The Divide Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  TWO

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THREE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  Praise for The Divide

  “This beautifully written novel includes everything a reader could want. . . . The characters truly come to life, and the reader gets to know them as intimately as friends and family. The Divide will keep you up late reading just one more page.”—The Sunday Oklahoman

  “Compellingly readable.”—The Times (London)

  “[Evans] reminds us that the destruction of all that’s familiar—whether by human hands or by nature—eventually ceases to be the story. What remains is how people survive.”

  —The Washington Post

  “While Evans reveres his backdrop, he ultimately is more interested in getting the reader to go inward than outside. In Evans’s hands, that’s a journey worth taking.”

  —USA Today

  “When the frozen body of a young woman is discovered in a remote creek in the Rocky Mountains, the heartrending story of a family in crisis begins to unfold. Reaching back in time, members of the seemingly perfect Cooper family present their version of the events, emotions, and twists of fate that forever altered the benign course of their collective lives. Sure to be a runaway success, this lyrical novel runs the gamut from devastation to despair to deliverance.”—Booklist

  “[Evans] handles male and female characters, kids, parents, and grandparents with equal confidence. And the scenes portraying marriage breakup and its fallout are unsettling and convincing.”—The Sunday Times (London)

  “[Evans] gracefully transports us to the golden, sun-warmed open spaces of Montana as well as its cold, unforgiving mountain ranges.”

  —The Edmonton Journal (Alberta)

  “A compelling novel.”—The Vancouver Province

  “Both tragic and redemptive. As with Evans’s other novels, the landscape figures as prominently as the characters. . . . This is an engaging story that Evans’s fans will want to read.”—Library Journal

  ALSO BY NICHOLAS EVANS

  The Horse Whisperer

  The Loop

  The Smoke Jumper

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin

  Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a G. P. Putnam’s Sons edition.

  First Signet Printing, February 2007

  Copyright © Nicholas Evans, 2005

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-04364-6

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am greatly indebted to the following for their kindness, patience, and help with my research: Charles Fisher, Glenys Carl, Blaine Young, Bruce Geiss, Alexandra Eldridge, Buck & Mary Brannaman, Daisy Montfort, Andrew Martyn-Smith, Jill Morrison, Dennis Wilson, Sarah Pohl, Barbara Theroux, Doug Hawes-Davis, Dan Pletscher, Tom Roy, Elizabeth Powers, Sara Walsh, Jake Kreilick, Jeff Zealley, Gary Dale, Roger Seewald, Rick Branzell, Sandi Mendelson, Deborah Jensen, Sonia Rapaport, Richard Baron, Pat Tucker & Bruce Weide, Fred & Mary Davis, and George Anderson.

  Many thanks also, for support of several crucial kinds, to Ronni Berger, Aimee Taub, Ivan Held, Rachael Harvey, Elizabeth Davies, Gordon Stevens, Larry Finlay, Caradoc King, Sally Gaminara, Carole Baron, and Charlotte Evans.

  For Charlotte

  And after he had made all the other creatures of the earth, only then did the Creator make man and woman. And he fashioned their bodies that they should know each other’s flesh but their souls that they should forever be strangers. For only thus divided might they find their true path.

  —CALVIN SASHONE, Creative Mythology

  ONE

  ONE

  They rose before dawn and stepped out beneath a moonless sky aswarm with stars. Their breath made clouds of the chill air and their boots crunched on the congealed gravel of the motel parking lot. The old station wagon was the only car there, its roof and hood veneered with a dim refracting frost. The boy fixed their skis to the roof while his father stowed their packs, then walked around to remove the newspaper pinned by the wipers to the windshield. It was stiff with ice and crackled in his hands as he balled it. Before they climbed into the car they lingered a moment, just stood there listening to the silence and gazing west at the mountains silhouetted by stars.

  The little town had yet to wake and they drove quietly north along Main Street, past the courthouse and the gas station and the old movie theater, through pale pools of light cast by the streetlamps, the car’s reflection gilding the darkened windows of the stores.
And the sole witness to their leaving was a grizzled dog who stood watch at the edge of town, its head lowered, its eyes ghost-green in the headlights.

  It was the last day of March and a vestige of plowed snow lay gray along the highway’s edge. Heading west across the plains the previous afternoon, there had been a first whisper of green among the bleached grass. Before sunset they had strolled out from the motel along a dirt road and heard a meadowlark whistling as if winter had gone for good. But beyond the rolling ranch land, the Rocky Mountain Front, a wall of ancient limestone a hundred miles long, was still encrusted with white and the boy’s father said they would surely still find good spring snow.

  A mile north of town they branched left from the highway on a road that ran twenty more with barely a bend toward the Front. They saw mule deer and coyote and just as the road turned to gravel a great pale-winged owl swerved from the cottonwoods and glided low ahead of them as if piloting the beam of their lights. And all the while the mountain wall loomed larger, a shadowed, prescient blue, until it seemed to open itself and they found themselves traveling a twisting corridor where a creek of snowmelt tumbled through stands of bare aspen and willow with cliffs of pine and rock the color of bone rearing a thousand feet on either side.

  The road was steeper now and when it became treacherous with hard-packed snow the boy’s father stopped so they could fit the chains. The air when they got out of the car was icy and windless and loud with the rush of the creek. They spread the chains on the snow in front of the rear wheels and his father climbed back into the driver’s seat and inched the car forward until the boy called for him to stop. While his father knelt to fasten the chains, the boy stamped his feet and blew on his hands to warm them.

  “Look,” he said.

  His father stood and did so, brushing the snow from his hands. Framed in the V of the valley walls, though far beyond, the peak of a vast snow-covered mountain had just been set ablaze by the first reach of the sun. Even as they watched, the shadow of night began to drain from its slopes below a deepening band of pink and gold and white.

  They parked the car at the trailhead and they could see from the untracked snow that no one else had been there. They sat together beneath the tailgate and put on their boots. The owner of the motel had made sandwiches for them and they ate one apiece and drank steaming sweet coffee and watched the shadows around them slowly fill with light. The first few miles would be steep so they fitted skins to their skis to give them grip. The boy’s father checked the bindings and that their avalanche transceivers were working and when he was satisfied that all was in order they shouldered their packs and stepped into their skis.

  “You lead,” his father said.

  The journey they had planned for that day was a loop of some fifteen miles. They had made the same trip two years before and found some of the best skiing either had ever known. The first three hours were the hardest, a long climb through the forest, then a perilous zigzag up the northeast side of a ridge. But it was worth it. The ridge’s south face was a perfect, treeless shoulder that dropped in three consecutive slopes into the next drainage. If all went well, by the time they reached the top, the sun would just have angled onto it, softening the top half-inch of snow while the base remained frozen and firm.

  These backcountry ski trips had become their yearly ritual and the boy now looked forward to them as much as he knew his father did. His snowboarding friends back home in Great Falls thought he was crazy. If you wanted to ski, they said, why not go someplace where there’s a ski lift? And in truth, on their first trip four years ago in the Tetons, he feared they were right. To a twelve-year-old it had seemed like a lot of effort for precious little fun—too much up and not enough down. At times he had come close to tears. But he kept a brave face and the following year went again.

  His father was away from home on business much of the time and there weren’t many things they ever got to do together, just the two of them. Sometimes the boy felt they barely knew each other. Neither of them was much of a talker. But there was something about traveling together through these wild and remote places that seemed to bind them closer than words ever could. And little by little he had come to understand why his father enjoyed the uphill as much as the down. It was a curious formula of physical and mental energy, as if the burning of one fueled the other. The endless rhythmic repetition, sliding one ski past the other, could send you into a kind of trance. And the thrill and sense of achievement when you reached that far-away summit and saw a slope of virgin spring snow reveal itself below could be close to overwhelming.

  Perhaps he came to feel this way simply because each year he had grown stronger. He was taller than his father now and certainly fitter. And though not yet as wise in his mountaincraft, he had probably become the better skier. Perhaps that was why today, for the first time, his father was letting him lead.

  For the first hour the trail was darkly walled with lodgepole pine and Douglas fir as it rose ever higher along the southern side of the winding canyon. Even though they were still in shadow, the climb soon had them sweating and when they paused to gather breath or to drink or to shed another layer of clothing, they could hear the muted roar of the creek far below. Once they heard the crashing of some large creature somewhere in the timber above them.

  “What do you think that was?” the boy said.

  “Deer. Moose, maybe.”

  “Would the bears be waking up yet?”

  His father took a drink from his canteen, then wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. This was prime grizzly country and they both knew it.

  “Guess so. Days have been warm enough this past week.”

  An hour later they had stepped out of the trees and into the sunlight and were picking their way across a gully filled with the crazed debris of an avalanche, jagged lumps of frozen snow and rock skewered with trees sundered from their roots.

  They reached the ridge a little before ten and stood side by side surveying in silence all that unfolded below and around them, mountain and forest quilted with snow and the flaxen plains beyond. The boy felt that if he squinted hard enough he might even defy science and all the world’s horizons and see the backs of their own two selves, tiny figures on some distant snowy peak.

  The shoulder below them looked as good as they had hoped. The sun was just upon it and it glistened like white velvet strewn with sequins. They took off their skis and unhitched the skins from which they carefully brushed the snow before stowing them in their packs. There was a cold breeze up here and they put on their jackets, then sat on a bench of rock and drank coffee and ate the last of the sandwiches while a pair of ravens swirled and called above them against the lazulite sky.

  “So what do you think?” his father asked.

  “Looks pretty good.”

  “I’d say this is about as close to heaven as a man can get.”

  As he spoke one of the ravens banked before them, its shadow passing across his face. It landed a few yards from them along the ridge and the boy tossed a crust of bread toward it which made the bird flutter and lift again, but only for a moment. It resettled and with a cocked head inspected the crust, then the boy, then the crust again. It seemed almost to have summoned the courage to take it when its mate swooped in and snatched it instead. The first bird gave a raucous call and lifted off in pursuit and the boy and his father laughed and watched them tumble and swerve and squawk their way down into the valley.

  As with the climb, the boy led the descent. The snow felt as good beneath his skis as it had looked. The sun had melted the surface just enough to give purchase and he quickly found his rhythm. He spread his arms and opened his chest to the slope below as if he would embrace it, savoring the blissful swish of each turn. His father was right. It was as near to heaven as you could get.

  At the foot of the first of the three slopes, where the gradient leveled a little, the boy stopped and looked back to admire his tracks. His father was already skiing down beside them, carefully duplicat
ing each curve, keeping close and precisely parallel, until he arrived alongside and the two of them whooped and slapped each other’s upheld palms.

  “Good tracks!”

  “Yours are coming along too.”

  His father laughed and said he would ski the next slope first and that when he got to the next level he would take some photographs of the boy’s descent. So the boy watched him ski down and waited for the call and when it came he launched himself into the sunlit air, giving all he had for the camera.

  From where they stood next, at the foot of the second slope, they could see all the way down into the drainage, where the sun had yet to seep. They knew from the last time they had skied here that the creek that ran along the bottom was a series of pools and steep waterfalls. It had been warmer then and there had been a lot less snow and, except for some crusted ice at the pool edges, the running water had been exposed. Now, however, it lay buried beneath all the heaped snow that had funneled into the creek and all they could see were contours and ominous striations.

  His father looked at his watch, then shielded his eyes to peer at the sun. The boy knew what he was thinking. Half the slope below them was still in shadow. The air down there would be colder and the snow not yet transformed. Maybe they should wait awhile.

  “Looks a little icy,” his father said.

  “It’ll be okay. But if you’re feeling chicken let’s wait.”

  His father looked at him over his sunglasses and smiled.

  “Okay, hotshot. Better show me the way then.”