Chapter 16 The Mountain Meadow
The Mountain Meadow
Maren
* * *
The phone rings while I'm elbow-deep in a marinade. I wash my hands, dry them, and check the screen. Jackson.
I step away from the prep counter to answer him. "I'm working."
"I know, I'm sorry." His voice has an energy I haven't heard in months, something eager underneath the usual steadiness. "I'll be quick. There's a place I want to show you. The high meadow, where Gran scattered my grandfather's ashes."
I check the kitchen door. Nobody waiting for me. I can give him a minute.
I know about the meadow. Jackson told me the story years ago, how his grandfather built this ranch from nothing, how his grandmother carried the ashes up the mountain alone to say goodbye in her own way.
I've seen it marked on the old survey maps in his office.
But I've never been there, never even asked to go because it always felt like something that belonged to him alone.
I move the phone closer to my ear. I've wanted to see that place, but I've never known how to ask. "You want to take me there?"
"I should have taken you years ago." His voice softens. "It's my favorite place on the whole property, and I never shared it with you. That was stupid of me."
He used to disappear up there when he needed to be alone. He wants me with him this time. "How would we get there?"
I hear him move somewhere quieter at his end, giving the invitation his attention. "Helicopter to a clearing near the ridge. Horses waiting, picnic packed. We'd ride the last stretch together."
I lean against the counter, picturing it despite myself. "You planned this."
His answer comes quickly, as though he's been waiting for the chance to explain. "I wanted to do it right."
I think about saying no. I think about the marinade waiting on the counter and the client tasting tomorrow and all the reasons I should keep my distance. Then I think about the way his voice sounds right now, hopeful and a little nervous, like he's asking me to prom instead of a picnic.
I look toward the bookings calendar. I can find an afternoon for this. "What time?"
* * *
The helicopter lifts off from the main ranch at two in the afternoon. The pilot, a professional named Sarah who handles the controls with easy confidence, points out landmarks as we climb. The Powder River, the boundary fences, the old homestead where Jackson's grandfather built his first cabin.
Jackson sits across from me, his knee close to mine in the small cabin. He's wearing jeans and a work shirt, no fancy jacket this time, and he looks more like himself than he did at the auction.
Wilder land unrolls beneath us like a living map. Pastures, timber, the silver thread of the river cutting through green. We follow the ridge line toward the mountains, climbing until my ears pop.
"There." Jackson points through the window, and I see it: a clearing in the trees, bright with wildflowers even from this height. "Sarah will set us down just past those aspens. Danny's waiting with the horses."
The landing is smooth. A young man in work clothes holds the leads of two saddled horses at the edge of the clearing, well away from the rotor wash. The air up here is thinner, sweeter, and I breathe it in while Sarah powers down.
Sarah points toward the clearing where she'll collect us. "Back at five. The weather's holding, but don't wander off the marked trail."
Jackson helps me out, his hand warm on my elbow. "Danny, this is Maren. Maren, Danny's been working the high pastures for three years now. He knows these trails better than I do."
"Ma'am." Danny tips his hat and hands me the reins of a pretty chestnut mare. "This is Penny. She's got a smooth gait and she knows the way."
I swing up into the saddle without help, settling into the familiar comfort of a good horse. Jackson mounts a gray gelding that's already eager to move, and Danny steps back to let us pass.
Danny checks my stirrup before pointing us toward the trailhead. "Trail's marked the whole way. Mile and a half to the meadow. I'll be here when you get back."
* * *
We take the marked trail at an easy walk.
The path is wide enough for two horses, and Jackson rides beside me instead of ahead, pointing out the places his grandfather used to tell stories about.
The lightning-struck pine that's been dead for forty years.
The boulder shaped like a sleeping bear.
The bend in the trail where you can see three counties if the air is clear enough.
"Gran used to bring me up here when I was a kid," he says, ducking under a low branch. "She'd pack these elaborate picnics, tablecloth and everything, and quiz me on the family history while we ate."
I shorten Penny's rein a little as the trail turns, keeping beside him. "What kind of quizzes?"
"Name the year we bought the south pasture. Recite the bloodlines of the foundation herd. Explain why Grandfather chose this spot for his ashes instead of the family cemetery." He grins, and it takes ten years off his face. "I failed a lot of those quizzes."
I picture his grandmother setting her tablecloth on the grass, determined to have a proper lunch. "What's the answer? Why this spot?"
"Because it's the highest point on the property where you can still see the original homestead." He nods toward a gap in the trees ahead. "He wanted to spend eternity watching over what he built."
The trail curves, and suddenly the trees open up into the meadow.
It's smaller than I imagined. A clearing in the aspens, maybe fifty feet across, with a flat boulder in the center that looks ancient and patient.
Wildflowers grow thick around the edges, Indian paintbrush, lupine, mountain daisies, and the light falls soft through the leaves like it's trying not to disturb anything.
I dismount and stand at the edge, taking it in. Jackson ties both horses to a low branch and comes to stand beside me.
"It's beautiful," I say, and the word feels inadequate. "Jackson, it's really beautiful."
"Yeah." His voice is quiet. "It is."
We walk to the boulder together. Up close, I can see the surface is worn smooth in places, like generations of Wilders have sat here before us. Jackson runs his hand across the stone, a gesture that looks like habit.
I stand beside him, my hand close to his on the worn stone. "Thank you for bringing me. I know this place is important to you."
"That's why I wanted you to see it." He turns to face me, and his expression is open in a way I haven't seen in a long time. "I used to come up here alone. Today I wanted you with me."
I don't want to talk about apologies right now. I don't want to spend the whole picnic going over what went wrong. I just want to be here, in this meadow, with this man I married.
I reach for his hand, wanting the boy in that story as much as the view. "Show me where you used to sit during Gran's quizzes. I want the full historic tour."
He laughs and takes my hand, leading me around the boulder to a smaller rock on the far side. "Here. I'd sit on this one and she'd sit on the big one, and she'd ask me questions until I got hungry enough to pay attention."
I sit on the little rock, imagining a hungry boy waiting for permission to eat. "Smart woman."
Jackson brushes a fallen leaf from the larger stone before joining me. "The smartest."
The picnic is tied to Jackson's saddle, and we spread a blanket in the sun near the boulder. Sandwiches, cheese, fruit, a bottle of wine that's been keeping cool in an insulated bag. Simple food, beautifully packed.
"Who did the sandwiches?" I ask, biting into one. Sourdough, good ham, sharp mustard. "These aren't ranch kitchen."
"The little bakery you like." He unwraps a second sandwich. "I had them leave the tomato off yours."
I look at the dry bread before I take another bite. Such a small thing to get right. "You remembered the tomato."
He gives the sandwich a wary glance, pretending I might return it for inspection. "You've complained about wet bread often enough. I'd have to be an idiot to forget."
I look at the spread. Ham and mustard, turkey and avocado, roast beef with horseradish, and something that looks like it might be a caprese. He's remembered the roast beef with horseradish, too. He hates horseradish. That one's for me.
"Good choice." I put half of mine on his napkin, taking the turkey in exchange. "The horseradish one is mine, though."
"No argument from me." He takes a bite of the ham. "You can have all of that stuff. It hurts my nose."
I move the horseradish safely to my side of the blanket. "You're a delicate creature for a cowboy."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the light move through the aspens. A bird calls somewhere in the trees, high and sweet. The horses rest beside the trees, their tails flicking at flies.
Jackson watches me steal the last piece of cheese from his napkin. "You could ask."
I eat it before he can rescue it. "You could have eaten faster."
He moves the basket out of reach, making me lean across him for the grapes. For a moment my hand is on his thigh and neither of us makes another joke. Why does touching him still do this to me?
I should deflect. Make a joke, change the subject, do something to break the intensity of his attention. Instead I set down my wine glass and stand up.
I leave the picnic behind and gesture toward the overlook. "Show me the view. The one where you can see the original homestead."
He leads me to the gap in the trees at the meadow's edge. From here, the land falls away in gentle slopes, ridge after ridge fading into blue distance. Far below, barely visible, a tiny cluster of buildings marks the spot where his grandfather started with nothing but ambition and stubbornness.
"There," Jackson says, pointing. "That's where it all began."
I look at the view, at the land, at the man standing beside me. Then I turn to face him fully, reaching up to touch his jaw the way I used to do when we were first married, when touching him was as natural as breathing.
"Maren," he says, and my name sounds like a question.
I answer by kissing him.
It starts soft, tentative, both of us testing the ground. Then his hands come up to my waist and mine slide into his hair, and the kiss deepens into something that feels like coming home. He tastes like wine and wanting, and I let myself fall into it without thinking about what comes next.
When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing harder.
Jackson keeps his hands at my waist, his usual confidence apparently gone. I did that to him. "Wow. Okay. Wow."
"Yeah." I smooth his hair where I messed it up. "That was..."
"Incredible. That was incredible." He's looking at me like I've just handed him something precious. "Can I..."
I keep my hand in his hair and pull him back toward me. "Yes."
He kisses me again, slower this time, more thorough. I stop keeping track of how long it lasts. His hands are warm against my back, and I have missed being this close to him.
A horse stamps beside the picnic blanket, impatient for the trip back.
Jackson checks his watch and looks toward the horses. "We should head back if we're going to meet Sarah at five."
"Right." I step back, smoothing my shirt. "We should..."
He catches my hand before I can start gathering the picnic without him. "Yeah."
But neither of us moves. We stand there in the gap between the trees, looking at each other, something new and fragile hanging in the air between us.
I linger beside him instead of gathering up the picnic. "Thank you. For today. For the meadow. For the sandwiches."
"Thank you for the kiss." His smile is crooked, almost boyish. "Best picnic I've ever had."
"Don't get ahead of yourself." I start walking back toward the horses. "It was one kiss."
Jackson retrieves the blanket, unwilling to let me revise the count. "It was two kisses."
I take the empty basket so he has to follow me to the horses. "The second one was your idea."
He catches up beside me, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You said yes before I finished asking."
I don't have a comeback for that because he's right. I said yes, and I meant it, and I'm still not sure what that means for tomorrow or next week or the rest of our lives. But right now, walking back through the meadow with the taste of him still on my lips, I don't need to know.
Right now is enough.
* * *