late. It was three the next morning before he was identified—his id was in the glove box and pretty much burned to ashes. His wife was notified and informed by the doctor when she arrived that he had a major head trauma and after the surgery put into an induced come to reduce cranial swelling.

~~~~~ 

Terry had told me he expected to be home by nine, and finally I called his friend who told me he had left around eight. "But you know Terry. He likely pulled off somewhere to wait for conditions to improve."

That made sense, so I went to bed. I had trouble getting to sleep, but my worry was about his comfort, huddled up in his truck in the storm. It was somewhere after three when the phone rang. The doctor told me what had happened, and finished with, "As I said, he is in an induced coma now, so don't come down now. The conditions are really bad and I don't want any more patients tonight."

I went out on the porch, and had to agree with him. I couldn't even see the stairs leading down from the porch. I went back to bed, but didn't even think about sleeping. When I finally saw a faint lightening at the window, I got dressed and looked out. The wind had died down and snow was just light flurries. There were drifts here and there, but I was sure we could get out in my dad's four wheel drive truck. I called down and asked him to pick me up. Mom came over with him to take care of the kids.

The hospital was quiet when we got there, but I eventually found someone. She told me to go to the nurses' station for critical care. The nurse found a doctor for me, and from the look of him she had woken him from a nap. He yawned, and said, "Sorry, it was a long night. Terry is doing as good as could be expected, and should be in a coma for about a week. We performed surgery for a cranial hematoma to reduce the swelling. We are doing everything we can. He had a serious injury, but we think with the time for his body to rest he should heal okay. The induced coma is to give him time for the swelling to continue to go down and for the brain to heal itself. You can visit him for a few moments, but there is really nothing to see."

I went in and stared at the confusion of dangling tubes, machines making scary noises and flashing garish lights. I put my hand on his and let him feel my love. We didn't have the most normal courtship—hell, it wasn't normal at all. But the initial attraction had blossomed into a rich love. I was young and could get bitchy at times, but he just smiled and kept on loving me. He was all the man I could ask for or hope to get. The thought occurred to me that the pain I was feeling now must be a lot like how he felt when his wife, Annie had died. Tears streaming down my face, I sat next to the bed, and told him of my love as I gently held his hand.

Eight days after the induced coma, the doctors revived him with no problems. Due to the relatively short time he was under, the doctor's told me that there should be no significant problems with his regaining his motor skills. A week later he was home, and a month after that he was like new, though a little subdued.

Sitting on the porch one night he talked to me about the effects of the accident on him.

"Acey, this might sound somewhat inane, but the thought that flashed in my mind as the truck was sliding off the road, was how short life can be. No matter how we live our lives, we are not guaranteed any sure time to live. Like Annie, and like it was almost with me, life can go in a heartbeat. I'm not able to clarify my thoughts the way I'd like, but I want for us to live our lives to the fullest; to live in the here and now.

"I know I'm not the first with these observations, but it is the first time I've seriously considered them. I read something this morning that's stayed in my mind all day."

"Love is stronger than death even though it can't stop death from happening, but no matter how hard death tries it can't separate people from love. It can't take away our memories either. In the end, life is stronger than death."

"Annie is gone but she will live forever in my memories. How you and I love each other, each and every day, will create memories in each other, and in our families and friends. This isn't anything earthshakingly new, but we don't usually take the time to consider how our love affects others."

He took my hand and led me to our bedroom, and we made slow, poignant love, a tender time of touching and talking—keeping our love fresh.

Chapter Two - Terry

I held my arm out for Millie to take, so I could walk her down the aisle. She had the special glow that brides tend to have. She had just finished her PhD in Art History at Stanford, and her husband to be was doing his internship and Stanford Children's Hospital, when they met at an on-campus dance. As I walked her towards her waiting fiancé I could feel her hand shaking as she held onto my arm.

I thought of the incongruity of "giving her away." That was the last thing I wanted to do—I wanted to hold on to her forever. I wanted to keep her safe from harm, from the vagaries of life. But she loved him, and if I'd learned anything in life, it was the importance of love. I turned her over to Doug and he shook my hand in a way—that told me she was his to take care of now. His hug following the handshake told me he knew what I was feeling. As I walked back to Acey she gave me a warm smile that made me feel better at losing my girl.

~~~~~ 

The ceremony and reception went by in a blur. Later that night, fueled by one too many glasses of champagne, my dreams came in a blur, a montage of vignettes of Annie, Acey, and incongruously Lane and Mille and excerpts of their story that was inspired by other dreams. I heard the sharp bark of the pistol and the smell of gunpowder; I saw the incredible power of the landslide sweeping down from the arid mountains, engulfing Annie as she whispered, "I'm sorry, with her last breath. Acey on our first night, abandoning herself in passion ... she was the first thing I saw as I came out of the coma. Rightfully so, she was my life now.

I woke buried in the tousled, sweaty sheets. Had I led a perfect life? No, but it was mine. Would I have changed some things? Sure, who wouldn't? But it was a good life. The voice of Ray Price came to me, crooning in his inimitable way:

"Life is just another scene
In this old world of broken dreams
Oh, the night life, it ain't no good life
But it's my life."

Yeah, there were some hard times, but the time I had left to live looked like a damn good life. I rolled over and put my arms around Acey. Yeah, the life we have is a great one.

Author's notes:

I have taken some liberties with time frames; for example, the disastrous Ancash earthquake took place in 1970 with almost 75,000 deaths. The quake destabilized the northern wall of Mount Huascarán, causing a rock, ice and snow avalanche and burying the towns of Yungay and Ranrahirca. The avalanche started as a sliding mass of glacial ice and rock about 3,000 feet (910 m) wide and one mile (1.6 km) long. It advanced about 11 miles (18 km) to the village of Yungay at an average speed of more than 100 miles per hour. The fast-moving mass picked up glacial deposits and by the time it reached Yungay, it is estimated to have consisted of about 80 million cubic meters of water, mud, and rocks. Every year, on the anniversary of the disaster, school children all over the country practice emergency measures.

~~~~

For those wine lovers that care about such things, Zinfandel is related to the Italian grape, Primitivo. Both Primitivo and Zinfandel are related to an ancient Croatian grape called Crljenak Kastelanski. Zin (as it is commonly called) was first planted in the valley 1859, and rapidly spread throughout California. Zinfandel is synonymous with Dry Creek Valley, where some world-renowned wines are made from this grape.

~~~~~ 

And, if some of you are interested, I do plan on starting my second Western story shortly. By some strange coincidence, it will be called, "Death Rides the Range."