Free To Breathe

By Constance Bierkan

Wyoming, 1907. The winters are always harsh in the Rockies but, this year, the cold is the least of Ryder Tibbs' worries. He's seventeen when he watches his mother finally pack her things and march out of his life, never to return. 

An avid reader, all Ryder's ever wanted is to go to college-but now, with his father's crue

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bear Creek Marketing & Design, LLC
• Release date: Sep 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578773834

Constance Bierkan

Constance Bierkan, adopted in 1952, was told she was “special” because she was “chosen.” Despite the kind manner in which she learned of her adoption she struggled most of her life with a sense of never fitting in. It was the constancy of summer visits to her grandparents’ ranch where she experienced unconditional love, what it meant and where it could lead. Her journey as an adoptee inspired the sequence of vignettes found in Alone in a Crowded Room, her first book. She now lives in Colorado with her husband, Kurt and their Belgian Shepherd, Ollie and is working on her second novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

It was late fall, but already the scent of snow hung on the crisp air. A mid-afternoon light was changing from bright gold to a flat, mustard yellow. When I looked west across Encampment Valley to the Sierra Madre, a wall of gun metal gray was heading my way. According to the Farmers’ Almanac, Wyoming should expect a doozy of a winter.

I needed to get Dad’s Targhee sheep off the mountain and home to Lost Creek Ranch fast. But where was Jack? That delinquent pup must have taken off shortly after I tethered Queenie. Once I began rounding up the flock, rescuing stranded ewes from deep ditches or lost lambs from the far reaches of the meadow, I’d lost track of Jack’s whereabouts. He was Dad’s youngest herder, still learning the tricks of the trade, still being a puppy. Chasing after some irresistible scent, Jack had left the other two Aussies, Walker and Red, to do all the grunt work. This would make us real late. Boy, was Jack ever in for it.

It looked like I’d be in for it, too. Amazingly, Dad had decided to trust me with a solo gather, though part of me wondered if it was only because he wanted to make a trip into Saratoga without me in tow. He was up to something lately. Whatever the case, I was just thrilled Dad had given me a chance to prove myself so I didn’t pay much mind to the whys and wherefores of his junket into town. If I didn’t make this first trip downslope a success, Dad was going to have my butt on a plate. Plus he’d deprive me of a leg if Jack was lost.

The sheep were growing more and more anxious, as were Walker and Red. I tented my eyes to scan the three hundred and sixty degree field of view. Jack was nowhere in sight. All I saw above the tree line was an occasional gnarly-barked bristlecone pine. Stunted by decades of harsh winds and frigid temperatures, these ancient trees resembled weary soldiers leaning into the wind. They reminded me of me. I, too, was twisted inside out—beaten by a force larger than life: Dad. His will was as unyielding and stubborn as a Rocky Mountain gale. All my life, he had laid down his demands as suddenly or forcefully as the weather. None of us kids wanted to be in Dad’s crosshairs. I, for some inexplicable reason, far too often was.

Just the night before as I was heading upstairs to bed, Dad had growled, Get yer sorry ass down here. Since my being an avid reader drove him berserk, I left Kipling’s The Jungle Book on the top step before coming back down.

Sitting across from him in the kitchen, I folded my hands and avoided his eyes, focusing first on his stubbly jaw, which was pulsing with anger. It was easier, however, to watch the chubby candles drip knotted wax onto our trestle table.

I’m only gonna say this once, Ryder. Get that damn idea of going to college out of your skull. Is that clear? I stared at him incredulously. He took a sip of Old Highland whiskey, keeping his eyes fixed on mine over the rim of his tin mug.

But Dad, why? I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of college.

Well stop your dreamin’! No man makes a decent wage from a pile of books.

I picked at the puddles of candle wax, refusing to look at him.

Soon as we sell the sheep, you’re gonna be a smelter just like me. Nothin’ wrong with that.

I don’t want to smelt.

The North American Copper Company is one of the finest in the country, boy. Somehow Dad always managed to control the direction of our narrative.

Dad, I’m not going into mining!

From across the table, Dad leaned in close to me, eyeball to eyeball. Are you fuckin’ nuts? College is out!

He waited for me to capitulate, which is what I used to do when I was younger. I was speechless, but saying nothing only made things worse. Dad turned beet red and swung his open hand at me. The slap nearly knocked me to the floor.

So help me God, Wormy, I’ll burn every one of them damn books if you defy me! I lived to read. A so-called book worm. Dad thought he was hilarious, calling me Wormy.

I cringed more at his threat than the nickname, though. Grandfather Tibbs had built his collection into a fine library for both himself and his heirs to enjoy. Fiction and history were my passion and I’ll confess, my escape.

Those damn books’ve given you some mighty dumb ideas! When Dad stood to leave, he took a stutter step to keep his balance. He scowled at me, then doddered off to bed.

Recalling the sting of his slap, I touched my cheek and scanned the meadow again. Where the heck was Jack? I needed to hurry to get the flock down to the sheepfold, not dwell on last night’s argument. Still, Dad’s insistence that I not attend college because I would garner nothing from it was so inane it made me wonder if there were some other reason he was so adamant.

Hey, this here dog belong to you? A stern voice broke the silence.

I spun around to see Jack lunging from a makeshift leash some stranger had noosed around his neck. He was up on his haunches, pawing the air with his front legs, half dragging what looked like a gypsy toward me.

Jack had never known a leash, so I was alarmed to see him tethered. Particularly by someone whose bedraggled looks at first glance I didn’t much like. Let him go! I yelled.

I presumed this was the woman who’d moved in up the hill adjacent to our ranch. She was wearing a long calico skirt, which was mud-spattered and threadbare. It stopped four inches above the tops of her lace-up boots, exposing sturdy bare legs. Around her waist, she wore what appeared to be a patchwork tablecloth folded into a triangle. Her chambray shirt, though tucked, was so oversized it looked like it was a man’s. A full-length oilskin duster hung open over the rest of the ensemble, flapping at her sides. She made her way toward me, cutting an aisle right through the sheep I’d so carefully gathered. Several of them darted away, and as she got closer I could see that a Colt single action revolver was holstered on her left hip.

I’ll let him go, but you owe me a chicken. Lifting the belt she’d used to collar Jack, she set him free. The sheer force of Jack’s propulsion toward me caused her to stumble backward.

Jack bounded to me and with butt tucked in, skidded to a halt. He looked up at me with his tongue hanging out, panting like a train. Guilt was written all over his face. I knelt to Jack’s level and felt up and down his legs and along his ribcage, checking for any sign of injury.

I regretted having been rude, so I looked up and asked, You all right, ma’am? Jack made to move, but I signaled him to stay, making sure he did what he was told this time. I approached the stranger to shake her hand and introduce myself, but not before using my wadded-up bandana to wipe the grime from my brow. Even though she seemed peculiar, it was only right I be polite. Sorry, ma’am. Jack’s only good at protecting sheep.

And eatin’ chickens.

Yeah, when he can catch one.

Like I said, you owe me a hen. Boy, she didn’t mince words. But she smiled when she said, Name’s Montana, by the way. Maybe my change in demeanor had softened hers.

Ryder Tibbs. And again, ma’am I’m truly sorry.

Stop right there with the ‘ma’am’ thing. She laughed when she saw the look of surprise in my eyes. Call me Montana. Reaching into a pocket deep within the folds of her calico skirt, she pulled out a bottle of hooch, unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow.

You Joby Tibbs’s kid?

Yes, ma’am. I mean Montana. Aw, dang! It doesn’t feel right me calling you by your Christian name. May I call you Miss M. instead? I stared at my boots instead of looking her in the eye. Manners were manners, and you didn’t call a grownup, especially a woman, by her first name.

I see your father has taught you well.

He’d have my hide if I addressed you otherwise.

Well, if it’s gotta be Miss M., I s’pose I can get used to it.

I doffed my hat and ran my fingers through my hair. You know my dad?

Knew him once.

And?

And nuthin’. She took another good swig, then gasped for air.

Wait. Were you sweethearts?

Heavens no! And with that, she turned and headed for the tree line.

Look, Miss M., it’s starting to snow! Montana lifted her face to the sky, and as if inviting the snowflakes to melt against her cheeks, she raised her arms wide and began to twirl in slow circles, around and around. I’d not seen such abandon since my Aunt Sarah had danced around the Thanksgiving groaning board when I was three or so. She had made magic with her spunk, just like this woman. At that precise moment I decided to like her. She was genuine, and this was all too refreshing at a time when most folks, especially women like Mama, were repressed.

Lemme get you home, I called after her. When she stopped and turned to look at me, I added, That’s if you tell me where to.

Same way you’re goin’. Thanks. I’ll get off at the Y.

This is Queenie, Dad’s horse. It felt strange when I reached down and took Miss M.’s hand and swung her up onto Queenie’s rump. I was a seventeen-year-old boy who’d never touched a female except for family. Thank goodness she couldn’t see me turn scarlet when she wrapped her arms around my skinny waist.

Red! Come, girl! I pointed at the sheep lingering the furthest away. I meant for her to move around the sheep and begin to cast and flank. Jack, look back! Go on, git! Three dawdlers, look back! With a shrill whistle from me, Jack was off to collect the offenders.

Darn if sheep ranching weren’t such exhausting work, especially when the weather was at its harshest. Gusts of seventy-five miles per hour would tear through the valley when it was time to herd the flock to upland meadows for summer grazing. As early as September, the first snows of a long winter typically began to fly, which was when we brought them back down to winter and lamb. It would be next to impossible to do these treks up and down the mountain without our posse of Aussie pros.

You okay back there? Montana was so quiet, I thought maybe she’d slid off Queenie’s rear when I wasn’t paying attention.

I’m good.

Walker, come! My best boy came dutifully alongside. Watch! I pointed at my eyes, and Walker’s head popped up to make eye contact with me. One blue eye and one hazel sparkled intensely. Attaboy, good watch. Now gather! Go help Red and Jack. Walker cocked his head to the side paying me close attention. Go on, gather! He took off. Droving involved the dog working alongside or just in front of the handler, pushing the sheep ahead of them. He understood he needed to bring them to me.

Judging from the chortling sounds in my ear, Montana seemed fascinated with my little operation, so I explained what was happening. Sheep are gregarious, and according to what Dad taught me, a phenomenon known as dominance hierarchy means sheep are inclined to follow a leader. So, once the herd is on the move, like right now, they stick together. Sheep get stressed if separated from their flock, so while the dogs have much work to do, the sheep are pretty easily persuaded.

I see.

Plus, relationships in flocks tend to be closest among related sheep; a ewe and her direct descendants often move as a unit within the larger flock. There are lots of related units among our stock. Dad planned it that way. Walker, Red, and Jack work as a team and they make it possible for us to control a flock of around a hundred, give or take.

I’m impressed, Montana said.

Yeah, these dogs are the best.

Not the dogs, you.

Oh. An embarrassing pause followed.

Montana poked me in the ribs. I don’t pay compliments too often, kid.

This was followed by an exaggerated sigh, but I was too focused on the dogs and the mob of sheep to give it any mind. Besides, I wasn’t about to dispute a compliment. They were too few and far between.

Once the sheep kept a steady pace ahead of us and Walker remained abreast of Queenie, I slouched lower into the saddle, loosened the reins, and slid my feet out of the stirrups. Montana removed her arms from around my waist and began to hum a tune.

The aspens clustered on either side of the trail that ran parallel to Lost Creek were beginning to shed their leaves. The water was cider-colored and it reminded me of an ice cold Hires Root Beer. A hush of feathery snowflakes as big as goose feathers lazily drifted down, muting everything around us. Behind the horizon of the Sierra Madre, the last light of day was fading. We rode in silence, snow settling heavily on our shoulders and across our arms and thighs. Montana loosened the wrap from around her hips and held it over our heads as if it were a scarf made for two, but as soon as it was soaked, we stuffed it into a saddlebag. I passed my hat, Grandfather Tibbs’s old Custer, back to her. She jammed it down over her ears with the flat of her hand. I pulled up the collar of my deerskin jacket and tucked my chin as far down as possible. Having her up close to my back kept most of the wind from seeping through the seams of my clothes and for that I was grateful.

About a mile down the mountain there was a dirt track which veered sharply south at the edge of our property. I knew it must lead to Montana’s because it was the only double track road up here that didn’t lead home, which was another three miles down. It was a road us kids were told to never use. Go down there you’ll git yerself shot was Daddy’s plainspoken warning. He never would tell us the who, the what, or the why. All we knew was he meant business. That’s how it was with Dad. We all obeyed him without question or protest, even Mama.

Soon enough, Montana and I and the sheep were through a gate and approaching the dark shapes of a cabin and outbuildings. The cabin was small and constructed of skinned, age-blackened logs. The roof and lower shed roof appeared to be grass-furred and studded with mushrooms and patches of frilly lichen. The outbuildings were built of barn board, pickled gray with time, but sturdy-looking enough to withstand the harsh Wyoming winds.

"Drive ‘em straight in, Ryder. I got a barn big enough if this flock don’t mind a li’l crowdin’.

I can’t stay, ma’am. Dad’s probably pacin’ back ‘n forth like a caged bear.

She slid off Queenie and came around to grab hold of my reins. Looking up at me, she asked, Am I gonna have to lead you in the barn myself or are you gonna use your noggin about what lies ahead if you zigzag down this mountain in the dark and in a snow storm?

But…

No buts, young man. You’re comin’ inside to sit in front of a fire and dry off. Then you’re gonna have a bowl of my beef barley soup. After that, you’ll fall asleep on the floor under a big ol’ quilt and get a good night’s rest while this blizzard passes. I hesitated long enough she stood on tiptoe and hissed, Got it?

Looking down at this woman with her soft brown eyes and take-charge attitude, I had to admit I was grateful for the invitation. The snow was blowing into my eyes and sticking to my lashes. I was soaking wet and shivering badly.

Listen, Ryder, when you get the chills like you got now, a fever is trailin’ right behind. She patted my knee. So, keep drivin’ this flock into the barn. You’ll find water in the troughs, and go ahead and pour some grain into the food bins. Queenie can bed down in the box stall, and there’s a bale of hay you can split for her supper. When you’re done, slide the barn door closed behind ya.

I glanced down at my dogs, and Montana read my mind. Uh-huh, she drawled begrudgingly. These guys can come inside.

Thank you, ma’am. I mean, Miss M. That’s mighty kind. I knelt to pet all three dogs who were waiting patiently for instructions. Certainly, they weren’t expecting an invitation inside.

When I opened the door to the cabin, a strong gust ripped it plumb out of my hand, banging it loudly against the wall. Snow swept inside on a wave of icy air. Before I could even reach for the doorknob to yank it closed, Walker, Jack, and Red scampered to the hearth, their nails clattering against the wide plank floorboards. They plopped down in a pile, falling asleep almost instantly.

Sit, Montana said to me, pointing at a tattered armchair. I sat down, wet jeans and all, feeling bad about soiling the cushion. She spread an afghan of brightly knit squares across my lap. Wouldn’t do much good me tellin’ you to get outta those clothes, you bein’ such a shy fella, so you and them sheep herdin’ duds will have to dry in one piece. She tapped my damp leg and pointed at my foot. Gimme. Surprised by such a maternal gesture, I complied, and just like that she tugged off my boot and stood it close to the fire. T’other.

Miss M., you’re too kind. Thank you.

Not used to a someone fussin’ over you, huh? It was more a statement than a question.

I hedged. To a point.

Montana brought me a steaming bowl of soup. As soon as it was in my chilled hands I tipped it to my lips and didn’t put it down until the bowl was drained. Montana held her own bowl close to her face, letting its radiating warmth erase the chill from her cheeks. Chocolate brown strands of wet hair clung to her cheeks and neck. She watched me, as if waiting for me to say more.

Montana stood up abruptly to throw another log on the fire. "‘To a point.’ What kind of an answer is that? Is it a no or a yes?" she asked, not turning to face me. She jabbed at the logs with a wrought iron poker. Her head was bent in profile to me, and a frown creased her jowl.

You’re right, I admitted. I’m not used to being pampered.

With the truth out of the way, we sat in our chairs on either side of the hearth and stared trance-like into the flames. Sparks darted up the chimney in sprays of combustion. Red lay on her side, paws paddling the air. The chase was still on in her dream. Jack’s lip occasionally curled back in a silent growl. He, too, seemed to be reliving his day. Walker was still. His head rested on my foot, and his hind legs stretched straight back behind him. He looked awkward as heck, but this old alpha male was content. When I reached down to scratch his ears, the smallest of groans rumbled from the back of his throat. Man, if Dad caught sight of this little love fest, he’d whup all of us good.

Cat got your tongue? Montana asked.

I was thinking.

About?

My dogs. At home, these guys would never be allowed inside.

Why’s that? I didn’t answer her, so she took another tack. You think maybe your parents are worried?

I s’pose so.

About you or the sheep? As I struggled with how to respond, I studied her face in the firelight. She didn’t look the least bit scary. Hardly a woman who would be rumored to shoot at children who wandered onto her property. In fact, she looked almost familiar. Something about the way she moved. She was on the plump side, which at first made me think she was in her fifties, but the soft wavy hair cascading about her shoulders was