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Her mouth went still beneath his.
He wondered at the warm softness, tasted coffee and sweetness and thought he’d done the wrong thing. She would pull away. She didn’t want this.
God knew, he was a man. He was just out of prison. He couldn’t handle this.
She tilted her head and moved her lips against his.
She did want it. He’d done the right thing. So right it obliterated all the ugliness he’d seen and heard in the cells. So right it made him feel free.
Her lips moved on his and she kissed him back as if she liked it.
As if she needed it.
She lifted her hand and laid it on his neck, sure and sweet, as if she needed him.
What could a man like him have to offer a woman like her?
He couldn’t let himself want it. He was free, but not for this. So he caught her wrist, kissed her harder for one more heartbeat, then took his mouth away.
MONTANA BLUE
Genell Dellin
For Paula Hamilton
and Karen Crane, my companions on this journey
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank:
God, for the story
My agent, Nancy Yost, and my editor, Abby Zidle, for their insights and their faith in Montana Blue
My friends Sheila Forbes, Jill Peale and Robin Miller for their heartfelt encouragement
And my family – my husband, Art, and son, David, daughter-in-law, Julie, and grandson, Gage; my sister Linda, her husband, Luke, and their son, Lance, and daughter, Lucie; Lance’s wife, Tamara, and daughter, Elizabeth; Lucie’s husband, Joel, and children, Gracie and Waylon Grady; my sister Bonnie, her husband, Gary, and their sons, Ben and Sam; and my uncle Arlen and aunt Clara – for so much love.
CHAPTER ONE
THEY TURNED HIM LOOSE on a dazzling, yellow-robed morning ten years to the month—June—since they’d locked him in. The breeze whipped down from the mountains with a wet-dirt smell and the sun struck his face with a strong, hot hand. A crater of need opened in the center of him, the need to rise to meet that life-giving sun, to wallow in its warmth and try to suck it all into the empty sack that was his skin.
“Here,” he said, and shoved the bundle of paints and brushes he carried at the last guard, “take this to your kids.”
For what he had to do, he sure as hell didn’t need them. Besides, they carried the stink of the place just as he did. First thing he’d do was get more clothes and a shower somewhere.
If he could bear to go inside four walls and a roof again.
He could. He could stand anything. He had already been through the worst.
He still could not believe he was free. His sudden release had left him no time to prepare, to adjust his mind to these new circumstances.
On the edge of the road, he stood still, struck blind by the brightness.
“Over here. Take you straight to the bus station in Deer Lodge.”
A couple of other men, also newly freed, hurried toward the battered bus, but Blue turned his back and started down the road. He might walk all the way to Bozeman, just to be touching the face of the Earth Mother.
How many miles would it take to join him to her again? His feet were so used to concrete he could barely feel the clumps of grass that made him stumble.
The bus passed and honked but he didn’t look up.
Maybe he’d find a waterfall to stand under, wash himself and these clothes at the same time. Live off the land for a week or two. Like he used to do in the Oklahoma hills. He could go into the national forest.
But he’d need a weapon to hunt meat or something to make into snares or fishing lines. He gulped the fresh air, over and over again, and set one foot in front of the other. Could he still survive in the woods?
Not unless he could learn to see in all this color, all this light—the greens of the grass and the leaves on the trees shimmered and blurred because he wasn’t used to such richness. For a minute he thought he was looking through tears.
Maybe, in order to get his balance again, he should buy an old truck and go hunt a job riding some young ranch horses or driving cattle to summer pasture. Just until he got his feet under him and made a plan.
He moved his mind away from that. The sight of the high mountains stirred his spirit like a feather on the wind. He was free, for the first time in ten years, and he’d better enjoy it while he could.
Blue walked on and on, letting his mind drift and his body feel. Letting his senses fill.
The whine of a motor started coming up behind him. He moved farther over on the shoulder so the vehicle could pass. It didn’t.
A chill touched him. Was it a prison van come to take him back? Had his release been some freak mistake?
He looked over his shoulder. An old, faded red pickup and battered stock trailer moving fast, apparently determined to run over him in spite of the fact the whole opposite lane was empty.
The long shadow of the rig captured him as it pulled alongside. The truck’s speed slowed, it drifted toward the shoulder of the road, slowed some more, and finally swerved off the pavement, rolling to a stop.
The open-topped trailer held a horse tied right behind the rusty cab, its head high and handsome.
Blue kept walking. Then he realized he should go to the other side of the road if he didn’t want the driver to talk to him and expect him to answer.
The horse drew his gaze again. It’d been a long time since he’d seen one in the flesh.
The door of the truck opened and, rattling, slammed closed. Blue stepped up onto the asphalt, ready to cross to the other side. That put him right in the line of sight of the driver, an old cowboy limping toward the trailer.
“Hey, buddy,” he called, “reckon you could help me out here?”
Blue didn’t answer. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the way was clear, and started to cross the road.
“Won’t take but a minute, pardner,” the old man said, “sure would be obliged to ya. I’d hate like sin to lose this here horse.”
Blue looked straight at him then. He’d stopped at the rear of the truck to lean on it. He was rubbing his hip and trying to straighten one of his legs.
Well, damn.
“I hit a bump and got skeered this here trailer was about to come off’n’ the ball,” the old guy said, with an apologetic grin, “and my artheritis is so bad today I cain’t hardly bend over to save my soul. Seein’ you hikin’ along back there was nothin’ short of a godsend.”
Didn’t he ever shut up?
Blue looked away, down the road, and started angling toward the other side. He wanted silence, he wanted to be alone. The old man’s troubles were none of his.
“Trailer come off the hitch, this horse would likely git killed,” the old chatterbox said. “Be a damnable shame. Never be another one like him.”
Blue glanced at the horse again, even though he didn’t intend to. The roan was looking at him.
Never be another one like me. Come on. See what you think if you call yourself