Dances with Wolf (16 page)

“You sure about that?” Wolf asked, probably thinking he was the last person her mom would want to see over at Chez Macready. But he was going to be spending a lot more time in Abby’s life from now on. Her mom would have to get used to that, so why not start now? Yes, Abby
would
host them all. She was starting to feel a major inspiration coming on.

“Totally sure. The weather’ll be gorgeous. We’ll have some champagne on the deck, and then I can make dinner for us.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bridget said. “Thanks, Abs.”

“Tell your parents. They’re welcome, too.”

“Why don’t you invite Luther while you’re at it?” Wolf asked.

“Done deal,” Abby said. “Luther’s always welcome.”

“Are you sure you want to take this on?” Wolf whispered. She nodded quickly. She knew it might be borderline suicidal to volunteer to cook for nine people on short notice, but she couldn’t have been more sure—she just needed to tell Wolf why.

Chapter Nineteen

Pain was an old companion, but Wolf was reluctant to give it any quarter this time around. His knee was killing him, and he had definitely pulled an oblique. How ironic was it that the very day Bullet showed she was still every bit the first-class roping mare, he was set back by two injuries of his own? If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. He was used to it, though. His life had always been a struggle; why should that change now?

He ached “from stem to stern,” as his dad liked to say. But no point in leaking the news to Abby or Bridget, but especially to Abby, that he
’
d been injured. They’d just freak out and tell him he needed to quit the circuit. And he’d never quit the circuit. Being a rodeo champ? It was all he knew and all he had. If he wasn’t competing in the ring, what the hell would he do with his days?

It was downright aggravating not being able to pick Abby up in his arms, though, or take her for a spin around the dance floor. She looked so fresh in that sundress, her hair swept back, her bronzed shoulders glinting in the sunset, her joyful face turned toward him, waiting, he could tell, for him to sweep her up in his arms.

The only face-to-face time he got with her wasn’t what he expected at all. He went to the bathroom to wash his face and take a small fistful of Vitamin I—cowboy speak for ibuprofen—in private, and when he pushed the door open, Abby was there waiting for him. She planted a wordless kiss on him, one that made him forget his pain for a minute. Then she led him toward a little nook next to the coat rack, pressed her head into his chest, and ran her hands up and down his back. He flinched—the pain was tremendous—but thankfully she didn’t notice. He’d endure a whole lot worse to be this close to her.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said, finally pulling away.

“It’s been a great chat so far,” he said.

She kissed him again, then said, “About this champagne tasting thing.”

He laughed. “Like we don’t have enough get-togethers on the docket already.”

“This is different, though. Just hear me out.”

“Shoot.” She looked down, suddenly shy.

“What is it?” he asked. “Tell me.”

“Well, would you feel comfortable telling our folks that we’re together? And Bridget and Luther?”

It wasn’t exactly what he’d expected her to say. “You, uh, sure we’re ready for that? All the scrutiny? I mean, you know our parents.”

“I know, I know. If we’re telling my mom, we may as well tell the entire Flathead. But I kind of want to share it, you know?”

“Love is in the air, I guess, with all these weddings.” He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this step, honestly, but being scared had never stopped Wolf from taking risks in the ring, so why should it stop him now? “Okay, let’s go for it.”

“Really? You sure it’s not too soon?”

He didn’t think—he just let his instincts guide him. “Of course not. If we’re going to do this thing for real, we can’t be sneaking around like a couple of kids. Let’s let ’em in on it.”

“Oh my God, I just got goose bumps.” She pressed herself into him, and he couldn’t suppress a groan. Thankfully she took his pain for passion, although he hoped he’d be able to show her his real passion soon enough. All he wanted was to please her—in the ring, in the bedroom, in this new relationship they were embarking on. If she needed to make a big deal out of a champagne tasting, why not let her?

“I’ll be proud to tell them we’re the hottest couple in Bigfork,” he said. “It’s kind of ingenious, really. Bridget’s getting addicted to all this bridal attention. Let’s save her before she turns into a monster.”

“I know.” Abby laughed. “This is a public service we’re doing here.”

After the party had wound down, Wolf climbed slowly into his truck, pulling one leg in after the other. He looked in the mirror and ran one hand through his hair. Rugged was one thing, unkempt was another. It was a wonder Bridget hadn
’
t alerted the fashion police. Behind him, he could hear the few remaining revelers still hanging out on the Lodge
’
s deck. Some goofball, probably Luther, hooted drunkenly.

Abby hadn’t been shy about wanting to see him after the party, but he’d told her he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open one more minute. That had been true enough, though he omitted the fact that pain was shooting through his knee and his abdomen, and he needed to get home and suck down a massive dose of Vitamin I before hitting the hay.

…

The next morning, he woke up with the sun—he hadn’t even bothered to close the bedroom’s blinds—and cautiously lifted his head a couple inches off the pillow. He
’
d slept on his back all night without changing position, afraid to trust his limbs to the least movement. And now he hesitated to move, knowing the first motions of his day were going to be just about insufferable. After a few more minutes, though, he pulled himself upright. Pain tightened like a noose around his chest.
Uh-oh.
This was not a feeling that could be blocked by any amount of Vitamin I.

He reached tentatively for his phone on the bedside table and scrolled through a few medical clinic listings. Except for the odd trip to the emergency room or a quick once-over from the rodeo staff, he religiously avoided doctors—what if he found out something he didn’t want to know? But now he needed somebody to write him a pain-pill script, and pronto. And it had to be somebody in his neck of the woods, though, not his parents’. Somebody who didn’t know any Olsens or Macreadys and who wasn’t going to spread the news that Wolf Olsen was dealing with what might turn out to be serious injuries.

With an epic groan, he got out of bed and wandered into the bathroom. He rubbed his eyes and looked in the mirror. Nine hours in the sack had done nothing to erase the fatigue from his face. His eyes crouched beneath his lids like they were trying to defend themselves against incoming light. He shuffled over to his closet and pulled out some fresh jeans and a halfway-clean shirt. Enough of the pity party. It was time to get some powerful meds, and maybe even submit himself to an x-ray or two. The champagne tasting Abby had so spontaneously offered to host, and their public coming-out as a couple, was less than twenty-four hours away. He didn’t have much time to shape up. Whatever superpower pharmaceuticals were out there, he was determined to hunt them down. After a quick check-in with Bullet, he set off to find a man in a white coat.

Three hours later, in the little town of John Henry, Montana—really just a stone’s throw from Choteau—he struck gold. A visiting doctor-nurse team in a clinic just off Highway Two gave him a thorough examination, wrote him a script for an x-ray, and slipped sample bubble-packs of a potent painkiller and a muscle relaxant into his shaking hands. The nurse had a brother who
’
d once competed against Wolf in Las Vegas. “He retired before his legs turned to pretzels,” she said, “and took up something less dangerous.”

“You keep testing your body like this, Mr. Olsen,” the doctor said, “and you
’
ll have a hard time just walking out to the barn at feeding time.”

Wolf thanked them kindly. He didn’t want to wind up like the nurse’s brother, but what choice did he have? Rodeoing was all he knew how to do. He limped past the desk as the pain in his knee reminded him why it felt so much better to sit down.

One hour and a Dairy Queen Malt Blizzard later, Wolf kicked off his boots, rolled back onto his own bed in Choteau, and pulled the covers over his head. Fatigue, along with the muscle relaxant, took him hostage as he crawled into a dreamless sleep. He slept through the night, woke at daybreak, and reached for the magic pills. Drink. Swallow. Repeat. Abby wouldn’t approve—she’d want him to do something more holistic—but right now he was thanking his lucky stars for modern medicine.

As he fell back onto the pillows, blocking his eyes against the relentless sunlight pouring through his bedroom window, Wolf wondered for the first time why he hadn’t told Abby about the pain he was enduring. She probably
would
think of some brilliant way to heal him that didn’t involve gorging on powerful painkillers.
Why not tell her you’re hurting?
It wasn’t just because he was a rodeo man and admitting any weakness at all ran against his code; it was that he had a feeling she’d do just what the doctor and nurse had done—suggest that it was time to hang up his spurs. If he did that, if he gave up the circuit, what the hell was he going to do with his life? Who would he even
be
? A nobody, that was the answer. No, he couldn’t tell anyone about all this pain—even Abby. Especially Abby.

It was only ten a.m. He didn’t need to be on the road until late afternoon. He could nap through the day and be good to go, or at least numb to the pain, by the time he needed to head to the Macreadys’ place.

…

“What was I thinking?” Abby called from one end of the kitchen. “Can you please tell me that much, Mom?”

“It’s only a little family party,” her mom said. “No need to get so worked up. We could just make a big pot of chicken stew. A little French bread on the side, and
voila!
Let the good times roll.”

“I wanted it to be more special.” She didn’t say why, of course. She didn’t say that it had nothing to do with Bridget’s stupid champagne (they were all the same to her), that it had
everything
to do with Wolf.

“Special like Martha Stewart special? Or Barefoot Contessa special?”

Abby made a face. “I was thinking more small plates, local food that doesn’t interfere with the taste of the champagnes.”

“Well, here you go, then. Take a look at this.” Her mom pushed a brochure across the long kitchen table. It was for something called “The Mercantile.”

“What’s The Mercantile?”

“It’s a great little place that opened up while you were in Spokane. They make small plates, medium plates, anything you want.”

“But I didn’t want it to be catered. I was going to make everything from scratch.” Abby couldn’t erase a fantasy from her head: a picture of Wolf biting into her homemade buffalo slider dripping with chipotle sauce, as his smile spread from one side of his face to the other. And her, next to him, wiping the sauce off his chin while their families looked on and laughed. It was the most ordinary daydream in the world, but that was the point—she wanted to show everyone that Wolf was going to be a part of her everyday life now.
Nothing to see here, folks, just two kids who grew up with each other, falling in love.

“Hey, Abby.” Her mom snapped her fingers. “Wake up. The party’s in six hours. Why don’t you circle a few things you like on that menu, and we’ll supplement them with some desserts? My chocolate-chip brownies, your butterscotch-pudding-in-a-mason-jar? What do you think?”

Abby sighed. “I guess you’re right. There’s just not enough time to do something homemade.”

“No way. This’ll be great. In fact, the next two weeks look like one big celebration to me.” She opened the double pantry doors and began to pull jars from the shelves. “Let’s get Bridge’s wedding off to a booming start, what do you say?”

Abby slumped back into another daydream, Wolf dancing her into a corner of the living room, spoon-feeding her salted caramel ice cream, then licking the dribbles from her lips as he moved side to side to the music piped in by her dad’s ancient stereo system. Across the room, her parents and Bridget would catch her eye. Her happiness with Wolf would be so obvious, any leftover resistance they felt about her man would melt like a pint of ice cream left in the kitchen sink.

Abby’s hands shook as she swept her hair up and secured it with two silver barrettes. She reached into the cabinet and sprayed herself with Cavender’s Gypsy Kiss—nothing like a little perfume to mask the smell of Eau de Cheval. When she finished dressing, she peered beyond her balcony to the road. It was still too early for any of the guests to arrive. Except for the faint haze that hung over the tarmac every July afternoon, the road was empty. Would Wolf come early? Would he call before he arrived? Should she have reminded him what time the party started?

It was too late now. She’d have to tuck her anxiety away, like an old tissue, and wait for the evening to unfold.

Bridget and Mark, arm in arm, arrived first, followed by Jess and Karen Olsen. Luther came next, depositing one case of champagne on the Macreadys’ steps, and returning to his truck for another.

“Two cases!” said her dad. “I hope you all are planning on spending the night.”

“It’s just a tasting,” said Mark. “Two sips per person and we ought to be able to separate the good from the swill.”

“And I’m expecting all of you to do your part in the food department,” Abby’s mom said. “We went a little overboard.”

“Yum,” said Bridget. She stood over the dining room table and pointed toward a plate of dolmas wrapped in curls of cabbage. She rubbed her hand over her tummy. “Don’t worry, I won’t disappoint you. The Creature and I are absolutely starving.”

Mark moved behind her and gently guided a piece into her mouth. “Mmmm,” she said, licking her lips, then turning around to kiss him.

“It’s getting harder and harder to hug you,” he joked, as he held her at arm’s length. He made a tent of his fingers to span her stomach.

“She’s barely even showing.” Abby’s dad laughed. “Give her another couple months, why don’t you?”

“Yeah, just sit tight,” Bridget said. “You’ll have plenty of chances to talk about how enormous I’m getting.”

“You’ve gone to so much trouble, Abby,” said Karen. “We could have done the tasting at the Lodge, or at our house.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Abby said. She couldn’t reveal the real reason yet, of course, because her own guest of honor was nearly a half-hour late. She peeked down the driveway, willing Wolf’s truck to appear. Where was he, anyway?

Although Abby hadn’t planned it in advance, every guest rose and toasted the bride and groom in turn. The toasts grew longer and less eloquent as the champagne disappeared, glass by glass.

Luther’s toast was last: “To the cutest couple in the Flathead. To our amazing host, Abby Macready, and to Doc and Marcie, too. And to my idiot brother, who must have gotten the date wrong.”