“That’s it,” he announces. “I’m not taking any chances. We’re going into town.”
"Into town," I repeat.
"Hollow Peak has a clinic. I want someone who actually went to medical school to look at that." He's already standing, moving toward the closet by the door. He's been up since dawn. I know because I strained my ears to hear him moving around while I lay restlessly in bed hoping this morning is the morning he stops being a gentleman.
Instead, he made veggie omelets with fresh eggs and fancy cheese and Stevie has had her breakfast while I sat and watched from the bench Gibb tricked out with cushions so I’m not uncomfortable while I visit with my favorite little goat. Prior to bringing me out, he’d already attended to the whole barn, and the man hasn't sat down once. I'm starting to think Gibson Hart runs on something other than coffee and sleep.
"It's really much better," I say. "The swelling has gone down some."
"Not enough. Maybe I’m not doing the right thing by bandaging it." He looks back at me. "The roads are clear. I need to pick up some things anyway, and I want it seen to properly."
I think about arguing because I really just want to stay here in this cozy space and not think about the real world but Gibb is worried and I don’t want to cause him any stress.
"Okay," I say.
Stevie bleatsfrom her corner of the kitchen, where she has stationed herself like a very small, extremely self-satisfied chaperone.
"Not you," Gibb tells her, without looking.
She bleats again. Louder.
"Still no." He rolls his eyes at me. “I can’t believe you talked me into letting her in the house.”
“She’s not hurting anything.”
“You say that now. Wait until she chews on the leg of my favorite chair.”
The drivedown the mountain is nothing like the trail up was, which I am deeply grateful for. Gibb's Land Rover is big and solid and handles the switchbacks the way he seems to handle everything: steady, unhurried, aware of exactly where the edges are and how far he can go.
The valley opens and closes and opens again as we descend, the mountains enormous and impressive on every side, and I sit in the passenger seat and drink in the sunshine. Spring seems to be returning after the ice storm and I tip my face towards the warmth.
"Tell me about Hollow Peak," I say.
He glances over. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Everything. You said your family had been here a long time, how long is that?"
"Since before it was a town." He navigates a long curve, the vehicle bouncing over the ruts. "My great-great-grandfather settled the land during the mining era. Most of the family left over the years, moved to Denver or farther west. Mygrandparents stayed. My grandfather was the local doctor for thirty years."
"Did they live in Hollow Peak?"
"Same land. Different cabin. The original homestead burned down in the nineties. I had the current one built about five years ago." A pause. "Gramps helped me design it. He died not that long ago."
I feel his loss in my heart and I'm quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry."
"He was ninety-one and sharp as a tack until the end. He knew I was coming back." Gibb's voice is level and careful, like the memory he carries is as fragile as a glass sculpture. "After my parents died, my sister and I lived with him and my grandma, in Hollow Peak. He had a hunt camp on the homestead, and we’d go up there to get away every chance we could. He used to say the mountains don't forget. That the land waits for whoever belongs to it."
I look out at the peaks, enormous and permanent. "I think he was right."
We comearound a final curve and the town appears below us. It looks like a Hallmark movie set and as we drive in, the main street buildings of brick and timber give that quintessential smalltown feel. Smoke rises from somewhere to the east, curling white against the blue sky, and the late morning sunshine shines like warm amber on the old-fashioned storefronts.
"Oh," I say. "It's lovely."
"It is," he says. And then he turns to me with a smile. "It’s nice to see it through your eyes."
I don’t know where to look first as we cruise down Main Street. There is a stretch of nineteenth-century brick and timber fronts, a hardware store with hand-lettered signs, and a place onthe corner called The Switchback Café. There’s a line-up at the café.
I want to explore every inch of it, but my ankle reminds me that being a tourist is not happening today.