by Sharon Sala
Buell’s gut knotted. “The need ain’t gonna arise.”
“Good. Then we understand each other. Now you better hurry back. Make sure you find out what they’re supposed to be doing. Part of your job will be to keep them from slacking. I’ll be in touch. Tell Mama and Portia I said hello.”
He walked back to the waiting chopper. Even after they’d lifted off, he never looked back.
Buell watched him leave, thinking to himself that if the chopper happened to crash, all his troubles would be over.
Fifteen
A storm was brewing.
Quinn looked up into the building clouds overhead and knew the rain was going to wash out the trail of the poacher he’d been tracking, not to mention that he would be soaked before he got out of the high country.
After a solid week of following up on leads that went nowhere, his boss had pulled the extra rangers off the trail to attend to other duties, leaving Quinn to do the best he could on his own. He was worn-out and frustrated that he had yet to set eyes on the man. Except for a fleeting glimpse of someone on the opposite ridge four days ago, he might as well have been trailing a ghost.
After a solid week of hide-and-seek, the only means of identification he had on the poacher was a nick in the heel of the man’s left boot. He’d found the same print at a number of the kill sites. It wasn’t much, and even that was about to turn into mud.
Thunder rumbled above him. He started downhill toward where he’d parked, moving at an easy jog, wanting to get off the mountain before he got caught by the storm.
A big buck suddenly leaped out of the trees and across his line of vision before disappearing into the bushes below.
“He knows it’s time to get to shelter,” Quinn said, then pulled his rain gear out of his backpack and dropped the bright yellow poncho over his head just as the first drops of rain began to fall. The rain was cold, and when the wind began to rise, it felt even colder.
He thought of Mariah, thankful that at least she was safe and warm inside the cabin, and wished he could call her. But there wasn’t any cell reception on this side of the mountain, and certainly not in this storm. He knew she would be all right. He just wished he could assure her that he was, too.
Then the rain began to fall in earnest, hammering at the poncho like bullets. He ducked his head against the wind and kept moving.
Nearly an hour later he was driving around the curve by the old Foley mine when a Mountain Mushrooms delivery truck came out of the driveway and headed down the road in front of him. It was the color of new grass, with mushrooms painted all over it.
Quinn couldn’t help it. He found it hard to believe that Lonnie Farrell would be involved in any honest business venture.
* * *
Mariah was on her daily trek up through the forest. It was something she did now on a regular basis, though she had yet to go past the banks of the small creek, even while the path she took led farther up the mountain. The exercise was good for her leg, and hiking helped pass the time. She hadn’t told Quinn or anyone else what she was doing and didn’t plan to, not until she was confident that she wouldn’t screw up again.
She was on her way home, about four hundred yards above the cabin, when she realized the wind had changed. Without a clear view of the sky, she’d had no idea that a storm was blowing in. The last time one had come through here she’d freaked out. But at least that time she’d been safe inside the cabin. If she flipped again up here, there was no telling where she would wind up. She hadn’t tried to run since the day she was wounded, but if she was ever going to give it a try, now would be a good time.
She shifted the rifle from her shoulder, checked to make sure the safety was on, then increased her stride. The muscles in her right thigh were stiff, but there wasn’t much pain. The wind was whipping the branches now, and the sound coming through the trees was like a high-pitched whine. It was scary, but at the same time it made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t felt for a very long time.
She shifted her stride to a jog just to see if the leg would hold her, and it did. Thunder rumbled. The storm wasn’t far off. She gripped the rifle a little tighter and tried to move faster, but her leg refused to cooperate, forcing her to run at a lopsided pace.
By the time she came out of the trees into the meadow, the storm was nearly on top of her. With less than a hundred yards between her and safety, she forced her leg to behave as she broke into an all-out run, desperate to get out of the open meadow and away from the oncoming lightning.
Rain was pelting her body, stinging, blurring her vision. When her foot hit the first step, she went up on her hands and feet, then grabbed the back door and leaped inside just as a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky.
She switched on lights as she went, shaking from the adrenaline and the chill of the rain, but she was smiling, too. She’d done it. She’d actually run without falling, and without a huge amount of pain.
She stripped off her clothes, dropped them in the washer, then grabbed a big towel from the bathroom and began drying off.
Thunder rumbled, rattling the windows. Lightning flashed, shattering the air with its electrical force. The skin on her body began to tingle, then tighten, like she was trying to crawl out.
Boom!
It sounded too much like bombs exploding. She reached for the edge of the counter, gripping it tight with both hands.
“That was thunder. That was thunder,” she repeated, struggling to stay anchored to sanity.
She ran for the remote and turned on the television. Because of the storm, the reception kept flickering in and out, which was too much like what was happening in her head, so she turned it off.
The elation she’d felt only moments earlier had turned into a heart-pounding fear that she would lose her sense of self.
She was pacing from the kitchen through the living room and back again, talking just to hear her voice, giving herself orders, because following orders was what she knew how to do.
“Do something. Focus, focus, focus on something. On what? What to do? What to do?”
She had skipped eating at noon to head into the forest.
“Food. Make food. Peanut butter. I like peanut butter. And jelly. Get the bread.”
Boom! Crack!
Thunder and lightning—repetitive noise, bright flashes of light—turned the interior of the cabin into a dance floor beneath a disco ball.
She got out the bread with shaking hands, and smeared peanut butter across one slice and jelly on another before slapping them together. She ate standing up, moving from window to window, watching for Quinn while night came to Rebel Ridge.
* * *
The heater was on in his truck, but Quinn couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t remember ever being this cold. Despite the poncho he’d been wearing, everything he had on was soaked and sticking to his skin. The headlights bounced as he drove across a pothole in the road, reminding him to tap the brakes. The last thing he needed was to drive off into a ditch.
He was worried sick about Mariah. He’d tried twice without success to get a call through, even though he knew it was futile. When he finally reached the turnoff leading to the cabin, he was miserable in body and spirit. He was driving too fast now, anxious to get within seeing distance of home. The last curve was just ahead. All he had to do was get past it.
When he saw the cabin ablaze with lights, relief washed through him so swiftly he wanted to cry. This had to be a good sign. He parked within a foot of the steps and jumped out on the run, dashing through the rain for the door.
It suddenly swung inward, leaving Mariah silhouetted in the doorway. He could see the worry on her face, but she was smiling.
“You’re home!” she cried, and fell into his arms the minute he was inside.
Quinn caught her to him. “I’m filthy and cold, and I’m getting you all wet.”
She cupped his face and began kissing him, on his cheeks, on his lips, laughing through tears.
“Just a minute,
honey,” he said, and began shedding his clothes.
She gasped when she saw what condition he was in and hurried away to go get some dry towels. It never occurred to Quinn that she was running until she ran back.
“Mariah! Baby! You’re running!”
“I know,” she said, thrusting a handful of towels at him, then gathering up what he’d taken off.
She dumped his clothes into the washer with her own sodden things, and then started it up. When she turned around, he was behind her.
“You can’t take a shower while there’s lightning. If it hits the house, you could be electrocuted. Water conducts electricity.”
He nodded. “It’s okay. I know. Getting dry is good enough for now.”
“You need something hot. We have soup.”
Thankful that there was something she could do, she opened a couple of cans and poured them into a pan to heat.
Quinn felt like an old man as he went up the stairs to the loft for dry clothes. Every muscle in his body ached, along with most of his joints. But the clean socks and dry sweats began warming him up. When he came back down, she thrust a cup of soup in his hands and handed him a spoon to scoop out the bits of vegetables.
He took it eagerly. “This is good.”
“There’s more if you want it.”
“Did you eat yet?”
“A peanut butter sandwich. I’m fine.”
“Make me one of those and I’ll share the soup.”
Happy to be able to help him for a change, she began to put the sandwich together.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“I was too high up on the mountain when I saw the storm coming in. I couldn’t get down in time to beat it.”
“Still no sign of the poacher?”
“Actually, I did find new sign, but thanks to this damned weather, it’ll all be gone.”
“Do you have to keep hunting him?”
Quinn nodded. “What he did led to a man’s death. What if it had been me? Wouldn’t you want him found?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Yes. I was just thinking about you, and for a moment I forgot about why you’re doing this.”
“Sometimes I’d like to forget about it myself. It feels like trying to find a ghost.”
She shoved the sandwich across the counter toward him. Still sipping his soup, he sat down on the bar stool.
Mariah poured a cup of soup for herself and then sat down beside him.
They ate in comfortable silence, and once again she was struck by how easy it was to be with him.
* * *
Gertie Farrell cursed as she ran a wet mop across her kitchen floor. By the time Buell had come in from work and the kids had come in from their chores, they’d tracked mud all over the place. Portia was finishing their supper, but Gertie couldn’t abide filth and was determined to clean all this up before a bite of food crossed her lips.
“Just look at this mess,” she said, dipping her sponge mop into the bucket for a rinse.
Portia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “That’s what happens when it rains, Mama. Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.”
“They could wipe their feet,” Gertie insisted. “You oughta be teaching them to wipe their damn feet!”
Portia turned away. It did no good to talk to her mama when she was in one of her moods. Still, the least she could do was carry Buell’s muddy boots out to the utility room. Maybe a little “out of sight, out of mind” would calm her mama’s ire.
She picked up the boots, then stopped and stared at the odd print left on the floor. Frowning, she turned the left boot over and saw where a wedge-shaped notch had been cut out of the heel. She sighed. Buell didn’t take care of his things any better than he took care of himself. These boots weren’t much more than two months old and he’d already messed up one of them.
Gertie came right behind her, mopping and muttering.
Portia knew her mama was upset because Lonnie hadn’t come back since that first visit. She had blamed all of them for their bad behavior and had been cleaning like a madwoman ever since. She seemed bent on changing something, and since she couldn’t make her family into the mannerly people that she wanted, she seemed determined to make the house perfect instead.
Portia sighed. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
The next day dawned with a clear sky and a promise of afternoon heat. Quinn was loading up the Jeep for a trek back to the high country, making sure he had sufficient water and energy bars along with his gear.
Mariah was poking through a cabinet in the utility room and came out carrying a container full of packets of seeds.
“Hey, what are you going to do with these?”
He stopped to see what she was carrying, then scratched his head in surprise as he poked through the packets.
“Honestly, I have no idea where they came from.”
She flipped through them, separating food from flower, then spread them out on the counter.
“You could make a garden,” she said. “You have green beans and radishes, and these are beet seeds. I like beets. Do you like beets?”
Quinn heard the excitement in her voice. “Yeah, I like just about all kinds of vegetables. Are you interested?”
Her eyes widened. “You mean do I want to do it? Yes, I would like to. I actually know how. One of my foster families grew everything we ate. I lived there almost three years, and learned how to do planting, hoeing and harvesting. The only thing she wouldn’t let us kids do was cook what we grew—yet another reason why I never learned to cook.”
“James has a little tractor and plow he uses to turn Julie’s garden spot. How about I have him come over and break some ground for you to plant?”
“But all the animals around here would be in it nonstop from the time the first shoots popped up. Not such a good idea after all.”
He slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
“For a kiss, I’ll have him fence it, too.”
The smile on her face was a welcome sight, and when she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly, it was all he could do not to take her back to bed.
“I’ll call him on the way to work. Do me a favor and stay out of trouble today,” he said, and gave her a quick swat on the backside.
“Same goes for you, Mr. I-Can-Do-It-By-Myself Walker.”
He was still laughing when he drove away.
* * *
Quinn backtracked to where he’d found the last sign of the poacher, then began to search the area in ever-widening circles, but it was just as he’d feared. The rain had washed away the man’s tracks, and what was left of the deer’s carcass from the last kill had been dragged away by scavengers.
Back to square one.
He radioed in the update, only to learn another carcass had been found by a pair of workers from the EPA checking water samples. By the time he got the GPS coordinates and made it to the site, it was nearly noon.
Unfortunately, the kill was an old one. Animals had been feeding on the carcass for at least three days, maybe more. It was sickening to see the carnage and waste of such a magnificent animal.
He wanted to catch this man in the worst way, but he needed a break for that to happen. Disappointed that this kill site was too old for him to track from, he started hiking back. Although clear weather was predicted for the entire day, he didn’t trust spring weather.
He’d gone about three miles when he decided to stop beside a stream to rest and eat a snack. He shed his backpack, stepped into the ankle-deep stream to wash his hands, then climbed back up the bank and sat down on an outcropping of rock. He got a bottle of water and an energy bar from his pack, and kicked back to rest as he ate. He’d barely taken the first bite when he heard something moving in the brush. Instinctively he dropped his food onto the rock and grabbed his rifle.
As he waited, he heard a whimper, then a whine. Frowning, he scooted down from the rock, remembering the wounded bear and the po
acher roaming the area, and wondered if something else had been injured the same way.
The whining grew louder, and the bushes continued to move, but now that the creature was closer, he could tell it wasn’t very big. Only the lowest branches were moving.
He squatted down and peered closer, trying to see what he was hearing, when all of a sudden a small, skinny puppy came crawling out on his belly. It was a little redbone hound and obviously starving. Quinn could count every rib on the pup’s body as he continued to crawl toward him.
“Lord have mercy,” he said softly, slowly offering his hand, uncertain whether the dog would bite.
The pup seemed so grateful for the kind tone of Quinn’s voice that he frantically licked every finger instead.
Quinn got another energy bar from his pack and broke off a small piece.
“I know you’re hungry, little guy. I wish it was steak.”
The pup wolfed it down so fast he didn’t even chew.
Quinn fed him the whole bar, then got the one he’d started to eat and fed that one to him, too. By then the puppy was all over Quinn, licking him and trying to climb in his lap.
“What the hell happened to you?” he said, as he picked the dog up and carried him to the rock to check him out.
The pup was a male, and he had cuts and scratches on the pads of his feet. Except for the fact that he hadn’t eaten enough in a very long time, he seemed healthy enough.
Quinn poured water into a natural indentation in the rock. The puppy lapped eagerly, licking Quinn between drinks just to remind him of his gratitude.
Quinn looked into the pup’s dark, mournful eyes, then at the thin, wasted body, and sighed.
“I know someone you’re going to like even better than me,” he said softly. “Her name is Mariah, and just so you know, my name is Quinn. But you, my little fellow, are nameless. Do you have a name? Did you just get lost and couldn’t find your way home?”
The pup sat while Quinn talked, tilting his head sideways as he listened.
“I don’t know where you were going, but I was going downhill when we met. Wanna come?”
The puppy stood, quivering from head to foot, as if afraid to be left behind.
