Sage found the top of the gate and shoved, but she couldn’t budge it with the drift against the backside.
“Shovel time,” Creed said behind her. “Which way does it open?”
“Outward,” she answered.
It didn’t take long for him to throw the snow to one side, break the ice on the hinge, and open it for her. But it did little good when there was still a drift on the other side.
“I’ll get the second one. The graves are all the way to the backside of the cemetery, and it’ll go faster if we work together,” she said.
He didn’t even look up and kept slinging snow to one side and then to the other. By the time they had shoveled it away they were both leaning on their shovels and trying to catch their breath.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this today?” Creed asked.
“Blame it on the weatherman,” she panted.
The rock protected them somewhat from the bitter wind but it couldn’t make it warmer. Shoveling dirt or snow was hard work and used a lot of energy as well as plain old elbow grease. Under the coveralls she was warm as toast, but her nose was numb, and even with two pair of socks, her toes were beginning to feel the chill.
Creed went back to work. “Why is it his fault?”
“Because he won’t tell us that the temperature is going to rise and melt this off by Monday. I think his wife is going through menopause and has hot flashes all night. He can’t sleep because she’s constantly kicking the covers off or else putting more on, so he is grumpy and takes it out on the whole world. That makes it his fault. And we have to get the snow cleared away so we can put flowers on the graves when we come back from the shopping trip the first of the week.”
Creed chuckled. “You’ve got an imagination, darlin’. Maybe you should write books rather than paint pictures.”
She dug the square-nosed shovel into the snow and tossed it to her left. “No thank you. I’ll stick to my pictures.”
“Do you see another picture out here this morning?” he asked.
Tombstones of various sizes created different heights and widths of miniature mountains all around her. No one would be interested in buying a picture of a snow-covered cemetery, not even with mistletoe clinging to the tops of the scrub oak trees surrounding it.
“Well?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not a thing.”
They stuck their shovels into the snow and started walking through the shallow places and the idea started to nag at her. She’d never painted the big rock from the backside. The front of it had given her many paintings, all with life in them. Her grandfather when he was still living, an Indian surveying the land, eagles, and even a howling coyote. Should she paint the other side from the land of those who’d already gone on?
“Whoa!” she said.
He stopped. “See something?”
“No, this is it.” She brushed the top of his tombstone clean. “This is Grandpa’s grave. The valley there is where…well…” she stammered. “Next to the valley is my father’s and then my mother’s.”
She tried to keep the tears at bay but the dam broke. Thinking about a tombstone sitting there someday with Grand’s full name, date of birth, and death engraved on it was more than she could handle that morning. The tears were scalding hot as they ran down her cold cheeks. She wished that she would have worn her face mask to soak them up and so that Creed wouldn’t see her crying like a baby.
He pulled her to him, letting her cry on his shoulders. Layers of clothing plus heavy coveralls didn’t keep her from hearing his steady heartbeat. Creed was a good man. He’d do well with the Rockin’ C. And even if he wasn’t a Presley, someday he would claim a spot in the family cemetery.
The idea of a stone with his name on it brought on more tears. Sobs racked her shoulders and he hugged her even tighter against his body.
“It’s all right, Sage. It’ll be a long, long time before Miz Ada is in this place. She’s still got too much spit and vinegar in her for God to want her just yet,” he said.
He’s got that right. Listen to him, Sage. And remember, there will be a Presley on the ranch as long as you don’t leave it. It’s not like I’m forsaking the whole heritage. That’s why I sold it to him so cheap. He’s responsible to keep it running, but it’s your responsibility to make sure there’s Presley blood on the Rockin’ C.
Grand’s voice was as clear as if she was sitting on Grandpa’s tombstone right beside her, but Sage didn’t open her eyes and look because she knew she would be disappointed.
A soft cloth wiped the tears away from her cheeks. His handkerchief was cold but his touch was light. His fingertips grazing her frozen cheeks weren’t blistering hot like usual but comforting.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You are very welcome, darlin’. Let’s go to the house. You are shivering and it won’t take any time at all to take care of the rest of the job when we bring the flowers out here,” he said.
Sage didn’t disagree. She wanted to be surrounded by the warmth of a glowing fire, the Christmas tree, and her dogs and cats. She wanted to laugh with Creed and make more cookies. She didn’t want to think about the future or the past.
Going back to the tractor, she looked up at the big rock and saw her next picture as clear as if it were already completed. She’d never painted the formation using only the wide, furrowed base, but that’s where her next picture started. Not at the top but at the bottom
