“Sounds like a good topic of conversation for while we’re on the trail. Maybe I’ll learn something.”
“Or you’ll be bored to distraction. Not everyone shares my interest in environmental issues.” She grabbed her blue parka from the narrow coat closet, collected her purse, then bent to give Hannah farewell pats and hugs before turning out all but one lamp so Deirdre would be able to see when she came in. “Okay, I’m ready.”
He followed her out onto the porch. As she fumbled to lock the door she was acutely aware of him standing behind her. She could have sworn she felt his warm breath stirring her hair.
As they walked toward his vehicle, his boot heels tapped the cement behind her, his pace slowing to accommodate hers. The illumination from the streetlights enabled Loni to see that the rifle was still in his truck. As he drew abreast of her near the front bumper, he hooked a thumb toward her Suburban, parked in front of the garage.
“What’s a greenie doing with a gas hog like that?”
“Greenie!” she said with a laugh. “I’m not a greenie or a spotted-owl lover simply because I try to cut down on my power consumption and worry about carbon dioxide emissions. That’s half the problem in this country. People are afraid to dwell too much on environmental concerns for fear of being labeled a fanatic.”
He opened the rear door on the driver’s side of the Ford and tossed the pillowcase on the backseat. “I can relate to that. People call me names, too—cowboy, buckaroo, goat roper, or shit-kicker. They also assume I have no secondary education, can’t understand long words, never read books, and can only dance if I’m wearing a Stetson and holding on to my belt.”
Given the fact that Loni had thought of him as her dream cowboy practically all her life, she felt a pang of guilt. “You don’t like being called a cowboy?”
The brim of his Stetson shadowed his face, obscuring his expression so she couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or scowling. “No better than you like being called a greenie. I’m a horseman. I suppose you could call me a buckaroo and be halfway on target.”
Loni lifted her shoulders in a bewildered shrug. “What exactly is a buckaroo?”
“I’ll explain on the way. And my question still stands—why the gas hog?”
“I’m an interior decorator. I couldn’t find an economical van large enough to haul all the things I need for my work.” She eyed his pickup. “And just for the record, my Suburban sips fuel compared to Big Gulp, here.” She patted the truck fender as she circled around to the passenger side. “Fair is fair. Why do you drive a tank and carry a weapon everywhere you go?”
“I discovered the hard way that I can’t pull an eight-horse trailer with an economy truck. The rifle is for emergencies I pray will never happen.”
“On your ranch?”
“That’s right. When I was teenager one of my father’s stallions tried to jump a fence to reach a mare and impaled itself on a post.”
Loni winced. “Oh, my, how horrible.”
“It was horrible, all right, and only made worse when my dad had to run all the way back to the house for a rifle to put the poor critter out of its misery. I’ve made sure I have a weapon handy ever since.”
The picture that formed in Loni’s mind made her stomach clench. “The poor stallion,” was all she could think to say.
He opened his door just as she opened hers. She watched him swing up onto the seat by catching hold of a ceiling grip, but she was too short to reach the one on her side. Problem. There was no running board for her to step up on, and the vehicle was jacked up off the ground higher than her hip. To complicate matters, in the dim light she could see junk piled ankle-deep on the floorboard.
He closed his door and glanced over at her. “Something wrong?”
“I forgot my stilts.”
He extended a hand to her. Loni clasped his hard fingers and hiked up one leg to brace her foot on the door runner. The next instant she catapulted into the cab and almost landed on the center console.
“Oops,” he said as she caught her balance and plopped on the passenger seat. “Sorry about that. You’re a lot lighter than you look.”
Lighter than she looked? What a charmer. Loni wondered if the five pounds she’d gained while redecorating the house and renovating her shop had all settled on her hips. Too much fast food, no time to work out. She was one of those unfortunate people who constantly struggled to stay trim.
She bent forward over her parted knees to scoop up items from her purse, which had somehow slipped from her shoulder and spilled onto the floorboard while she was airborne. Her searching fingers met with countless items not belonging to her: greasy wrenches, ropes, oily rags, strips of leather, pieces of straw, and oddly shaped metal things she couldn’t identify in the shadows. While her head was still pressed against the glove box, the truck rumbled to life, the roar of the diesel engine almost deafening, the vibration of the dash rattling her teeth.
When she sat back to fasten her seat belt, she couldn’t help but smile. Her dream cowboy? She’d obviously misinterpreted the meaning of her dreams. Clint Harrigan was her exact opposite. She was a fanatic about keeping her vehicle tidy; his was a total wreck. She was passionate about energy conservation and protecting the environment; he’d never even thought about it much. She liked him well enough so far, but she honestly couldn’t imagine the two of them ever being anything more than friends.
In no time at all they would drive each other crazy.
Three hours later Clint was ready to head out. He’d decided to take eight horses, two to carry riders and light packs, another pair to carry his and Loni’s gear and supplies, and four more to pack in enough feed to last a week. The equines would be working hard, and if there was little grass available along the trail for grazing, each horse would require fifteen to twenty pounds of cubed alfalfa a day.
Even by taking along four pack animals to carry only the feed, Clint would be exceeding the recommended weight load per horse by twenty pounds the first day. Fortunately the alfalfa would dwindle rapidly, until the four extra horses would be carrying almost nothing toward the end of the trip.
That would be good. Clint expected to be traveling over rugged terrain much of the time, possibly well away from the beaten path. The four lightly worked horses could be used to spell those carrying heavier loads, affording all the animals intermittent rest periods along the way.
Mentally going over his checklist to be sure he had forgotten nothing, Clint angled across the stable yard toward his truck, which he’d left running with the heater on high to keep his psychic search partner warm while he took care of last-minute details. As he passed the horse trailer he noticed a tire that looked low. Great. If it wasn’t one thing it was another.
He lowered the tailgate of the Ford, vaulted up into the bed, and pawed through the maze of paraphernalia and gear until he found the portable air compressor and a tire gauge. After plugging the compressor into a special outlet he’d had installed behind the left wheel well, he jumped back to the ground and crouched to inflate the tire. Only, no sooner had he let loose with a blast of air than the truck engine died.
Now what? Like he needed vehicle trouble to cap off an already exhausting night? Muttering curses, he strode the length of the truck, jerked open the driver’s door, and leaned in to restart the engine. To his surprise he found the ignition key turned off. He angled a puzzled look at Loni.
“Did you just cut the engine?”
In the glow of the yard light her big blue eyes glistened. “Yes. If you’re going to leave a vehicle for more than thirty seconds, you waste less fuel if you turn off the engine and restart it when you return.”
Clint bit down hard on his back teeth. He was tired, both mentally and physically. It was no easy task to prepare for a wilderness ride, and he hated doing it in a rush. If he forgot something important, it could result in disaster—not only for him and Loni, but also for his horses.
“I need the truck to be running right now,” he said slowl
y, making a concentrated effort not to raise his voice.
“Oh.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
Over the course of the evening Clint had come to understand that there was a host of things this lady didn’t realize. She seemed to be frightened of the horses, yet she took stupid risks, stepping too close behind them and compounding the offense by speaking without first letting the horse know she was there. That was a very good way to get kicked. He was going to have his hands full making sure she didn’t get hurt. Fortunately the eight horses he’d chosen for the journey were used every year for trail riding and were pretty much bulletproof.
“I’m trying to air up a trailer tire.” He’d long since lost track of how many things he’d had to explain to her. She understood none of the terms that came second nature to him. “The compressor runs off DC power. The engine needs to be running in order for it to work.”
A few minutes later, when Clint got in the truck, Loni was huddled against her door and didn’t look over at him. He wondered what she was pissed about but decided not to ask. The silence was a relief, allowing him to think without interruption.
As he drove out to the main road, he mentally went back over his packing list. Had he remembered the Banamine, in case a horse got colic? Check. Penicillin for possible infections? Check. Pack saw? Check. Small ax? Check. Space blankets? Check. Gel pads for Loni’s saddle? Check. Hooter’s miracle salve, in case she got saddle sores anyway? Check. Cowbells? Check. A first-aid kit for the horses? Check. A first-aid kit for humans? Check. The portable cell phone charger, adaptors, and double-A batteries? Check.
“The wolves are back.”
Clint lost his thought and scowled at her. “What?”
“The wolves,” she said thinly. “They’re back, and they sound closer tonight. Nana didn’t growl the last time, but she’s growling now.”
A prickle of unease crawled up the back of Clint’s neck. She stared straight ahead, a distant look in her eyes. It was eerie.
“Are you there with them right now?” Clint could almost hear the theme song for Twilight Zone playing in his head.
“No. I wouldn’t be talking to you if I were.”
“I see.”
“I was with them while you were airing up the tire, though.”
Now he understood her silent withdrawal when he’d climbed into the cab. “You okay?” It was all he could think to say.
“Yes,” she said softly. “But Trevor is afraid to close his eyes.”
Clint thought he saw tears in hers, and an odd tightness moved into his throat. She was totally serious. A part of him still wanted to believe it was all a sham, that he’d catch her in a lie sooner or later. He wasn’t sure why it was so difficult for him to simply buy her story, but it was.
She fixed him with a frightened gaze. “Will they hurt him, do you think?”
“The wolves?” The tightness in his throat grew more pronounced. “I don’t think you should worry about that. We’re not even sure there are wolves out there.”
“I’m sure,” she countered with unshakable conviction. “Is there a possibility that they’ll hurt him?”
“I’m no expert on wolves, never having lived in an area where they’re common. But if they’re like most predators, they’ll only attack a human if they’re starving. It being early June, I think that’s unlikely. There should be plenty of wild game in that area to keep their bellies full.”
Clint didn’t often lie by omission or tell half-truths, but in this instance he felt justified. Until they found Trevor, there was nothing Loni could do to help the child. So why add to her worries? Besides, what he’d told her was essentially true: Most predators hesitated to attack adult humans. He’d simply failed to mention that Trevor, being a little guy, was an easier mark. If there were indeed wolves in the wilderness area, the boy’s only hope might be Nana, the faithful Saint Bernard, who was probably large enough to make a wolf think twice before taking her on.
In the greenish glow of the dash lights, he saw Loni’s body relax. Dressed in his sister Samantha’s clothing, she at least looked ready for a trail ride. Snug Wrangler jeans showcased her hips and shapely thighs, an oversize fleece jacket enveloping her upper body. The John Deere baseball cap that Sam had lent her sat on the dash, as yet unused, but not for long. Come tomorrow the bill of the cap would come in handy for shading her eyes.
“I wish I could reach out and hug him,” she said softly. “No child should ever be alone like he is right now.”
“He has Nana,” Clint reminded her. “Judging by all you told me, that Saint Bernard will fight to the death to protect him.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I believe she will.”
“So stop worrying,” he advised. “Saint Bernards are huge dogs. Even if one or two wolves get in too close, they’ll have a hell of a time taking her down.”
It was around midnight when they reached the south trailhead. While Clint unloaded the horses from the trailer, Loni decided to make herself useful by gathering firewood. After finding a flashlight in the truck, she set off into the nearby trees to collect fallen branches and sticks. The crook of her left arm was piled high with fuel when it suddenly dawned on her that she’d wandered farther from the truck than she intended.
Time to turn back. Picking her way with the flashlight, she retraced her steps. Only she walked and walked without reaching the clearing. Not good. Loni’s pulse rate quickened. I’m not lost, she assured herself. She couldn’t be. She’d gone only a little way. The truck was probably a few feet from her, and she simply couldn’t see it.
“Hello?” she called. “Mr. Harrigan?”
No answer. Loni strained her ears, but all she heard was the night wind whispering in the trees.
“Hello?”
With a shaky sigh she shone the flashlight around, trying to spot something familiar. Problem. All the ponderosa pines and slick-leaf bushes looked alike. She couldn’t be sure whether she’d come this way earlier or not.
Determined to stay calm, she decided the smart thing would be to walk in ever-larger circles until she stumbled upon the clearing. So off she went, making the first circle, the wood still clutched in one arm. Every few steps she hollered for Clint, hoping she’d hear him shout back.
It took Clint the better part of an hour to get the horses settled in for what remained of the night. He had to string a high line between two trees, no easy feat in the dark. Then he had to tie the horses off, spacing them far enough apart to prevent any kicking or entanglement in the lead ropes. Once he got them fed and double-checked all the ropes, he set himself to the task of building a fire pit and pitching the tent.
He was searching for the pack that held the tent when he suddenly noticed the silence. A prickle of alarm raised the hair on his arms.
“Ms. MacEwen?”
Thinking she might be in the truck, Clint opened the driver’s door to check. The cab was empty. He closed the door and turned to gaze at the surrounding woodlands. Why hadn’t he paid closer attention to what she was doing? He’d no sooner asked himself that question than the answer came to him: He was accustomed to trail riding with mostly experienced people, and it was never necessary to watch after them or keep tabs on their whereabouts.
“Ms. MacEwen?”
When she didn’t answer Clint cursed under his breath. No way. She wouldn’t have wandered off. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been zigzagging through the trees with a flashlight, collecting firewood.
Clint found another flashlight under the seat of his truck and set off in that direction. Some clairvoyant he had on his hands. If she was so damned perceptive, how in the hell could she possibly get turned around only a hundred yards from camp?
Relief eased some of the tension from his shoulders when he found her tracks. After following them for a while, he realized she was moving in widening circles, an excellent strategy if only she’d been moving closer to the clearing. Instead her tracks became ever more errati
c, the circles becoming long ovals, figure eights, and then aimless meandering. She was clearly confused and had lost all sense of direction. Even worse, she was moving east, ever farther from the clearing.
A cougar screamed, its cry cutting eerily through the cold night air. Shit, shit, shit. His camp partner was out there somewhere, alone and unarmed. Clint stopped to check the magazine of his sidearm for cartridges, then, just to be on the safe side, injected one into the chamber. He didn’t want Loni or himself to become an oversize feline’s midnight snack.
“Loni!”
He kept shouting her name until he was almost hoarse, but he heard no answering call.
The flashlight batteries were going dead. Loni whacked the casing with the heel of her hand, hoping to brighten the fading beam. That didn’t help. Oh, God. She was growing truly frightened now. She’d been walking for what seemed like forever, yelling Clint’s name every few steps. There was no question about it: She was lost. And soon she would have no light.
She’d long since tossed away the wood she’d found. Now she truly understood how frightened Trevor must be. She could hear things in the woods around her, could feel eyes on her. Only wild animals, she assured herself. But what kind of animals? Deer were harmless enough, but what of coyotes, wolves, cougars, and bears?
Right then a piercing scream rent the night. It sounded close and startled Loni so badly that she almost wet her pants. Urgently hitting the flashlight again, she gulped down panic. Stay calm; think. Just because she’d never been in a wilderness area didn’t mean she was a total idiot. She’d watched tons of survival movies. If two dogs and a spoiled cat could travel hundreds of miles to find their way home, she could surely make her way back to the clearing.
What she needed to do was get her bearings, only she hadn’t taken any to start with. Stupid, so stupid. She’d been within sight of the clearing when she first started walking, and she honestly hadn’t thought there was any risk of her getting turned around. Now the flashlight beam had grown so weak it barely illuminated the ground in front of her. She began tripping over branches and stumbling into holes. It was time to stop walking, she decided. The last thing she wanted was to fall and get hurt.
Morning Light Page 8
