Susanne interrupted him. “We have our children here, Booger. I’d ask you to please think about what you’re about to say next.”
Patrick put down his canoe and moved to help Susanne, Brian, and Vera with theirs. Vera shot him the reproachful look he’d anticipated. He’d apologize to her later. Right now, he felt a fierce pride burning inside him for his wife. She might be unhappy with him, but she was backing him and Pete up. When the canoe was on the ground, he put his arm around her. Again, she didn’t hug him back. Her rejection made his gut ache.
Booger raised both his hands. “I gotcha. I gotcha. Back in a few.” He disappeared into the forest.
Lana led the kids to the overlook. “Stay back from the edge, everyone.”
Patrick heard ooos and ahhs. It must be beautiful. He wanted to go take a look himself.
“There’s a herd of bighorn sheep!” Perry shouted, and then flinched, like the loud noise in his brain had hurt. He pointed along the cliff, a little uphill from where the kids were gathered.
Patrick’s eyes followed his son’s finger. A ram was facing them. His chest grew tight. Three ewes and several kids sprinted across the trail and disappeared up into the rocks on the other side. The ram snorted and pawed the ground. Then he whirled and followed his herd in agile bounds and a clattering of hooves.
“Bighorn goats.” Brian laughed.
Patrick didn’t care. He was mesmerized and searched for them long after they were gone.
Pete put a hand on his arm. Vera was standing with her husband, her expression sullen. “A word? Just the four of us?”
Patrick nodded.
Pete motioned toward the overlook. The four of them walked halfway to where Lana was entertaining the kids. Patrick still couldn’t see the water from where they stood, though.
Pete leaned in, his voice a whisper that made the others lean toward him, too. “I think we should downplay what happened to me, until we get to town.”
Patrick nodded. “I agree.”
Vera looked on the verge of tears. “No one told me it was some big secret.”
Pete kissed her forehead. “We didn’t. My bad.”
“I’m sorry for cutting you off back there,” Patrick added.
She looked back and forth between the brothers. “Fine. I get it. I won’t talk about it anymore.”
Patrick nodded. “Thank you. We need a united front. Things could get even worse if we don’t work together.”
Susanne hugged her arms around her middle. “We weren’t working together when you sent Trish and Bunny back to camp alone.”
Patrick cringed. Who is she talking to? He glanced at the others. But she was looking at him. Her words were like a branding iron to his chest. He didn’t blame her, though. He shouldn’t have let Trish walk Bunny back to camp. He should have made them stay with the group. Then they wouldn’t have gotten lost. And Patrick shouldn’t have walked off alone when he was upset. He should have stayed with the group. Then he could have told Perry to get off the rocks, before he fell. Then Pete wouldn’t have run into the prospectors.
Vera snapped at Susanne. “Are you blaming me? I’m not the one who got lost.”
Susanne reacted like she’d been physically struck. “I wasn’t blaming you.”
“It sure sounded like it.”
“She was blaming me.” Patrick put a hand on Vera’s shoulder. “I was responsible. I thought Trish could handle it, and I feel terrible about it. More than you’ll ever know. But Dad is going to find them.”
Vera stared into his eyes, like she was looking for a sign that he blamed her, too.
He kept his mouth shut, even though he wanted to add And if you’d been concerned enough about Bunny that you thought she should go back to camp, you should have taken her there yourself. But what good would it have done if she had? She might have gotten just as lost as Trish. But he didn’t mention that. While he was at it, he could have mentioned that he wished she and Pete had kept an eye on Perry for just five minutes so that he wouldn’t have gotten hurt, especially after everything he and his family were doing to help them with their kids. But he didn’t say that either.
Finally, she shrugged. Patrick dropped his hand, and Vera moved closer to Pete.
Pete sighed. “We just need to get out of here. All of us. We can count on Dad.”
Patrick couldn’t help noticing his brother let him take the blame for Trish and Bunny. Great. Susanne blames me. Vera is mad at Susanne. And Pete won’t even take my side.
From right behind them, Booger said, “I feel better. Ready to hit the trail, folks?”
The man hadn’t made a sound. Patrick whirled, trying to read Booger’s face to see how much of their conversation he’d overheard. But Booger’s expression was neutral.
Maybe he didn’t hear any of it. A man can be hopeful, anyway.
“You heard him,” Patrick called out. “Everybody back on the trail. If we hurry, maybe we can make it back to Jackson by tonight.”
Chapter Twenty-eight: Crush
West of Trout Creek, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 3:15 p.m.
Trish
Trish felt like she was about to crumple with the weight of her disappointment. She looked around the campsite, or the empty clearing where the campsite had been, anyway. Their families hadn’t waited on them. She didn’t understand it. She’d never even considered the possibility that her parents would leave her and Bunny lost out in the wilderness. Why? But then she realized the more important question was where, as in where would her parents go and where are they now? It wasn’t like they were going to pack up and go home without her. Without Bunny. That was too ridiculous to even think. They probably were trying to figure out where Trish was. Where she’d go. Where they could go that would make it easiest for her to find them.
“They’ll be at the river.” Trish nodded. Yes. Hearing the words come from her lips, she was even more sure. “They’ll be waiting for us by our canoes.”
Mr. Smith touched the ash in the fire ring. “Unless they forgot you.”
His words were like a face slap. She backed up a step, pulling Bunny with her by the hand. “They wouldn’t forget us.”
Bunny looked up at her. “Did my mommy and daddy forget me?”
Trish threw some heat into her words. “No, Bunny. They did not. They wouldn’t ever. They couldn’t.”
Mr. Smith shook his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean forgot you. More like lost track of you. You said yourself it’s a big group.”
Trish pulled Bunny closer and hugged the girl’s shoulder against her leg. “They wouldn’t lose track of us.”
He stood and held up both of his hands. “Okay, okay. I know a shortcut to the river. How about I get you there before they take off without you.”
A loud squawking noise startled Trish. It sounded like it came from Mr. Smith. He slapped a hand at his chest.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I had something stuck in my throat. I’ll be right back.”
His chest squawked again. Either he was choking to death or lying, and he didn’t look like he was choking. As Trish watched him trot off into the trees, it seemed to her that he unbuttoned his shirt, then pulled something out. What in the world? She thought about the squawk. A bird? Maybe he had a pet bird in an inside pocket that he was embarrassed to tell them about. It wasn’t a very manly thing to do. It also wasn’t very likely. She narrowed her eyes at him. At first, she’d been thankful for his help. But she wasn’t feeling that way anymore. She didn’t like how he’d talked about her family. Something about him felt . . . off. Of course, he was a man alone in the wilderness. Most people didn’t wander around out here by themselves if they were completely normal. They were the outcasts. The misfits. Sometimes, criminals. Kids at her school told stories about hermits who lived alone up in the mountains. There was a man who’d moved into a cabin in the Bighorns after his wife and children died when he’d wrecked their car. People said he
would sneak up on hikers, scream at them, and chase them away. Mr. Smith didn’t seem that bad, but he was acting weird, and now he had something in his shirt that was making funny noises.
What else could make that noise, if it wasn’t his throat or a bird? She wanted to find out, but she couldn’t leave Bunny to follow him, and taking her would make it impossible to sneak up on him, since Bunny was prone to blurting out whatever crossed her mind, whenever it did. Trish strained to see if she could hear the squawking thing again. Instead of squawks, she heard Mr. Smith’s voice.
“Ran across two girls who were on Trout Creek earlier with a big group. He might have been with them. Their campsite is empty. I still have the girls with me. What should I do with ‘em, Les?”
Chills ran up Trish’s arms. Someone else is out there. Then she heard the squawk again.
A new voice spoke. A man. But Trish found it really hard to understand what he was saying. “Bring . . . here . . . bargaining chip . . .”
Mr. Smith said, “You’ve got him?”
“Soon.”
“10-4. Over and out.”
“. . . out.”
And then Trish understood. Radios. Walkie talkies. Like the CBs Papa Fred—her other grandfather—used. Similar, at least. There was no other man here, but there was another man out there somewhere. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. Mr. Smith wasn’t trying to help them. He was trying to find someone, and he planned on using Bunny and her as bait.
“Just a minute longer, girls. I have to go take care of some personal business in the woods.”
This is our chance.
Trish leaned over and took Bunny’s face in both her hands. In her softest whisper, she said, “Mr. Smith is a bad man. We have to be very quiet and run to the river. Can you run with me, without making a sound, Buns? Like hide and go seek, but for real.”
Bunny nodded, her mouth hanging open.
“Good girl.”
Trish scooped up Bunny’s hand and gave it a tug. The two of them took off as fast as Bunny’s legs could carry them down the narrow trail back toward the Tukudika.
Chapter Twenty-nine: Oppose
North of the Tukudika River, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 3:30 p.m.
Susanne
Stomping down the trail under the unwieldy canoe, Susanne fumed. Her anger increased in pace with her fear. Feelings about Patrick that she hadn’t even known she’d been suppressing were starting to erupt. It wasn’t that she’d opposed this trip. She’d thought it sounded like a great idea, at first. Taking his parents fishing in the Bighorns had turned into a fishing trip on the western side of the state when Pete and Vera had signed on and asked to visit Yellowstone. Okay. That was still fine by her. Things had started to get iffy when Patrick had decided it needed to be a multi-day camping, canoeing, fishing, and gold panning adventure in the Gros Ventre Wilderness. Yet, she’d supported it and thought it was feasible.
What she had opposed—and still did—was Patrick’s rigidity. When his brother and Vera had shown up with the kids, Patrick had been obstinate about sticking to his plan, even though it wasn’t appropriate for young children. When they’d reached the Yellowjacket guard station, he’d been determined to take the group far upriver for a wilder experience, instead of just letting the kids eat and fish and play and relax. Be kids. When he’d led a group up Trout Creek, he’d sent Trish to bring Bunny back to camp alone, instead of just slowing down and matching the activity to all of the family members. When he’d known the inherent dangers of the area, yet he’d failed to supervise Perry. While the results weren’t directly his fault—Trish and Bunny lost, Perry hurt, and Pete attacked—he could have prevented them at any juncture if he’d been flexible.
Which begged the question of whether she could have prevented them if she’d spoken up. If she’d told Patrick no. The thought of sharing the blame made her even madder at him, and herself.
She shifted the canoe, pinching the skin on her palm. The pinch ripped it open. Not a mortal wound, but painful, and, to her current way of thinking, also something Patrick could have prevented.
Ahead of her, Brian tripped. He lost his grip on the canoe as he fell to his knees. The increase in the weight made her lurch forward, off balance. Vera stumbled, the canoe wobbled sideways, and it was all Susanne could do to hold the back end aloft. The canoe rammed a tree, sending a thundery rumble through its interior and her head. She planted her feet wide and held on tight.
“You all right, honey?” Vera tried to turn back to look at Brian, but the canoe didn’t bend. It threw Susanne a step to the right, but she fought it back under control. Again.
Brian climbed to his feet, rubbing his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Yeah. My hands sting, though.” The trail was gravelly where he fell.
“Uncle Patrick can fix you up later.” Susanne’s words sounded like they were trapped in a box with her. They sort of were, bouncing around inside the body of the canoe.
“It’s not that bad.” Brian got back into position.
The three of them walked the canoe the last ten yards to catch up with Booger and Pete at the base of the descent, a few yards from the banks of the Tukudika. Susanne gazed out from under the canoe. The water surged by like a slate green sheet. Yellow, purple, and white flowers in a patchwork quilt alongside it. Birds swooped to its surface to fish and drink. Forested hills backed the river, each promontory rising higher than the next in stair step to a snow-topped peak.
It didn’t seem like anything could be wrong and stressful in a place as beautiful as this one. As a young girl, she had daydreamed from sweltering, humid College Station, Texas about visiting the mountains pictured in her geography textbook. She never had, not until Patrick had interviewed for the job in Buffalo. In her dreams, the mountains had been peaceful, like heaven. A mosquito buzzed her face. She let go of the canoe with one hand to slap it. It stuck to her palm. The bug made a star-shaped splat the size of a smashed pea. Certainly, there had been no flying, biting insects in her dream version. And definitely there had been no crazy prospectors chasing her family down a river.
Dreams can be misleading. Appearances can be deceiving.
Patrick walked up beside them and put his canoe down. Without a word, he took their canoe and set it on the ground for them. Susanne shook her hands to get the blood flowing, then she sucked on the rip in her palm and wiped the other on her shirt.
Booger was staring upriver. He turned to them, scratching his neck. “We’ve run out of time to do the next leg before sundown. We’ll need to overnight here.”
“What? No.” Patrick frowned at the sun-lit sky, then at the river. “There’s plenty of daylight left. We have to keep going.”
“I hear ya, but, with all due respect, I’m guiding you because of my knowledge of the river.”
Susanne almost corrected him. You’re guiding us because you needed a ride and Vera can barely paddle a canoe.
Patrick set his feet apart, crossed his arms over his chest, and glowered at the man. “We didn’t delegate decisions for our group to a man we met in the wilderness less than two hours ago.”
Booger started pacing. “We’ve got two more sets of rapids, the second of which is followed up by a waterfall. That’s a lot of hiking and portaging. Your group could use some food and rest, since there’s no way to make it tonight anyway. And you’ll want to get your camp set up before the storm blows in.”
“What storm? I don’t see any clouds.”
Booger waved a hand in the air. “I feel it.”
Susanne looked at her son. He hadn’t been vomiting in the last hour, but he was still pale and a little hollow-eyed. Not as energetic as normal. She hated to admit it, but she agreed with Booger about stopping. They needed to rest, eat, and set up camp, and soon.
“Patrick? Can we talk?” she said.
Her husband stalked over to her. Everything about his posture screamed agitation. His high
shoulders, furrowed brow, clenched fists, and rapidly moving lips. She tried to relax herself, knowing that the clash of their moods would only lead to an impasse. She forced herself to focus on the man, not the situation. Even though she was frustrated with him, he was a good person. He was still her Patrick. Handsome, hard-working, brave, and smart. With his cornflower blue eyes. His light brown hair, albeit thinner every year. His slim, muscular physique. Some of the stress inside her eased. God, help me handle this well.
Patrick nodded at her to speak.
She put her head next to his, conscious of the eyes of the group upon them, especially Booger’s, although he was feigning nonchalance. “Everyone making it to Jackson safely is the goal.”
He cut her off. “That and making it there as fast as we can.”
Some of her good intention slipped. “As I was saying, it won’t do any good to hurry if we only end up delayed as much or more because we get ourselves in trouble.”
“We won’t.”
“We haven’t done a very good job of that so far. And the weather. That’s a problem.”
His eyebrows soared. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
But Susanne felt the change in the air, too. Electricity, even though it was still hot as blazes. She’d started having headaches a few months ago. Migraines. Patrick had insisted she be checked out in Denver by a neurologist. Her appointment was next month. But she’d begun to notice a correlation between her head issues and changes in pressure before storms. Like right now. It wasn’t something she could prove. She just knew it was real. The expression on Patrick’s face was intractable, so she decided against trying to convince him about her newfound psychic ability to read the weather.
Instead, she crossed her arms. “I really want to overnight. To give Joe a chance to catch up to us with Trish and Bunny.”
Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 15
