by Laura Crum
“I’ll try.” Bret sat down in the empty chair and propped his feet up on one of the small boulders that formed the firepit.
Mac settled himself in the chair next to me, his eyes on Bret. Freckles curled back up in the slight cavity she’d excavated, tail wrapped over her nose. Blue swirled the amber liquid in his glass and sipped; he’d moved on to whisky.
As for me, I stared at Bret’s face in the firelight and waited. My old friend’s features looked both familiar and strange. I couldn’t get over the silver hair; the thickened jawline and fine wrinkles around the eyes were different, too. But the quick flash of humor in the eyes and the three-cornered grin showing crooked teeth were just as they had always been. Bret was still Bret.
“What happened?” I asked again. “Who are these people who,” I glanced at Mac, “umm, are no more?”
Bret shook his head. “The short answer is, they’re Lorene and Cole Richardson, sister and brother. They’re part of a local family; they run the livestock auction here in town.”
“And Lorene was Lonny’s girlfriend?”
“Lonny and Lorene were known to be seeing each other,” Bret said carefully. “Nobody really knows how involved they were except Lonny. They didn’t live together,” Bret added after a moment. “Lorene just got divorced from Kevin Moore last year.”
This didn’t mean anything to me, which Bret could see. “Kevin Moore’s another local rancher,” he said. “He didn’t care for Lonny dating his ex.”
“Oh,” I said. “So what happened, exactly, to Lorene and Cole?”
Bret glanced over at Mac and then back at me. “My kids are almost teenagers now,” he said.
I got the point immediately. “You’ve got two, right?” I said. “A boy and a girl. I’m sorry; I can’t bring their names to mind.”
“Audrey and Sam,” Bret said. “They’re eleven and twelve.”
Bret smiled at Mac, who smiled shyly back and immediately dropped his eyes. It took Mac a while to warm up to strangers.
“How old are you?” Bret asked Mac.
“Six years old,” Mac said softly.
“So, how come you’re not in school?”
Bret looked at me as he said this, and I answered for Mac. “We’re homeschoolers. Makes it easy to take trips. And I really believe it’s the best way to educate a child. You have the freedom to make choices that fit that individual. You spend time together as a family. And I’m not impressed with what kids learn in schools.”
Seeing Bret’s slightly surprised expression, I closed my mouth on the next bit of tirade. “I’m sorry. End of rant. It’s just something I feel strongly about. I know other people feel differently.”
“Come on, kiddo, time for bed,” Blue said to Mac.
As he herded a protesting Mac into the camper, Blue gave a quick jerk of his chin in my direction. I got the message. Bret and I could talk more freely.
“What happened?” I said yet again, in a soft voice.
Bret knew what I meant. “Lorene and Cole were both shot last night at the saleyard. After hours. The usual Saturday sale was over. They were found in the office. The gun that killed them was on the floor; it was Lonny’s gun. His fingerprints were on it—nobody else’s. Someone saw Lonny driving out of the saleyard. Looks pretty bad for Lonny.”
“Lonny didn’t do it,” I protested. “I know he didn’t do it.”
“I’m not arguing,” Bret said. “I’m just telling you so you can understand why we arrested him. John Green, the detective, is sure he’s got his man.”
I was trying to comprehend all this. “Who saw him leaving the saleyard?”
“Guy whose place is next door. Small-time rancher named Justin Roberts. Said he saw Lonny’s pickup pulling out the front gate, about an hour before Blake, that’s the other Richardson brother, found Cole and Lorene.”
“And Lonny’s gun was found?”
“That’s right. On the floor, next to the bodies. It was definitely the gun that killed them. And only Lonny’s fingerprints were on it.”
“Damn,” I said. “I see what you mean about it looking bad. But I still know Lonny didn’t do it.”
“Yep,” Bret agreed. “I can’t see old Lonny doing something like that. Not under any circumstances.”
“What’s his motive supposed to be?”
“Yeah,” said Bret. “That’s kind of the sticky part. Everyone knows he was going out with Lorene. Her ex wasn’t happy about it; that was common knowledge. People say that Lorene was seeing Kevin, that’s her ex, again. Apparently Lonny had a little barbecue over here at his place on Friday and he got in an argument with Lorene over Kevin. Not to mention he threw Kevin out of his house. So old John Green thinks he’s got a ‘crime of passion.’ ”
“Lonny?” I said incredulously. “No way. And why is he supposed to have killed her brother?”
“Because Cole walked in on him when he shot Lorene. That’s what John thinks.”
I shook my head. “I can’t see it. But that’s because I know Lonny.”
“Nobody who knows Lonny can believe it.”
I could hear rustles and thuds from inside the camper. Blue was putting Mac to bed. Sudden shrieks and giggles indicated that some wrestling might be going on.
I shook my head again. “I need to go be the mean mama,” I said. “Left to themselves those guys will just wrestle all night.”
“I’ve got to go, anyway,” Bret said. “My shift’s just halfway done. I’ll try to come by tomorrow, when I’m off.”
“Good,” I said. “It’s good to see you.” I tried to smile. “Though I wish it were in happier circumstances.”
“Me, too,” Bret agreed. “Say good-bye to your husband and son for me.”
“I will.” And I watched him walk out to the car, climb in, and drive away.
Inside the camper, all was pandemonium. Mac and Blue were wrestling on the bed; judging by the discarded book lying on the quilt, Blue had begun by reading the time-honored bedtime story to his son, and things had progressed in their usual fashion.
As I watched Mac and Blue giggle and roll around like a pair of puppies, I could feel the slow smile spreading across my face. After an evening full of shocks and disaster, the sight of my two guys roughhousing together was reassuringly normal.
Freckles wagged her tail ingratiatingly at me; she wanted to be fed. I gathered some steak scraps and dog food crumbles and made her a meal, listening to the shrieks, giggles, and thumps from the bed meanwhile.
Finally, as Freckles finished gobbling her dinner, I intervened, half-reluctantly. “Bedtime,” I said, “at least for me.”
Blue glanced my way from his position in a headlock and grinned. “Mama wants to go to sleep,” he said.
Mac muttered rebelliously, but subsided with minimal protests; I could tell by his flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes that he was tired. Why wouldn’t he be? We’d had a long day; I was tired, too.
Stripping down to a tank top and underwear, I climbed up on the bed. Freckles jumped up behind me. Blue and Mac had already wiggled under the covers. With a certain amount of shuffling and realignment, the four of us settled down to sleep, cuddled up together, a quiet, happy little pack.
Moonlight poured in through the camper windows, illuminating Mac’s features on the pillow next to mine. I could feel Blue’s long arm wrapped around us both and I smiled.
* * *
Some hours later I awoke to the howls and yips of coyotes. Lying still, I listened to the singing, trying to determine how close they were. Freckles growled low in her throat. The next ridge over, I thought, not here. But I peered out the window anyway, hoping to spot a silhouetted shape.
The moon was high and lit up the landscape in silver and black; I could see oak trees and boulders clearly in a ghostly parody of high noon. Our three horses stood in the corrals, ears pricked forward alertly in the direction of the coyote music.
I looked in that direction, too, but saw no sharp-eared, dog-like forms. Nothing but grass
and trees, rocks and sky. Except...I stared. Surely that was a horse. Off in the distance, moving along the ridgeline.
I stared. What the hell? Not one of the horse herd. Moving briskly along the ridge was the purposeful shape of a trotting horse—with a rider on him.
Chapter 5
I blinked, not quite believing what I was seeing. And then Plumber nickered.
One by one the other horses followed suit, calling out a greeting. Their eyes, like mine, were fixed on the receding shape of the distant horse in the moonlight. Plumber nickered again.
Pressing my face to the window, I strained to see, but the mounted horseman topped the ridge and disappeared, moving in the general direction of Lonny’s house. Coyotes howled; crickets chirped. Otherwise the night was undisturbed.
I shook my head. The rider, now vanished, seemed like a dream, and yet I was certain that I’d seen him. A dark human silhouette on a dark horse, moving at the long trot, sharp in the moonlight. Here, on Lonny’s property. Who could it possibly have been?
Shivering a little, I peered out the window in the direction the rider had disappeared. Thank God our horses had nickered to the stranger; otherwise I’d be sure my imagination had gone berserk.
I thought of waking Blue, but hesitated. What would we do, start chasing this unknown horseman down? What would be the point exactly? And what did we know about this place? Perhaps one of Lonny’s neighbors routinely took moonlit rides on his place. Maybe the neighbor he’d called Kate, who knew something about Sunny. How would I know?
Still, it seemed odd. Especially under the current circumstances. Lonny had just been arrested for murder and now an unknown horseman was crossing Lonny’s property at, what, I glanced at Blue’s watch, shortly after midnight. Odd, for sure.
Blue and Mac snored peacefully on. Freckles, curled in a brown-and-white spotted ball at my feet, regarded me curiously. The coyotes were silent now.
I pondered what I’d seen, or thought I’d seen, for what seemed like hours, but was probably only minutes. Thoughts chased through my mind, each notion more fantastic than the next. Slowly my mystery rider evolved into the headless horseman and then a flying lizard. My eyes closed.
When I opened them the faint gray light above the eastern horizon told me dawn was coming. Mac, Blue, and Freckles slept on. In the corrals our three horses stood quietly in a horse’s classic resting pose, one hind leg cocked.
For a minute I lay there in a sleepy fog, relaxed and content, admiring the perfect stillness of Mac’s sleeping face, the half moons of his lashes on the soft cheeks, the relaxed bow of his mouth, gently parted. All was well with my world.
And then I remembered the rider. For a second I was confused, unsure whether I was recalling a dream. Then I remembered the horses nickering. Not a dream. A real horse. With a rider.
Climbing out of bed, I put the kettle on for coffee and tea. The interior of the camper formed itself around me, a portable home, like a turtle’s shell. It made me smile. The walls with their neatly fitted wooden cabinets, the small table in the windowed corner, the tiny closet of a bathroom, the little stove and sink. There was something very nice about this little box of a house in the back of a pickup truck. I felt as if I’d become a gypsy, traveling in my wagon. Home was wherever I made camp. The notion pleased me.
I grabbed my favorite shawl out of my travel bag. Woven of rough, natural silk, it was straw gold, the texture of linen, and incredibly light and warm. Draping it around my shoulders, I admired, as I always did, the subtle interplay of light and shadow on the hand-woven cross-hatched fabric. Now I looked suitably gypsy-like.
The sky above the eastern ridge turned from gray to salmon. The kettle whistled. I made myself a cup of tea and sat down at the table to drink it. My three companions in the bed didn’t stir.
Dawn’s light didn’t make the puzzle of the mystery horseman any plainer. Nor did it help illuminate the more pressing puzzle of Lonny’s predicament. I sipped tea and chewed on my thoughts, which weren’t very productive. Without knowing any of the players in this little drama, I had no way of even guessing at a possible scenario that might hold an answer. Who killed the auctioneer and his sister? That was the question.
The quilt on the bed shifted and Blue’s head appeared, his long red-gold curls wildly tangled.
“Want coffee?” I asked.
“Sure.” Blue looked groggy.
After a minute he emerged from the bed and climbed down to join me at the table. I poured him a cup of coffee and waited until he appeared a little less stunned, about half a cup, before I told him about the mystery horse. Then I had to recount all the information Bret had given me last night.
Blue’s expression grew quite a bit more focused as he contemplated this.
“Who in the world would be riding across this property at midnight?” I asked him. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“Yeah, that is weird,” Blue said.
“I have no idea what to make of it.”
Blue had an easier time compartmentalizing things than I did. Lifting one shoulder slightly, he dismissed the horseman as a problem he couldn’t solve.
“Shall we go for a ride this morning?” he asked me.
“Sure. I thought Lonny would be able to point us in the right direction, but I guess we’ll have to experiment.”
“Yep.” Blue took a sip of coffee.
“I’ll go feed the horses,” I offered.
“Okay. If Mac wakes up I’ll feed him breakfast,” Blue said.
Draping my shawl over the end of the bed, I put on cotton cargo pants and zipped a hooded sweatshirt over my tank top, then pulled fleece-lined leather boots on my feet. Ready. I ignored the fact that my hair wasn’t brushed. We were camping, after all.
And then it was out the camper door into the crisp, sweet air of the early morning. The first rays of the sun slanted over the eastern ridge and through the branches of the oak trees, and wide swathes of yellow-gold light lit up the meadow. Plumber spotted me and nickered; Gunner and Henry chimed in.
“Feed us,” they said.
“I’m coming.” I smiled. A horse’s morning greeting is a cheerful thing.
I distributed hay to the three geldings in the pens and looked around. The pasture-horse herd was nowhere to be seen. A meadowlark trilled with excitement out in the wide green field. I could see the azure flash of a bluebird’s wing in the closest oak tree. Mesmerized, I watched the little spark of lapis blue and rust red flicker from branch to branch until it flew away over the creek, running dark in the shadows between its banks. I strolled in that direction, watching the steam from my teacup rise into the chilly early morning air. Freckles trotted at my heels.
For a moment I forgot about Lonny and his problems and rejoiced in the beauty of the scene and my freedom. Blue and Mac and I were here at last. On vacation in the Sierra foothills with our horses and dog.
I began to walk along the creek, following a trail that the pasture horses had clearly created. The stream wound between trees and rock outcroppings; in a few minutes I was out of sight of camp. Another few minutes brought me to a spot where the water dove into a deep, rocky gully. At the bottom, it splashed from one granite bowl to another in a series of stair steps. The biggest of these bowls formed a pool about twenty feet in diameter. It looked deep in the middle. I smiled. There was our swimming hole.
But first breakfast and a ride. By then the day would warm up. I made my way back to the camper to find that Blue had sliced up an apple and made some toast for Mac. Toasting a few more pieces of bread, and making another cup of tea, I ate my own breakfast outside, sitting at the wooden table.
Blue and Mac took their time. I didn’t rush them. That was part of the point. For just a short while we were going to do things when we felt like it, adhere to no schedule, have no need to hurry. We were going to relax. We were on vacation. My mantra.
Maybe an hour later my husband and son emerged from the camper. The sun was high enough in the sky to be warm
. Our saddle horses were done eating.
“Want to go for a ride?” I asked my family.
“Yeah,” said Mac enthusiastically.
“Sure.” Blue indicated the pasture horses, who had ambled in for a drink. “You going to ride the palomino?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. I guess I could.”
I stared at chunky little Sunny, who stared back, his ears forward, as if he could read my mind. Gunner was definitely a little off in his left hind. But I had no idea what this yellow horse was like to ride.
I made a snap decision. “You catch him, I’ll ride him. Let’s put a couple of the others in the corrals to keep Gunner company.”
Blue grinned. “I’ll catch him, Stormy. Let’s see what he’s like.”
I smiled at the familiar nickname. Blue had lived for many years in Australia, where redheads were routinely called Blue or Bluey, and women named Gail got the moniker of Stormy. Some of my husband’s past lingered with us in our colorful names; it always tickled me.
Blue ended up catching and tying up all the pasture horses; we found it made things simpler. I saddled Henry for Mac and Plumber for Blue. Blue put my saddle on Sunny.
“I’d ride him for you,” Blue’s lips twitched, “but my feet would drag the ground.”
“No problem. I’ll ride him.”
Sunny hadn’t turned a hair throughout the catching and saddling process. Something in his steady gaze as he watched me gave me confidence.
Legging Mac up on Henry, I made sure his feet were snug in his tapadero stirrups and his helmet was settled squarely down over his forehead. Blue handed Sunny to me and swung up on Plumber.
I stared at my new mount, who stared back with a steady brown-eyed gaze. I had the sense that he was sizing me up in very much the same way in which I was checking him out. What have we here? He looked phlegmatic and sensible, if a little wary, not the sort of horse to do anything foolish.
I tightened the cinch and walked Sunny a step forward. Using my reins to tip his nose toward me, I stretched to put my left foot in the stirrup. No problem.
