Gail

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I was 26

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I was preparing to enter graduate school in December of 1970 when I got the notice. The delay I enjoyed during my undergraduate years no longer applied, and now Uncle Sam wanted me to do a stint in Vietnam. Lauren cried for a week.

The Army discovered I had a background in aviation, on account of my father, a crop duster/flight instructor, had helped me to get my ratings through commercial and instrument before I turned nineteen. Straight from boot camp, I went to train as a forward observer in the Cessna L-19, a modified Cessna 170 built to Army specifications.

In Vietnam, I spent the next two years flying recon, target acquisition, artillery adjustment, radio relay, convoy escort and forward air control for tactical aircraft.

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In barracks, in Saigon, Lauren's letter reached me. She had accepted a position with a major oil company in Houston a month after I went to Nam. Now, it seemed she had met someone else. She hoped I understood, and she didn't mean for it to happen, it just did. A Dear John letter with all the trimmings.

I can't say I didn't see it coming. We had grown apart even before I got called up, I was relieved that it wasn't me breaking her heart, but it brought me down, I'll admit it.

Several first drafts hit the ash can before I came up with an honest letter that wished her well and much happiness. I meant it. I was going to miss the girl, but staying together would have made each of us miserable. In the end, we would have parted anyway.

Officially, U.S. involvement in Vietnam ended in August of 1973, and I found myself back in the US of A. We still had forces there, and the fighting should have stopped after the Paris Peace Accord, but it continued until the fall of Saigon to North Vietnam in 1975.

I stayed with my folks in Kansas a few weeks, then headed back to Montana where Gus kept my job for me. The old man offered me a partnership in the place, and I decided to use some of the money my Grandpa left me to add to the cattle herd.

Graduate school? Still an option, and I would be close enough to Missoula to commute if I went that route.

I settled back into my old routine. Living in the bunkhouse and taking my meals with Gus felt comfortable. I politely declined the proffered room in the ranch house.

"I suppose a young fella needs his privacy," said Gus, "but the offer is always open."

I worked hard getting the place back in shape. Gus hired the hay work done and kept the livestock fed and watered, but at 82 the old guy couldn't manage everything.

I got into the habit of frequenting a local tavern on Friday nights and shooting a few games of pool with some buddies. Jim, home from Vietnam like me, started making the rodeo circuit. He convinced me that I should partner with him for the roping competition. I accepted.

We spent three months traveling Wyoming, Montana, Utah, and Colorado, competing against some of the best ropers around.
I started competing in the bareback bronc riding, and Jim did a little steer wrestling. At the end of the summer, I decided I would go all in and enter the bull riding competition. That's where big money was. Jim thought me crazy, and he was right.

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At a fairgrounds outside of Butte, I became acquainted with Rojo Diablo, the meanest, orneriest two-ton piece of beef you ever saw. A mixed breed, his disposition, nasty. If you were into bull riding, this was the animal to draw, because he gave any cowboy who could stick with him, high scores. His horns spread at least three feet and sawed-off blunt, and he had a large hump from some brahman blood in his genes.

They say I made it 6.8 seconds before the sudden side twist, characteristic of this animal, unseated me. I remember trying to loosen my hand from the tight rigging when a horn hit me square in the face, and the lights went out.

I reviewed the video and can say, for a fact, that I owe my life to the rodeo clowns. Two of them distracted the brute long enough for the other to free my hand from the tangled rigging. Even so, when I hit the ground, the enraged animal caught my limp body and tossed me into the air before he chased a clown toward the exit gate.

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The soft contact of a gentle hand smoothing the hair away from my brow brought me around.

"Mr. Rascomb? Mr. Rascomb, are you awake?"

I opened my eyes, and through blurry vision, an angel was smiling down at me.

"Where am I?"

"You are in recovery at St. James, Mr. Rascomb, you had surgery to take care of some internal bleeding, and you have a pin in your ankle."

"Sleep now, I'll check on you later." She smoothed her hand across my brow again.

This gorgeous woman turned out to be Gail MacLain, RN at St. James hospital in Butte. I was smitten.

During my stay there I hobbled down to the nurses' station and collapsed over the counter. Gail helped me off the floor and into a wheelchair. She agreed to give me her phone number if I promised to stay in bed.

After being released from the hospital, I called Gail, and she told me, although flattered, she didn't date her patients. It took two weeks of daily calls, but my persistence finally paid off, and she agreed to go out with me.

We hit it off right away, and soon we were going out weekly. Gail took me to her parent's place in Billings where I met her father, John, and her mom, Karen. They were wonderful people. They made me feel more than welcome.

Gus took to Gail right away; I overheard him talking to her one evening.

"You would think a man could find something safer for recreation than to ride bulls!"

"I'm working on that," she said.

And she did too! She told me that if I ever considered riding another bull that she would walk away and never see me again. I acted offended, but the truth was I didn't need much persuasion.

Gail's visits turned into stay overs in the guest room that Gus offered. It was a long drive back to her place after a night of card playing or watching old movies on television.

One cold evening, after a marathon domino game with Gus, I said my goodnights to him and Gail and wandered out to the bunkhouse.

It must have been about 2 AM when a warm body slid into the bunk and awakened me. Gail pressed her bare breast against my back and spooned her little body against mine. I started to say something, but she pushed a finger to my lips and whispered, "Don't say anything! I want you to love me, shhhh."

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I turned toward her, and her eyes sparkled in the flickering light from the grill on the pot-bellied stove. I trembled, as I passed my hand down her bare waist. We kissed and held each other, and she did that thing, she brushed the hair from my brow with that little hand of hers, a healing touch that seemed to take the troubles of the world away.

I struggled from the boxers I slept in and reached over her to drop them on the floor. Gail stretched her lithe body the full length of mine then pulled me on top of her and wrapped herself around me. The emotional connection we shared that night is something I will remember forever.

My grandfather told me about this, the magic he and my grandmother knew. Gail loved me unconditionally, and I loved her too. The emotional connection we experienced transcended the physical and became, to us, a divine act.

The love we shared was palpable. My parents noticed it when we visited Kansas a month later. My Dad told me not to let this girl get away. I informed him I was going to ask for her hand on St. Valentine's Day.

Back in Montana, I drove to Billings while Gail did her shift at the hospital. I met her father for lunch, and I asked him for permission to marry his daughter. Delighted, he wanted to tell her mother right away, but I convinced him to keep it a secret until after I asked her. He agreed and helped me pick out an engagement band that afternoon.

As an undergraduate, my roommate sold his coin collection and emptied his bank account to buy his fiancé the biggest diamond he could afford. It was a bit larger than a karat, and I thought him foolish. The effect it had on his girl changed my mind.

Later, I read a story about a fellow named Johnny Lingo who paid eight cows for a wife he could have had for much less. You can read about that here. It made perfect sense to me.
I picked out a diamond that almost made it to two karats in weight, John thought me foolish to spend so much money on a ring, but when I told him the story of Johnny Lingo, he agreed that Gail would be very proud indeed.

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The jeweler guaranteed he would have the gem mounted in the setting I chose and that I could pick it up a few days later. I was back in Billings on Monday the 11th and picked up the ring. It was beautiful. At the ranch, I showed it to Gus and told him about my plan to ask Gail to marry me Thursday evening after dinner in Missoula. The old man was as happy as I was and gave me marital advise the rest of the day.

Gail stayed the night with us on Wednesday and sneaked out to the bunkhouse to sleep with me, and I never told her that we weren't fooling Gus. She would have been mortified to know.

We made love late on Wednesday night and I awoke before dawn with Gail spooned in front of me. I cupped one of her breasts, and I pulled her tighter into me inhaling the smell of her fragrant hair.

She stirred, awakened, and turned to me for a kiss. We loved each other again, and then we shared a shower.

I lay on the rumpled bed and watched her dress for an early shift at the hospital. She slipped into lacy panties and matching bra, then sat on the edge of a chair and hooked her thumbs into her white hose. She worked the silky stockings up her long graceful legs and adjusted the wide elastic over her gorgeous thighs.

When she pulled the white uniform over her head and wiggled her butt to adjust the fabric over her hips, I couldn't help but smile.

The simple act of watching that girl dress made my heart soar.

I zipped her up and gathered her in my arms, she turned to embrace me, and we kissed passionately. When my hands began to roam, she placed hers on my chest and pushed me away with a giggle. She laid her soft hand against my cheek and did that thing, brushing the hair from my forehead.

We kissed goodbye through the open window of her car. The plan was to meet at her apartment in Butte by 6 PM and drive together to Missoula for an St. Valentine's date at her favorite restaurant. The sun was coming up in the east as her taillights disappeared down the long drive.

Gus was making ham sandwiches for lunch. It had been a long morning repairing the roof on one of the outbuildings, and he had handed me sheets of tin all morning.

The phone rang, and I answered, it was John MacLaine.

"Martin?"

I recognized his voice immediately, "Yes, sir?" I said.

"Martin, there's been an accident.......I have some bad news son." He broke down, and Karen took the phone.

"Martin, it's Karen, Gail was killed in an automobile accident early this morning. She was pronounced DOA at St. James. I'm sorry, we tried to call earlier, but no one answered. Martin, I'm so sorry!"

I don't remember what happened next. I suppose Gus picked up the phone where I had dropped it, I was sitting on the front steps sobbing when the old man sat down beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. He began crying too.

The following three days were a blur.

We buried Gail in a family plot outside of Billings.

Everyone left the chapel, and the funeral director was preparing to close the coffin when I asked if I could be alone with her for a few moments.

My Dad and Gus cleared the stragglers from the chapel.

I stood next to my girl and took the ring from my pocket. I placed it on her left hand and put her right hand over it then bent down and kissed her cold lips for the last time.

I called the funeral director. He tucked the fringe inside and closed the copper lid of her casket.

Gail was my third love, and I miss her every day. God, I miss her healing touch.

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Thanks for reading.
CARRY ON!

No. 1 Jennifer

No. 2 Lauren

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