The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(82)

Tinkerbell raced ahead and onto the porch, stretching out beside Pal. Laurel called out, waving her arm like a flag, and Simon returned it. He was wearing a brown cowboy hat and sheepskin coat.

“I’ll see if he needs any help,” I said, leaping from Nastas’s back.

“Fine, fine,” Jessie said. Then to Laurel: “Why don’t we ride ’round back and visit Pegasus?”

As I headed toward Simon, I watched the three of them disappear behind the cabin.

“Mornin’, cowboy. Need some help?”

“Always.”

He leaned over as I moved in for a kiss; then another. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

“Your nose is cold.”

“You know what they say: ‘Cold nose, warm heart.’”

“That’s ‘Cold hands, warm heart,’” I said.

“In that case, I’d better get these off.” He was pulling at his gloves.

“Stop that!” I grabbed his hands with both of mine. “You’ll freeze.”

He tugged me to him. “With you here? Not a chance.”

Olin’s voice rang out: “Don’t forget the saddle, Simon! The boy’ll be disappointed if you do.”

He and Jessie and Laurel were returning. Simon patted a large lump wrapped in a thick blanket strapped tight behind his saddle. “Right here!”

“Best get started, then,” said Olin. “It’s a ride.”

The Begay ranch lay on the other side of the Mountain. The access road would take us to it, cutting around the Mountain rather than over. Laurel rode ahead with Simon. She had always taken to him, from that first night he came to dinner; perhaps that’s why she seemed to accept our being together now without hesitation or fuss. He was pointing out the places he’d gone hunting or fishing as a boy, or where he and his uncle hunted mushrooms or dug up sassafras roots to make tea.

“What’s sassafras?” she asked.

“A tree,” said Simon. “Deer eat the leaves and twigs, and rabbits eat the bark in wintertime.”

“What’s it taste like?”

“You like root beer? It tastes like that.”

She gave him a look that said she didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. “A root beer tree?”

He reached for his canteen. “Here,” he said, unscrewing the cap and passing it to her.

She took a sip. “It’s a little like root beer,” she said. “But no bubbles. It’s warm, too.”

“Like it? Then drink up.”

In time, the road hit a steep incline, which the horses took at a slow, methodic pace in snow that was well past their fetlocks. When the road leveled off again, we were high up on the Mountain’s south side, breaking free of the forest and overlooking a deep, sweeping valley so spectacular it took my breath away.

I reined in. The others did the same.

The late morning sun hit the slope at an angle that made the snow shine as if every inch were dusted with crystals.

And moving along the deep slope were bison—hundreds and hundreds of them, massive and shaggy, pawing at the ground, blowing out steaming breaths like bellows. Tinkerbell and Pal began to bark, but the bison ignored them—all but one great bull that raised his huge horned head, his muzzle white with rime ice, and heaved a huge snort. The dogs quieted.

Along the valley floor, a river was whipsawing through. Scattered along its banks were buildings of various sizes and shapes. You could smell wood smoke from chimneys and fire pits.

“And over there,” said Olin, pointing to the opposite slope, “those are Begay’s sheep. Some of ’em, anyway.”

A faint jingling noise erupted farther down the mountain road, growing louder by the minute. Finally I could make out a red sleigh on runners, drawn by a horse with silver bells on its harness.

We sidled closer to the Mountain to make way for the sleigh to pass. Seated inside was a woman in a silver fox coat and hat and a man in a wool overcoat and Russian-style fur cap. They were rosy cheeked and giddy, and the woman waved and called as they passed: “Gruss Gott! Wie geht’s?”

I sputtered after them: “Gruss Gott—gut, danke!”

Then I burst into laughter. “Who on earth were they?”

“That looked like Santa’s sleigh,” said Laurel. “But that wasn’t Santa.”

“No, sweetie, that wasn’t Santa,” said Jessie. “Santa’s busy at the North Pole this time of year.”