The Spring Tender

By Catherine M. Feldman

A reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle is returning to Montana in a blizzard out of Salt Lake City, and more turbulence over mountains of the West, to be at the bedside of her beloved grandmother, Rebecca, who is dying.

Valerie (Val) Dorothy DLacey, relying on little sleeper pills, as she calls them, to get her through her depression, and double whiskies with beer to sustain her throughout the ordeal of the flight, threads her way into the Logan Airfield terminal in Billings, Montana. She stumbles to a bar where she waits for her mischievous childhood friend, Tomas Damon. He will take her to see her grandmother, Rebecca Egan, who is at deaths door. Val, we discover, is three-months pregnant with her married lovers child.

Tomas Damon, her friend since their high school days, brings her up-to-date on events in the town of Plains where they grew up together. He mentions the Spring Tender, a mythical character who chooses likable people to succeed in Montana, while gravely informing her that her grandmother, Rebecca, is not going to live. He drives her to see her grandmother, with the hope that she will arrive in time. Vals grandmother is in a coma and dies.

A very sad Val returns to San Francisco - but with the deed to her grandmothers ranch and a journal/story that her grandmother wrote for her. Her grandmothers story and deep love for Montana give Val something that only a Spring Tender could have imagined. Clear, flowing water for her parched spirit.

The Spring Tender is an unusual love story, flowing from the western prairie where the author, born in 1916, received her love for Montana from her own parents who homesteaded on that prairie, where she also grew up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 19, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462824892

Catherine M. Feldman

Catherine M. (Hauk) Feldman was born February 17, 1916. She spent her early childhood in a homesteader’s sod house that her parents, Mike and Kate Hauk, built on the eastern Montana prairie. The house boasted of a shingled roof, glass window panes, and hardwood floors in the main room; initially, the bedroom had a dirt floor. Catherine worked outdoors beside her father until she left for college at age seventeen, giving her a feeling of equality between the sexes. She taught school in eastern Montana after completing her teacher´s degree (when few women were encouraged to earn college degrees). Later she completed her Master´s degree in Education and taught special education children (and some adults), while developing her literary and story-telling skills. If you enjoy The Spring Tender, look for her earlier novel, Mathilda.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The spring tender began his trek over the repeating hills and pressed prairies looking for a patch of green grass in its never-ending grayness.

For more than an hour he drove his team. Finally, he was satisfied. Pulling on the lines, setting the brake, and wrapping the lines around it, he climbed down.

Caring for his animals first, he unhitched them, removed their bridles, unsnapped the lines, and slapped each horse on its rump as a signal for them to graze. He returned to the wagon, pulled out a long-handled shovel from the wagon bed, walked over to the green area he had spotted, and began digging.

With great care and a kind of gentleness found in artists, he began removing a thin area of buffalo grass, roots, and top soil and laying each shovelful below, forming a kind of ridge.

The uncovered soil was examined carefully. It was sandy. Then, an experienced hand was pressed to the exposed area. Stubbed fingers probed for a feeling of dampness, a bit of chill, or a softness of the soil. Nothing.

More and more of the grass and roots were removed and carried to the ridge.

The afternoon advanced with still no sign of what he was seeking—an underground spring. But, instead of growing discouraged, the man seemed to be more determined.

Several more hours of digging. Not hard, but with purpose, the man worked, pausing now and then to gaze intently at surrounding hills. Satisfied that he had what he wanted, he searched on.

Sweat ran down his face in rivulets. Once in awhile he removed his straw hat, took out his red handkerchief, and wiped his face and then the sweatband of his hat.

The ridge he was forming below his digging was taking on the appearance of a small dam.

Suddenly the spring tender dropped his shovel and bent down. He began scratching the area with squared fingernails that were tough and hard. Then he reached into his bib-overall pocket, produced an eight-penny nail, and scratched some more.

The soil seemed to be getting damp. He scratched more gently now, searching for the vein of water that soon became a trickle, then a tiny stream, and finally a bubbling spring that grew as it washed away the sand from its own confinement.

The underground spring was flowing. The spring tender watched it for a few more minutes and then cupped some of it into his hands and tasted its goodness. Spring water whose slippery softness felt like cold pudding on his tongue as he let it slip down his parched throat.

He stood up, straightened his tired body from the cramped position in which he had worked all afternoon and watched the water run, filling up and overflowing the small dam he had built. Subsequently, it would plow down into the basin area that would one day become a huge water hole.

Then, as from habit, he whistled for the team that had grazed some distance away. He unfastened each halter rope and led the horses to the clear water which they drank in deep draughts—slobbering out the dry grass from the crevices of their mouths first.

The man shaded his eyes in the direction of the sun. Five more hours before dark. Time enough. Steady work, but the project would be completed. A strong fence around the precious find would be needed to protect it from marauding animals, weak and strong, and yet leave the water hole below available for everything to reap its benefits.

The man took the time to scratch his animals’ ears when they finished drinking—each one, in turn, nuzzling his chin and neck to smell human sweat and grime for animal assurance before they resumed grazing.

Going down to the wagon, the man unloaded heavy cedar posts, a roll of barbed and sheep wire, a sack of long staples, some nails, a claw hammer, post-hole digger, crowbar, saw, pick, and a wire stretcher. Building fence on a hillside was no easy task, but there would be time to rest later.

At nine that night, the work was finished. Whistling for the team, the man gathered his tools, the rest of his supplies, and reloaded them into the wagon as he waited for the slow-moving animals whose tug chains announced their coming in the now pitch-dark night.

Hitching up the team, climbing aboard, loosening the lines, and signaling for the horses to start by curling his tongue in an understood different whistle, the spring tender left. He was satisfied. Winter might slow the flow of the spring but never stop it; wind and sun might steal some of its moisture; but the underground water source that he had found would last—keeping the huge waterhole far below it full.

CHAPTER 1

Today

1992

The passengers on Delta’s flight 362 from San Francisco had lost three hours from a ground blizzard after landing in Salt Lake City. They lost twenty minutes more as flight 384 to Billings, Montana, fought turbulence over the mountains before it landed at Logan airport. Lately, anything unusual seemed to force Val D’Lacey, a passenger in her first class 1-A seat by the window, to seek refuge in her little sleepers as she referred to the medication she carried in her purse. They always brought quiescence to her otherwise unfettered mind and body if she remembered to carefully count them. Confidently, she checked their box in her purse now.

On the day she had visited the downtown office of Eric he had warned her mostly from habit as an obstetrician not to take medication or alcohol after an examination as he said, Yes, Val, you are pregnant, but you are only in your first trimester.

I’m in my first trimester? She wanted to scream the words and then to plead, Eric, aren’t we in this together? But the words had not come. Only a haunting question nagged, Am I being rejected… ? Again?

Actually, she had not needed her doctor-sweetheart’s diagnosis. Covering the Houston and New York Presidential Conventions, the Clinton campaign, and his stunning victory had all left her unbelievably drained.

His diagnosis had been her third clue.

Hunting for a new apartment without two large closets and then slinging Eric’s things into a large rubber garbage can in the alley behind her old apartment had made her nauseous.

That had been the clincher.

Making her way slowly down the first flight of stairs, now, she was rethinking it all and muttering, What the hell!

The droning voice into the airport’s loudspeaker, Will Miss Velma Dorothy Lacey please check at the front office on first floor? had to be repeated before Val remembered. Of course, they were calling for her. Until ten years ago, she had been Velma Dorothy Lacey. Before she had gone to the City By The Bay. Before the paper. Back then, when she had resolutely stepped off of the plane, she was saying goodbye to Plains, Montana, and to Velma Dorothy Lacey. She had already become Val D’Lacey. Aspiring to become a reporter. Looking for a job.

Those who did not know the hardheaded young cowgirl who had landed in San Francisco might have thought that she had visions of one day becoming a movie star. She had talent enough with good looks to match. But, all she really wanted to be was the best reporter that San Francisco read each morning.

Logan airport in Billings was all but empty. The rest of the passengers had trekked to the baggage belt that was already unloading bulging suitcases, worn taped-satchels, strapped boxes, and carrying cases—saddle bags that modern travelers used.

The Crew-in-Blue were walking almost in unison as if the discipline of the choppy trip had not yet left their psyches.

Smart heels and wheeled luggage of the stewardesses made no noise on the worn carpet.

A young man with lobe-length red hair and equally unkept red beard, overwashed denim jacket and jeans, and name-brand canvas was pushing a vacuum over the raspberry-red utility carpet.

A much older closely-cropped man dressed just as lusterless was picking up humanity’s litter with a long-handled dustpan and depositing it into his bag-on-wheels.

When Val reached the floor below, a woman who had long ago decided that calories were to be devoured rather than counted rearranged the folds in her face as the slim attractive young girl approached her station and said, I am Velma Dorothy Lacey.

This note was left for you.

Val read,

"Velma Dorothy,

Will be back to pick you up.

Failed to check late plane arrivals.

Shouldn’t be too long, though.

Tomas"

Good old high school friend. Ruefully, even though she hadn’t really expected more, she was feeling desolate as she was submitting to her parent’s total disregard for her feelings.

The same old thoughts of worthless baggage assailed her. Sixteen long years had passed. Yet, they could still make her feel this way.

Granted, she had not been very communicative the day that her mother had called to tell her about her grandmother wanting to see her and adding, Alfred and I have to go to England to Michael at Mother’s expressed wish. She had wondered why Michael needed them, but the non-communication that always stood between them had kept her from asking. She had tried to be casual as she said she would come right away, but her mother had said little more to Val except that she was in a hurry, that she would see her, and to Val, the implication lingered that she was, really, only good enough for the neighbor boy to pick up. Her Dad? Why couldn’t her dad have picked her up? He probably did not know she was coming. Or if he did, he had found an engagement that was more important to him at the time.

Her throat felt parched. A drink would be so good right now. As she waited for the lady to finish with another customer, her mind began to drift back to the world that she was so sure she had left behind forever. Her ambitious Uncle Michael. Gramma’s son by a first marriage. Her mother and dad. Leading people in the society of Plains, Montana, all of Val’s growing-up years. She would have to brace herself to meet them all again. Sixteen years was such a long time. She had, really, just come home to see Gramma.

A feeling of disgust at herself and the way she had treated her mother began to trickle through her mind. Now that time and distance was helping her to be more honest, she had to admit that the real reason she had been so abrupt to her mother was the call she had made just before her mother’s had come. And the answer she had received, The doctor and his family will be out of town for a few days. Doctor Burns is taking Doctor Ingersol’s calls and his patients.

The lady at the desk was smiling her way. Val asked, Is there a coffee shop?

It closed at ten.

Bar?

Up those steps, there, right past the fountain. You can’t miss it. To your left at the top of the stairs.

Thanks. Would you mind telling Mr. Damon I will be in the bar?

Tomas Damon? Oh, sure. Be glad to.

*     *     *

A round-faced bartender, polishing glasses in a dimly-lit bar, was whistling what could have been, The Lady is a Tramp.

Val grinned in spite of herself. She must be getting paranoid.

Three hours since the last sleeper.

Double bourbon and ditch.

The bartender had given his customer one glance and was having difficulty pouring the drinks. He kept glancing her way as she sat at the small table.

He knew he had seen her someplace. She looked like she might have just stepped out of a fashion magazine—yet, she drank like a Montana cowboy. He met so many people he had known in Plains since taking this job three years ago. But, he couldn’t place this one.

Was she Velma Dorothy Lacey? Fourth grade? He had always sat behind her. Yes, they always exchanged papers. He never had to check close because her papers were always perfect. Even the tablet paper she wrote her problems on smelled good.

How about another one?

Fine.

This time he took down the special bourbon reserved only for airport dignitaries and filled two more glasses along with one more glass of water.

He managed a closer look as he served her. She obviously was not going to be friendly, and he knew his manners. But, they did not keep him from looking.

No ring on her finger.

Val drank in absolute silence—her thoughts back in San Francisco.

*     *     *

Tomas peered into the darkened bar. One woman customer with an array of glasses was sitting at a table. He watched her drain both shot glasses and disdain the half-filled glasses of water at her elbow. Somebody must have been sitting with her because the table was full of glasses.

No doubt about it. The girl had to be Velma Dorothy. Only a kin of John Lacey drank straight bourbon and left the water to be poured down the sink.

Velma Dorothy?

Tomas! How good to see you. You sure haven’t changed a bit.

You mean I’m just as tall and just as handsome?

You were always just right for me. I’m sorry to be such a bother. So late and all.

You’re not a bit sorry, and you never could be a bother. Best break I’ve had since you didn’t squeal on me about dipping your braids in my inkwell when Krandel asked you.

That was no break, Tomas. Krandel wouldn’t have believed me over you, anyway. You know she always favored the boys. I’d would have just been wasting my breath. Anyway, how is Gramma?

Saw her yesterday. She was fine. Awful anxious to see you. How that woman loves you. The apple of her eye. Cutest kid on the range. How I remember. She never could brag enough about you.

The warmth of her friend’s words brought quick tears to her eyes. Her hug was longer than usual because she did not want Tomas to look to see that she had so little control of her emotions. She had always tried to be so tough. Must be her condition.

I was so worried when Mom called. Gramma was never sick that I could remember.

She scared all of us. Sitting all bundled up. I thought I’d never see that day. I go up almost every day, but I don’t stay long. Guess I can’t take it.

She’s got to be all right.

She will be. Now that you’re here.

Never ill at ease though the girl he was guiding along was taller, Tomas collected Val’s luggage while she stood by and then kept up his usual chatter as they walked to the car. He could not let her know that she was still the girl who could make his heart beat faster just to be walking beside her. But, then, he had been no different than the rest of the boys. He had been sure Pat Daly was quietly in love with her. So were some others. She was such a good sport, so darn cute, and yet so unattainable. And not just because her mother had been so strict. Except for liking to get drunk, she was probably the most decent girl in the class. But, most of them drank. He would lock his own little girls up and throw away the key if they ever tried it when they got old enough. But that was yesterday. It was the thing to do yesterday.

Guess I was the most surprised to see your pig tails are falling out.

Yes, I hated them, too. After I left Plains, I discovered my hair is naturally curly.

None of us could figure out why your mother kept your hair braided all though high school.

Mother had me slated for the convent.

Sure, we all knew that. Those of us who prayed kept saying novenas the convent wouldn’t accept you. I suppose you were praying, too.

Well, I didn’t go.

Amen to that.

"How about you? Didn’t your dad send you to Mt. Angel?

Sure did. Three different times.

Why didn’t you make it? No vocation?

I don’t know about that, but I was too homesick to stay.

Are you sorry?

No. I’m glad. Of course, my dad wasn’t. He had all kinds of plans for me. I just couldn’t stay, Velma Dorothy. I tried.

Val could not tell from her friend’s manner whether he was disappointed or happy that he had not stayed. A person could never tell about Tomas.

Val tried, Well, I’m glad you didn’t make it.

"Why?

I think our religion is just too tough on men and women who want to serve God alone. I mean they have to give up too much to be a priest or nun. And, I think our folks were too foolish about trying to make our decisions for us. They tried, but they were wrong.

I don’t know about that, but then, you and I were never on the same debating team, were we?

Well, you wouldn’t have made a good priest, anyway. Too short, she kidded him.

And, you were too homely to have made a good nun.

The two friends found themselves falling into their old high school manner as if they had just graduated yesterday.

That’s one on me, Tomas.

Soap Box Velma. I used to call you ‘Soapy’.

Not a good description of me, though. You were the one always sounding off. Got the highest marks, too, Tomas.

Let’s see if I remember. A whole three points ahead of you, huh?

Yes, but it got you the big one. Got you into MIT.

They had reached his car. Val was not surprised that Tomas was driving a Mercedes-Benz. He was always crazy about cars.

Been grazing on the sunny side of the hill, I see, she said in genuine admiration, but she knew she had to tinge her esteem with a choice remark or Tomas would be embarrassed.

It’s what I like about you, Velma Dorothy. You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. Tomas said, laughing.

At least my kidding is original. Yours is worn with age.

I know. I’ll have you know this car is a gift from my dad. So I would return here and run his business that he got suckered into for a gambling debt. I really didn’t want to come to Billings. I’m a chemist.

The last thing I heard was you had gone to college in Massachusetts. What happened?

My third year I met Maria. We got to creating our own little formula.

Miss college? Learning and all that stuff?

I don’t know. College was dad’s idea after I left Mt. Angel.

What did you want to do?

I like what I’m doing now.

Val stole a glance at the man beside her. He was always the organizer. The one the teachers chose if they wanted to get things done.

You’d like anything you do because you’re good at anything you try. By the way, what do you do?

When you’ve got a minute while you’re here, I’ll take you to my place. Twenty men and women make a good living selling real estate and insurance there. I kind of help when I’m needed. Sometimes, I sweep the floors.

Val could tell from the tone of his voice that Tomas was proud of his business but that she was not going to get much more out of him about it. Probably insurance, real estate, and a few more lucrative things. What was there about the nature of Basque people, she wondered; was it their way of telling you to mind your own business or were they just vague about themselves?

She tried another subject, I really like your car.

As soon as we get out of this parking lot, I’ll show you how it cruises.

The young attendant at the gate gave Tomas a smart salute as he noticed the bill held out to him.

Wasn’t that a ten-dollar bill? Even SF isn’t that expensive.

"Notice that boy’s age? One of these days, he’s going to need a house, una casa. My card was folded in that bill."

Tomas. Tomas. You sold out too cheaply to your dad.

Selling homes is easy. And it’s gratifying. I help people find homes they can afford.

I like what I’m doing, too. She did not add that she failed to get a Mercedes-Benz for doing it, though.

Tomas knew the thought was there, however, and he changed the subject, You know, Velma Dorothy, you left Plains without telling a soul. I didn’t even know you were thinking of leaving. I came home and Mom said you were gone.

Val did not mind telling Tomas, I left kind of quietly. I didn’t know I was going, either. I just split one day.

I felt damn left out, abandoned.

I wouldn’t be back now if Gramma hadn’t sent for me.

That bad?

That bad. No one knew, but Mom and Dad disowned me. Wrote me out of their will. Everything goes to Tommy. I was kicked out of the house.

Just because you were washed out your first year at St. Mary’s?

I was drummed out. Couldn’t stay sober.

I never knew the particulars, and I wouldn’t believe the rumors, but to disown a kid for any reason is just not like your folks.

It was more than that. I asked for it. I was stubborn. I also had a mean tongue. I said things Mom and Dad could not accept.

None of my business.

It’s your business if I make it. I told them once that I wanted to run a house of prostitution just like my great grandmother had. Then, maybe, I said, I would be loved like she was.

Kids say crazy things when they’re mad. You mean that was all?

I was fourteen when I told them that. I said and did a lot of things. All the time. I balked at a coming-out party that Gramma Lacey was giving me. I said it was too much like taking the cow to the bull.

Tomas was grinning, You always could turn a phrase, Velma Dorothy.

Val’s voice was rising, All my life my folks made my decisions for me. You know that. When I did what I liked, I sneaked. They kept a perpetual lambing tent over me.

You know why.

Sure. Because of Mary Kathryn’s death in that crazy car ride the day Tommy came home from Vietnam. And, because Tommy shuffles around behind locked doors in that rehab center since he can’t get his head on straight. I couldn’t bring my sister back no matter how saintly I tried to be. I couldn’t clear up the fuzz in Tommy’s head.

My brother was driving that car, said Tomas in anguished memory. Even if he gets out in a few years, he’ll probably never be the same.

I suffer for your brother just like I suffer for mine. I miss my sister so much. I need her so much. Just kids when it happened. None of us will ever really get over it, Tomas, but life has to go on. You know… , I was almost in that car. Mary said I was too young. Too young to die as it turned out.

Tomas had too much of the memories, but he was unable to stop Val.

Was Mary Kathryn ready to die? Does Tommy want to spend the rest of his life crying? Does your brother want to do nothing but make license plates? All I ever asked was to be loved by my folks. I could have helped them in their grief. They wouldn’t let me. Almost as if they blamed me for still being alive. They… just… could… not love me.

Can we drop it?

I still spend every Christmas with Tommy, but he does not even know I am there.

The car’s engine proved a complement to the silence that finally came over them. Val was glad Tomas was with her. He knew when to change gears.

The quietness in the car also gave Val time to think about her own problem. She glanced at the man who was driving. His jaws were working. He was probably thinking of his brother and of how his family kept trying to get him out of prison, as her grandmother had written about to her. For a second, she wondered what he would say if she told him… . She was sure he would object to an abortion even if Eric would decide to stay with his wife and two girls.

She could see Tomas shaking off the mood in the car as he glanced at her and said, You’re looking great, Velma Dorothy.

Thanks. I work at it. But, please, don’t take those complimentary eyes of yours off those curves in the road to look at mine.

Tomas went right on as if he had not heard her, Like one of Maria’s roses. In first bloom.

Val’s heart did a lurch. Did her wily friend guess her condition? Was this the time to tell him? She had been so sure she could keep her secret if she wanted to.

The car seemed to be picking up speed with each curve and Val let the moment pass.

All at once, she knew she was in trouble, I feel kind of dizzy. Could we find a place and stop?

Sure. We knew better than to drink on an empty stomach when we were punk kids, Velma Dorothy. Hold on. There’s a wide spot just around this curve.

Whoops. Set… her… down… noWWWW!

Her finger was on the car door handle as Tomas’s foot hit the brake. she barely made it to the grass. No use splashing new streaked nylons.

Tomas ran around to her side of the car in a hurry. Holding her head as she leaned against him. She should be embarrassed, but all she could think of was the many times he had done this—and she had done what she was doing—when they were kids. Light years ago.

Tomas was quiet like he always was at the right time. Waiting for her to regain her composure. His white handkerchief was out—gently wiping her mouth. Soothingly. Comfortingly. Compassionately.

Feeling better? Tomas was saying. How about walking a bit to clear your head?

Not careful of what she was answering, she said, My head is clear. I didn’t care for the food on the plane. I didn’t even get a good cup of coffee. Boy, oh, boy, reused bourbon sure tastes like hell.

Probably rotten liquor. Nobody uses good liquor in bars any more except guys like my dad, bragged Tomas as they drove off more slowly and deliberately now.

Val hoped to keep Tomas’s mind off of what had just occurred as said, I hope somebody at some bar uses good liquor if I’m going to drink it.

Tomas kept the car at a slow speed as he said, I wanted to show you our town, and you have to ride with your eyes closed.

I’m hungry.

In the same measured tone, as if he were evaluating his remarks, Tomas said, McDonalds stay open later now, but he drove right past the fast food restaurant and stopped a few blocks later in front of a place whose signage announced, Twenty-four Hours a Day Club.

Val opened the door before Tomas could get around to her side, but she waited. Old country gallantry felt so good again, she realized. she wondered, fleetingly, if Tomas was the only one of the old breed left.

This place looks pretty plush, Val whispered as they walked up to the heavy steel doors. Will they take credit cards?

How much cash you got?

Three dollars.

I’ll treat.

*     *     *

It was empty as they found a booth in the corner. Val waited as Tomas signaled the neatly uniformed waitress and ordered as he took her coat and then seated her while coffee was being poured for them.

Is this place making it? Seems expensive.

Does fine. Good location on Grand. I sold him the place.

Then you bring customers in here so they make the thousands to pay you… .

No, so they can make a first million.

I see. Have you?

Hell, no.

Do you hope to?

Doesn’t everyone?

The waitresses brought a bowl of steaming vegetable soup and a roast beef sandwich. Val did not even have to check. There would be nothing but a smear of sweet cream butter on the cracked wheat bread, and the beef would be sheared-thin. She also was aware Tomas did not expect an answer to the rhetorical question he had asked. He was too busy checking the place out with the positive air of one who was proud of the part he had played in his client now owning it.

As a few people entered, many recognized Tomas and nodded. He made no effort to introduce any of them to Val even though their pleasant smiles acknowledged her presence.

A sigh escaped Val before she could stop it, and Tomas said, quickly, You’re tired. Say, why don’t I take you home with me tonight? Marie and the kids are at Aspen. Then, as an afterthought, The help lives with us—Maria’s help.

That would be a great idea, but I just have to see Gramma. Some other time, okay?

Of course, I understand. You didn’t come in this blizzard just to stay at my house. Let’s go to the hospital to see Rebecca Egan.

The nurse at the desk was showing the strain of the eight-hour three-to-eleven shift on the fifth floor of St. Gregory’s hospital. Only confused patients were cared for on this floor a sign noted,but in much more couched terms.

Closely looking at the nurse, Val was aware they were coming in at the end of a shift. A white still perky double-striped cap lay at the tired nurse’s side. Her hair needed combing. She was writing what seemed to be last-minute doctors’ orders, feverishly signing off charts, and slapping rectangular-shaped official-looking aluminum covers shut before she pushed each chart into its numbered slot. Val was familiar with work on each different shift because hospitals had been her first assignment for the Chronicle.

The forged smile and the ink smudges on the nurse’s face helped to warn Val and Tomas to choose words with compassion.

I’m sorry to be arriving so late. The plane… the storm… . Could we please see Mrs. Egan?

You must be her niece.

Val’s smile acknowledged the comment and her voice was more grim this time, May we see Rebecca Egan.

The nurse’s face took on a more professional mask as she said, somewhat guardedly, Mrs. Egan has been unduly excited all day. Her family brought in a story from the ranch that she wrote some time ago. She has been waiting to give it to you. Said you were a writer.

Tomas said, We would like to see Mrs. Egan.

Here comes the night-duty nurse, the supervisor, and my head-nurse, she replied, obviously relieved. She said to them, This is Mrs. Egan’s granddaughter from San Francisco. She is the one Mrs. Egan has been waiting all day. Her plane was late. The weather and all. Mr. Damon brought her from the airport just now. They want to see her… .

More masks slipped on the faces of the nurses and supervisor. None of them spoke. Finally, the supervisor said, Mrs. Egan is finally resting. Our orders are not to disturb her tonight. I would have to call her doctor to allow… anyone… to see her.

Would you please call him?

Well, all right. I will have to see if he is in the building.

The night nurse took over and each of the other three busied themselves with work as she smiled to Val, Let me order you something from the kitchen. It’s open all night.

Val spoke up quickly, Just coffee for both of us would be fine.

In spite of everyone attempting to be calm, tension permeated the air. Val and Tomas were soon warming their hands on cups of hot coffee as they conversed, concerned, in low voices, We aren’t getting anywhere. Something is wrong.

Hard to tell. We’ll just have to wait for Pat, Tomas whispered.

You don’t mean Pat Daly?

Yes.

I’d forgot. He was going to go into medicine with his grandfather, wasn’t he?

Tomas let it go. He did not intend going into how hard he had worked to persuade Pat to come to Billings instead of taking over his grandfather’s practice in Plains. Bob Daly, Pat’s grandfather, had delivered all three of them and had been the only doctor in the area during their youthful years.

In a few minutes, the supervisor was motioning for Val to come with her, saying, Dr. Daly would like to talk with you on the phone.

Val noticed that her hand was shaking as she attempted to set her cup down, but Tomas—as if realizing Val’s inability to stay relaxed—said, I’ll take the call, Nurse.

After what seemed an endless time to Val, Tomas returned to the nurse’s desk and then to Val, telling her, Pat says your grandmother is fine. He has ordered rest for her tonight because she must have it. You are not to worry. She has just been too excited waiting for you. He’ll be here as soon as he can.

Suddenly, to Val, Tomas seemed to be sounding more like a parrot—saying exactly what he had been told to say. What could be wrong? She knew, in the end, she would trust Pat and Tomas, but something was wrong with her grandmother, she sensed. She could get to the bottom of it later. Right now, all she wanted to do was get in that room. She would be able to tell. She would not awaken Gramma if Pat said not to.

The night nurse broke in, Miss Lacey, would you like your grandmother’s special to wait at the desk while I show you to her room?

I would really like that. Thanks so much.

Hand in hand, like when they were small, Val and Tomas walked into Rebecca Egan’s room and to the bed where she was lying so still. Wordlessly, they looked at her for a long time, willing her to open her eyes and to say, What are you two up to now?

I want to be the first one she sees when she does open her eyes, whispered Val, stifling a sob.

You’ll be the only one she sees regardless of who’s in the room, Tomas whispered.

I know. Somehow, I have always known. She had a special kind of love for me. When I was little and we were alone, she used to call me her little Gretchen.

Who is Gretchen?

Her baby sister. The one she had so much trouble leaving when she first came to Montana to homestead.

You were named after your two wealthy aunts, weren’t you? kidded Tomas.

Yes. My Aunt Velma and Aunt Dorothy. They were ‘Old Maids’. Dad was their only living relative when they died. He got their wealth, and they had plenty.

As they continued to talk in low tones, Val held her grandmother’s now frail hands in her own strong ones. These hands don’t seem like my grandmother’s at all, she said sadly. They should be full of dirt.

She was a busy lady. Grampa Carlos used to say that if Rebecca Egan didn’t have something to do, she would go outside and start digging. I think he exaggerated, but I know she managed to keep busy one way or another.

Val vainly attempted to keep the conversation going so Tomas may not notice the shock she felt at the change in her grandmother. She would never have known her. She looked so old and so frail.

I never could figure out if she loved to work or if she just believed much had to be done every day. Poor Grampa Tom, he was always trying to get her to slow up a little, mused Val. She kept up a stream of letters, too. I got plenty. They were always full of her projects. One of the most exciting, it seemed, was the story she was writing about early Montana days, or something.

I’ve heard of a lot of her projects. I never heard about this one, though.

I’m surprised she didn’t say something about it. My Gramma Rebecca believed that the world does not understand Montana, especially eastern Montana. She spent many days just listening to the legislature debate issues. She never wanted to be in politics herself, though. Always preferred working behind the scenes, but you usually found her involved in anything and everything that she thought would be good for Montana.

She and my grandfather had the same idea on that, I guess.

One of the things she used to write to me about was how happy she was that her good friend, Senator Mansfield, had been sent to Japan to tell them about Montana and to spread some of its Big Sky sunshine.

Tomas could see that the girl beside him wanted to talk about Rebecca, so he stood with one arm around her and the other petting the sleeping woman’s shoulder. These two women. So much alike, he thought.

I never did believe that Gramma was fair to Uncle Alfred. She encouraged him to go to college and get a degree in music. Then she talked him into coming out to the ranch to help her run it after Grampa died. She gave him plenty of money from her coal and oil, but composing music and practicing the piano were pretty much given up. I don’t know. I doubt that he minded. He does love her so much. Nothing was too good for his mom. Gram gave him a grand piano—a Yamaha—but I don’t know how much time he found to play it. Classical music was all he ever worked on. Could have been a concert pianist, he was that good. Remember?

I’d like to know more… , Tomas said quietly, helping her not think about her gravely ill grandmother.

Well, that story dates back to 1880 when Montana was still a Territory. Gram’s first husband, Michael’s father, was a homesteader who married Gramma and brought her out to make their home. I’m not a story writer like she is, but maybe I could help her get it published. One of her life’s goals would be realized if I did that, I guess. I wish I could learn to love something like those dry old acres that she loves. I only hope the journal or story or whatever she wrote is not too boring. I don’t want to change it much. It would lose too much of its flavor.

Tomas became more interested in Rebecca’s manuscript than even Val was, "I want a first copy of any story that this woman wrote."

I’ll do my very best, Tomas.

I wonder if she wrote about the old Spring Tender.

Spring Tender? She never mentioned him in any of her letters. Was he a neighbor?

No, Tomas. The spring tender’s a guy with a wagon and a team of horses—a bay and a gray—who chooses quality people for Montana by testing their steel with innumerable hardships that he helps them overcome after they have stood the test. Of course, it is just a story. Most men never mention him until they are pretty drunk, and then the drunker they get, the more they remember of him. I always figured anybody who managed to stay out in that arid region needed something besides hope to keep them going. They needed a mystical guy like the spring tender. One of his specialties was finding underground springs for those he favored. I like myths. Mythology was one of my favorite subjects. Dreams and hopes of the Ancients were usually symbolized in their myths. Remember, the Bible is still at the top of every ‘best seller’ list, yet how many of us have ever seen God or been to Heaven to tell about it.

Velma Dorothy—the Philosopher. What was it in the Bible I remember—‘The strong shall inherit the land?’

The way I read was, ‘The meek shall inherit the earth.’

"Well, if there were ever any meek souls on the Northside, I’ll eat my hat. But they sure needed something back in those early days to keep them struggling ‘next year’ on their dry, dusty, desolate damn land. Maybe the spring tender was it. Some of them did stay. Now they are inheriting a lot of money from their oil and coal. Wish I had some of that."

What I was hearing in San Francisco is that school lands and railroad sections get the oil wells—not the ranchers or farmers.

Not true, Miss Chronicle Reporter. Not true at all. The ranchers and homesteaders are getting their share. Then, as an afterthought, Tomas said, almost to himself, Wish I had some of that land.

Val was only half-listening and responding to the conversation. Her eyes, showing fear and worry. She asked, sadly, Isn’t she ever going to open her eyes and talk to me?

Behind them, a white-coated doctor opened the door and Val turned around to face Pat Daly, her old high-school excitement, looking as quietly confident as ever. Not really good-looking by some people’s standards, but with the kind of vibrant personality tucked under his gentle manner that exuded goodness and maybe greatness, if he wanted it. Pat Daly was the sort of boy, young teenager, and now adult who could hold his own in any group. His intelligent manner, athletic build with taller than average height, dark wavy hair, strong shoulders and lean hips would cause him to stand out, while the easy genuine kindness with which he approached life would cement good opinions of him.

Well, Velma Dorothy, I see you got here at last. I was ready to see about chartering a plane and putting our lady here on it headed straight to you if you hadn’t appeared pretty soon. You are your same lovely self, I see.

The three friends conversed in low easy tones. They had always been so close when they were towheads and then through their growing up years that familiarity immediately permeated the air. Val’s low, How is she, Pat? was answered with, She will be fine now.

I don’t seem able to rouse her.

She sleeps a lot. And very soundly. When she is awake, she is very alert. Then, in almost seconds, she can drop off to sleep again. As if she is finally getting enough sleep after all those years of strenuous work. The medication causes some of the drowsiness, of course. She got too excited over your coming, and I ordered complete rest tonight.

Is there any danger?

The doctor was trying to be honest while anxious to assure the obviously worried friend, Velma Dorothy, she is over ninety. Her family, as I understand, does not have a history of longevity. I have been waiting to talk with you or Al or Jessie. Charting will indicate that she may be having heart pauses. We will be monitoring them. I have John Carter, our cardiologist, in on it.

I trust you, Pat, but Gramma just has to be all right.

We are in complete agreement on that. The whole Northside, if not to mention Plains, would come after me with a hanging rope if anything happened to her, as you know. By the way, are you going to get out there this trip?

Not if I can help it. I’m on a short leave from the paper. As soon as she is out of danger, I will be going back.

Pat let the matter go. He knew something of the trouble between Val and her parents, and Tomas had mentioned that Jessica and Alfred had gone to England to be with Michael who had developed some heart problems. As they visited, he wanted to mention that if Val went to Plains or planned to go out to the ranch, he would take her. He needed to get away, and he had not been there in years. But, he was certain that now was not the time to mention the idea.

Val was watching Pat as they talked. He could not hide the intense tiredness from such a good friend, Pat, why don’t you and Tomas go home as soon as you can. You need rest, and Tomas needs to check in someplace. I’m here, and you have ’round-the-clock Specials on this floor for Gramma. I have been given permission to sleep in her room. There’s a bath. She did not add that she also had her sleepers.

I’m not as tired as I may look… , and Tomas never punches any clock… but, Okay, Pat said. Shortly, the two men left.

*     *     *

The unbearable tiredness that had been invading her body visited it now. She undressed and tried a leisurely bath. As she was giving her body a brisk rub with the thick hospital towel, she became aware of a pinching in the back of her legs. Not her body. She would not accept it. There could be nothing wrong with it. Then she remembered. Her mother’s and her grandmother’s vericose veins. Large purple bumps and lumps resembling grapes behind their knees. No! Not yet, surely! She looked; no discoloration there.

She felt of her belly. Was it larger? Already? Visions of herself hobbling around, support stockings and all, a pregnancy mask covering her face, her back a blaze of pain. Never. Never. Never. Not in a thousand years.

She finished getting ready for bed as she noticed the Special coming into the room with her thermos, a flashlight, a bag, and her coat. Gingerly, the woman deposited them in a comfortable chair in the corner and then went over to examine her patient.

Val was satisfied. She turned over in bed, slipped the pills into her mouth without counting them, swallowed each by drenching it in saliva, and waited for sleep to come.

*     *     *

The room seemed stuffy. A window should be opened. Val had never slept a night in her life, that she could remember, without fresh air blowing on her. Gramma, too, always needed fresh air. She was an out-door woman. Life, to both of them, was lived best outside and she opened the window easily. Val glanced over at the head on the pillow. Gramma did not have her lavender lace cap on. She had never slept without it. Getting out of bed, Val padded over to her grandmother, took the cap that was on the stand, and put it carefully on her Gramma’s head, planting an extra long kiss on her cheek as she completed the little chore. She was living up to Pat’s admonishment not to disturb Gramma, but she was a light sleeper. She would be awake. The kiss would do the trick.

Val started her low, quiet monologue, I’m here, Gramma. Just like you asked. She remembered the special. She glanced her way. The woman was quietly reading a book—her flashlight providing the light and her coat shielding the flashlight. But Val knew what she was doing. She just hoped the book was not Gramma’s journal. Oh, well. Everything was all right now. The nurse was busy. They could have their little talk.

Gramma, I have something to talk over with you, she whispered. "About a little guy who has no business, maybe, being around. He is here, though, growing in my body. What am I going to do about him? He slipped in when his daddy and I weren’t careful. We are in love. He happened. He is here. What shall I do? His daddy may not want us. I can’t go it alone. I can’t, Gramma.

"Come on, Gramma. I know you are just playing ’possum like you always do. I know you.

All right. You will give it to me tomorrow.

Val padded back to bed. She was tired, but she felt good. Gramma would take care of everything. Like she always did.

Everything was right now. The visit to Eric’s office really had not happened. Had not happened at all. Gramma was not sick or having heart pauses. She was just sleeping. Tomorrow, they would get up and go out to the barn, saddle up and ride the range.

As she paused by the window, something caught her eye. She looked harder. The snow was coming down, but she could see right through it to the rims behind the hospital.

Of course. Out in the stormy night, she could make out a wagon and two horses—a bay and a gray—the old spring tender? Making his way over the rims. Looking for a sign of water: a patch of green grass on a rim of rock. Looking for an underground spring, but in winter? Maybe the sleeper she’d taken was