Chapter 3

She had fixated her mind inward so much, that she hadn’t noticed that the clinking sound of River’s spurs disappeared. Suddenly she felt a vast void. She jolted up and looked ahead and saw no one. River was gone. She swiveled her head around and saw that the mule still dutifully followed. Her own horse still pressed forward, but only in a listless forward direction.

Emma’s heart filled with a thumping fright and her throat knotted up. “Miss Langtry!?” She shouted out into the blank storm. “River!”

The wind and the snow swallowed her voice. “River!” she cried out in vain.

She stopped her horse from moving forward. The snow had reached the depth of her Appaloosa’s knees. The snow inched upwards like seawater in a sinking boat.

“River!” she cried again. The only answer was the muffling silence of the howling wind. She was stranded. She cawed at her unbelievable lot: a caricature in a wild west story.

She waited, as there was nothing else to do, and nowhere to go but into a wall of white. The whistling soundscape blanketed her mind into a terrified calm. Her horse shook the snow from its mane and whinnied impatiently. She rubbed its neck to reassure it.

Another dreadful eternity passed before the sounds of silver clinking came through the wind. A warm relief came over her. The sound of River’s spurs.

Out of the white a grey mass appeared and became River on her horse. She had a serious look on her face. “Follow me, Miss Finch! Found the hut,” she shouted.

River turned her horse around and the horse trotted back into the storm. Emma snapped her horse into a chase after River. The mule followed close behind. Not a minute later, they found themselves in front of a mossy cabin and a covered stable, sheltered in a grove of dark pines. They put the horses and the mule in the stable, taking the saddles off, and placing heavy matted blankets on the animals to keep them warm, and put in front of their mouths some roughage from the summer, which the animals took gladly. River hauled Emma’s luggage, and with a light kick, busted open the cabin door.

When the door went shut behind them, the sounds of storm died away to a muffled howling like a pack of wolves beyond the gates.

River dropped the luggage on the ground in the middle of the empty shack, rubbed her hands to warm them and pulled some logs from a large pile in the corner beneath the window to lay them into the fireplace. The cold in the still air became apparent. Emma took off her wet riding jacket and hung it, along with her hat and her gloves by the fireplace to dry and shivered beside a kneeling River, watching her flick sparks with a tiny metallic device into a pile of tinder and kindling.

“Shall I assist with anything?” Emma asked.

One of the larger sparks caught the tinder and River blew with cupped hands to turn the glowing embers into a bright candle-like flame in the hairy pile of dried moss and sticks. She fanned it a few times until the flame started to spread, then looked up at Emma to say, “just get yourself comfortable Miss Finch.”

Emma crossed her arms and looked around at the small cabin. “So, I take it we are here for the night,” she said through chattering teeth.

River stood and Emma looked up at her. She stood a half a head taller. Emma hadn’t realized the disparity in their heights before, as this was really the first time, they had stood next to each other.

River took off her deerskin coat and flung it haphazardly onto the small table nestled against the wall, the only table in the room, then flung her coonskin hat on top of the coat. She opened a large storage cabinet and rolled out a bearskin rug onto the ground, then took out two rolls of heavy wool blankets.

“Some creature comforts,” she said. “Speaking of which…”

She reached a hand up into the top shelf of the cabinet, standing on her toes, and pulled down a large glass bottle full of amber liquid.

She jiggled the bottle at Emma. “Nothing like a bit of the good stuff to warm your soul,” she said.

Emma frowned at her.

“Oh, here’s your blanket. You’re on the cot. I’ll take the floor. ‘less you prefer the floor.”

Emma looked at the shiny black bearskin rug on the floor. It didn’t look uncomfortable. Nonetheless she unrolled the blanket on the cot and tucked it neatly into the dusty mattress.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any clean linens, would you?” Emma asked.

River bit the cork off the end of the bottle, and it came off with a cheerful pop. She took a swig of the whiskey and wiped her mouth before answering.

“You have my sincerest apologies. Left the clean linens back in Livingston.”

She offered some whiskey. Emma shook her head and stayed standing in front of the fire, which had grown into a cheerful, crackling glow that radiated a pleasant warmth that pushed out the cold dampness. With her riding skirt and her damp chemisette warmed, she felt serene. She watched as River, who found a seat at the small table, tossed her head back to drink another mouthful of whiskey.

“Well, there’s not a whole lot else to do in here,” River said. “My recommendation is to get some drink in you. The time will pass quicker I reckon.”

Emma gave her a weak smile, then sat on top of one of her suitcases. “I’m perfectly fine for now, but thank you,” she said.

River shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said and took a small pocketknife out from her jean pocket and used it to carve mindlessly into the table, one hand resting on the bottle.

Emma looked around again at the room and studied it with more intention. Dusted cobwebs in the top corners wafted gently in the draft created by the heat from the fireplace. The window was stained with frost and fog and the mad snowflakes pelted it, and bursts of wind rattled it. A pair of antlers hung from the wall by the door adjacent to a hanging lime-greened brass oil lamp. Beeswax candles were pushed down onto the horns of the antler and were unused. The room smelled of pine resin and damp soil.

“So, this is your hut?” Emma asked.

“I built it, if that’s your point. But others use it from time to time. I don’t mind as long as its kept stocked with firewood and fatwood. That’s the rule. And this is jus’ one of a bunch of huts. Good for a predicament like we find ourselves in now. Necessary thing for the mountain.”

She drank another swig.

“I see. It’s quite cozy.”

“So, you don’t drink much, I take it?”

Emma shrugged and replied, “I drink wine.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of wine?”

“Well, all kinds really. I’m quite fond of sweet wines. Like a good sherry.”

River raised an eyebrow. “Don’t think I’ve had sherry.”

“It’s a pleasant wine. And appropriate for the cold.”

“Maybe I’ll try and find one in Bozeman.”

“What’s that laugh for?” River said, joining her with a short chuckle. She spun the knife on the table.

Emma held her mouth and shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

River grinned and responded, “don’t you think they have sherry in Bozeman?”

“I’m sure they do. But it’s a bit absurd, don’t you think? A lady walking into a bar and ordering a sherry in Bozeman?”

“Can’t I walk into a bar and order a sherry?”

Emma walked over and sat in the chair opposite the table and rested her arms on the table and looked upon River with amusement.

“I guess I’m just not used to the notion.”

“It ain’t a big deal,” River said. “If the bars ain’t friendly to women, then I guess they ain’t friendly to my money neither.”

“I find that something quite admirable about you, Ms. Langtry. That you would be so bold.”

“Like I said, call me River. And thanks, I suppose. But you’re misunderstanding Montana.”

“Well. Maybe it ain’t appropriate for women to walk into a bar in London. Because you’re all so prim and proper over there, maybe you think that’s how it ought to be everywhere. But here in Montana, there are two rules. One — can you handle a gun. And two — do you got money. That’s our version of prim and proper.”

Emma glanced at the whiskey bottle, and River noticed. She pushed the bottle towards her. “Go ahead and give it a try. It ain’t sherry, but it’s damn fine whiskey.”

Emma’s hand reached for it.

“Fine,” Emma said and grabbed the bottle by the neck with one hand. She grabbed the bottom of the bottle with the other and strained with its heft as she carefully lifted it up to her lips. She squirmed as the biting, burning liquid went down her throat and filled her with an overwhelming warmth in her gut and in her lungs. She slammed the bottle back down on the table and coughed as she wiped her mouth.

“That is horrid,” she exclaimed with a look of disgust on her face. “How on earth can you drink that?”

“Once you get used to it, there’s nothing like it in the world.”

“Ugh, I can imagine.”

River lifted the bottle up and drank a spirited round. Emma noticed briefly that River’s cotton blouse had become unbuttoned at the top, and she had momentary glimpse of the curved, soft flesh of her breasts. She has perfect, motherly breasts, Emma immediately thought then blushed.

She took the bottle again from River and drank a longer draught.

“Atta girl,” River said.

“I guess it’ll have to do,” Emma coughed.

“I knew you’d come around, Miss Finch.”

“Oh, do call me Emma or Em, if it suits you. I think we can dispense with the formality now.”

“I knew you’d come around, Em.”

The night seemed to arrive all at once and without warning. The pale blue light turned into an inky black. The wind came stronger. River ran out quickly to check on the animals and rejoined Emma to work towards the bottom of the whiskey bottle.

“You ought to know, I’ve not once had too much to drink,” Emma confessed, red in the face and her forehead dampened with sweat. She swayed as she sat at the table. She giggled and took a shot from the bottle. River laughed with her.

“Then I promise I won’t tell your husband about this.”

“You do not dare, this is our little secret,” she said, then pointed a threatening, swaying finger at River. “And he’s not my husband.”

River laughed and drank, and the bottle slipped from her hand and landed right-side up on the table, making her laugh even harder.

“He’s not?” River asked, confused.

“Fiancée,” Emma slurred. “There’s a difference.”

“Pretty much the same thing, ain’t it?”

Emma shook her head. “No, it isn’t.”

“Ok, you got me with a technicality. But really, you’re still the same people before and after the ceremony.”

“Its not just THAT,” Emma said with a hiccup. “We haven’t… we haven’t… consumma-“

She clasped her hands to her mouth. Her eyes tightened shut and her cheeks blushed at the transgression she was about to commit.

“Y’all haven’t done what now?”

Emma kept her lips tight and shook her head.

River’s face brightened when she arrived at the revelation She chuckled and said, “oh, come on I mean, that’s a normal state of affairs for your type ain’t it?”

Emma put her hands on her hips. “I beg your pardon. Your type? What do you mean your type?”

“Your type. Like… I don’t know. Fancy. Upper class.” A sly grin grew on River’s face. “Pure.”

Emma scowled. “You say pure as if it were an obscenity.”

River shrugged. “Nah, nothing wrong with it.”

“Of course, there’s nothing wrong with it. Yes, I happen to still be pure… a virgin. As you so put it, it’s a normal state of affairs for my type.”

Emma took another shot and stared vacantly into the fire, which had started to die off. River stumbled over to the log pile, grabbed a thick log and tossed it into the flames, causing a constellation of frantic firefly embers to swirl into the chimney.

River caught herself as she lost her balance stumbling back to her seat at the table.

“Practicing for a tight rope act, are we?” Emma giggled and hiccupped.

River fell into her chair and swiped the bottle from Emma.

“Maybe I intend to join a circus. By the way, has anyone ever told you — you got the most pretty laugh?”

Emma hid her face at the sudden compliment.

“No, I don’t suppose anyone has.”

“You mean your dear Percy never mentioned it to you? The man don’t appreciate you, enough.”

Percy, of course, lavished her with compliments during their courtship, which she, of course, took with the necessary gratitude. But as the whiskey cleared her from inhibition like an ink cloud dispersing in water, she realized that River’s simple compliment rang truer to her than any superlative Percy had ever adorned her with. It touched her heart.

When River plopped herself down in her chair, Emma looked carefully upon River. River’s face was relaxed with the warmth of the fire and her eyes danced with the flickering flames, and shone, despite weather-smoothed edges, with a vibrant wisdom. Emma could not help but think that a lifetime of that wisdom crackled in her soul. A wisdom earned from her life like how a wild horse learns how far the prairie stretched. It was a wisdom Emma knew she did not have, nor would ever gain with her carefully approved of and plotted out life. She was envious of it.

“So, how do you know he’s the one?” River asked. She spoke the question to the fire.

Emma grasped the whiskey bottle with a tightening hand.

“It just feels right.”

“But y’all never fucked. So how do you know?”

The word made Emma cringe. “Is that necessary for true love?” She retorted.

River turned her attention back to Emma, leaned forward on her chair and stared deeply into her eyes. “When you have an intimate, physical relationship with a man. And really mean to. You can just tell, there’s something special there that you can’t just get from just being with him. It’s the only way to discover to that ‘god I’d die for that man‘ kind a love. Ain’t no other way about it.”

“…and you felt exactly that with a man ever?”

River shrugged. “Maybe once or twice.”

“Why haven’t you married, then?”

River leaned back in her chair and twirled her hair in her fingers. “Just because I love a man, why do I gotta marry him?”