Chapter 33 Red
Red got lucky in Butte and caught a ride on a tanker truck heading to Yellowstone. “They don’t like us making gasoline deliveries during the day, on account of the tourist traffic,” the burly truck driver said as Red climbed up into the cab. “I’m scheduled to be at Madison Junction by ten p.m.”
That meant Red would wake up next to Claire tomorrow morning. If she hadn’t given up on him. On them.
Claire, don’t give up on us.
He’d known from those first dates that Claire Reilly was too good for a luckless orphan like him. Still, even after she left him at the end of that summer—and took his heart with her—he couldn’t let go of the hope he had for them.
He’d spent his last dollar on Marigold because of that hope. And that same hope sent him driving one thousand miles to Willmar as soon as the snow melted the following spring, when he finally got smart and knew he couldn’t live without her.
Even now, with the rumble of the tanker truck jarring his bones, his heart surged at the remembrance of standing outside that little schoolhouse with his hat in his hands.
He’d taken a chance—a desperate chance—and if Claire turned him down again he didn’t know what he’d do.
Then, Claire opened the door of the schoolhouse and she wasn’t the Claire he knew.
She stood looking at him, a woman with a job and a life and a family. A beautiful stranger.
His hope had flickered and died. He’d been stupid to think she loved him. An idiot. He couldn’t do anything but stand and stare. But then . . .
But then . . .
Claire Reilly crossed the space between them in one glorious moment. Her face was buried in his chest, and she made a sound like a sob or maybe a laugh. Then, she kissed him and that kiss gave him the courage to ask her to marry him one more time.
She’d said yes. And he figured he was the luckiest man in the world.
But after that, she took him to meet her family and he realized just how out of his league Claire Reilly really was.
It wasn’t just the big house in the middle of town, or the shiny Coupe de Ville in the driveway, or the housekeeper who took his jacket at the door and looked at him like he might steal the silver.
It was Daniel Reilly.
The man took one look at Red and knew he wasn’t worthy of Claire. Daniel Reilly . . . who wouldn’t shake Red’s hand or walk his daughter down the aisle.
“You hungry?” The driver of the tanker truck was slowing down, then pulling over at a diner just outside of Ennis.
Red shook his head. He had a pocketful of cash from a week of working in the mine, but he couldn’t have swallowed a bite.
He jumped out of the cab and walked across the parking lot to where the Madison River ran under a railroad bridge.
The water he was looking at now had streamed past Riverside on its way north to Hebgen Lake, then passed the Hebgen dam and rushed through Madison Canyon before widening and slowing as it meandered toward Ennis.
This water had passed by his sanctuary—his home with Claire and Jenny.
Was Claire still there, or had she realized that her father was right and she’d made a terrible mistake?
Back in the rumbling cab of the tanker, his face burned with the truth of it. What Bridget said was right. He wasn’t doing enough for his family. It was time to change that, even if it meant giving up Montana. He’d give up anything for Claire and Jenny.
It was full dark when the tanker reached West Yellowstone. Red hopped out of the cab and thanked the driver. He shouldered his pack and started walking the three miles to Riverside.
He’d tell Claire he was sorry right off. Then he’d come clean with all the business about Dell. He’d go talk to Lem Garrison, and after that, he’d take Claire back to Willmar. Nothing mattered except taking care of his family—for better or worse.
He didn’t see a single car between West Yellowstone and Riverside and by the time he came in sight of the house, his bones ached from walking on the hard road. As he came round the bend, the sanctuary that was his and Claire’s was finally in sight. He stopped dead in his tracks.
Where was the truck?
Red’s stomach pitted and he dropped his pack. His legs were like concrete blocks, stumbling toward the house. When he pushed open the front door, the echo of the empty rooms hit him like a punch in the gut.
Claire was gone.
More than that, the house looked wrong. An empty baby bottle sat on the table, a puddle of dried formula on the floor. The cupboard door was open. Claire never left the house without tidying up. And where was Frannie?
Could Jenny be sick? His mouth went dry. Even as he told himself there could be a dozen reasons why she wasn’t home at this time of night, his steps—slow like he was wading through deep water—took him to the bedroom.
Standing in front of the closet, his legs went weak.
Claire’s dresses were gone. Her suitcase was missing. He ran back to the kitchen and pulled out the cookie tin where they kept their extra cash. It was empty. He sat down hard. He’d been right about the letter.
It was Claire’s goodbye to him.
Red put his head down on the kitchen table. He shouldn’t have run. He should have faced Lem Garrison’s questions and Claire’s disappointment and Bridget’s judgement. Bridget. She’d come waltzing into their life, telling Claire it wasn’t enough—that he wasn’t enough.
Bridget would know where she was now.
He jumped up, grabbed the telephone, and dialed the operator. “Mammoth Hospital,” he demanded. He waited, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other as the ringing sounded in his ear. It might not be too late to change Claire’s mind.
The call was answered by a curt voice. “Mammoth Hospital.”
“Bridget Reilly, please,” he said quickly.
“Nurse Reilly is with a patient,” was the snappish reply. “Is this a personal call?”
“It’s an urgent call,” Red barked. “Tell her to call Red Wilder as soon as possible.” He hung up and stared at the phone.
How long would it take for her to get back to him?
Or would she not get back to him at all?
He paced to the bedroom and looked at the empty closet again.
He stalked to the kitchen. He sat down on the couch, then stood up again.
As much as he wanted to blame Bridget for all of it, he knew it was his fault. He’d been a heel to Claire since she sold Marigold. He went to the kitchen window and looked out at the pasture and the shadowed forms of Rosie and Bess.
That night, when he’d come home to find Marigold gone and the house scrubbed and shining, new furniture and a refrigerator full of Coca-Cola, he’d run from Claire and his storm of mixed-up emotions.
He knew why Claire had sold Marigold and was bending over backwards to prove to her sister that they were better off than they were.
She was ashamed of him. Ashamed of their life together.
Red had been so sure Claire was as content as he was—not just content, ecstatic—with their life.
When they had Jenny, everything was perfect.
Him and Claire. Jenny. Rosie and Marigold.
Elk in the freezer and fish in the river.
The sky and the mountains out their door.
Everything they needed. He’d thought Claire felt the same.
But she didn’t.
How had he not seen it?
Claire wanted her life to look like the one she’d left—with a pretty house and nice clothes and fancy dinners. That’s what she wanted to show her sister. Not a shack with ancient appliances and a leaking roof. Not a broken-down truck and a husband who couldn’t provide for his family.
The telephone rang. Two shorts and a long. He grabbed the receiver.
“Bridget?” His heart was at a full gallop.
“Red, what are you doing home?”
He pushed down the surge of ire when he heard her imperative tone of voice. “Do you know where Claire is?” He heard the telltale click of the party line being picked up but he didn’t even care if the neighbors knew his business. All that mattered was finding Claire.
The silence was a beat too long and he realized . . . Bridget was keeping something from him.
“Red,” she said, her voice careful. “I—I can’t say.”
“Can’t?” he ground out in reply. “Or won’t?
” She’d come here intent on getting Claire home.
Well, her plan had worked. “Bridget”—he hated the desperation in his voice—“did she leave me?” It was out and he couldn’t take it back.
The ugly words. The fear that had haunted him since the moment she said “I do” in front of the altar at St. Malachy’s.
Bridget said quickly, “Red, it’s not what you think.”
What else could it be? Her dresses and her suitcase were gone.
“We have to talk in person,” she rushed on. “Tomorrow morning.”
“I’m not waiting until tomorrow.” He couldn’t wait another second.
Bridget hesitated. “Come up to Mammoth—”
“Claire took the truck,” Red interrupted, “but I’ll steal a car and go look for her if I have to.”
There was a long pause. Red could hear the tinny sound of an open line and wondered if it was Helen Eagle listening in on their conversation in order to spread gossip all over town. “Okay,” Bridget said finally. “I’ll come to you.”
“When?” he demanded.
“I’ll leave right now,” she said. “Just stay put.”
He hung up without responding. Red wasn’t about to stay put.
It would take Bridget over an hour to get to Riverside—if she even was coming.
By then, it would be almost eleven o’clock.
He grabbed his jacket and left by the back door.
He stopped at the pasture fence. Rosie came to him and he laid his hand on her sleek neck.
He took a breath. Then another. He felt his heartbeat slowing.
It wasn’t Bridget’s fault Claire was gone.
It was his. He deserved all the names he’d ever been called at the orphanage—an idiot.
A dummy. His vows in front of God were to love and honor Claire.
Keeping the truth from her was not honoring her.
He’d thought if he told her how dumb he really was—if she really knew him—she would stop loving him.
He lay his head against Rosie’s warm neck.
“I’ll find them,” he told Rosie. “I won’t come home until I do.”