Poetry & Life Read online

  He glanced further around the room. Or they could break up some of the furniture if they had to.

  “Kees? I’m scared.”

  He sighed and dragged one of the chairs over to the bed. Leaning forward, he tucked the blanket tighter around her. She reached for his hand, pressing her cheek against it. Her skin seemed to sizzle.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he replied. “We’re safe. Just relax and rest.”

  She exhaled, her breaths falling even.

  CHAPTER 2

  Brenna awoke to the sound of rain and the smell of meat roasting, Kees’s back to her. He’d removed his shirt, hanging it and her clothing over a chair to dry. In his hand, he held a cooking fork, prodding a hunk of meat in an iron skillet.

  She coughed, drawing Kees’ gaze. A thousand fingernails scraped her throat at once. “I’m thirsty.”

  Ginger ale would be great, but water would have to do. He settled the skillet near the flames and lifted a dipper from a small bucket to her lips. The water tasted bitter, but it helped somewhat.

  He returned to the fire.

  He was amazing, for reasons greater than his appearance. He was handsome, with dark eyes and unkempt black hair. Not bulky like Harlowe Chapman, but lean. Beneath that, and beneath the teasing expression he wore a lot, were all the good things she could ever want in a man: faithfulness, dedication, and intelligence. He’d proven all of that by rescuing her.

  However, like her dad, he thought of her as just a little girl. They’d grown up in this community together, him, six years older than her. She was the pest that trailed behind him at church or town functions. She wanted him to see her otherwise. But how did she go from being “stupid Brenna” to a woman he held interest in?

  The warmth of the bed and the lingering effects of whatever bug she had made her drowsy again. He woke her, one hand on her forehead, his callused fingers sweeping across and down her cheek.

  “Sit up and eat.”

  He’d dragged the table to the edge of the bed, a tin plate with a portion of the bear meat settled on it. There were no utensils.

  It occurred to her in rising that she only had on her bra. “Maybe I should put on my shirt.”

  He reached for it, feeling the fabric for dampness, then tossed it in her lap. “Your jeans are still too wet.”

  An image rose in her brain, and she sucked in a breath. He’d been tender with her earlier, crooning almost. Yet, he spoke factual now, like he hadn’t done something so incredibly caring, something they both knew he hadn’t wanted to do.

  Brenna made no remark on it. He turned aside while she dressed, taking a seat on the end of the bed afterward. She sat up, the blanket over her lap, and pinched off a bite of the meat. It was gamier than she liked, but as she ate, filling.

  “You’re not eating?”

  He glanced at her. “Not hungry.”

  “You know ...” she began, chewing another bite. “I won’t mention any of this.”

  His head turned, his eyes meeting hers.

  “You thought I would?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. Your dad won’t like me any more than he ever has.”

  In spite of the truth of the remark, and her unhappy feelings about her dad, Kees’s statement bothered her. “You saved me more than once and didn’t have to. He’ll be grateful.”

  Kees snorted, his usual derisive response.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means ... he called me because I could find you. There’s no gratitude for a completed painting when that’s what you hired the painter to do. If there’d been anyone else, he’d have called them first. He’d rather you met some smart college boy than kept chasing a heartbreaker.”

  “Whose heart have you broken? You can’t play that card with me. I know you better than you know yourself.”

  He stood and snatched his shirt and hat. Unspeaking, he opened the door and walked into the rain.

  The silence of his exit soured the food. Brenna lay down and stared toward the ceiling, yet past it toward the moment Kees had fired his rifle and shot the grizzly. He didn’t see what she did – skill and knowledge learned through hard work, and some God-given sense no one else seemed to have. He wanted her to let go, but like her love for Montana, he’d grown in her, as fixed as the mountains that made this land what it was. And no amount of man’s efforts could remove either one.

  He was more miserable than the weather and couldn’t put his finger on the reason why. Part of him wanted to blame Harlowe for continually mentioning Brenna. Could it be that the constant repetition of her name had had some sort of ... mystical effect? Or was it simpler than that? Being this close to her, he’d finally realized she wasn’t twelve.

  Whatever the cause, he was angry that he’d reacted at all. Angry that his head and his heart were out of sync over a girl he’d like to be rid of. But—

  Kees turned his face toward the sky, rain streaking across his cheeks.

  But they were stuck here together. He’d told her dad to look toward the Towers, only they were miles away from there. It was possible someone would think of this place, except the previous owner moved away five years ago, so he doubted it. If she weren’t sick, they could ride to his dad’s place in a day, although by now the river was probably impassable.

  As it was, more time outside in this weather would set her back, and the last thing he needed was for pneumonia to set in.

  More conversations like the one he’d escaped would eat at his pride. She was like a tick on a dog’s hide, hidden for the longest time, then one day, there it is. He wanted to laugh at his horrible analogy, but groaned instead.

  He couldn’t afford to do this. He couldn’t question himself and thereby let her in. He couldn’t ... couldn’t be interested in Brenna Stratton.

  “D*mn it.”

  That seemed to be his automatic response where she was concerned.

  Malcom Stratton removed his cowboy hat, crumpling the brim in his hands, and apologized for the puddle he made on the Chapmans’ floor.

  His niece, Lottie, waved the remark off. “We’ll clean it.” She pulled in a breath. “She’s okay, Uncle Mal, Kees has found her by now.”

  That was the issue. Kees Butler was locked up somewhere with his Brenna, their time together the ultimate instance of the universe thumbing its nose at him.

  He knew he’d acted wrong. Every effort he’d made to encourage her to choose a lifestyle other than what he knew she wanted had been made for the wrong reasons ... mostly to keep her away from Kees. Yet, they’d been back barely a week, and that’s who he’d needed to find her. It’d made his fingers bleed, figuratively speaking, to call and make the request and nigh killed him now, thinking of them locked up somewhere alone.

  “Malcolm.”

  He switched his gaze from Lottie to Harlowe. “We rode toward the Towers and saw nothing. We went west next. There’s been a mudslide.”

  “If they went that way, Kees will have found a way around it.”

  “Or gotten buried in it.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  No, he didn’t. Kees would probably outlive all of them. He was incredibly self-sufficient, could hunt and trap with ease and had very little need for outside interference. Thinking of that, there were dozens of places he could take her. They could search and probably locate them eventually, but in this weather, any continued effort was a huge risk ... as proven by the mudslide. They’d already expended considerable manpower, and both horses and men were tired.

  “Uncle Mal, Kees will make sure she’s safe and show up as soon as he’s able. I know what people say about him, but he’s proven himself more than capable of doing the right thing while working here.”

  He knew she was right. Still, Brenna and Kees in any sort of contact turned him around backward. He’d shown just how much in arguing with her. He should have prayed instead. She hadn’t been feeling well, and he’d practically forced her to take off like she had.

  She was headstrong ..
. like him. Just like him.

  “The grizzly ...” he said.

  Harlowe wrapped one arm around Lottie and pulled her closer. “He knew about that and took his rifle. Best thing we can all do right now is hunker down and outlast this rain, although much more of it, and I’ll have to drive the cattle out of the south field.”

  Malcom turned in place. “If you do, call me.”

  Harlowe nodded, and Malcolm exited onto the stoop. Aware of their gazes on his back, he squared his shoulders, but the weight of his worries rested on them particularly hard.

  The lines on Kees’s face stretched long, the corners of his mouth downturned, evidence of both exhaustion and displeasure. It lay on Brenna’s tongue to ask why he was unhappy, but she swallowed the question. She didn’t want to end up arguing again. Probably, he was simply tired.

  He’d returned from wherever he went, soaking wet and coated in mud. He’d not done anything to clean himself since nor even taken a seat. He stood, instead, facing the fireplace, the orange glow giving his tiredness an almost zombie-like expression.

  Brenna ran her fingers down her jeans. The seams were slightly damp, but the rest of the fabric had dried. Rounding in front of him, she reached up and removed his hat, dropping it on the hearth.

  “You can’t keep doing this. One of us needs to be healthy.”

  She couldn’t read his expression. He was difficult to make guesses about anyway, but even more so now, since he’d closed himself off.

  “Undress and lie down.”

  He frowned.

  “This isn’t a come on, Kees,” she said, quoting him. “I need to return you alive. Now, do it.” She turned in place.

  He gave one of his frustrated breaths, but she heard his shirt smack the floor, followed by his pants. She held still until he’d lain down and covered himself, then grasped his clothing and stretched them over the chair backs. Given there was a washtub, she could, at least, rinse them out, but their one bucket was drinking water.

  She padded to the bed and took a seat, leaning over him. His hands on his chest, coffin-like, he stared up at her. His expression had changed. Right then, she mostly saw her own reflection.

  “You can be tough with everyone else,” she said. “But this is you and me. I’ll never forget how you’ve helped me.”

  “Stop,” he replied.

  She brushed his damp hair off his forehead, ruffling it, and he surprised her, closing his eyes. He was asleep almost immediately, his breaths evening out, his face relaxing. Brenna pillowed her head on her elbow.

  Somewhere between puppy love at age twelve and an enormous crush at sixteen her affection for him had matured. She was in love, but the kind where it became a part of you, a piece of the untouchable essence that made you – you. He was something that couldn’t be removed, embellishment on her soul. In a way, it made her think about her parents’ divorce. Though they lived in different states now, though they had separate lives, that moment when they’d fallen in love was forever the same, and neither one could change it.

  Kees’s jaw slackened, and his lips parted. He blew a soft breath.

  Thinking of her parents again, she was more like her dad than her mom. She hadn’t her mom’s patience or sociality. She wasn’t artistic at all. Her mom needed pretty things around her – flowers and bows and paintings, fine china and silver service sets. Herself, she was more content like this, with nothing more than a fire, a few pieces of furniture, and someone she loved to talk to.

  What did Kees want though? Not her. He wasn’t looking for a woman with spark. So he wanted what? Someone like Lottie?

  She liked her cousin, but they had nothing in common. Lottie was dresses and heels, whereas she was boots and blue jeans. A ride through the rain in a fit of temper compared to a slow walk in afternoon sunshine. She didn’t hold that against her. People everywhere had different tastes, and where it didn’t cross moral law, that was fine.

  But maybe if Kees was looking for that, she could soften herself some.

  Her thoughts faded, and with nothing better to do, her chest heavy, she dozed as well. She awoke, her chin on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. She held still, hardly daring to breathe. He’d rolled toward her, onto his side. In the process, the blanket had slipped between them.

  Mildly uncomfortable, she ignored it at first, then a painful twist in her back caused her to shift. His eyes opened at the movement. Strangely, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he seemed ... lost somehow. Brenna sat up and, as she’d done when he’d lain down, ran her fingers through his hair.

  “My mom used to do that,” he said.

  This was a curious remark. She’d spoken with his mom plenty of times, of course, but never about anything too personal.

  “When you were little?”

  He nodded. “I’d forgotten.” His gaze focused. “You still write poetry?”

  Again, his topic threw her. “Now and then, mostly about Montana.” She focused, selecting one. “The dance of the land, rising and falling, water, spiraling veins amongst connective tissue, sprouting life ...” She paused, the remainder escaping her.

  “What would you write about me?”

  Why did he want to know? She debated on how to answer, then shut her eyes and spoke from her soul. When would he give her this chance again?

  “My heart thuds. I lose my breath. He is the earth beneath, support, strength, knowledge. And the sun, nourishing, encouraging. I am the wind, unseen. I embrace. I cajole. He stands unswayed, and I flee to the sky only to return again, addicted.”

  He didn’t speak, and eventually, she opened her eyes.

  “The valley will flood,” he said. “There’s a creek to the north, between here and my dad’s. The way we came from, obviously we can’t return.”

  She couldn’t see how this was related, but replied anyway. “You got around it.” The landslide she meant.

  “It can’t be done now,” he replied simply. “West is one hundred miles of forest.”

  Brenna bit her lip. “You’re saying we’re stuck?”

  He nodded. “For the foreseeable future. And two days from now, or three, or five when we can finally get out ... even if the rain stops, it’ll take the creek that long to go down ... after however long, me and you closed up here together who will we be?”

  “You’re being philosophical?”

  “Practical. I am closed up with someone I didn’t want to spend five minutes with, and slowly, one minute at a time, my will is crumbling.”

  Brenna frowned. “That’s what this is? A complaint? You think I’ll change you into some ... Montana poster boy? We’ll go home and you’ll be half the man you ever were and resentful. I’d rather you hated me and stay the same, than change.” She waved one hand outward. “I see how it is. I’m not the woman you think you deserve. I have too many hard edges and might ride off in a rainstorm one day after we get into a fight.”

  He exhaled and leaped out of bed, taking the blanket with him. He didn’t leave this time, though, but faced the far wall, and after a while, she followed, circling around in front of him.

  “I would live anywhere you choose to have you see me. You don’t want to be tied down, and I don’t want to tie you down.”

  “Right, all that about you being the wind.”

  “No, you as a rock,” she replied. “A dumb blind rock when all around it is something beautiful.”

  “You?” he snapped.

  Anger pushing upwards, Brenna grasped her blouse and yanked it over her head, the top button popping off and rolling across the floor. Kees scrambled to stop her, but his free hand grasped hold of her side instead. Silent, he slid is palm upward, outlining her torso. His head dipped, and his breath blew warm on her neck.

  Their eyes met.

  “Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling,” he said. “Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard; Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows; Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape; Give me fres
h corn and wheat give me serene-moving animals, teaching content; Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars; Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where I can walk undisturb'd; Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman, of whom I should never tire; Give me a perfect child give me, away, aside from the noise of the world, a rural, domestic life.”

  It was as good as a compliment, though she wasn’t sure what came next.

  CHAPTER 3

  His back to her, his gaze melted in the fire, Kees was aware of Brenna, but his mood had cooled since their argument an hour ago. If you could even call it that. It was more of a challenge, her daring him to react. He’d discovered from it that where she was concerned, he would always react, either negative or positive.

  “Why poetry?”

  Her question broke into his thoughts. He replied without turning. “Mom used to read it to me. The Bible ... Whitman, Browning, etcetera.”

  “The Bible?”

  “Is full of poetry. ‘The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident. One thing have I desired of the LORD, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the LORD, and to enquire in his temple.’ Psalm twenty-seven.”

  “I didn’t know you were religious.”

  Kees didn’t respond at first.

  They’d spent time together in church, heard Pastor Harris’s sermons. Yet, attending or not attending church didn’t make one religious. Belief in God was a matter of the heart, and he’d settled that long ago. As the Scriptures said, he saw God in the world around him, all the poetic things she’d described.

  She, herself, was poetry. His hand sculpting her, he’d discovered it and written the lines indelibly in his head. She wasn’t “dumb Brenna” anymore. She was Whitman’s fruit offered to him, except to accept the gift, he’d have to do it knowing her dad didn’t approve. He wasn’t afraid of Malcolm Stratton, but they lived and worked in the same community. He could put up walls he wouldn’t be able to circumnavigate.