Before Completion

Before Completion



The icy wind blowing up the gorge felt like needles, as it searched through his clothes, looking for a patch of bare skin. Oh, the glories of winter, when the icicles hung from his mustache, when he kept his can of chew in an inside pocket to keep it from freezing solid. “Three more weeks, John,” he told his horse, “three more miserable weeks and we can sit by the stove and let the damn wind blow.”
February in the John Day valley, the dry hills patchy with snow, the Strawberry Mountains glowing pink in the thin winter sunset, it looked like a postcard, and it was good that he never tired of looking at it. Good, because he didn’t have any choice in the matter. Fence didn’t fix itself, and he was too busy the rest of the year to do more than emergency repairs, just enough to keep the cattle from wandering off to Colorado.
“Walt Cherry, desperado,” he laughed to himself as he mounted up on John for the long ride back to the ranch-house, “when will you come to your senses, you been out riding fences for so long.” What did a bunch of musicians from California know about riding fences? There was nothing desperate about it and Walt knew that he’d be branded an outlaw, a desperado, if he didn’t fix his fence, like those damned Jacksons, from the ‘Rolling J Ranch’.
When Walt had first come back to the valley, ten years ago, to take over the ranch after his Grandpa died and left it to him, he thought at first that he had twice as many cattle as he really did. But when he rode through the grazing herd, a disturbing number of ‘his’ cattle bore the brand of ‘the Rolling J’, and when he saw the broken-down fence separating the ‘Cherry Ranch’ from the Jackson’s spread, he knew why. It wasn’t all their fault, he realized, his grand-dad Bing Cherry had been stove-up for a couple of years after he’d had that stroke, and the old man was hard-pressed just to keep himself and the cattle alive, let alone attend to the niceties, like a good fence-line. It had taken Walt two months, in the bitter cold, to fix the fence and keep the Jackson’s stock from over-grazing his land.
Of course, the Jackson’s were long gone now, they’d been busted for growing pot and lost their ranch through forfeiture, seven years back. It’s a pity Bing hadn’t lived to see it, Walt remembered the old man complaining about ‘those hippy Jacksons’ for years, in fact, one of the few times he heard his Grandpa curse, it had been about the Jacksons. “Ignorant hippies,” Bing had said, over the phone to Walt, “they don’t know shit from good apple butter.”
Walt had hoped that new neighbors would share in the labor to keep the fence-line intact, but he’d been disappointed to find that the property had been sold to some rich out-of-staters. They didn’t even run any cattle on the 160 acres that they had bought even though they kept the ‘Rolling J Ranch’ name. The first thing they had done was tear down the Jacksons’ old ranch-house and build what looked to Walt like a lodge. When he’d gone over there one day, admiring the log structure, they’d told him that the entire structure had been pre-assembled in Canada and then shipped down to Oregon, to be put together on site, like full-sized Lincoln Logs.
As he rode back through the failing light toward the house, he could still see the wind-sock that the new owners, the Parmenters, had mounted on a pole next to the landing strip they had scraped from the best pasture-land on the former ranch. Twice a year they flew in, Spring and Fall, to spend two weeks pretending they were ranchers. Walt didn’t mind, the Parmenters were a good deal less trouble than the damned Jacksons had been. He still chuckled to remember what the haughty Priscilla Parmenter had told him that first visit: “We’re establishing a conservancy here, a place where the native plants and animals can prosper. We thought about raising some livestock, but I just can’t stand the flies that they attract.”
“Aint the flies natives?” Walt had asked innocently.
As far as Walt could tell, having a conservancy just meant that you didn’t have to do any work. The Parmenters had hired Boog Savage, a local from Day’s Creeks, to act as caretaker, and even built him a little house near the fancy new stables to live in. His job was to care for the Arabian thoroughbreds, to keep them broke and ready to ride in case the Parmenters wanted to enjoy their conservancy on horseback. Every week or so, Walt went over to see Boog in the evening, taking a pint of whisky along to spice up their long-running cribbage marathon. After seven years of playing, Walt owed Boog $17.31, which Boog was in no hurry to collect, since it would mean that he’d have to buy whisky once in a while, the rule being that the man who was down had to provide drinks.
Having Boog close by was a good arrangement for Walt, in case he needed some help with something on the Cherry. Boog had grown up on ranches, knew everything from welding to medicine, and was even a good worker if he had access to a flask: “Gotta keep that pump primed,” he’d say to Walt, “fixing balers is thirsty work.” In fact, it had been to Walt’s advantage to have the Parmenters buy ‘the Rolling J’, because finally someone on Laycock Creek Road was rich enough to afford to pay for the electrical and telephone lines to be run out from John Day. Walt was just glad that he didn’t live to the south of the old Jackson place, those ranches were still in the dark, while the ‘Cherry’ could enjoy some of the benefits of the 20th century.
It was full night when Walt finally got to the barn. He unsaddled John and brushed the stickers out of the horse’s shaggy winter coat, and since it was already near zero outside, he shook out a horse blanket to throw over the animal’s back for the night. Tossing some fresh alfalfa hay in the feed-trough, Walt left John munching his dinner and went into the house to fix his own.
What a joy it was to come into a warm house. When Grandpa and Grandma Cherry had first built the house, back in the forties, the only heat they got was from a wood-stove, now, thanks to the Parmenters, Walt had electric heat. It had taken him awhile to insulate and sheet-rock the old place, but now that it was done, it was a darn sight cozier than it had been. There wasn’t enough firewood in the world to heat the place back when the wind blew snow through the cracks in the wall, and Walt didn’t miss having to thaw water in the morning before he could make his coffee, either.
Even though he had electric heat, Walt hadn’t thrown out Bing’s wood-stove, and now he built a fire in the old Ashley and put a pan of stew on the top to warm for his dinner. There was nothing like a wood-stove to back up to on a cold night, it beat the hell out of backing up to an electric heater and a few minutes of good heat got the winter’s chill out of his bones. After he felt human again, Walt put his coat back on and walked the quarter of a mile down to the road to check his mailbox, by the time he got back he knew the stew would be ready to eat.
Walt felt sorry for people who had mail delivered right to their door, they missed the pleasure that was to be had walking through the frozen night, with the stars so close you could almost touch them. He’d lived in cities before, and remembered how the stars were almost invisible when the night was brightened by all the streetlights and neon signs, he didn’t miss it one bit. Nor did he miss the noise, all the cars or the people. Out here on the Cherry, it was just him and the stars, the only sound at night being the wind, or once in a while, coyotes. Some people thought that the song of the wild dogs sounded lonesome, but Walt never felt that way, to him it sounded companionable. Most nights, the trip to the mailbox was a waste of time, but he checked it anyway, tonight he was in for a surprise, there was a letter waiting for him, but what was surprising was that he could smell perfume on it. Walking back to the house, he didn’t notice the cold or the beautiful stars, all he could think of was that strange letter, which he could smell even though he’d put it in the pocket of his coat.
When he’d finished his stew, pushing the empty pan away on the kitchen table, Walt re-read the letter for the third time. Unable to put it down, he just sat there looking out the window into the darkness. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how this letter was going to change his life, but he felt sure, beyond a doubt, that the slow march of days that he’d been enjoying for ten years had just been kicked up into a higher gear. All his thoughts, like quietly grazing cattle suddenly spooked, were stampeding out of control, and he sat there stunned, his nose full of perfume, while his peace of mind ran headlong over a cliff.
He was startled from his reverie by the ringing of the phone.
“Where the hell are you?” the voice asked, “I thought we was going to play some crib tonight.”
“Sorry, Boog,” Walt answered, “I guess I forgot.”
“What’s the matter, John throw ya headfirst into a rock?”
“Something like that, Boog,” Walt said shakily, “I got a letter today from Jamie.”
“Jamie who?”
“Jamie Procter. Didn’t I tell you about that woman I been writing to on the computer, the one that lives in San Diego?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Boog tried to recall, “what’s she want?”
“She says she’s coming up to live with me.”
“What the hell, Walt, did you ask her to?”
Walt was silent for a moment, “not exactly, I just told her she should get out of the city before something bad happened, about how peaceful it is here.”
“An’ so she took that as an invitation?”
“Sounds like it,” Walt answered, “she said that when I got this letter, she’d already be on the road.”
Now it was Boog’s turn to be silent, “what are you gonna do, Walt?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, “I got no idea, what would you do?”
“Run like hell, Walt, run like hell.”
“I can’t run, Boog, I’m already up a tree.”
Boog laughed, “I’ll be over in the morning with my chainsaw.”
After hanging up, Walt read the letter again and then looked around the house. What would Jamie think of it? Sure it was rough; comfortable, though kind of small. Walt wasn’t sure that he wanted a woman’s touch here in his house, it was just fine the way it was. What the hell had he got himself into?




It took Jamie four days to drive up from San Diego, pulling a little U-haul trailer behind her Volvo station-wagon. Four days of steady thinking, while the miles piled up in back of her. She couldn’t count the times that she nearly turned around and went back. San Diego wasn’t a bad place, not like Los Angeles or Sacramento, she had just felt, finally, that it was time to leave. What made her think about turning back was the way that she had left, no better plan in place, no forwarding address, kind of on a wing and a prayer. Walt Cherry seemed like a nice person, like her, he was in his thirties, unmarried, a professional man, she assumed that a rancher was a professional man. He owned his own ranch and had made a go of it for ten years, so he must be successful, and he was handsome, in a clean-cut kind of way.
They’d run into each other in a chat room on the Internet. Jamie had been impressed that Walt had always used proper spelling and grammar when they chatted, she always did too. So many people were lax about spelling, she thought that it was a sign of poor character when people couldn’t be bothered to take the time to spell things correctly. When she complimented him on his spelling, he told her that he had been to college, and that he also still spent a lot of time reading, at least in wintertime, when the nights were long.
She had loved Walt’s description of the ranch and the country around John Day, his sense of humor when he told her about the workings of the ranch and his horse John. It was easy to tell that he loved his life, his home, and she knew how rare it was to find someone who was both satisfied and fulfilled by these things. In many ways Jamie was jealous of his contentment, she had felt satisfaction before, and fulfillment, but neither feeling had lasted very long. On the other hand, Walt seemed to feel that if you weren’t happy in your life, that it was time to try something else: “Stop beating a dead horse,” he had told her. That advice had prompted her to make a change, hopefully for the better, and she had packed up her studio apartment and hit the road.
Jamie had no idea what to expect when she got there. Walt had said that he didn’t have a girlfriend, but she knew that you couldn’t always believe everything that people said on the Net. When she stopped in Ashland for the night, glad to finally be out of California, she had called him.
“Walt?” she had said, “this is Jamie.”
“Where are you?” he had asked, and she was glad he hadn’t said “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m in Ashland,” she answered, “I should be there tomorrow night. Look, Walt, I know that this is kind of unexpected,” and then hurried on with, “if it doesn’t work out, I’ll get right back on the road.”
“Well,” he said, “I was a little baffled at first, when I got your letter, I mean, we don’t really know each other too well. But the more that I thought about it, the less scared I was, the only thing is that the house is kind of small, and it’ll be even smaller if we don’t get along.”
“If we don’t get along, don’t worry, I’ll be gone in a flash.”
“I thought you had a Volvo.”
He had given her directions to his place, which gates to leave open and which to close behind her, and when they had hung up the phone, each of them felt a little better about this unusual bump that had suddenly appeared in their respective roads of life.
The next night found her in Bend and she called him again:
“Hi Walt, I only made it to Bend.”
“I figured you were pretty optimistic last night,” he answered, “you can’t go as fast in the winter.”
“It should be easier to find your place in the daylight, anyway, so I’ll see you tomorrow, and this time I mean it.”
Walt told her that he would be working on the fence-line, “but the house is always unlocked, so you just come on in and make yourself at home, I’ll be back around dark.” She said that she’d pick something up at the store and have dinner ready for him. “What do you like to eat?” she asked him.
“Well, I’m partial to food,” he told her, “stop at the Mercantile in Days Creek, they’re bound to have some there. Sorry,” he said, “I’m kind of a joker, I actually like just about anything that I don’t have to cook for myself, surprise me, you seem to be pretty good at doing that.”
“So you’re not getting cold feet about all this?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Not since I’m standing next to the stove,” he answered, more bravely than he felt.
When they had hung up, he called Boog. “You there?” he asked.
“Nah, it’s the answering machine. She here yet?”
“Tomorrow, I guess, how about some crib?”
“You got some whisky?” Boog inquired.
“Your dog have fleas?” Walt replied.
“Maybe, I know he’s got hair.”
And so the two men got together and played some cribbage, neither knowing, given the changes to come, when they would get another chance. Walt, though his mind was on other things, got lucky, and before the whisky was gone had reduced his debt to Boog by $1.43. As they sat drinking the last of the whisky, Boog asked, “when am I going to see this woman?”
“Who knows?” Walt said, “maybe she’ll take one look at me and run screaming back to San Diego.”
“More likely, she’ll take one look at your housekeeping and run.”
“What do you know about housekeeping?”
To which Boog replied, “more than I know about women.”




The next morning dawned clear and cold, but Walt could smell snow in the air. After feeding the cattle, he saddled John, and headed down the fence-line to get some work in before the snow began to fall. But by nine o’clock it was already spitting, and by ten-thirty he and his horse were heading back to the barn, snow coming down so thickly that he couldn’t see 20 feet in front of him. He’d seen these storms before, sometimes they would last three days, and he hoped Jamie would get there before it got too bad. It was no fun driving in a blizzard, especially with a trailer tagging along behind, and the worst part was that the little towns between John Day and Prineville would roll up their sidewalks and go into hibernation when the snow got deep.
After getting John situated in the barn, Walt fought his way up to the house to get a fire going in the stove. He had enough firewood on the porch to last a week, so if the power went out at least they wouldn’t freeze, and since he’d also laid in plenty of food, they weren’t likely to starve, either.
There were still ashes from his morning fire, and soon the Ashley was roaring like a freight train. In a way, he reasoned, it was good that he hadn’t been able to work all day, because now he could shower and get himself cleaned up before Jamie arrived. He wouldn’t want her to think him a slob, she might get the wrong idea about ranchers. While it was true that most of the ranchers he knew didn’t bathe that regularly, it was also true that there wasn’t any real need to. A man’s horse or dog would never complain about a little thing like body odor; they didn't care when a man wore the same clothes for a week. If a man were married, he might hear about cleanliness, but that still didn’t effect a lot of the ranchers he knew, for the most part they were a smelly lot. It was a measure of his nervousness that forced Walt to take a shower in the middle of the week, he couldn’t help himself, he wanted to make a good first impression.
He stayed in the shower for a long time. The hot water beating on him was the perfect antidote for all the cold weather he had braved for the last two months. Getting out of the shower, he toweled himself off while examining the picture of Jamie that she had sent him. For some reason he had tacked it above the bathroom sink. It was a picture of a girl with a bikini top and cut-off jeans; and he couldn’t help being aroused now as he looked at her.
The strawberry-blonde hair fell gracefully to her shoulders, framing a face that was friendly, if self-conscious in front of a camera, but with a little half-smile on generous lips and eyes that looked right through into his soul. Her body, or what he could see of it, was most pleasing, but what gave him an erection was her flat, tanned belly, whose bellybutton, like another eye, seemed to be winking at him. The thought that he might have sex with this woman, maybe tonight, hardened him even more, and the poignancy of the moment was almost more than he could bear.
Walt tried to remember the last time that he had had sex with a woman. There weren’t that many single women around John Day, and things hadn’t improved much over the last 10 years. The fact was that he had picked up a few women down at the Corral, now and again, but these casual drunken bumps were not the stuff of lasting memories. Waking up in the morning, seeing and hearing those women in the daylight, without the beneficial glaze of beer, had made him decide that love should be the prerequisite for sex, because lust was leaving a bad taste in his mouth. But Jamie, looking fresh and sweet, like a Kimberly peach, flirting with him in the picture, her cute little navel cutting through his resolve, left him hard as a rock.
Toweling off his freshly washed hair, he walked out naked into the living room, still fully engorged, to finish drying in front of the stove. It was only then, three steps into the room, that he noticed he was not alone in the house. He hadn’t heard anyone come in, but now, standing on the other side of the stove, warming her hands, stood Jamie Procter. Her eyes were the size of dinner plates and locked with his, until, not being able to help herself, she looked down at his proud member. In an instant Walt realized the true meaning behind the word mortification.
“Shit oh dear,” he heard himself gasp, and fled back into the bedroom. Jamie, not nearly as mortified as Walt, quickly stifled a laugh. It was good that she did, because his ego had just taken a terrible beating and laughter would have completely shattered him, like a rock thrown through a window. The poor man hadn’t known she was there, that was obvious, she had invaded his personal space. But through her intrusion, she had been granted a rare sight, which, though shocking in some respects was also downright funny. As far as she was concerned, he had nothing to be ashamed about, certainly not his body. Her quick glance had seen a lean and muscular figure, with outstanding features, and when he’d turned his back and ran, she’d also noticed a cute butt.
“Walt, Walt, it’s okay,” she called to him through the bedroom door, which he had slammed hard enough to knock off the horseshoe that had sat above the door jamb for 40 years, “and by the way, hello.”
There was silence from the bedroom and then a muffled, “I’ll be out when I can be presentable.”
“Take your time,” she answered, “I think I surprised you again.” Not wanting to embarrass him any further, she went out in the falling snow to her car, bringing in her suitcase and sleeping bag.
Walt wanted to die, to have the floor open up and swallow him. Yes, that had been a fine first impression. When he heard his front door close, he was sure that she was getting in her car and driving away, and he would have been grateful if she had. How could he face her now, how could he ever live this down? His penis, only a moment before tumescent, had now shrunken to the size of his ego, and seemed to want to crawl inside him, never to be seen again. Slowly, he dressed in the clothes he had laid out, a fresh cowboy shirt and clean jeans, his good Tony Lama boots, his fancy belt buckle. It all was so hollow now, all his finery could not change the fact that he had walked into this good woman’s presence with a hard-on, and the worst part was that he had been rigid from lusting after her. What would she think of him? What could he say now, with his typical laconic cowboy wit, to defuse this ticking time-bomb that he had so shamefully lit in the other room? He didn’t know.
When he finally came out, she was still there, waiting for him. Sucking up his courage, he went toward her, his hand out, as if to show her that he did have manners, that he knew how to make a proper greeting. “Jamie Procter, nice to meet you, I’m Walt Cherry.”
“Boy am I glad to hear that,” she said, shaking his hand, “I was afraid that I had embarrassed a total stranger.”
“No,” he replied in a tiny voice, “you didn’t embarrass me, I did that just fine to myself, it surely is not your fault that I can’t be decent in mixed company.”
“Walt,” she said as she put her hand on his arm, “if we become lovers, you won’t need to be shy about showing me how you feel, there’s nothing indecent about those kinds of feelings.”
Somehow, her saying that right into his face, was more embarrassing than being naked in front of her had been. “Well, in the meantime,” he said, trying to change the subject, “have you had any lunch?”




The episode in front of the stove, instead of angering or frightening Jamie, had actually relaxed her. Now she knew that she wasn’t trapped in the snow with a sex maniac, in fact, Walt’s actions had shown that, whatever passed between them, he would treat her honorably. Though his initial reaction had been funny to her, upon reflection she also found it to be heart-warming. This wasn’t the first time that a man had shown himself to her without a formal introduction, but both other times she had not stuck around long enough to get introduced. Neither of those occurrences had been funny or heart-warming.
This time, though, her instincts told her that she had nothing to fear from this man, maybe it was his eyes that told her, some kind of ‘deer in the headlight’ look. He had been the one scared, not her, but his fear was so guileless and innocent, that she knew she could never be threatened by him. There was even a kind of sweetness inherent in his shame-faced response to the situation. She also had the feeling that she had more sexual experience than Walt, which meant that if their relationship were to go in that direction, it would be up to her to take them there.
Jamie had grown up in the California valley girl tradition, only with a twist; she’d never even pretended to be a dumb blonde. Her parents were wealthy, they’d given her a red Porsche convertible the day that she graduated, top of her class, from high school. They paid for her college until, with a master’s degree in computer science, she’d gotten sick of it and quit. She’d had many boyfriends, both smart ones and handsome ones, but somehow she always came out of relationships feeling like she was some kind of trophy, won in a contest that she hadn’t even entered. Those men who appeared to be sweet, on the surface, were secretly just looking for someone to stroke their pampered egos.
It seemed like they had either been proud of themselves for tricking a really smart girl into bed, or so in love with their own bodies that they thought they were doing her a favor by having sex with her. It had been difficult to find someone with any substance. But, to her credit, she had not let it get her down, and still hoped that there was a man out there who would share her dreams, too, instead of just using her to make his own come true.
Although her parents had supported her through college, when she graduated she never took another dime from them. Her grades and degrees let her pick from a number of companies, all wanting to hire her. After working several years for other people, making them rich, she struck out on her own, designing web sites, and now she was so comfortable financially that she didn’t have to work unless she wanted to. Effectively, she could do her job from anyplace that had a phone line, and would make more money in a week than other people did in a whole year. As she told Walt later that evening, “if I wanted to move to France or Italy instead of John Day, I could do it in a heartbeat, the money’s there.”
“Well, I’m glad you came here, I don’t know when I’d be likely to go to France or Italy,” he answered.
Glad to have something to do to take his mind off the debacle in the living room, Walt fixed burritos for lunch. She wanted to help, but he wouldn’t hear of it, so they made a deal that he would make the lunch, but only if he would let her cook dinner. While he was busy with refried beans and tortillas, she loaded the refrigerator with groceries that had never seen the inside of the Mercantile in Days Creek. “I did a little shopping before I left Bend this morning,” she explained, “I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”
“I’m not,” he said, “but all the animals I eat are vegetarians.”
Walt quickly chopped up a plate of onions, filled a bowl with ripe olives, sliced in half, and grated a pile of cheddar cheese on a saucer. He took a jar from the kitchen windowsill, pried off the sieve-like lid and pulled out several tufts of fresh alfalfa sprouts to put on another plate. With the beans hot on the back burner and tortillas warming in the skillet, the only thing missing was salsa, so Walt got a fresh jar down from the cupboard and opened it, pouring it into a bowl. “My idea is that we make them up over here and then sit at the table to eat,” Walt said, handing her an empty plate, “and let me warn you, better go easy on that salsa.”
They sat at the kitchen table and ate burritos while watching the snow fall. “What brand of salsa is this?” Jamie asked.
“Is there something the matter with it?” he wanted to know.
“No, it’s just really good. I’m glad you warned me though, it’s hotter than I’m used to.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “I’m not used to being a host, you need something to drink, do you want a beer?”
“Do you have any bottled water?”
“Just well water, but it’s better than any bottled water I ever tasted,” and getting them both a glassful from the tap, he handed one to her, “this’ll put the fire out.”
She drank the cold water gratefully, “thanks, I needed that.”
“Drink up, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
“There won’t be if I eat much of this salsa, where did you get it?”
“It’s my own recipe. I put up two dozen jars of it this fall. The Habanero peppers make it so hot.”
“Do they sell Habaneros at that Mercantile?”
“Hell no, everything in that salsa came out of my garden. I think food always tastes better when you grow it yourself.”
He couldn’t know how impressive that was to Jamie, what a rare find, a man that grew his own food. She’d known men who kept flowers, mainly to impress women, but there was no conceit here, no bragging, just a simple stating of facts.
After they had finished, he put the leftovers into containers, and then into the refrigerator. “I hate to waste food.” Then they did the dishes together, he washed and rinsed, and she dried. When he had shown her where the clean dishes went in the cupboard and they were all put away, he turned her to face him, “Jamie,” he started, “I want to apologize for what happened earlier. If you want to go into John Day and get a motel, well, I don’t blame you a bit. But, believe me, I don’t make a habit out of doing things like that.”
“Do you want me to leave, Walt?”
“Well, no, but I don’t want to scare you or make you uncomfortable, either.”
“I’ll tell you what, Walt, if I get scared or uncomfortable, I’ll let you know, in the meantime I want you to quit kicking yourself about what happened. Why don’t you take me out and introduce me to John the Wonder-horse and then let’s play in the snow, I haven’t done that since I was a kid.” And with that said, she leaned up and kissed him softly on the lips.




Jamie Procter’s kiss, freely and sweetly given, did much to salve the self-inflicted wound in Walt Cherry’s cowboy heart. He couldn’t remember when a woman had kissed him like that. Although the kiss was sensual, it was also forgiving, even healing, to a degree, and Walt began to feel much more at ease with this remarkable woman. With one kiss, Jamie had breached a wall that Walt didn’t even know that he had built, a wall that had been in place for over 10 years.
Walt Cherry was a child of a career Army officer. Colonel Hank Cherry, never wanting to be a rancher, like his father, had taken his family all over the world, one base at a time. It seemed like just when Walt had made friends in some new Army school, his father would be reassigned and the family would move. All that movement had produced a shy young man, slow to make friends, craving some kind of permanence, yet a little reticent about taking the steps necessary to achieve it. Sure there had been girlfriends, but they all followed the same pattern; by the time a relationship had been established, it dissolved into letter-writing, as his father moved the family once again, and no relationship could be expected to survive over such long distances.
It wasn’t until Walt went to college that this pattern changed. He’d met several nice girls at the Wyoming college, since he’d had four years in one place and time to allow relationships to take a natural course. It was there that he’d met Trina, in his senior year, and that was the closest he’d ever come to marriage. They’d actually lived together, in a little apartment off campus. Trina was a year younger than Walt and was studying to be a fashion designer, while he pursued a degree in Agriculture. Walt’s father couldn’t understand this interest in Agriculture, weren’t sons supposed to follow in their fathers footsteps? Neither Trina nor his father could fathom the deep-rooted need that Walt had to find some stability in his life.
After graduating, he had stayed in the college town, living with Trina, while going through a kind of cowboy apprenticeship on a nearby ranch. But it wasn’t until Bing died that a split occurred between them that spelled the end of their relationship. Walt and Trina had gone to Bing’s funeral in John Day to find out that he had been named in the old man’s will as the new owner of the Cherry Ranch.
Every few years, Walt had been allowed to spend a month on the place, helping his Grandpa with the chores, or learning how to garden with his Grandma Myrtle. And though the work had not been easy and the pay had been in the form of occasional cherry sodas in the drugstore in John Day, Walt had fond boyhood memories of the old place. When Grandma died, Bing cut Hank out of the will, knowing he didn’t want the ranch anyway and would probably sell it to strangers. With remarkable foresight, the old man had chosen Walt as his heir and coincidentally gave his grandson a way to make his dreams come true.
Trina could not understand his love of what seemed to her a desolate country. Living on a ranch was not in her plans for the future, unless that ranch was located on Fifth Avenue. Though Walt tried his best to get her to see the beauty of the rolling hills, the grandeur of the mountains, the contentment that comes from living off the land, she had made her decision that this lifestyle was not for her. The trip back to Wyoming was filled with fruitless conversation and uncomfortable silence, and when Walt loaded his pickup for the move to John Day, he would be traveling West by himself. It had broken his heart to find out that his love alone was not strong enough glue to keep them together. They had stayed in touch for about a year, then her letters to him became few and far between, she moved to San Francisco and the letters stopped completely. That was when he built the wall around his heart.
It had really been brave of Walt to get on the Internet and circulate in the chat room where he had met Jamie Procter. It was luck, really, good luck even, that he had met someone genuine in a venue where many people hide their identity. He could have easily ran into a man posing as a woman, and in his naivete he wouldn’t have even known the difference.
Walt had bought the computer to help modernize the ranch. With its help, he could keep track of feed, chart brood-lines of his cattle, and continue to assess the long-term productivity of the Cherry Ranch. When the Parmenters made it possible for him to have a phone, he naturally signed up for the Internet, and he soon found himself using it regularly to get information about a number of topics, from veterinary science to pest control.
The chat room he had found almost by accident, but in no time at all began to enjoy this opportunity to talk to someone outside his tiny immediate circle. He and Jamie had progressed from chatting to exchanging phone numbers and then addresses. He had sent her pictures of the ranch, the incredible view of the mountains, of a cowboy and his horse. She had responded with pictures of herself, the beach, the Spanish architecture, her apartment in San Diego, and a girl with her Volvo. Starting with this narrow electronic bridge, they had built a highway wide enough to finally meet face to face. And though that initial meeting had not gone exactly the way Walt had planned, Jamie’s kiss had done much to smooth this new road they were heading down.
After lunch they played like kids in the snow, they made a snowman, carved angels, and had a snowball fight. For Walt, snow had always meant discomfort, a necessary evil that must be endured. The snow would finally melt to provide much-needed water for the ranch, but in the meantime it was a barrier that slowed his progress. Playing in the snow was something that he’d never even considered and he was amazed at how much fun he and Jamie were having, whooping and laughing like kids on a playground. Jamie, too, was pleased with Walt’s ability to play, he was a welcome change from the self-important men that she had dated who wouldn’t even take their shoes off to walk barefoot on the beach.
An hour before dark, the snow quit falling and the sky cleared. With a kind of shy pride, Walt pointed out the Strawberry Mountains, shining whitely to the east. They slogged through the fresh snow to the barn, where Walt introduced Jamie to John. Horse and woman hit it off immediately, especially when Jamie fed him an apple that she had bought in Bend. John, who was normally stand-offish around strangers, nosed her coat familiarly, hoping for another such rare treat as an apple out of season. Walt watched the horse’s behavior with an almost parental pleasure.
Saddling John, Walt pulled Jamie up behind him, and with her holding him tight around the middle, they rode out to feed the cattle. Tearing off sheaves of alfalfa hay, they spread fresh feed over the new-fallen snow, some of the cattle eating hay right out of Jamie’s hand. It wasn’t hard to see the trust between the cowboy and his cows, and Jamie developed new respect for Walt’s easy way with the animals.
Back on horseback they rode down the fence-line, Walt pointing out the ‘Rolling J’ to the south, the landing strip, the log house, the fancy stables. He couldn’t believe how much he was talking, he’d said more words in an hour with Jamie than he normally said in a month, her natural interest seemed to allow their conversation to flow like a smooth river of words. Now, riding along, he felt the warmth of her body pressed against his own, and instead of unsettling him, it brought a peaceful feeling that was both pleasurable and comforting at the same time.
As they were heading back up to the barn, Boog came riding up to the fence-line on one of the Parmenter’s Arabians, and they stopped in the twilight so Walt could introduce Jamie to his friend.
“Boog Savage, meet Jamie Procter. Jamie, I’d like you to meet the best cribbage player in the county.”
“If I’m the best cause I can beat you, that aint saying much for the rest of the county,” Boog said with a smile. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Procter.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Savage,” she returned, leaning over the fence to shake his hand.
“Tell you what, you call me Boog and I’ll call you Jamie. The only Mr. Savage I know is my dad, and nobody that knows him calls him anything but Stump.”
Jamie laughed, “Boog it is then, and I’ll be Jamie. Miss Procter sounds like a mean old school teacher anyway.” She then whispered something in Walt’s ear and he turned around and nodded to her. “Would you like to come over for dinner tonight? I’m fixing veal parmasiano, with Portobello mushroom gravy and fresh green salad. I bought a couple bottles of good wine to drink with it, and some French bread that was still hot when I got it this morning in Bend. There’s plenty enough for you too.”
“I sure appreciate the invite, Jamie, but I don’t want to be no trouble. You two probably want to be alone tonight, and I’d just be like a third tit, pardon my French.”
“No, no, Boog,” Walt cut in, trying to cover his friend’s embarrassment, “I insist, mi casa es su casa. When should we eat, Jamie, around six-thirty?”
“That’s perfect, and Boog, bring your cribbage board, I may be new in the county but I bet I can peg with the best of them.”
“Okay, then,” Boog acceded, “I’ll be there with bells on, soon as I get these critters to bed,” and turning his horse, he rode back across the snow to the darkened buildings on the ‘Rolling J’.
Jamie hugged Walt as they made their way up to the barn, “I hope I wasn’t being too forward, you’re sure you don’t mind me inviting him?”
“No, I’d like you to get to know him, since he’s kind of my best friend,” Walt cautioned, “the only thing is, he can be a little rough around the edges when he drinks too much.”
“Does he make a habit of it?” Jamie asked.
“Only for as long as I’ve known him. He claims it’s because his wife ran off with a truck-driver, but I’ve heard people say that’s what made her run off in the first place.” As Walt helped her down from the horse, he continued, “don’t worry, I think he’ll be on his best behavior. He hates to make a fool of himself in front of people he doesn’t know.”
“How about you,” Jamie queried.
“Me?” Walt answered, “I guess I can’t help it.”
“What, drinking too much?”
“No, making a fool of myself.”




Back in the house, Walt busied himself building a fire in the wood-stove, while Jamie dug the dinner fixings out of the refrigerator. When the fire was going good, Walt put a tape in his tape-deck: “I think that this is good dinner-making music,” he said, as the mellow sound of a violin and guitar duet filled the small house.
“Let me guess,” Jamie ventured, “Django Reinhard?”
“You win the prize. I bet you thought I was going to put on country-western”
“This is definitely better. I must have gypsy blood, I’ve always liked his music. You’ve been reading my mind.”
“More likely I just got lucky,” he answered.
“Maybe we both did,” she said with a smile, and she looked so cute standing there in one of his Grandma’s old aprons, a knife in one hand, a head of lettuce in the other, that he couldn’t help himself. He crossed the room, gently brushed the hair out of her eyes and kissed her full on the lips. If he surprised her, she didn’t show it, and letting her arms fall at her side, she closed her eyes and kissed him back. When she responded to his kiss, he put his arms around her waist and pulled her tight against him, soon the lettuce and knife hit the floor and both her arms went around his neck. After a while, they parted reluctantly, and his voice was husky as he said: “That’s for cooking me dinner.”
“In most restaurants, you pay after you’ve eaten,” she laughed, retrieving the knife and the lettuce, which had rolled under the kitchen table.
“Then consider that a down payment, with the balance due upon receipt. Now, how can I help?”
So, side by side, they prepared the meal together. She teaching him about Portobello mushrooms, and he showing her where he kept pots and pans. He took over the salad and she kidded him with: “you’re almost qualified to get a job as a third-kitchen helper.” She made the gravy for the mushrooms, and then blew on a spoonful of it for him to taste. He cut up the French-bread, buttered it and put it in the oven to heat, while she busied herself with the veal.
The little kitchen began to smell like a fancy restaurant and the two people moved around each other like a close, elegant dance. “It’s kind of fun to cook with someone else,” he told her. She teased him back by saying: “then you should ask Boog over to help you cook, once in a while.” “I don’t allow an arc-welder in the kitchen,” he answered. As they continued to work and banter with each other, they both appreciated how easy and pleasant it was to be together and an intimacy grew between them. Two normally solitary people had found a common ground and it felt good to explore it together. That it had all happened rather quickly was of no concern to them. They were enjoying each other’s company, and it felt good, and there was no reason to question it, no desire to dissect it and absolutely no wish to end it.
When Boog showed up at six-thirty and knocked on the door, they looked at each other and almost regretted that they had invited him over after all, but if he felt like an intruder, he covered it well. He’d taken the time to shave and get all duded up, and came in apologizing for smelling like “a French whore.” When he kissed Jamie on the cheek she couldn’t help but smell bourbon competing with cologne.
“God-almighty, this little girl can cook as good as she looks,” he said expansively, treating himself to the aromas rising from the stove. “Don’t give me all the credit,” she said, smiling at Walt, “I had some expert help.” “Well thanks for the warning,” Boog said, winking at Walt, “but I guess I’ll take a chance and eat it anyway.”
They sat down at the kitchen table, the food nearly crowding out the flatware. Jamie picked up her glass of wine and proposed a toast: “To new friends,” she said, and took a sip. Boog drank off his wine like it was a shot of whisky: “C’mon, c’mon,” he said too loudly, “drink up, I got a toast too!” When all the glasses had been refilled, he raised his to Jamie, saying, “to the purtiest little thing this side of Prineville” and promptly drained his second glass.
“Boog, old son,” Walt began, “Jamie here brought this good wine all the way from Bend. At least show her the courtesy of tasting it.”
Something in Walt’s tone alerted Boog that he had gone too far, “excuse me Jamie,” he apologized, “wine goes right to my head, I’ll save my next glass to savor this excellent food with.”
And so they dished up and ate. Walt had never tasted anything so good. Boog wasn’t too sure about the mushrooms, but when he had sampled some, he ate the rest like a starving man. The conversation meandered from the weather to county politics, from the Internet (“I’m gonna have to get me one of them things,” Boog said.) all the way back to the weather again. When everyone had eaten their fill, and they sat sipping the last glass of wine, Boog felt compelled to say: “You know, you can go all the way to Burns and not get food this good,” which Jamie took to be a compliment.
After the dishes were cleared away and washed, Boog supervising Walt and Jamie, regaling them with stories from his time as a rodeo star, “I bet every bone in my body’s been broke at least once,” they proceeded to play cards. Jamie showed them that she could play cribbage by beating Boog, who then beat Walt. Then she taught them to play ‘Spite and Malice’, which Walt took to quickly, and which left Boog complaining, “Damn, Walt, you don’t have to gut me too, just cut my throat and be done with it.”
Before long, Boog was yawning, the booze and wine had caught up with him. “Reckon I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone and hit the hay.” At the door, he turned back and invited them to go horse-back riding the next day, “you’d be doing me a favor, those horses need the work, I don’t know why the Parmenters keep ‘em. Them Arabians are too much horse for those cityfolks, truth is they’d have trouble riding a merry-go-round, unless you started it out slow.”
When they heard Boog’s old pickup grinding its way down Walt’s snow-covered driveway, Jamie came over and sat next to Walt on the couch. “I told you he had some rough edges,” Walt said to her.
“I could tell he’d been drinking before he came over, but when you said something to him, he settled right down.”
“Thank God for that, once he gets rolling he won’t listen to anyone.”
“Are all cowboys like that,” Jamie asked, “are you all a bunch of characters?”
“Cowboys are a poor lot, if they didn’t have character they wouldn’t have nothing.”
“What about you, Walt?”
“I’m no angel, Jamie, there’s been times that I kept up with Boog, drink for drink. I guess the difference between us is that I have a hard time looking at myself in the mirror the next morning, while he pretends he doesn’t care.”
“Why haven’t you gotten married?” she asked softly.
“Maybe I haven’t found the right woman yet,” he answered, looking at her.
“How will you know when you have?”
“Oh, that’s easy. I’ll invite her out to the ranch, and when she shows up, I’ll come out to greet her naked as a jay-bird. If she stays after that, she must be the right woman.”
“Will you come out sexually aroused?”
“Only if I’ve just been looking at her picture,” he said, blushing.
“What if she doesn’t get naked too?”
“Then I’ll get dressed and feed her lunch.”
“And after lunch, will you make love with her?”
“No, things shouldn’t move along too fast.”
“You mean take some time, wait to fall in love first?”
“That sounds right, take some time, wait to fall in love first. See if we can get along together, let her cook me dinner that night, and if I like her cooking, and if she likes me, maybe then make love, after we’ve played some cards.”
“But you haven’t found this woman yet, Walt?” she asked with a smile.
“I don’t know, Jamie” he said, folding her in his arms and kissing her smiling lips, “let’s play some cards and find out.”