Our first teacher is our own heart. (Cheyenne Proverb)
Watching out the window of the plane, Emma Beauchamp saw the prairie passing beneath her grow steadily closer as they began their descent into Billings Logan International Airport. The butterflies in her stomach were increasing by the moment but not from fear of what might happen to the plane. Instead it was what lay ahead once she was on the ground that was feeding the fluttering.
Over the long months of the pandemic, Emma had done her part to boost the morale of those in her community who, like her, were isolated with limited contact with family and friends. Many were considered shut ins by the local churches. Most were elderly, a population already at risk of the devastating effects of isolation, and while she wasn't yet of an age to be considered elderly, Emma understood all too well the reality of spending too much time alone. So she had spent her days writing cards and letters, sending emails, and making the occasional phone call, exercises that had provided her with as much benefit as it had those she had reached out to.
Then had come the day when she had learned about a program where interested people were invited to write to the elderly of Native American communities in Montana in much the same way as what Emma was already doing. Her heart going out to those who not only suffered the effects of isolation but also the harsh realities of living on a reservation, she had taken pen in hand and begun to write.
For as long as she could remember, Emma had harbored a fascination with Native America. At first enamored of the myths and stereotypes, her sensitivities had matured into genuine sorrow for their histories and admiration for their determination not to bow. Along the way,she had developed an appreciation for their spirituality, in some ways similar to her own, as well as an intense interest in the diverse cultures within the Native American community.
For all that, however, Emma was painfully aware of the bigotry that exists on both sides of the racial divide. She had seen it and experienced it first hand, and that was at the core of the anxiety she was feeling. She had made a friend of Sally Goes Ahead and was visiting at her invitation. But what kind of reception was she to receive from those surrounding Sally? She fervently hoped that no one would object to her presence so stringently as to interfere with their visit.
A little over an hour later, Emma had collected her large, bright red wheeled duffel from baggage claim, shouldered her purse, and, blowing the bangs of her highlighted pixie hair style away from her blue eyes, was looking around the area wondering what to do now. Sally had said her son would be there to pick her up but she had neglected to ask where to look for him. To make matters worse, she had no idea what he looked like. She only knew that his name was Edward. With a sigh, she took a tighter grip on the duffel handle and, towing it behind her, began to walk toward the exit. Wearing pale blue capris with a coordinating top that emphasized her small stature, she and the large duffel made something of an incongruous pairing to those who noticed them.
“Emma Beauchamp?”
Her name reached her ears wrapped in a rich, baritone voice and her eyes followed it to a tall, handsome, older man standing a few feet behind her. Dressed in faded, well fitting jeans, wearing a dark blue striped western shirt and comfortably broken in cowboy boots, his dark, silver-shot hair hanging nearly to his waist in thick braids, he was the epitome of mature Native American manhood and she found herself admiring the view despite her weariness.
“Yes?”
He smiled and stepped closer, “I'm Ed Goes Ahead. My mother sent me to pick you up.”
Emma smiled tiredly in return, “Hi, Ed. I was just wondering how we were going to find one another.”
“Mom made sure I memorized your photo before I left.” He nodded toward the duffel. “Can I help you with that?”
Emma was suddenly glad she had sent that particular picture. Taken at a friend's thirtieth wedding anniversary party eighteen months before, it had been by far the better choice over the selfies she had attempted with her camera. With a smile of thanks she turned the handle over to him and they made their way through the dissipating crowd to the exit then across the street to the parking garage. Soon, he had stowed the duffel in the bed of an older model black pick up, helped her up into her seat, and shortly thereafter was driving away from the airport.
“It will take us a couple of hours to reach the rez,” he said after merging onto the interstate. “Do you need to stop anywhere first?”
“No, I'm fine. Thanks.”
They rode in silence until they were well out of Billings and Emma drank in the Montana countryside. Twenty-five years was a long time to miss someplace she had once loved so much.
“Mom tells me you're a writer.”
She glanced at Ed and smiled as she nodded.
“Yes.”
“What do you write?”
“Short stories mostly. A poem now and then.” She paused, considering how much to share. “I just finished an article on the high numbers of Native American women and girls that go missing.”
He nodded then glanced at her before returning his attention to the road.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I'm trying to find a buyer for it. It's an important story that needs to be heard.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes.
“I used to be the district social action coordinator for the United Methodist Church at home,” she explained, “My job was to raise awareness for various social issues. One of them was violence against women. Another was human trafficking. Both became very important to me. So when I first learned of the high numbers of Native women who go missing it immediately peaked my interest. The more I learned, the more determined I became to do my part in raising awareness.”
She glanced at him, wondering what he was thinking behind his impassive expression.
“Your mom has been one of my biggest supporters in this.”
There was a pause before he nodded, one side of his mouth lifting in a small smile.
“Doesn't surprise me. She's a social activist from way back.”
Emma smiled in return.
“I really like Sally. She's become a good friend even though this will be the first time we've actually met face to face.”
“What kinds of short stories do you write?” He asked after a few moments.
“Romances mostly. I'm afraid I'm a hopeless romantic at heart.”
“Have you ever thought of writing a book?”
She nodded, “Actually, I already have. Two of them.” She grimaced. “Neither were worth sharing, and they convinced me that I really have no interest in writing another. I prefer the challenge of saying what I need to say in as few pages as possible.”
She eyed him with interest.
“What do you do?”
“I ranch.”
“Really? Sally never told me that. She just said you were successful.”
He chuckled.
“If being successful means not having lost the farm I guess she's right.”
“What do you raise? Cattle?”
“Horses,” he responded, “Specifically Nez Perce horses.”
“Is that an actual breed?”
He nodded, “Yes. They were developed from old appaloosa lines and a Turkish breed. “
“I knew someone once who raised appaloosas. He bred them from quarter horse stock.”
“The spots are the same but they're two entirely different styles of horses.”
“Do they have a specific purpose, like herding or endurance riding?”
“They're multi-purpose horses. Most of ours sell for stock or recreational purposes.”
He glanced at her before accelerating around a slower moving car.
“Mom said you used to live here.”
“Wyoming, actually.” She smiled. “I worked for two years in Yellowstone then went to college north of Cody. I spent a lot of time in Billings on my days off and grew to love the city.” Her voice softened. “I've really missed it out here.”
“Why did you leave?”
“My mother got sick so I went home to help take care of her. By the time she passed the means to return wasn't there any longer. But I've never stopped wanting to come back.”
“So it wasn't an accident that you decided to write to my mother?”
For some reason something about his question bothered her.
“No.” She paused then turned her gaze fully upon him. “Why? Do you have a problem with it?”
He shrugged.
“I'm always suspicious when an Anglo comes around. It's been my experience that you almost always have an ulterior motive.”
“I see.” She struggled to contain her indignation. “And why do you think I'm here?”
“You tell me.”
She shook her head. What happened to the pleasant conversation they'd just been having?
“Your mother and I became friends. She invited me. I accepted. What other reason could I have?”
He drove in implacable silence for a few minutes. When he spoke again he did so quietly with a warning quality to his words.
“My mother is a trusting woman who is a respected member of the community. She has a knack for making friends with complete strangers who want only to exploit her. Some are Indian wannabes. Some are looking for a good time with a stereotype. Some have even tried to use her to gain questionable favors from the tribe itself.” He glanced at her, his handsome face fierce with determination. “I will not allow her to be used if I can help it.”
Emma stared at him, her indignation fading, before turning her attention back to the road before them.
“I have no intention of using her,” she assured him quietly. “She is a friend. Someone I've grown to respect and who I've looked forward to meeting in person. I value whatever she chooses to share with me for the gift that it is and nothing more.”
Their eyes met before he nodded, apparently deciding to take her at her word, and miles passed as the tension inside the cab eased quietly away. Finally, Ed motioned with his chin toward a sign advertising food ahead.
“I missed lunch. Would you like a burger or something?”
Accepting his invitation as a peace offering she watched as they left the interstate and drove toward a small stand of popular fast food restaurants.
“Shall we go in or go through the drive through?” he asked once they agreed upon a particular restaurant and Emma said the drive through would be fine to save time since it was getting later in the day.
After placing their order at the intercom she reached for her purse but he forestalled her, explaining that as his guest it was for him to pay for her food. She started to argue then remembered that hospitality was important to his people, and quietly smiled her thanks instead. He stared at her consideringly for a moment before one side of his mouth quirked in a responding half smile and the truck pulled forward to the pick up window. Minutes later they were once again heading down the interstate with the aroma of their meal filling the cab as they feasted on sandwiches and fries.
“What else do you enjoy doing besides writing?” Ed asked, after finishing his fries and taking a drink of his soda.
“I'm an amateur photographer.”
“Any kind in particular?”
“Nature primarily. I became hooked when I worked in Yellowstone.” She smiled, remembering. “Then I started competing in county fairs around the park and did surprisingly well.”She shrugged. “I never really wanted to go professional, though. Other than when I play around with black and whites, I don't do anything to enhance or change my photos in any way. I prefer to be a purist and let nature provide the art.”
She looked at him, asking curiously, “What about you? What do you do when you're not working with your horses?”
He seemed to ponder that for a moment.
“The horses take up most of my time. But when I get a chance I enjoy reading a good book.”
“Really? What genre is your favorite?”
“ Detective novels.” He glanced at her with a mocking grin. “Not surprising, maybe, that Tony Hillerman is one of my favorites.”
She nodded.
“I've read a couple of his books. They're quite good.”
“But you prefer romances,” he concluded, his tone now faintly teasing.
“Of course. I told you, I'm a born romantic.”
He started to say something then swore under his breath before suddenly hitting the brakes and Emma's seat belt was all that kept her from pitching forward into the dash. Ahead of them they could see brake lights suddenly flashing and a few cars fishtailing in their efforts to stop. A semi, with smoke escaping from beneath the trailer, barely managed not to hit the car in front of him after the car collided with the back end of another. Luckily Ed hadn't been following too closely and was able to stop without locking up his wheels. Another semi rolled to a fast stop behind them.
He shook his head but didn't answer. Time passed and the traffic did not resume moving. Then they heard sirens moments before two state troopers sped by along the median and they realized there wasn't any traffic going in the opposite direction.
“Whatever it is,” Ed muttered, “it doesn't look good.”
After a few cars got stuck trying to turn around in the median, they realized they were going to be there for a while. He turned the key in the ignition before rolling down his window.
“Might as well get comfortable,” he advised with a glance her way as he unhooked his seat belt, and Emma quickly followed suit. Around them drivers began emerging from their cars, trying to get a better look at what was going on ahead. The driver of the semi behind them, whose name they soon learned was Stan, climbed down and after a good stretch walked around his rig then made his way forward to stand beside Ed's door.
“There's a real mess up there,” he said conversationally. “Damned sheep hauler jack knifed and overturned about two miles up. Guys on the CB are saying there's sheep and bodies of sheep everywhere.”
~
They were still sitting there two hours later, Ed slouched comfortably behind the wheel and Emma turned and facing him, as a breeze blew in through the window behind her. In that time they had become better acquainted and grown more relaxed with each other. He seemed especially interested in her writing adventures and she learned a lot about his Nez Perce horses and his ranch's reputation for breeding prime stock. He talked a lot about his mother, telling tales about himself as a mischievous young boy forever in her hair for one reason or another, and making Emma laugh as she imagined the middle aged man's childhood antics. She told him about growing up in a military household as the eldest and only girl with three brothers.
“I became an instant mommy when my first brother was born.”
Occasionally Stan would give them an update on the clean up of the overturned truck and the numerous accidents that had occurred as a result. Once he sardonically informed them that an obliging RV was offering the use of their toilet, for the nominal fee of five dollars per person per visit.
“Are you married?” Emma eventually asked.
“No,” he answered sadly as he gazed off somewhere in the distance. “My wife passed several years ago.”
“I'm so sorry.” She had to restrain herself from touching him in sympathy, which was her natural response to anyone's suffering. “Do you have any kids?”
“We had five, three sons and two daughters. One son died while still a baby and our youngest daughter died in Iraq.” He smiled sadly. “She was our little warrior.”
Normally she would have asked their names but she knew that many Native American tribes held taboos against speaking the names of the dead so, again, she squelched what would have been expected within her community. Moments passed before his smile returned.
“What about you? Have you ever married?”
She shook her head.
“No. I was engaged once. For about a day. But that's as close as I ever came.”
“Any kids?”
Again, she shook her head.
“No,” she answered ruefully, “The only kids I've ever had are of the four legged variety.”
“Ever been around horses?”
“I love horses! I love feeding them. I love grooming them. I don't even mind mucking out stalls.” She grimaced. “But I swore off learning to ride years ago.”
He tilted his head inquiringly. “Why?”
She chuckled and brushed at the cotton covering her leg.
“Because every time I get on one it ends in disaster.”
“How so?”
“The first time, the horse ran away with me then threw me into a rock pile and gave me a mild concussion. Since then I've managed to get heat stroke and break bones. This last time, several years ago, my wrist didn't just break, it shattered. That's when we discovered I had osteoporosis.” She smiled wryly, “I decided I'd better stop while I was ahead.”
“Have you ever had a successful ride?”
“Once. I was with a group visiting Cades Cove in the Smokies, near where I live. We went to the riding stables there and were given very placid mounts that never got past a very slow walk.” She laughed. “I was the last to get mounted. Everyone else got horses with names like Candy, Sunny, and even Precious. When it came my turn they brought up this huge horse that looked like he was part Percheron or something and told me I'd be riding Lucifer.”
Ed busted out laughing.
“So you didn't fall off that time?” he asked after a few moments, his dark eyes snapping with humor.
“Not that time but like I said, we didn't go past a very slow walk over very level ground. I wouldn't have been safer tied to the saddle.”
He chuckled again, shaking his head. Then he just stared at her for a few moments. Something in his expression brought delicate color to her cheeks and suddenly she was breathless.
“I expected someone entirely different when I picked you up,” he said quietly. “Frankly, I was prepared to detest you. I don't like to think of myself as bigoted but my experience with white people has left just enough of a bad taste in my mouth to make it sometimes seem I am that way.” His mouth curved in a gentle smile. “Thank you for proving me wrong, at least this time.”
“I don't consider myself bigoted, either.” she replied. “The only time I have a problem with someone's race is when they make it a problem.” She paused. “My mother taught me that all people are equal. No one is better than anyone else, and growing up in the military only emphasized that. I met all kinds of people as we moved around. People from different cultures, different backgrounds. I learned to appreciate our differences, and our similarities. It hurts when I find myself judged based on something other than who I am as a person.” She met his gaze with a soft one of her own. “I may not have had the same experiences you've had with bigots but I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of hate.”
Their eyes held for a few moments before she looked away, suddenly feeling shy.
“I hope you like frybread, Emma.”
She smiled at him again. “Love it. Why?”
“Mom's putting on a feed in your honor. There's bound to be plenty there. That and potato salad.”
Emma's mouth fell open in surprise.
“Oh no! She didn't have to do that!”
Ed shook his head.
“No, she didn't. But she wanted to honor you and the friendship you extended to her during a difficult time.”
She was touched by his telling her and said as much.
“And I feel honored to have had the opportunity to know her.”
About that time, Stan reappeared at Ed's door.
“They're starting to move out up there. You all be careful now.”
“Thanks, Stan,” Ed replied, “Have a safe trip.”
He and Emma straightened in their seats as he turned the key in the ignition. The truck engine easily started and the air conditioner started blowing out warm air that soon turned cool. In the distance they could see the line of cars slowly beginning to move forward as other cars began going past on the other side of the interstate. After they put their seat belts back on and rolled up their windows, Ed looked over at her with a charming smile breaking across his strong featured face.
“I look forward to getting to know you better, Emma Beauchamp.”
Emma smiled as he shifted the truck into gear.
“And I you, Mr. Goes Ahead.”
The truck slowly followed the traffic forward, gradually picking up speed as the miles flew past. They were once again on their way, in more ways than one, as the westward sun disappeared behind the distant mountains.
As a writer, you sure use your personal experience in this one! And you weren't sheepish either, you included them, dead and alive. At first I thought, grass wildfire… Known to create black smoke that makes vision worse than fog and causes major pile ups on interstate highways. I'm also wondering why Ed wasn't like Stan, getting out of the truck and checking out the situation.
It certainly does look like the story begs a sequel to see if Emma and Ed have any future since she doesn't ride.
My last ride, with very few before, was in the summer I was home recuperating. My mother took me to a trail ride through a woods, all on level ground. I was given an old sway back mare and we only walked the whole way. Although my feet were firmly in the stirrups and I did have a hold of the reins, the gait of that old mare was a side-to-side motion that had me tense the whole time, not wanting to fall off with no way to break my fall with my paralyzed arms and hands. I was just glad when the ride was over and didn't fall off.
A book-length psychodynamic study of pathological narcissism, relationships
with abusive narcissists, and the Narcissistic Personality Disorder, using a new vocabulary.
Watching out the window of the plane, Emma Beauchamp saw the prairie passing beneath her grow steadily closer as they began their descent into Billings Logan International Airport. The butterflies in her stomach were increasing by the moment but not from fear of what might happen to the plane. Instead it was what lay ahead once she was on the ground that was feeding the fluttering.
