by Laura Crum
“Okay, Mama.” Obediently my somewhat unpredictable child half led, half drug his recalcitrant dog back in our direction, having suddenly decided to be cooperative.
“Will Lonny be there when we get there?” Mac asked, as we all climbed in the big cab of the four-door diesel pickup.
“He said he would,” I told Mac.
Mac had met Lonny once and was quite impressed by him, I wasn’t exactly sure why. A big, rough-hewn man nearing sixty, with a soft western twang in his voice, a friendly smile, and steady good-humored green eyes, Lonny had a faintly John Wayne-esque aura. Certainly he was a team roper and ran his own little horse ranch, but since we had horses, too, and Mac’s father was a more than competent horse trainer, I didn’t think Lonny’s cowboy aspect was enough to imbue him with glamour in my son’s eyes. Whatever it was, Mac had never forgotten Lonny.
Blue met my glance above Mac’s head and his lips twitched humorously. Knowing that he was about to make some quip about “your old cowboy boyfriend,” I forestalled it by saying, “Don’t worry, Mac, if Lonny’s not there when we get there, he told us exactly where to camp, so we know where to go.”
“Will we see Danny and Twister?” Mac asked.
“Of course we will. They’re turned out with Lonny’s horses and we’ll be camping right in the field where they’re living, so we’re sure to see them soon.”
“Hope they don’t chew up our brand new camper,” Blue muttered.
“Lonny said there was a fence around the campsite, to keep the horses out. And there are four little corrals next to the old water trough, which is right by the creek. It should be just perfect.”
“Right,” Blue said, and smiled at me.
Without thinking, I’d climbed into the passenger side of the truck; Blue was now driving, having complied with my unspoken request. Mac and Freckles had assumed their usual positions in the back seat.
“You’ll need to be my navigator.” Blue pulled back onto the highway, his eyes moving from the road ahead to the rearview mirror and back again. “I’ve only been there once, when we dropped the horses off. I’m not sure I remember how to get there.”
“Will we get lost?” The quick worry in Mac’s voice was familiar and another sign of his growing age and independence. Gone was the toddling child who trusted our judgment implicitly. This new six-year-old boy questioned our thinking, double-checked our decisions, and had lots of his own ideas.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart; I know how to get there,” I reassured him. “We won’t get lost.”
Mac subsided back into the seat, gazing out his window curiously at the tapestry of rolling hills, dotted with cattle and backed by snow-capped peaks. Or po-capped sneaks, as Blue was wont to say. My husband had a knack for playing with language.
I glanced over at him affectionately as he drove, his blue-gray eyes steady on the road. Seven years of marriage had endeared Blue to me in ways that I’d never imagined. I loved every inch of his six-and-a-half feet, from the long red-gold curls now confined in a ponytail, to the equally long, slender feet, currently encased in leather cowboy boots. Blue was, as they say, a good catch.
“Turn right here,” I said, pointing to a road sign ahead that said OLD HIGHWAY.
Blue complied and the diesel truck, with its loaded camper and trailer, chugged up a long grade with a deep gully running down one side. At the bottom of this canyon a creek leaped and splashed, falling between granite-walled pools that looked perfect for dipping.
“That’s the creek that runs through Lonny’s property.” I gestured to Blue and Mac. “He says there’s a great swimming hole not too far from our campsite.”
“Pretty,” Blue commented, glancing down, and then returned his eyes to the road.
“What do you think, sweetie?” I looked back at Mac, who was peering out the window.
“Can I float in my inner tube?” he asked. Mac’s swimming was still a little sketchy.
“Sure you can,” I said. “I’ll float along with you. I love doing that.”
I could feel the engine working as the truck persisted up the hill, tugging its cargo.
“Not too far now,” I said to Mac.
The canyon opened out into a broad valley, wide meadows studded with oak trees and big granite outcroppings. The Old Highway skirted one side of this valley while the creek meandered down the middle.
“Right there, that little hill at the head of the valley, that’s Lonny’s place.” I pointed and saw Mac’s eyes follow my hand.
On we went, following the valley as it narrowed; just as the road started back up into the hills, a green metal ranch gate on the left bore the name LONNY PETERSON.
“There,” I said, unnecessarily.
Blue pulled off the road and stopped, while I got out to open the gate and close it behind us. Then we were bumping down the gravel ranch road, everyone, including Freckles, craning to see out the windows.
Brilliantly green fields rolled away on all sides of us, spangled with the snowy white flowers called milkmaids and violet-blue patches of lupines. We could see the creek on our left, and the small hill that crowned the valley on our right. Ahead of us, the road forked.
“Lonny said to take the left-hand fork,” I told Blue. “It leads to the campsite. The right-hand fork leads to his house.”
“Right,” said Blue, and bore left.
In another moment, as we rounded the shoulder of the hill, our camp came into view. I smiled; Blue did, too. Mac’s mouth formed a perfect “O.”
“Oh Mama,” he said, almost trilling with excitement, “it’s perfect.”
And it was.
Chapter 2
We were here. In camp at last. Next to the creek, in the shade of some big oak trees, was a set of corrals and a large concrete water trough that looked as if it dated from the turn of the century. About a hundred feet away, a small grove of young oaks was fenced in; a wooden table and chairs and a stone firepit indicated that this was the campsite. Blue pulled the truck and trailer up next to the corrals and turned off the engine.
Before you could say “boo,” we’d all scrambled out of the truck and were looking around. It was amazingly green. Vividly, splendidly green, bright in the spring sunshine, a silken meadow of grass spread out before us with the creek carving a silvery, reflective serpentine through it. Even the air smelled green.
I took a deep breath and detected an herbally aromatic undertone of cilantro beneath the sweeter scents of clover and wildflowers.
“Wow,” I said. “Is this ever pretty.”
“It is,” Blue agreed. “Should we unload the horses?”
“Sure.”
I glanced over one shoulder. Mac and Freckles were already down by the creek, throwing stones and having a drink, respectively. Since the water appeared to be only a foot or two deep here, I decided that Mac could be left to his own devices, as long as he remained visible. Following Blue to the back of the trailer, I helped him to unload the three geldings and put them in corrals.
First out was cocoa brown Plumber, still spry, lively and sound at seventeen years of age. He nickered at me as I grabbed his lead rope; Plumber was a talker. Next big bay Gunner, with his high white socks, blaze, and one blue eye. Gunner was seventeen also, but he hadn’t aged as well as Plumber. His back was slightly swayed and he backed off the trailer stiffly, victim of several arthritic and degenerative complaints. I had gotten Lonny’s permission to turn him out in the pasture, to see if the greater movement and freedom would improve his level of soundness. Gunner led off willingly to his corral; I didn’t plan to turn him out until he’d gotten used to the place.
As I latched Gunner’s gate, Blue led Mac’s horse, Henry, into the third corral. Henry was twenty years old, a bright copper-red sorrel with a white stripe down his face. Despite his age he was perfectly sound and a well-broke, bomb-proof riding horse for Mac. I’d purchased him a year ago from my friend, rancher Glen Bennet, after Mac’s pony, Toby, had died of cancer. Henry was an old team roping horse who had seen
and done it all; nothing bothered him. He marched into his new corral nonchalantly and immediately began cropping grass. Just another place, his demeanor seemed to say.
Watching Henry grazing calmly, Gunner and Plumber, who were both pretty wide-eyed, visibly relaxed, and, following suit, dropped their heads to the grass. It had been many years since either of them had been hauled much.
“There’s enough grass there to keep them busy for a while,” Blue commented. “Shall we get the camp set up?”
“Sure.” Once again I cast a reflexive glance at Mac, who was still chucking stones in the creek, Freckles at his side. No problem there, though Mac’s pants were now wet to the knee, and Freckles’ white belly was dark brown with mud.
I smiled and walked over to the campsite while Blue unhitched the horse trailer, then swung the gate open so that he could back the camper into the site. Once it was situated and leveled to his satisfaction, I shut the gate and Blue began the process of making camp. I wandered on down to the creek.
Splashes and happy shouts and barks from Mac and Freckles, who were romping about in the water. A yellow-breasted bird trilled musically across the grass—a meadowlark. Sunbeams slanted through the gold-green new leaves of the oak tree branches above me. The aromatic cilantro fragrance wafted up from under my feet. Peering down, I spotted the fringed, dark green leaves of what looked like the wild herb.
Looking up, I stared at a massive gray granite outcropping on the other side of the creek, like a castle sleeping in the sun. In all directions the hills rolled and rippled away from me, marked with oak trees and upthrusting clumps of monolithic boulders in a sea of waving grass. I took a deep breath.
Suddenly Mac called, “Mama!”
I jumped and whirled, my maternal instincts on the lookout for problems, but Mac was smiling. My eyes followed his pointing finger; a small band of horses was moving across the far field in our direction, led by a steel gray horse who was galloping flat-out, rapidly outdistancing his comrades. My son and I stared, riveted, as the horse raced across the field toward us. We could hear and feel the earth rumble to the driving hoofbeats, see the horse’s black mane and tail flying wildly in the wind as he drew nearer. Mac’s eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. The running horse’s head and tail flew up as he came closer, and he slowed and snorted out long, rolling snorts, his gaze fixed in our general direction.
“What in the world is with him?” I said out loud, and looked over my shoulder to try and figure out what this horse had seen to get him so excited.
Blue was just climbing down the ladder from the roof of the camper, and I realized that the horse had probably never seen an RV before. Sure enough, the shiny steel gray gelding pulled up right in front of the campsite, puffing and blowing with excitement, prancing and high-stepping, head and tail thrown up in the air, his gaze fixed on the large white camper. On close inspection, he proved to be a blue roan.
“That must be Smoky,” I told Mac. “Lonny’s new colt.”
“He looks like Smoky the Cowhorse,” Mac said softly. I had been reading him the Will James book for the last few months.
“He does,” I agreed. “He doesn’t have the blaze and white socks. But he’s that slick mouse gray color. Maybe Lonny named him after Smoky the Cowhorse.”
Plumber and Henry both nickered shrilly; Gunner echoed them with his deeper huh huh huh. Smoky neighed a response, kicked both back feet high in the air in a show of exuberance, and whirled to gallop back to his herd. These four horses, following more sedately behind the colt, proved to be dappled gray Twister; two bays, one of which was Danny and one Lonny’s horse Chester, looking like twins from a distance (they were full brothers); and a little bright gold palomino that I didn’t recognize.
“There’s Twister and Danny!” Mac’s voice was excited.
These two horses, retired to the pasture because of injuries that had made them unusable as riding horses, had been part of our life for many years, living in our neighbor’s ten-acre field. When she had died a year ago, Lonny had offered to keep them here. Though I’d been sad to have the horses so far away, I’d accepted the offer with alacrity, as I knew Twister and Danny would be far happier turned out than standing around in corrals, even my big corrals.
Looking at them now, I was aware that I’d made the right choice. Both were shiny, bright-eyed, and healthy, and though Twister walked with a slight limp, and Danny’s breathing was labored, the results of their respective injuries, they both looked quite content.
Mac was anxious to pet them, but the resident horse herd was far too excited for that, milling about the corrals greeting the newcomers, nickering and squealing. The roan colt did twice as much running around as anyone else. Mac and I watched their antics, as Blue strolled up to us.
“So the one bay, the blue roan, and the palomino must be Lonny’s,” Blue said, his eyes on the horses.
“Must be. The bay is Chester. Glen Bennet raised him; he’s a full brother to Danny. He’s Lonny’s team roping horse. The roan is a four-year-old colt Lonny just bought; I think he calls him Smoky. I don’t know what the palomino is; he never mentioned him. He’s cute, though.”
“Little,” was all Blue said. At six and a half feet tall, Blue preferred to ride horses that were well over fifteen hands, and the palomino gelding looked to be about fourteen three, hardly bigger than a large pony. The exact height of Mac’s horse, Henry.
“Just right,” I said. At forty-five years I was definitely feeling a bit stout and middle-aged and the shorter a horse was, the better I liked him. “I think Henry’s the perfect height; I can get on and off him without tweaking myself. Even Plumber seems too tall, anymore.”
“Plumber’s only fifteen one,” Blue said dryly.
I laughed. “Yes, I know. I’m turning into a lazy old lady. Mamahood has not been good for my figure or my athletic abilities.”
Blue put his arm around me and dropped a kiss on my hair. “I think mamahood becomes you,” he said.
Mac’s sharp little eyes were now fixed on this exchange.
Blue grinned at his son. “We think Mama’s perfect just the way she is, don’t we?”
Mac nodded emphatically. “We love you, Mama.”
I smiled. One of the delights of my life was the unequivocal way in which my child regarded me—center of his universe, brightest star in his sky. No matter how annoyed he got, or I got, from time to time, the bottom line of his world was “mama.” I knew it wouldn’t last forever; I was darned sure going to revel in it while it persisted.
“Well, what now?” Blue asked me. “Ready to sit down with a margarita in hand?”
“I sure am.” I took a deep breath. “I’m happy just to be here. Let’s go have some juice and tortilla chips, Mac.”
“Okay.” Mac was still watching the horses mill and squeal. “Will Henry be all right?”
“Sure he will. The horses are just saying hi. Henry’s an old hand. Nothing bothers him.” I said it with conviction.
Mac’s gaze rested on his horse, who had gone back to grazing, and he smiled. “Where’s Lonny?” he wanted to know.
“I’m not sure,” I answered. “But he’ll be around. He said he would.”
The three of us filed into the campsite, Freckles at our heels, and shut the gate behind us to keep the horse herd out. Blue climbed into the camper to make margaritas. I handed Mac an apple juice in a box and a bag of tortilla chips and sat down in one of the sturdy wooden chairs. From here I could look down on the creek, sparkling away through the meadow, and watch the bright shapes of the horses, who were drifting over to the old water trough to drink. We were shaded by the little grove of oaks that stood in the campsite and fanned by a breeze that seemed to flicker along the creekbed. What could be better?
Margaritas, of course. Blue brought these out of the camper and I accepted one gratefully. I had just taken the first sip when movement in my peripheral vision caused me to turn my head. A vehicle was approaching down the two ruts that formed the ranc
h road. Not Lonny’s pickup. A medium-sized dark sedan. Not a car I recognized. It had an oddly official look, even in the distance.
As the car bumped up the road toward us, I saw Blue stare at it and narrow his eyes. “That looks like some kind of police car,” he said at last.
“It does,” I agreed.
Mac glanced excitedly in this direction. Freckles barked a warning; I told her to lie down. She complied reluctantly, still woofing, and we all watched the car approach.
The dark sedan with some sort of insignia on its side bumped to a halt in front of our campsite. There was a long pause, as if the people inside were conferring. I couldn’t see much through the tinted windows, but there appeared to be two men in the front seat.
Simultaneously the driver and passenger doors opened and two figures climbed out. The one on the passenger side was undoubtedly Lonny, though looking a great deal more old and tired than I remembered him. The one on the driver’s side... I stared. He wore a beige uniform, his hair was gray, the lines around his eyes were unfamiliar, but surely...
My mouth opened like a cartoon character. “Bret?” I said disbelievingly. “Bret Boncantini?”
The guy in the uniform grinned, and in that three-cornered smile showing crooked teeth, I unmistakably recognized my childhood friend. I hadn’t seen him in over ten years.
“It’s Gail,” I said, smiling back at him. “Gail McCarthy.”
“I know,” Bret said. “Lonny told me you were here.”
I shook my head in amazement. Bret Boncantini was a piece of my past. We’d grown up together on neighboring ranches in Santa Cruz County, and our friendship had sprung back up when I returned to my hometown to take my first job as a practicing vet. Then, twelve years ago, Bret had married his current girlfriend and moved to the Sierra Nevada foothills...near here. The last I’d heard of him, he was working as a cowboy and had two kids.
He and Lonny both walked forward to the campsite and Blue and I advanced to the fence, Mac and Freckles behind us. Freckles wagged her tail; Mac stood close to my side.
“This is my husband, Blue Winter,” I said, “and Mac, my son. McCarthy Winter.”
