The Brave by Nicholas Evans Read Free Book Online

all legitimate grounds for contempt.
    No sane New York publisher would include Montana on a book tour for an author as big as Troop. Fewer than a million people lived there and most of them had better things to do than read books. No, Troop's presence here this evening, the return of the famous author to the bosom of his alma mater, the University of Montana, Missoula (to which he had already apparently made a lavish donation—you could almost hear the library sprouting new wings), had nothing to do with selling books. It was, it had to be—in Tom's view—simply an act of patronizing vanity.
    Troop was, by a long way, the most successful novelist ever produced by the UM creative-writing program. When Tom enrolled, in the mid-seventies, Troop was in his third year and already a star. He'd sold short stories to The New Yorker and was about to have his first novel published. At six-feet-five, he was literally, as well as professionally, head and shoulders above everyone else. He was dressed tonight, as always, entirely in black. It was a kind of trademark. The black beard and flowing black hair were grizzled now, but this—Tom had to concede—only gave him an even greater gravitas. They were both in their mid-fifties but Tom was the only one who looked it.
    Troop's handsome face had been on posters all over town for weeks and this evening's talk in the university's largest auditorium had been a sellout. There were even people standing at the back. The speech had been infuriatingly witty and modest and interesting and the applause at the end had made the windows rattle. Admission to this champagne reception afterward was strictly by ticket only.
    Just as Tom was looking for somewhere convenient to park his glass so he could leave, he became aware of a young woman hovering in front of him. She was smiling a little tentatively and had clearly been trying to attract his attention while he'd been scowling at Troop.
    "You're Thomas Bedford, right?"
    "Yes, I am. I'm sorry, I..."
    She held out her hand and he shook it, a little too hard. His five-year-old documentary series on the history and culture of the Blackfeet had recently aired again on PBS and Tom imagined she must have recognized him from that. Or maybe she'd been to one of his occasional lectures here at UM. She was good-looking in an unflashy kind of way. Late twenties, he guessed, maybe thirty. Fair skinned and freckly, thick auburn hair bundled up in a green silk scarf. Tom pulled in his stomach and smiled.
    "Karen O'Keefe," she said. "We have the same dentist. I saw you there a couple of weeks ago."
    "Ah."
    He tried not to look crestfallen. There was an awkward pause.
    "Did you enjoy the talk?" she said.
    "Oh, Troop always puts on a good show."
    "You're friends?"
    "Not exactly. We were on the writers' program here together. He was a couple of years ahead of me," he couldn't resist adding.
    "I wanted to kick him."
    Now Tom was interested. He laughed.
    "Really? Why was that?"
    "Oh, I don't know. All that phony modesty, when you can see from a hundred miles he's got an ego the size of Everest. If he could write a decent sentence, I might feel more charitable."
    Tom smiled, trying not to look too pleased.
    "Are you a writer?" he asked.
    "A filmmaker. Like you. Except you're a filmmaker and a writer. And I'm not suggesting I'm on anything like your level. I really enjoyed seeing your Blackfeet series again, by the way. And I loved the book. Great piece of work. Kind of definitive. I must have given it to a dozen people."
    "Thank you. That accounts for about half the total sales."
    A fan. Tom wasn't used to it. He got the occasional letter, of course, but it had been years since he'd had an encounter like this. He was almost lost for words.
    "How come an Englishman has this great passion for the West?" she said, filling the pause.
    "Oh, that's a long story."
    But it didn't stop him telling it. He had it perfectly honed: the childhood obsession with cowboys and Indians; how