Chapter 2

“What’s his name?” Emma asked.

“You don’t name your horse?”

“The mule’s is Annabelle. But the horses don’t got names. Could never think of a good one.”

Emma clambered on her horse and clasped the reins apprehensively. River looked her up and down to make sure she was well situated on the appaloosa and ready for the ride through the frigid Montana winter. When she was satisfied, she motioned with her head for Emma to follow along and steered her horse onto the snow-painted clay road and pressed into a calm clopping stride out of Livingston and towards the white sawtooth peaks through which the Bozeman Pass cut.

Emma started to worry when she saw the thickening layers of clouds above and the thickening snowfall. But the air was still, and River seemed unperturbed. If she didn’t outright reject the mission, she certainly believed it was possible to make it to Bozeman by nightfall.

The ride to Bozeman was quiet. River led Emma alongside the narrow-gauge railroad that ascended linearly into the mountains. Annabelle the mule followed closely behind.

The snow had turned into a cotton grey blanket in front of them, hiding the landscape, making the world a tiny place. The only sounds came from the movements of the horses and the mule — The hooves pushing into the snow and the mud of the road, the constant shifting and rubbing of tough wool and rawhide against horsehide, the metrical silver clinking of River’s spurs that seemed to push time forward like a pendulum, and the sound of snow hitting the ground with the hissing of sand in an hourglass. Emma could not bear this sort of silence. She rode up alongside River to strike up a conversation.

“So, Miss Langtry. I find it extraordinary, and quite a pleasant surprise to find a lady forester here in Montana. How did you manage to take such an office in such a place that seems to exist only for rough men?”

River sat erect on her horse and seemed not to pay any attention to the question, keeping her head pointed towards the things that fell into their short vision. But she had heard the question, and responded, “I know the land better than most.”

She answered no more or less than she was inclined to. Pulling River into a conversation was going to be like pulling teeth but Emma took it as a worthwhile challenge. There was nothing better to do with the many hours of riding still ahead of them anyways.

“I see. And what does the job entail normally? Besides guiding distressed British women from one town to the next.”

River’s face remained unmoved by the quip. A passing fir caught her attention. She took to studying the bark and snapped a short stem from the protruding evergreen branch.

“Job changes depending on the need. Sometimes I scout good trees for the loggers. Sometimes I stop the loggers from taking too much. Sometimes I help the sheriff track down poachers or fugitives in the swamps or the hills.”

She tossed the evergreen stem aside.

“That sounds exhilarating,” Emma said. But she noticed that River spoke of her post with a clinical and sterile understanding of her obligations. These were menial tasks she needed to do to subsist her life, as a dog would perform tricks for food.

“Can be,” River responded.

Emma glanced at the long gun hanging loosely in the saddle holster off River’s right side then up at River herself. She sat on the saddle as an exceptionally competent and confident woman. Her cheeks were rosy from the Montana chill and curved with the perfection of Italian marble statue. She had a sharp pointed nose, a sharp, thin chin, and sharp eyes that were a brown like watered-down coffee. Emma tried to place her background — she was European certainly, but there was something more to River which she could not place. A comfort with silence not customary in a civilized place.

“May I ask you about your story?” Emma asked.

River raised an eyebrow at her.

“My story? Didn’t I jus’ tell you my story?”

Emma laughed suddenly, causing her horse to give a startled snort. She patted the horse’s neck and replied, “don’t be daft. I mean where are you from? Where did you grow up…? What are your parents like?”

River’s face furled. She paused to formulate an answer.

Emma laughed again. “These are not hard questions Miss Langtry. Of course, you don’t have to answer if you prefer not to. I am simply trying to make conversation.”

River stewed in thought about the question. Emma waited patiently.

“Well, let’s see. I was born in Boulder, Colorado but raised all over. My pa was a white man. A gambler. Ma was half-Cheyenne but raised by Christian-folk, I think. Don’t know too much about them outside of that. Ma died before I could memorize her face. Pa was a miserable. He left over the Rockies. Didn’t see him since. My aunt on my pa’s side took me in and raised me alongside my cousins. She was a traveling nurse, so we found ourselves wherever she could find a job. Colorado. Utah. Wyoming. ’til we ended up here.”

They had started to ascend rapidly into the mountain pass. The road became winding and narrow and the snow had thickened on the ground as a white cake frosting. The railroad they followed disappeared in the snow. The visibility was no more than fifty feet, but Emma could feel the immense mountains reaching up around them.

“That’s extraordinary,” Emma said in genuine awe. “And your aunt and cousins, are they still in Livingston?”

River shook her head. “Aunt died of consumption. Cousins died in the Sioux wars.”

“Oh, I’m incredibly sorry,” Emma said. But these sorts of tragedy, Emma knew to be common to the people of the wild west. And River spoke of the tragedy just as she talked about her occupation: in clinical terms.

“And what about a man?”

“What about a man? Don’t have one if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Surely you’ve encountered an eligible bachelor worthy of your affection?”

River laughed aloud. The horses jumped. The mule hee-hawed.

“Shut it, Annabelle!” River chided.

“It’s a completely reasonable question,” protested Emma.

“It certainly is. Unless you know Livingston.”

Emma frowned at her. “Simply trying to make conversation, Miss Langtry,” she said curtly.

River nodded. The pair of them stayed silent. The sounds of their shuffling movements through the snow became prominent again.

After the brooding moment, Emma broke the silence again.

“It’s rather queer, even for here, perhaps especially here, for a woman not to have a man,” she commented.

“Well, I’m sorry you disapprove of my lifestyle,” River said sarcastically.

“It’s not that I disapprove of your lifestyle. It’s just… it’s just…,” Emma became flustered. “Are you a Christian woman, Miss Langtry?”

She studied River again. She rode the horse with the reins wrapped loosely around the horn of the saddle and held in her fingers with her wrists resting against the top of her jeans. She became unsure of why she felt like she needed to ask such a question.

“And how old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Thirty-two… I think. You?”

“Twenty,” Emma answered. “And soon to be a married woman,” she added with a tone of smugness that immediately embarrassed her.

“That sounds great,” River responded plainly. She observed another passing tree, stopping her horse briefly to check the bark before continuing.

“Thank you,” Emma replied.

“How do you feel about being married?” River inquired.

“I’m elated of course.”

“Beyond elated. I am in love with Percy.”

“I wouldn’t marry him if I wasn’t.”

“And how did you meet him?”

“We studied at Oxford together.”

Emma smiled as she reminisced her first meeting with Percy. “He was a charming boy. A great sportsman and a true gentleman. And incredibly smart. He finished at the top of his class at the Harvard Law School just recently, you know. We met at the Christmas ball at Oxford. Two years ago, almost to the day. I had my eye on him the moment he stepped foot into the ballroom. And he had his eye on me. It was love at first sight.”

River chuckled and recited, “a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

Emma responded, “you surprise me more with every word you speak, Miss Langtry.”

“Pride and Prejudice. I know.”

River shrugged. “Just funny to see that people over there really do live like that. So, what’s Percy’s last name? It’s not Darcy is it?”

Emma turned red. “I am not a stereotype, if that’s what you’re suggesting, Miss Langtry. Percy is an American by the way, as much as you are, and a kind man. But your point is well taken.”

“Jus’ pulling your leg, Miss Finch. Anyway, what’s he doing in Bozeman?”

“Well, as it turns out, his father, George has significant equity in the Northern Pacific. He attorneys for them. They are on their way presently to establish an office in Tacoma, Washington. They wait for me in Bozeman.”

A sudden howling burst of wind came through the valley, causing Emma’s felt hat to nearly fly off. She grabbed the brim to pull it down on her forehead. The dry snow carried by the gust pelted her like needles. When the wind stopped, she continued talking.

“Just call me River.”

“River. Do you not wish you had a man in your life to spend Christmas with?” Emma asked.

River shook her head. “I’ve had a few in my life. But men don’t interest me much. And I don’t interest them much. I prefer my own company anyway.”

Emma imagined herself at River’s age. At thirty-two. She’d have children then. They’d have family Christmas. Laughing over tea and cake. Opening presents. Singing Christmas carols. Then she imagined River’s life at Christmas time, sitting in her home by her lonesome. Or at her tiny office in Livingston scribbling in a ledger. With the kettle whistling on the stove. Or perhaps out in the countryside on a lonesome moonlit ride among the cottonwoods and the endless grasslands disturbed only by a horizon with mountains like distant claws. Out there with the wolves and the bison, and the eagle soaring high in the starry firmament. As beautiful a lady River was, she certainly would have had many suitors. And she had not taken one. Does she pity herself? Does she need pity? Perhaps not, Emma thought.

Shouting echoed through the white misted valley. Lively shouting from men. And the clanging of steel and the grumble of machinery. The ears of the horses perked up. River reached instinctively for her rifle, but after a quick moment, her hand relaxed and went back to her horse’s reins.

“Railroad workers,” River explained to Emma. Emma nodded and drew her horse closer to River’s.

Grey figures appeared in the icy grey flurry ahead of them, and as they drew closer, the figures turned into working men.

“Hullo there!” A man yelled out to them. He shuffled over in the snow, huffing the cold air. His shoulders were frosted with the falling snow and his face smudged with black powder.

“Hello,” River responded. The man walked up and smiled as he recognized the voice. “I figured it might be River out here right now,” the man exclaimed. “Who else’s crazy enough?”

The man looked over and tipped his forehead at Emma. Emma nodded back.

“If you’re thinking of taking the young missus over the pass, I would strongly reconsider,” he said to River.

River looked up to the sky, letting a few of the largening flakes to hit her on the face.

He explained, “we just got the call of a mighty big ‘un coming through. We are heading back down before it gets to be too bad.”

Emma’s heart sank. She saw the figures working busily behind the man. They were other men who shoved coal into a miniature steam engine. They were getting the locomotive ready.

“I suppose you’re right,” River said to the man. The man grunted.

He turned to Emma and bellowed, “helluva weather to be wandrin’ about ma’am.”

Emma replied, “that may be, sir, but we’ve only Bozeman to arrive to.” She looked to River, who looked at her with uncertain eyes. She continued with a defiant smile, “I am not bothered by a little bit of snow.”

The man guffawed and shook his head. He replied, “you can come with us if you’ re second guessing your decision. I would if I was you. But we’ll be gone in a hot minute.”

River turned her horse to face Emma and said, “we are taking mighty gamble.”

To the man, Emma asked, “which direction are you heading? To Bozeman?”

The man shook his head. “No ma’am. Crew from Bozeman already left an hour ago. We’re down to Livingston.”

Hope extinguished. She looked at River for answers. River only looked back, waiting for her to make a decision. They had ridden for two hours already. Only another six at the most and they would make it. River knew that and knew that if she took Emma back to Livingston, she would have to give the money back. The horses and the mule stood huddled and still with flicking ears and tails swooshing at the snow. Their hides gathered snow-dust, but they seemed unworried.

Not seeing a decision happening in Emma, River finally said, “I tell you what Miss Finch, let’s go on. There’s a mountain hut not two miles further on. If it picks up, we can hole up for the night and let the storm pass and see if we can get to Bozeman tomorrow before your Christmas dinner. Sound good to you?”

Emma nodded. Of course, it sounded good to her. This plan was infinitely better than giving up and heading back to Livingston to wait for God knows how much longer until the railroad is cleared.

River clicked her heels and her teeth at her horse to get them moving. Emma’s horse and Annabelle fell in automatically and they trudged onward. The coal-faced old man touched the brim of his hat shouted as they passed, “River, you stay safe out there, you hear?”

The road took them higher into the pass. The higher they ascended, the thicker the snow became. The landscape turned from a ghostly grey speckled with grey flakes to a blue and white thicket of streaking ice. Emma had turned her felt hat downwards over her face to protect her from the onslaught so that only the pommel of the saddle and the frosted shoulders of her appaloosa horse were the only things in her vision. White noise, otherwise, filled her world.

It went on like this for an eternity. But Emma dreaded that the eternity only filled a minute or an hour at most. To manage that dreadful eternity with conversation was out of the question, as was anything else besides simply surviving the pelting snowflakes. Her mind fixated on convincing herself of her own toughness, and of laughing at this misadventure with Percy the following day.