Breaking Wild by Diane Les Becquets
For the town of Meeker, Colorado,
and
In memory of my big little sister,
Carol Houck Smith
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are people who are kind and good and smart and loyal. And there are gifts we cannot name, the kind that take root and change who we become. The community and the land of northwestern Colorado where I lived for almost fourteen years will always be a deep reservoir within me from which I draw. And so it is to the people of that community that this book is dedicated and whom I wish to acknowledge with all the gratitude in the world.
This book is also dedicated in memory of Carol Houck Smith, mentor and publishing legend, a mighty force whose spirit clung to the land and open skies and the people of the West, and who worked with me on the earliest ideas and drafts of this novel. You are loved and you are missed.
I wish to thank the following people and institutions for their kindness and support:
Michelle Brower, agent extraordinaire, who inspired and edited and saw the things I could not see. Sometimes a writer stops writing. When I met Michelle, I started writing again. You were the magic.
Kendra Harpster, my dream editor, always positive, always enthusiastic. You made this whole process effortless. A strong woman and such an astute editor. Some things are just meant to be.
To Leslie Gelbman, publisher of Berkley, and to her amazing team. I give thanks for you all every day.
My deep gratitude to those who assisted me with the research: Judy Eskelson, Susan Berthelson, Mike Washburn, Mike Joos, Dudley Gardner, Dale Atkins, Dee Lehman, Shannon Young, Ashton Robinson, Kris Hjelle, Nikki Stout, Mike Selle, Don Wade, Martin Lammers, Marvin Hansen, and Brad Merrill. And to Glade Hadden, the greatest archaeologist of man and story that I know. As both author and novel evolved, you’ve been a constant.
To Jim and Sue, for their friendship and lodging during my research trips.
To Deb and Bob, for offering me their hunting camp off the grid, where without electricity, plumbing, cell service, and Internet, I was able to stay until I finished the manuscript.
To all those who provided feedback, support, and editorial assistance: Bob Begiebing, Rick Carey, Dolly Viscardi, Alison Taylor-Brown, Nate Boesch, Julia Rohm-Ensing, Jordan Mazzola, Robin Barletta, Annie Hwang, Ann Hood, Suzanne Strempek-Shea, Clint McCown, Michael White, and Jack Scovil. I wouldn’t be where I am today with anything less.
To the woman who provided everything and more and read countless drafts, my mom, Sandra Kyne.
To my colleagues at Southern New Hampshire University, my friends and students in the MFA program, and my dean, Karen Erickson.
I am also grateful for the support SNHU has provided me through summer grants, a sabbatical, and professional development.
For my late husband, Shaun Hathaway, lost and then found, you were my giant.
For all of my friends, and all of my family, especially my three sons, Nate, Seth (Joseph), and Jake, and for my best friend, partner, and husband, Gregg Mazzola.
We can never break free from the dark and degrading past.
Let us see life again, nevertheless, in the words of Isaac Babel
as a meadow over which women and horses wander.
—MAXINE KUMIN, “Women and Horses”
BEAR
AMY RAYE
It was snowing already, in early November, after days of hot, clear fall weather. The flakes landed on her tent like slow rain. She lay still, aware of every small, square inch around her, and in that stillness imagined changing her mind, sleeping almost warm for a few more hours, and after daybreak and coffee, packing up with the others and driving home.
Earlier that night, Kenny had asked her, “Do you still love him?” They’d been sitting by the fire. Aaron had already turned in.
She felt sorrow pass over her face when Kenny asked her this, and she knew Kenny had felt it, too, because he reached over to her chair, laid his hand on top of hers like something protective. He then moved his chair closer, lifted his arm, wrapped it around her shoulder, pulled her against him. It was an uncomfortable position, but she did not tell him that. He took his other arm, encircled her with it. He kissed the top of her head, pressed his face into her hair.
“You smell good,” he said.
“I smell like elk piss and smoke,” she said.
“No, I smell you.”
“What do I smell like?”
“Like something tangy and salty and sweet, like something I’ve never smelled before.”
And then her breathing and his became lost in the sound of the fire and the weight of moisture accumulating in the air. As brief as a moment, she felt a deep sense of the place, folding the days back to summer and wild rose columbine and life as pure as a mountain stream over a rocky bed.