Front Page Love Page 3

  When water gushed forth from the showerhead, Julie released the tension in her hands and let her shoulders sag in relief. The bulletins she’d collected from the State of Montana Water Conservation Service had warned her and all the others in her part of the state about the frighteningly low status of the water table, and how well problems were not only possible but expected. The thumping pressure of the flow against her hand was a precious gift, and perhaps for the first time she realized that.

  A quick image of the Coldwater Suds-Spot, the local laundromat, flicked into her mind. She’d wondered in an abstract sort of way why so many cars and pickups were parked in the place’s lot every day. Now, she realized the answer: every bit of water used for laundry was that much less for the crops, cattle, and horses on the farms and ranches. Folks paid to wash their clothes rather than deplete their own wells.

  Julie rinsed her hair and let the water wash the suds from her body and then turned off the handles without the final deluge she so enjoyed standing under. Her mental picture of the Suds-Spot made her feel wasteful of an invaluable commodity—and she didn’t like that sensation at all.

  In her robe and bare feet she settled in at the small desk in her tiny home office, hair still damp and a towel over her shoulders. Nancy’s releasing her from her column was fine, but it had no effect on the stories and pieces Julie had begun to research or had already started to write. The drought series isn’t going to last forever, she told herself. She pulled a file folder from her drawer and clicked on her computer. While the system booted up, she paged through her scrawled notes on an interview she’d done with a state legislator concerning a piece of legislation that could alter the grazing rights of ranchers on state lands. The crux of the article was there in front of her, seeming to hide from her in her notes. C’mon, Julie, she chided herself. This is awfully important to the cattle people. She pecked out a few words—a tentative lead. That led to a full paragraph, and another paragraph . . .

  She was startled when she looked away from her monitor to the face of the old Westclock windup alarm clock she kept on her desk. She scurried to her bedroom to dress.

  Danny pulled in at about five minutes after 7:00, his GMC truck trailing a cloud of thick dust behind him. Julie watched from her kitchen window as he climbed out of his vehicle and then reached back inside for a blue glass jar about the size of a container of economy-sized Vicks VapoRub. He arched his back for a moment, stretching, and then snapped his fingers. His collie, Sunday, leaped out of the truck and stood next to Danny, looking up at him, his plumed tail wagging slowly, questioningly, as he watched Danny’s face.

  Julie smiled. A couple of generations ago, women would have referred to Dr. Pulver as a dreamboat. He was an inch or so over six feet tall, lean, with somewhat scruffy, over-the-collar sandy brown hair. His facial features were angular, but his mouth was generous and his eyes a fathomless chestnut. He looked not unlike a young Paul Newman, and he moved with a certain fluidity and lack of self-consciousness that clearly stated he had no idea what a stunning effect he had on women.

  Through some hand motion Julie didn’t catch, or perhaps by a word she couldn’t hear, Danny had brought his dog leaping into heel position from the passenger seat.

  Julie shoved open the kitchen door. “Hey, Danny—thanks for stopping by.”

  Julie took a deep breath when Danny smiled at her with genuine warmth.

  “Glad to be here, Julie—I’ve been looking forward to visiting with you.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you too,” Julie said, her smile every bit as welcoming as his.

  “Last call of the day,” he went on. “Boy, it feels good.”

  Julie swallowed hard. “C’mon in and have a cup of coffee.”

  Danny stopped a couple of steps from the door Julie was holding open. “OK if Sunday wanders a bit?”

  Julie had never come across a dog quite like Danny Pulver’s collie. It seemed like every family in Coldwater had at least one well-trained dog, but Sunday went far beyond being well trained. Julie had no more problem with him exploring around her home and barn than she would have with a well-behaved child.

  “Sure. And I just might have a Milk-Bone with his name on it when we go back out.” She opened the door a bit wider, and Danny walked into her kitchen.

  Julie poured Danny some coffee from the fresh pot on the stove. Danny sipped appreciatively, waving away the offer of milk and sugar. “Whew—that’s good. It’s been a long day.”

  “Lots of appointments?”

  “Yeah. I feel like I’m aboard Noah’s ark. I’ve treated cows, pigs, horses, a bird, and three cats today.”

  “Business must be good, then.”

  Danny’s smile disappeared. “In a sense it is—and in another sense, it’s terrible. So many of my clients simply don’t have . . .” He stopped himself and looked guiltily at Julie. “I shouldn’t . . .”

  “Don’t have the money to pay for your services,” Julie finished for him.

  Danny nodded. “Well, yeah. This drought—the price of feed and hay, the almost nonexistent crops—people are right against the wall. The thing is, if I don’t get paid, I can’t keep up with my payments for supplies, medication, equipment, all the stuff I need to run my practice.” He sighed. “Sorry about the whining. Let’s change the subject. What’s new with you?”

  “It’s not whining, Danny. Not at all. The local economy is in tough shape, and some ranchers and farmers are barely hanging on. If the drought doesn’t break soon, there’s going to be For Sale signs sprouting like weeds around Coldwater.”

  Danny nodded and held out his cup to Julie. “Can I get a refill?” He grinned like a boy requesting another piece of pie, and Julie returned the smile.

  “You bet,” she said, standing and stepping to the stove. “One good thing did happen to me today—even beyond you diagnosing what’s wrong with Drifter. Nancy Lewis called me into her office this morning and gave me the biggest assignment I’ve ever had.”

  “Great! Tell me about it.”

  Julie told him about the meeting, and he listened carefully, his eyes locked with hers, as if she were telling him the most important information he’d ever heard. Finally, becoming a bit embarrassed about rattling on so long about herself, Julie ended with a lame, “That’s about it.”

  “I’m really impressed,” Danny said. “I know your column is doing well and that folks talk about what you write. This drought series can do a whole bunch of good. While you were explaining what you’re going to do, FDR’s line came to my mind: ‘Nothing to fear but fear itself.’ Natural things like droughts always end, and things always get better. If we can keep in mind that this’ll pass, maybe try to help our neighbors in any way we can, we’ll get through it.”

  “I believe that too, Danny. But it’s easy for me to say. I haven’t really been hurt much.”

  Danny finished his coffee. “One thing none of us—from the richest to the poorest—have escaped is the heat. It’s the great leveler. I’ve never experienced anything like it.” He shook his head. “I came across a word in a book yesterday that I didn’t recognize, so I looked it up. Enervate—it means a loss of strength and vigor, a kind of sapping of life power. It seems like that’s what the heat is doing—draining away the spirit of the land and the crops and even the people.”

  “It does seem like that at times,” Julie said. “I’ve heard about men getting drunk and fighting at the Bulldogger, guys who’d been friends for years or at least had known each other for years.”

  “I’ve heard,” Danny said. “Isn’t the town council trying to shut the place down?”

  “No legal grounds yet, I guess,” Julie said.

  Danny took a breath and stood, reaching for the blue glass jar he’d set on the counter as he came in. “Let’s go take a look at Drifter, OK?” Then he added, “Have you heard about the Kendricks kid? Dean?”

  “I know the name. He works on the Nowack farm, right? Was on the rodeo circuit a bit last s
ummer?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. He was a pretty good roper. Made some rides on saddle broncs too. Old Man Nowack laid him off a couple of weeks ago. No crops, no work. Anyway, Dean got drunk somewhere this afternoon and drove that junk heap of a truck of his into a tree. He broke a leg and several ribs, and both his wrists. Had a severe concussion too.”

  Julie’s hand came to her mouth, and she began to feel dizzy. “Is he going to make it?”

  “I don’t . . . Julie! What’s wrong?” He rushed to her and eased her down into the chair she’d just stood from, his hands clutching her shoulders to keep her upright.

  Julie reached up and put her hand on Danny’s wrist. The strength of it felt very good. “I . . . I just need a second. I got a little dizzy, is all.” She slumped back a bit, and Danny’s hand on her shoulder tightened. She let her head drop forward so that her chin rested on her chest. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be OK.”

  “Sure. I’m right here. I won’t let you fall. You’re OK. Take some deep breaths as soon as you can. It’s the heat . . .”

  Within a pair of minutes she felt the color return to her face. “Danny,” she began, but her voice cracked. “Danny, do you know what kind of truck the Kendricks boy had?”

  “Sure. It’s a rust-bucket Ford with no muffler and no working lights. I gave him a jump last winter. Why do you want to know?”

  Julie took a breath. “A guy in an old Ford came skidding out of the parking lot at the Bulldogger this afternoon and almost slammed into me. He was laughing, like it was a joke or something. He was all over the road, and then he got control and turned down a side street, going real fast.”

  “Dean Kendricks?” Danny asked.

  Julie shook her head. “I don’t know. It could’ve been.”

  “If he was driving around loaded, it’s a wonder he didn’t hurt or kill someone. That’s pretty scary.”

  Julie shook her head again. “What’s scary is that I did nothing. I should’ve called the police right away. I had my cell phone, and I could describe the truck and the driver. I could’ve prevented what happened to him—and I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. I sat there for a few minutes, shaky and scared, and then I drove home.”

  Danny put a hand on her arm. “You had absolutely no way of knowing what was going to happen, Julie. You said his truck almost hit yours. You were scared and not thinking straight. Who would be in that situation? Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

  Julie forced a smile. “I’d like a glass of water, please,” she said.

  Danny fetched the water and hovered at her side until she was done drinking.

  “Just give me a minute, and then we can go out to the barn, OK?”

  Danny moved reluctantly to the chair closest to her.

  Julie closed her eyes for a moment. The truck sliding toward her immediately appeared in stunning color and detail, followed by a fuzzy, indistinct image of the same truck slamming into a tree.

  She opened her eyes. “How old is Dean Kendricks?” she asked.

  “How old is he?” Danny thought for a moment. “Nineteen—maybe twenty at the outside. He graduated high school last year.”

  Julie nodded. “Let’s go fix ol’ Drifter, Doc.”

  Sunday was stretched out next to Danny’s truck and started to rise when Danny and Julie stepped out of the house. “Good boy,” Danny murmured and gave a hand signal indicating “stay.” The collie settled back down, following the couple with his eyes.

  Drifter stood easily in the cross ties, gnawing on a large carrot. Danny and Julie crouched shoulder to shoulder facing the inside of the geldings’ front legs; Danny held the uncapped jar of medication. “Just take a glop of this on a finger,” he said, doing exactly that, “and rub it in over the abrasions. Don’t press too hard, and make sure you spread it around well. Here—try it.” He held out the jar to Julie.

  She sniffed it. “Smells a little minty,” she said.

  “There’s some mentholatum in there—and pine tar and udder balm and petroleum jelly and an antibiotic—”

  “And the eye of newt, of course,” Julie added.

  “And spunk water from a cemetery, like in Tom Sawyer,” Danny said.

  Julie laughed and lost her balance for a moment as she took the jar from Danny’s hand. Their foreheads knocked together, and her nose nudged his. They separated quickly, red faced.

  They both began to speak at once—and both stopped at once. Danny lifted his hand and touched Julie’s hair very gently with his fingertips. Julie exhaled lightly and closed her eyes.

  And then, as quickly as it had begun, the moment was over. Drifter snorted, seeking another treat, and Julie and Danny stood up, self-consciously moving apart a couple of steps.

  “Do that twice a day, morning and evening,” he said in his veterinarian’s voice.

  “When should I see an improvement? Can I use him?”

  “Sure. There’s no disability involved. He’s fine. Use up the salve and then give me a call, and I’ll stop by to see how things look.”

  Danny stood to one side as Julie unclipped the cross ties and led Drifter back to his stall. She secured the stall door, gave the horse another carrot, and walked with Danny to the front of the barn. Danny snapped his fingers lightly, and Sunday trotted over, tail swinging.

  “He’s a great dog,” Julie said.

  “He’s the best,” Danny agreed proudly. He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get on the road. Early appointment tomorrow to look at that gored cow again—change the dressings, check for infection. Oh—that reminds me. Do you like good beef? Jimmy gave me a couple of prime steaks about the size of saddle blankets.”

  “Sure! We could grill—”

  “Just a sec,” Danny said. He opened the sliding door of his truck and flipped the top off an Igloo cooler. He took out a two-pound steak wrapped in brown paper and handed it to Julie. “I hope you enjoy it.” Danny smiled at her and then motioned Sunday into the truck, shut the door, and moved to the front of the vehicle.

  “Call if there are any problems with Drifter—but there won’t be.”

  “Let me get a check . . .”

  “I’ll send an invoice,” he said, starting his engine. “G’night, Julie—nice visiting with you.”

  Julie stood and watched Danny’s taillights recede down the driveway. The steak felt heavy in her hands. She looked down at it for a long moment. Then she laughed. The situation was so ludicrous that there was absolutely nothing else she could have done.

  And she’d completely forgotten Sunday’s Milk-Bone.

  Julie’s sleep was fitful that night, just as it had been most nights since the extreme temperatures had invaded her part of the state. Air-conditioning was a wonderful option, but most of the ranches and homes weren’t wired for the sort of power that central units required, and the window models didn’t have the cooling power to fight the high nineties. As a consequence, although most of the stores and public buildings were air-conditioned, only a few ranchers or farm families could afford the luxury—particularly now.

  The next morning Julie watched Drifter head across the pasture to where the pines stood, his hooves raising ugly little puffs of grit where pasture grass should have been growing. She went back into the barn and mucked out Drifter’s stall. She spread a light coating of lime on the floor, sifting it like flour through her fingers. By the time she’d replaced the wet and soiled straw and tossed a thick flake of hay into the corner of the stall, she was drenched in sweat. The air—even at barely 5:30 a.m.—was thick and motionless and heavy, seeming to blanket the usual sweet smells of the barn.

  The idea had come to her while Danny was still there the night before, during their talk in the kitchen. It was a germ of a concept at that time, but the hours of twisting and turning in bed had given Julie more than enough time to allow it to grow into what could be the first of her drought series articles.

  Danny Pulver had taken over some of Julie’s time that night too.

  What is with
that guy? Is he afraid of me for some reason? Am I coming on too strong? Or is there someone else in his life?

  Julie found herself standing outside Drifter’s stall, staring at the wall, her hay fork slung over her shoulder. She shook her head.

  So what, then? He doesn’t much care for me. Big deal. He’s just another guy. Who needs him? Ken Townsend certainly seemed interested in me, even if Danny doesn’t. The thought of the pair of Snickers bars in the paper sack brought a smile to Julie’s face, despite the heat. OK—so I know next to nothing about Ken. But he seems like a good man. Maybe I’ll get a chance to find that out if he follows through and calls me.

  Julie shook her head again, refusing to follow the thought. Still, she couldn’t help but think about Danny again. He had been an enigma ever since she’d met him. There was something about the man—a sort of innocence maybe—that touched her heart in a way she hadn’t experienced before. And she couldn’t help but think that the attraction was mutual. But if it were, why didn’t he act on it?

  A few minutes later, after she had finished mucking the stall and headed for the bathroom, the showerhead coughed and gasped and the pipes rattled as if they were trying to escape from their confines behind lathe and plaster and multiple coats of paint. But the water ultimately came. Her shower was quick—hurried and not particularly satisfying. The specter of failing water supplies was close to Julie’s consciousness.

  She dried and dressed, selecting jeans and a button-down collar shirt and, of course, her boots. After eating a quick breakfast, she got in her truck and drove slowly to Cold-water, more than a little nervous—and maybe a bit afraid. She wrote a headline in her mind and then laughed at it: