Rose watched him stride by, confident, unencumbered with fear. “Hey, Minnesota,” she called out to him when he was thirty feet past.
He stopped and turned towards her, the smile still on his face. “What is it, Missoula?”
“Thank you.”
He looked puzzled. “Thank you for what?” he asked, sincerely curious.
“Thank you for restoring a little of my faith in humanity,” Rose answered, giving him a smile and a wave as she gently kicked Smokey in the flanks.
CHAPTER 38
Thursday, February 16th
Deer Creek, MT
Jennifer quickly tied her bootlaces and slipped on her jacket before pulling the door open and letting herself out. The brisk morning air momentarily took her breath away as she put on a hat and pair of gloves, then quickened her pace towards the Shipley Ranch. She covered the mile and a half to the ranch in fifteen minutes, though without a working watch or clock to consult, she just knew it took awhile.
Once at the ranch, she only needed five minutes of milking time, as there was only one of the three females in milk, that one being a fortunate consequence of an early pregnancy resulting in two kids being born in late September. Still, all of the goats needed to be fed and tended to before milking, if for no other reason than to keep them occupied so she could milk uninterrupted. The two other females had recently had their babies and would soon be producing milk for the community, so it was important to keep them all healthy in order to grow the herd size.
The Shipley’s had four mature Nubian goats, three does and a buck, which were valuable for both milk and meat. The goats had always been like pets, remnants from kids’ 4H projects, and Bryan’s wife, Katie, enjoyed having them around, finding them to be better companions than Bryan’s dogs, with the added benefit of weed control. Additionally, the goats’ natural diet was much cheaper than the truckloads of dog food Bryan’s dogs consumed. Now, however, the goats had become one of the most valuable possessions in the community, especially since the cattle the Shipleys raised were Angus and not a dairy breed.
In exchange for a quart of milk each morning, Jennifer had volunteered to take care of the goats, a task which included feeding the small herd, cleaning the pen, washing the milk containers, and caring for the animals, something Carol, a thirty-year veterinarian, and Katie coached her on as needed. Once the kids were weaned, there would be all three does to milk, but Jennifer, now accustomed to the work, was confident she could have the milking done in less than ten minutes, five if she really got good at it.
Emma usually helped with the animals each day but had been coughing through the night so had stayed in bed. Jennifer was glad for the opportunity she usually had to work with her daughter, as it gave them time together plus gave Emma something good to do, helping her state of mind. Emma had nearly returned to her old self after Kyle’s return, but then with his banishment she’d sunk back into a funk that once again worried Jennifer.
Madison’s arrival had changed things, however, helping all of them, but especially Emma, to focus on something else and to forget, for portions of each day at least, their own problems and how much they missed having Kyle there. Emma glowed when she held her little sister, as she now referred to the baby, beaming proudly as she fed her and even willingly changing diapers and rocking the baby when she cried. Jennifer continued having nightmares about the night the young mother died, but recognized that good was coming from the new life that had been brought into their home.
Jennifer offered more help to the Shipleys than just tending the goats, knowing the value of the milk she received far outweighed the work she provided, but her repeated offers were graciously declined. “Help with the goats,” she had been told, “and take good care of the baby.” Jennifer choked up a little when she thought about the kindness of others, especially when there were dire needs in every home.
Jennifer worked quickly through the chores, lost in thought as she finished up the milking. She rubbed the doe affectionately, pleased the animal hadn’t stuck her foot in the bucket like she had the day before. Jennifer poured her portion of the milk into her quart container and the remainder in a pail for the Shipleys, washed the milk bucket, delivered the Shipley’s milk, and headed home. The sun had cleared the mountains and was quickly warming things, giving her hope for a warm, sunny day that would get them out of the house and not require them to burn too much wood. Two days of colder than normal temperatures and running a steady fire all day had made her anxious for a break from that routine.
She skirted along the upper edges of the creek bank as she walked home, noticing that the water levels were climbing a little higher each day, slowly filling the small reservoir the community was in the process of creating. Under Craig Reider’s direction, a dam was being constructed across the creek with the hope of providing extra irrigation water in the summer when the creek flow slowed. Despite the fact it was being done with shovels and wheelbarrows, the work was proceeding quickly.
The base of the dam was twenty feet thick and built with salvaged concrete from sidewalks and driveways of vacant homes, then back-filled with gravel. A dirt and gravel mixture was being dumped on top of that, filling in the cracks and keeping the water backed up behind it. When completed, the dam would measure nine feet high and pinch off across a section of the creek that was no more than thirty-five feet across. Two sections of twelve-inch irrigation pipe ran through the base of the dam and would be used to allow water to flow through once the reservoir filled, but until then, they were blocked off in order to fill the lake.
Hurrying to get the milk back to Madison while it was still warm, Jennifer offered a curt smile as she passed two men with rifles slung over their shoulders, who were pushing wheelbarrows loaded with shovels and rakes towards the dam.
Jennifer had just reached home when she heard a ringing in the distance, like a church bell, a sound that at first she couldn’t place. Then, like a kick to the stomach, the realization hit her. Someone had shot the truck hood that hung from the tree outside the militia house, the one that David had had so much trouble hitting a few weeks before. Someone had sounded the alarm.
She bounded up the steps and burst through the door. Emma quickly looked up at her while rocking the baby. David raced up from the basement, a rifle in one hand, his boots in the other. “Here, make a bottle,” she said, handing the milk to Emma and grabbing David as he brushed past her. “Where are you going?” she demanded, her voice strained.
“You heard the alarm, Mom, I have to go.”
“No, David! I’ve already lost your father. I will not allow you to go. Just stay here and help me protect your brother and sisters.”
David looked at his mom, no fear in his eyes. “Mom. I can do this. My friends are out there. I need to go help.”
Jennifer squeezed his arm harder, looking him in the eyes, and felt her chin quiver. “But David, if something happens, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know if I can take it.”
“I’ll be careful, Mom. I promise. But I have to go. There aren’t very many of us, so everyone’s needed. Besides, it’s probably another false alarm. The guys on day shift are too jumpy.”
Jennifer’s grip loosened, and David pulled away, his face calm. He grabbed his jacket from the front closet and a backpack with three loaded magazines, pulled on his boots, and hurried to the font door. “I do know this isn’t a drill, Mom, so have your gun ready. Hopefully it is a false alarm, but if it’s not…,” he stammered. “Be ready, just in case.”