by Stephen Frey
Then the plane’s two engines powered up, landing lights flashed on, and she was hurtling through a wall of white. “Oh, God,” she murmured, digging her fingernails even deeper into the leather. A moment later, eerie blue lights appeared through the thick clouds and a snow-covered runway rose up to meet the aircraft. A hard bounce, a softer one, a deafening roar and they were taxiing through a blizzard, apparently under control. She let out an audible sigh.
“Welcome to Wyoming, Ms. Day. I hope you enjoyed the flight.”
Angela looked up into the smiling face of the clean-cut attendant who had appeared from a door at the back of the cabin. “Thank you.” She thought about telling him the truth—how she wished Orville and Wilbur’s mother and father had never met. “Everything was fine.”
“Good. Well, it’s 11 p.m. here in Jackson Hole. We’ll be taxiing for a few minutes, and we’d like you to remain in your seat until the plane comes to a complete stop.”
“As opposed to apartial stop?” She grinned but he didn’t react. “You didn’t really have to say all that stuff about me remaining in my seat, did you? After all, I am the only passenger.”
“Regulations are regulations,” he answered firmly, handing her the small makeup kit she had stowed in an overhead compartment. “The rest of your luggage will be taken care of for you.”
“Have you ever met Jake Lawrence?” she asked before the young man moved off.
He hesitated. “I can’t say.”
She smiled at him. “Does that mean you don’tknow if you’ve ever met him? That you don’t even know what Mr. Lawrence looks like? Or that you know what he looks like, but you aren’t allowed to talk about him?”
The young man smiled politely. “I can’t say. I hope you enjoy your time here in the Tetons.”
Then the young man disappeared through the doorway at the back of the cabin. Angela’s favorite meal was crab imperial, accompanied by dry Chardonnay. The movie on the way out—Erin Brockovich—was one of her favorites. The books and magazines on board were her favorites, as well. It was all too neatly packaged to be coincidence.
“Sorry about the bumps on the way down, Ms. Day.” The pilot helped her slip into her long winter coat as she stood by the cockpit door.
“I’m just glad we’re on the ground,” she said.
He opened the plane’s outer door as a utility truck rolled a metal stairway up to the fuselage. “Well, enjoy your stay.”
“I’m sure I will.”
A bearded man in orange overalls hustled up the steps toward Angela, open umbrella tilted into the driving snow. “Welcome to Jackson Hole, Ms. Day,” he called loudly over the roar of the idling jet engines, holding the umbrella above her head. “Careful,” he warned, holding out his arm and helping her down the slick metal stairs. “Over there,” he directed when they reached the ground, pointing toward a Ford Expedition that had swung out onto the icy tarmac.
As they neared the SUV, he handed her the umbrella, then jogged ahead and opened the passenger door. A moment later she was inside and the cold, wind, and exhaust smell were gone, replaced by warmth and the soothing aromas of leather, tobacco, and coffee.
“Good evening, Ms. Day. Welcome to Jackson Hole.”
Angela took a deep breath, then glanced over at the driver. He was a big man wearing a ten-gallon hat and a leather jacket with a thick wool collar. In the dim dashboard lights she thought she detected friendly eyes. Beneath his full mustache there was a wide smile.
“Is everyone out here always so darn polite?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?” he answered as a baggage handler placed her luggage in the back. “After all, this is paradise.”
“Sure it is,” she said, watching the snow whip past the window.
“Helluva night, huh?”
“Yes,” she agreed, “especially when you’d rather crawl across hot coals than fly.” She hesitated. “And you can call me Angela. After all the ‘Ms. Day this’ and ‘Ms. Day that’ on the way out here, I’m starting to feel like an old maid.”
The driver shook his head as he shifted into first gear. “I don’t think anybody’s going to mistake you for an old maid.”
He had a nice voice, she decided. Confident but not cocky. Strong but not overwhelming. Soothing, almost. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nuthin’,” he said, guiding the SUV out of the small airport and onto a deserted main road already covered by two inches of fresh powder. “I don’t want to get into any hot water.”
“Tell me what you meant. I’ll have to mention your remark to Mr. Lawrence if you don’t.”
“That wouldn’t be very nice,” he protested, picking up a coffee mug sitting in the console between them and taking a swallow.
She grinned. “Oh, I’m only kidding.” She searched for a place on the dashboard to put her makeup kit down.
“Let me move all that for you.” He put the mug back down, then reached in front of her and slid two revolvers and several boxes of ammunition out of her way.
“That’s quite an arsenal you’ve got there.”
“Hey, you never know what you’re gonna run into in Wyoming. Yellowstone’s only thirty miles north of here and every once in a while the grizzlies come down out of the park to see what’s what. I have no desire to end up bear chow. That’s not how I picture myself going out.”
“Which would explain the .44 Magnum,” she agreed, eyeing the larger gun now resting on the dash in front of the steering wheel. “Even though I assume most bears are hibernating, given that it’s the middle of February.”
“Well—”
“But what about the long-barreled .22?”
“You sure know your guns.”
“I’ve had some experience.”
“Interesting. Well, the .22’s for rattlesnakes. And before you say anything, no, there aren’t any of them around this time of year, either.” He hesitated. “The guns are my security blanket, just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“Just in case.”
She glanced over at him, trying to see beneath the brim of his ten-gallon. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“John Tucker,” he answered, reaching across the console without taking his eyes off the road. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” She could tell he was trying to be gentle, but she still felt immense strength in his grip. “So, what did you mean?”
Tucker smiled. “You’re like a dog on a bone, aren’t you?”
“That’s one way to put it.” She’d never been accused of lacking persistence.
“Uh-oh. Now I’ve gone and done it.”
“Tell me what you meant.”
“Jesus, just that you’re an attractive woman. At least, what I can see of you. But saying something like that can get a man in a lot of trouble these days.”
“It won’t get you in trouble with me,” she assured him. “At my age I welcome all compliments.”
“Your age?I bet you aren’t more than twenty-five, right?”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Really?” Tucker pushed out his lower lip and raised his eyebrows.
“Does that surprise you?”
“A bit,” he admitted.
“It shouldn’t. Jake Lawrence is one of the wealthiest men in the world. Would you really expect him to waste time on a business meeting with someone who’s just a few years out of college?”
Tucker took another sip of coffee. “Right,” he murmured softly.“A business meeting.”
For a while Angela watched the snow falling in front of the headlights. “Have you worked for Mr. Lawrence very long?” she finally asked.
“Almost twenty years. I manage the working ranch where you’ll be staying.”
“Working ranch?”
“Yeah. We have about three thousand head of cattle here in Jackson.”
“How big is the ranch?”
“Four hundred thousand acres.”
Angela whistled. “My
God.”
“And Mr. Lawrence won’t ever see more than a small part of it from the ground. Which is a shame, because some of the scenery is spectacular. He’s been all over it in a chopper, but you can’t really appreciate it from the air. You have to immerse yourself in something to truly appreciate its beauty.” Tucker shrugged. “But Mr. Lawrence is a busy man. I suppose he doesn’t have time for that.”
Angela looked over at him again. “Are you from Wyoming, Mr. Tucker?”
“No. My father was in the military, so I moved around quite a bit when I was young. I’m from a lot of places. And please call me John.”
“I bet you don’t have many women come out here on business, do you, John?”
“More than you’d think,” he said quietly.
“What did you say?”
“Oh, nothing. Just reminding myself of something I need to take care of in the morning.”
“Uh-huh.” Angela relaxed into the seat. “So, what’s the reclusive Jake Lawrence really like?”
“Can’t say,” Tucker replied.
Almost as if he’d been coached,Angela thought. “What is it with you people? Is everyone scared to death of him, or does he have all of you drinking some kind of secret punch? Cherry Kool-Aid with a kick?”
“Mr. Lawrence protects his privacy. I respect that.”
Angela unbuttoned her coat. It was warm inside the Expedition. “He’s worth more than most small countries, and I couldn’t find a picture of him anywhere. Not even on the Internet. He’s been linked romantically to some of the world’s most beautiful women, travels constantly, owns many companies, and probably has thousands of employees. But no photo’s ever surfaced. According to a couple of Web sites I checked out, theNational Enquirer is offering a million-dollar reward for any credible photograph of him, but they haven’t had to pay out yet. I would think one of you would snap a picture of him and get rich quick.”
Tucker turned down the SUV’s heat. “People are loyal to him.”
“Loyalty usually fades at the prospect of collecting a million dollars.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“What does Mr. Lawrence look like?” she asked.
Tucker bit his lip.
“Have you ever seen him?”
Again, there was no answer.
She shook her head in disbelief. “You don’t actually know what he looks like, do you?”
“Heads up!”
Tucker’s arm shot across Angela’s chest, pinning her to the seat as he slammed on the brakes. The tires grabbed the snow-covered road for a moment, then the SUV began to slide. In the high beams a hulking form materialized out of the storm, standing in the middle of the road like a statue, mesmerized by the bright lights bearing down on it. Then the tires caught and the SUV skidded to a stop ten feet short of the form.
“Is that an elk?” Angela asked, breathless.
“Yup. A big male.”
“A male? But it doesn’t have any antlers.”
“The males lose their antlers every winter and grow new ones in the spring. All deer species males do that. Antelope keep their antlers year-round.”
“Then how do you know it’s a male?”
“The shoulders. Look how broad they are.”
“If you say so.” After Tucker’s arm slid from her body, Angela reached around and buckled her seat belt. “Thanks for catching me.”
“I should have reminded you to buckle up at the airport,” he apologized, dousing the headlights and leaning on the horn. When he turned the lights back on thirty seconds later, the elk was gone, the only proof of its presence a disturbed line in the snow leading off into the darkness. “Like I said, you never know what you’ll run into out here.”
She hadn’t come close to hitting the dashboard or the windshield despite the sudden stop. John Tucker was a powerful man.
A few minutes later they turned off the main road and the snowy surface quickly gave way to clear, wet blacktop. “How is that possible?” Angela asked, leaning forward and pointing at the pavement as they approached a guard station. “Where’s the snow?”
“Welcome to Jake Lawrence’s world.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are steam pipes buried beneath the road that prevent the surface from freezing,” he explained, slowing to a stop as he waited for the guards inside the station to electronically open the gate that spanned the roadway.
“You’re kidding.”
He nodded to one of the guards as they passed the station. “No, I’m not. When your father is the original financial backer of the young genius who invents the software running 90 percent of all the personal computers in the world and leaves 40 percent of the company to you when he dies, you can do just about anything you want. No more worrying about the monthly mortgage. Instead of looking for ways tosave , you start looking for ways tospend .”
Several hundred yards past the guard station, the road turned steep, snaking back and forth through a thick pine forest as it climbed a mountain. Then bright lights appeared through the snow. Moments later Tucker pulled the Expedition to a halt beneath the porte cochere of the ranch’s main lodge—a four-story log structure brightly illuminated by powerful spotlights affixed to the eaves.
“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself here, Angela.” Tucker held out his hand as a man who had emerged from the lodge opened her door, then retrieved her luggage from the back.
“Thank you.” She took his hand, noticing this time how tough the skin of his palm was. It was the palm of a man who worked hard for a living. “Will I see you again?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. That’s not up to me.”
And then he leaned subtly toward her, and she knew what had happened. The light from the lodge had caught her eyes just so, giving him his first good look at them. She’d seen that same double take many times before.
“Well, good night, Angela,” he said quietly.
“Good night.”
She stepped out of the Expedition and followed the attendant into the lodge’s foyer and down a long hallway into a huge room. The massive area was sixty feet square beneath a twenty-five-foot-high ceiling. The far wall was dominated by dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows, and the other three split-log walls were covered with stuffed animal heads, including those of several species not native to North America.
“So he kills for sport,” she murmured. The words echoed in the stillness of the room.
As her words dissipated, a young woman wearing a maid uniform appeared from a side doorway and took Angela’s makeup kit.
“Oh, thank you.”
“This way, Ms. Day,” the young man called over his shoulder, motioning toward a wide winding staircase that seemed to tumble into a far corner of the room like a rocky waterfall.
But, as Angela took a deep breath and prepared to climb, the attendant stopped beside the first step, pulled back a hinged picture mounted on the wall, and pressed a button. Moments later, he opened a door beside the button and ushered her and the maid into a small elevator. When the elevator opened on the fourth floor, he led Angela down another long hall to a cozy room dominated by a queen-size sleigh bed that seemed to be calling her name. It was almost midnight, which meant it was two o’clock in the morning back East. She hadn’t realized until now just how exhausted she was.
“The bathroom is in there,” the attendant explained, placing her bag down on a stand beneath a window, then moving to the bathroom doorway and flicking on a light. “If you need anything, simply pick up the phone on the table by your bed and wait for the operator. The kitchen is open twenty-four hours a day for your convenience,” he said, moving back to the hall doorway. “Will there be anything else?”
“What about tomorrow?” she asked, watching the maid disappear into the bathroom with her makeup kit, then reappear empty-handed. The woman then moved to the bed and began turning down the covers. “What time should I be ready for Mr. Lawrence?”
“Your meeting with him is at three
o’clock. We have instructions to allow you to sleep until noon. If you wake up earlier, call us and we’ll serve you breakfast here or downstairs, whichever you prefer.”
“Which do you suggest?”
“Downstairs. The view from the dining area off the great room is fabulous.”
“Unless it’s still snowing.”
“The storm should be past us by midmorning. It’s moving quickly.”
“How many other people are staying in the lodge tonight?” Angela asked.
“You are the only guest.”
“I see.” Somehow she wished there were at least a few other occupants on the floor.
“Good night, Ms. Day,” the attendant said, ushering the maid out ahead of him.
“Good night.”
When they were gone, Angela slid the deadbolt across the door, then walked into the bathroom. After removing her clothes she stood before the large mirror above the double sink, gazing at herself. She was tired but she wanted to shower before curling up in the sleigh bed. Flying always made her want to take a shower. It was as if she needed to cleanse herself of the fear she’d endured.
She put her hands on the sink, and gazed at the face she had inherited from her parents. The wavy, jet-black hair of her Sicilian mother. The gold-specked green eyes of her Irish father and the long, thick eyelashes of her mother. Her mother’s full lips below her father’s thin nose. Her high cheekbones, slender face, and delicate chin.
She leaned forward until her lips almost touched the mirror, trying to be objective as she scanned her face for any signs of age lines or wrinkles. There was nothing, but she knew it wouldn’t be that way for long. The physical signs of age were just around the corner.
She took two steps back and rose to her full, five-foot-eight-inch height. She was slim-waisted, and her thin upper body was dominated by large, firm breasts. She pivoted, took one of her buttocks in her fingers and squeezed. No dimples at all was an absolute impossibility under this stress, but there weren’t many, and none at all when she stopped squeezing.
