Tailwinds Past Florence Read online

  Kara stared ahead, ignoring her food. Edward knew that look; she wouldn’t stay quiet for long. He placed his hand on her thigh. “Ignore him,” he whispered.

  “Lemme tell you what you ought to do. Make a right onto the Heart Butte Cutoff road before East Glacier. Take that down to Heart Butte and then angle back up to Highway 2, out past that drunken hellhole.”

  Kara leaned in to Edward and not-quite-whispered, “Racist much?”

  “Excuse me, miss.” The man raised his voice. “If you’ve got something to say …”

  Edward squeezed Kara’s leg, a silent plea for her to let it drop.

  The woman leaned forward to talk past the men to Kara. “Honey, that ain’t being racist. That’s being a realist. And excuse us for trying to be helpful. These folks ain’t like the ones you got in Seattle. They don’t have you rich city folks filling their slot machines for ‘em.”

  Kara chomped a large bite of her sandwich and stared straight ahead, showing every indication she was going to swallow her reply. Relieved, Edward turned to face the couple with a placating smile and a look that confessed his embarrassment. “I’m sure you’re right, ma’am, and we appreciate the warning. It’s too bad every tribe can’t be as fortunate.”

  The server slid the check to Edward. “When you’re ready.”

  Edward and Kara finished their lunch in silence.

  Outside, Edward unlocked the bikes and rolled the smaller of the two to Kara, eying her as she took it.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “You know what.”

  “That guy was a jerk.”

  “Yeah, he was. But you can’t go around calling people racists. And how’d he know we were from Seattle anyway?”

  “They asked while you were outside,” she said, reattaching her bag.

  “And you couldn’t wait to show them your bleeding heart … We don’t know anything about Browning. For all we know, it might really be dangerous and maybe—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. Let’s just go,” Kara said.

  “Hold on. What do you want to do?”

  “I’m not going to be scared in my own country, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “What happened to being more careful?” As he spoke, an icicle the length of a broadsword broke free from the eave and sliced the snow bank inches from where the bikes had been leaning.

  Kara glanced from the hole to her husband. “Maybe we both oughta be more careful.”

  “Which way do you want to go?”

  “The way we planned,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I’m serious. We can’t be detouring all over the place every time someone says we should, least of all a couple of indigenous-hating hicks.”

  He knew she was right in a practical sense. Still, it would fall on him to keep her safe if things got rough.

  “We’re in Montana, Ed. What do you think people will say when we tell them we’re headed to Turkey? Or Uzbekistan?” Kara pedaled off, leaving her words ringing in Edward’s head while a sour taste built in his mouth. Uzbekistan? Where the hell’s that?

  The road continued its ascent to Marias Pass for twenty miles, each one steeper than the last, but no harder to pedal thanks to a stiffening tailwind. The higher they climbed, the faster they went. Edward yipped and hollered in delight as an invisible hand pushed against his back and his jacket billowed in front, its collar tickling his chin. The map case flipped forward on its button snaps, pinned upside-down by the wind, as if some invisible wanderer were studying its reverse side.

  To rider’s left, Precambrian pyramids floating atop snow-covered slopes marked the park’s southern boundary. The exposed cliffs were too steep to hold the snow that now spun and danced in miniature vortices all around them. The aspens and pine growing near the highway were stunted, bushy tufts of green prairie-dogging on a wintry field.

  Edward stopped his bike near the sign marking the Continental Divide (elevation 5,216 feet) to soak in the vista—and the moment. He swayed side to side, west to east, east to west, in an effort to stay warm as Kara took photos. “The spine of North America,” he intoned while teeter-tottering atop that invisible blade that split families of raindrops in two, sending half to the Pacific, the rest to the Atlantic.

  It was the fourth mountain pass they’d crested, but this one carried a significance the others hadn’t. To descend its eastern flank, to roll with the wind, was to commit to the trip.

  He and Kara celebrated the milestone with a high five and a hug, but without shelter from the bone-chilling wind, she didn’t loiter. He watched her go then gazed back over his shoulder, a pensive look to the Pacific Northwest—toward home, the life he knew, the dreams he harbored.

  “Come on, Ed!” she yelled over her shoulder.

  Edward struggled to swallow the lump in his throat as his fear rooted him in place. He wanted to call her back, to retract everything he’d done, the mistakes he made. Every last bit of the past two months. Longer if it’s what she wanted. But that was impossible. In faith, his option was singular: he must follow. If he couldn’t hold onto the life he promised her, he had to at least give her this trip she cherished. No matter the sacrifice.

  The descent to the Great Plains wasn’t long, and the tailwind propelled them to speeds exceeding forty miles per hour. Edward flew past Kara in a tucked position, spurring his two-wheeled steed ever faster, the wind whipping at his face, watering his eyes. Down they plummeted mile after gleeful mile until, all at once, everything changed.

  The mountains flanking the highway terminated abruptly and, like bullets from a barrel, they were shot onto a sea of undulating dirt-covered hills stretching to the horizon. No more snow, no more pines, no more Rocky Mountains. There was only a road gently wending its way downward across a khaki-colored, hazy expanse of near nothingness.

  Edward sat upright on the leather saddle, feeling smaller than ever before, a mere blip on a landscape that spread to infinity. Yet despite it being so unlike anywhere he had ever been, he felt an element of homecoming, as if he expected to find a part of himself left behind. It was the same feeling he got when stepping from the ferry onto Vashon Island, outside Seattle, where his parents still lived in his childhood home.

  He coasted into town, passing the recommended detour without a glance, and stopped at the first motel he encountered. He recognized nothing, yet he slipped into the alien environment as one does a favorite sweater after an Indian summer.

  Edward sat quietly during breakfast, picking at a ragged cuticle. He’d started chewing his nails again.

  Kara thumbed through a tourist brochure about a Native American museum in Browning. She wanted to go, it was on the way, but he was against prolonging their stay on the reservation, given the warning they had received. Prime Rib Guy was a bigoted jerk, of that there was no doubt, but even the most tired stereotypes often walked with a bounce of truth in their step. He wouldn’t say anything to Kara—no sense starting off the day with an argument—but it was best to get through town early, he reasoned. If there were any drunks, they’d probably still be sleeping it off.

  The ride to Browning was only thirteen miles, but spring in the High Plains doesn’t abide the calendar. The grit carried on yesterday’s wind now mixed with soggy snowfall, caking the roads, their bicycles, and outerwear in sandy slush. That it was April Fool’s Day wasn’t lost on Edward as they pedaled into the storm. This is how people win a Darwin Award, he thought as they cycled past the last ramshackle house in East Glacier. Once out of town, as visibility diminished on the open road, his sense of having been there before intensified.

  Fortunately, traffic wasn’t an issue. Every passing car held its line, following the tire tracks carved before it. The drivers didn’t move over to give them any extra room but drove in a straight line, which was all Edward could ask for. He glanced in the mirror and spotted Kara right behind him, her head tilted down to keep the snow from her eyes. “We should have brought ski goggles,” he yelled to Kara, but she didn’t respond.

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nbsp; By the time Browning came into view, Edward had changed his mind about the museum. The storm was intensifying and they needed a place to warm up. Any trouble-making locals be damned.

  Edward tugged on the door. The lock yielded a millimeter, at most, before the heavy steel panel with its narrow, wired glass security window thudded against the deadbolt. The interior was dark and the sign said weekends only, but he tried again anyway. Twice.

  “Closed,” he said, descending the stairs.

  Kara shook her head sullenly. “Dammit, Montana.”

  “Two months—”

  “Don’t say it,” she interrupted. “We’re early. I know.” Kara wheeled her bike around and pointed up the road. “There’s a taco place. Let’s warm up there.”

  They racked the bikes against a signpost and ran the locks through the wheels and frames. The restaurant was similar to a Taco Bell, right down to the menu and signage, only slightly off. Like an identical twin that walked with a limp and stuttered.

  Edward arranged their dripping-wet gloves, headbands, and jackets across the chairs of an unused table and slid into a nearby booth, his back to the door so he could see the bikes outside. Kara returned a few minutes later with two cups of coffee, chicken quesadillas, and an order of something called Mexi-Rolls. Taquitos in plain-speak.

  He was blowing the steam off his coffee when he heard voices and the stomping of boots behind him. Kara flicked her chin toward the door as four haggard-looking locals entered. Each was dressed in multiple layers of plaid flannel, work boots, dungarees, knit cap, and gloves. Edward suspected they had spent the entire winter in those same outfits. Their hair—inky, wet, and stringy—draped over their shoulders. One by one they leaned large, wooden sticks against the doorjamb, alongside the height marker security strip.

  Edward and Kara exchanged a cautious glance as metal chairs were dragged screeching across the tile floor.

  Two of the men stared as Edward sipped his coffee. Lowering his gaze, Edward noticed plastic bags—poor man’s water proofing—protruding from their scuffed, life-beaten boots. Wetness dripped from their heavy denim, leaving Edward feeling self-conscious in his Gore-Tex excess.

  “You two like riding in the snow?”

  Edward looked up as Kara turned around. The foursome, a woman and three men, one with a cloudy eye, stared back. Edward had no idea which had spoken. Was he supposed to answer? Did he need to? Do we like riding in the snow?

  “Not really,” he said, trying to make eye contact with the whole group at once, “but it’s not so bad as long as it doesn’t get too deep. One or two inches is okay; more than that and it gets difficult.” He talked fast; their attention waned.

  “Where you from?”

  Kara’s eyebrows arched halfway to her hairline as she grinned across the table. “Looks like another cold lunch for you,” she whispered.

  “Seattle.”

  “Nice,” the woman said. “Got a cousin who moved there. Works with computers. Maybe you know him.” She spoke with a confidence that belied her soft, curious face.

  Edward was struck by her complexion, her tawny skin hosted the worst acne he’d ever seen on an adult. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was putting him on. “Maybe. It’s not that big of a city,” he offered, attempting to be polite.

  “It’s bigger than Browning,” she said, as her companions snickered and shook their heads.

  Kara placed a Mexi-Roll onto Edward’s quesadilla wrapper and turned in her seat to take over conversation duty. He listened as she gently ribbed one of the men about his NFL allegiances—he was wearing a Minnesota Vikings cap. It was one of those pointless common-ground conversations strangers cling to when compelled to chat. Something Edward’s Wisconsin-raised wife was far better at than he. Still, he didn’t like the way they were looking at them, their constant glances outside, the size of the sticks leaning against the door. Were they scoping out our bikes?

  Beneath the table, Edward tapped Kara’s ankle with his shoe to get her attention before rising to clear the table. “We should get going.”

  He didn’t want to look scared, and he would have liked to enjoy his coffee once it cooled, but he didn’t like the ragtag bunch watching his every move.

  Kara rolled her eyes. “They’re finnnne,” she mouthed, silently.

  Maybe so, but Edward didn’t want to take any chances. “I’ll deal with the trash,” he said, collecting the food wrappers. “You get our stuff. I’ll meet you at the bikes.”

  Kara clearly thought he was overreacting, but rose to collect their outerwear.

  Outside, Edward undid the locks then knelt to retie his shoelace as a motley collection of dogs approached. Two had obvious wounds and matted fur. One hopped on three feet. The tail of another was half gone. Edward startled and nearly tipped over when Kara thrust the damp winter wear at him and bent to pet the dogs.

  “These yours?” she asked the locals who followed, each grabbing their stick on the way out.

  “Kind of,” the woman replied. “They follow us so we feed them.”

  “The sticks are for the others,” Vikings Cap explained, leaning against his knotty staff. “Always some rez dogs running around, biting people.”

  The men circled around the bikes and ran their hands along the seats, squeezed the brakes, and rang the bells. The guy with one good eye attempted to pick up Edward’s bike. The front wheel lifted two inches off the ground then fell to the cement with a thud. He shook his head and backed away whistling. Edward had seen that reaction before and couldn’t help smiling with pride, despite wishing he’d left the bikes locked.

  “Nice bikes. How much you pay for ‘em?” Vikings fan asked.

  Edward snapped in his direction.

  This was exactly why they shouldn’t have stopped, why they should have taken the detour. They were exactly where they were told not to go, and surrounded by four locals stinking of rain and sweat and dog—and stale beer. The bikes were their most valuable possessions. They cost thousands each, and carried as much in clothes and camping gear. Gear that was their home. Edward’s chest tightened as he thought of the junkies in Seattle who fed their addiction by pawning stolen bicycles. These four weren’t junkies though, he hoped.

  “Oh, not much. They were a gift from my grandmother,” Kara lied, stepping between them. “They’re more sentimental than anything.”

  The men nodded in appreciation and backed away.

  Kara ruffled the gimpy dog’s fur before straddling her bike. She cast Edward a disappointed look as she pulled on her helmet. “Lighten up.”

  The storm dissolved as fast as it had risen. Highway 2, desert dry and arrow straight, glimmered in the afternoon sun. Big Sky Country stretched to infinity.

  The bicycles hummed. Edward pedaled casually in his tallest gearing as a rising tailwind lent a hand. Over two hundred fifty pounds of man, bicycle, and gear cruising at thirty miles per hour; it was rarely this easy. He unzipped his jacket, pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose, and cranked along, bolt upright in the saddle with his arms stretched wide, basking in midday euphoria. Takeoff. In his mirror, the snow-capped peaks of the Front Range shrank into memory.

  “Downhill to the Mississippi,” Edward said, as Kara pulled alongside him on the wide shoulder.

  She shook her head, smirking. “Yeah, right. It’s never ‘all downhill from here.’”

  He laughed. “Spoken like a true cyclist.”

  Kara carefully withdrew her camera and pointed it at Edward as he rode hands-free. “Slow down, I’ll get some video,” she said, pulling in front of him for an action shot.

  “Look,” he yelled, pointing. Eighty yards to their right and closing fast, was a herd of wild horses at full gallop. At least twenty, all but three were burnt umber with a black mane, the others white with chestnut markings. The horses turned near the highway and sprinted alongside Edward and Kara, keeping pace with only a rusty barbed-wire fence between them.

  Up ahead, set back from the highway, slumped a gr
ay, weather-beaten structure. He thought it might be an old cabin from frontier days, but soon realized it was probably for livestock. A shelter left to rot in the elements, standing only by the grace of rust and gravity.

  The horses, running not quite single-file, and kicking up tufts of golden weeds and grass, veered toward the structure.

  “This is amazing!” Kara hollered.

  The camera swung from her wrist as she grabbed two handfuls of brake and skid the bike to an abrupt stop. If not for Edward’s quick reflexes, he would have ridden right into her. He yelped in surprise as Kara raised the camera and focused on getting her shot.

  She panned as the horses galloped straight toward the dilapidated structure. With the Rocky Mountains in the background and a solitary contrail texturing the cold steel blue of the sky, it would be a hell of a photo.

  “Keep going. Almost,” Kara whispered, urging the horses into a better composition.

  The lead horse squealed and cut hard from the barn, sliding on its front hooves while digging for traction in the loose soil. The others squatted and slid, narrowly avoiding a pileup. The trailing horses changed course, cutting the corner as if sensing danger, but never stopped. Edward watched as the herd disappeared into the horizon behind a cloud of dust.

  “Aww, why’d they turn? That was gonna be a great shot,” Kara said, dropping her arms to her side. “Something scared them.”

  “Think it was the barn?”

  Kara shrugged. She raised the camera, zoomed in, and took several more photos. Edward approached, straddling his bike, and looked over her shoulder as she magnified the images on the screen.

  “Wait, go back. What was that?”

  Kara zoomed in further on the barn’s opening. “Is that …”

  “It can’t be.”

  “I think I see a face.”

  “Hold my bike,” Edward said. He dismounted and ducked between the strands of the barbed-wire fence, then ran across the hummocky field toward the shelter, a blend of fear and curiosity spurring him on.