The Return Of Cord Navarro

by Vella Munn

  Cord waited until he heard Shannon’s dresser drawer open and then dialed the country sheriff at his home. Although it was barely 6:00 a.m., Dale Vollrath answered before the second ring. “Cord? What the hell are you doing? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he told the man who’d already been on the police force when he was still in high school. He quickly explained what he and Shannon were up to. Unlike Shannon, Dale didn’t ask whether he wanted local search and rescue volunteers called out.

  “This is your call, Cord,” Dale said. “Just tell me what you need from me.”

  “Nothing right now. I’ll be getting in touch with you from time to time to give you updates. I’d like the same thing from you”

  “You got it. I’ll contact anyone and everyone I can think of around Arapaho or the other wilderness areas. A nephew of mine is doing fire watch for the forest service this summer. He’s still wet behind the ears, but he can see a hell of a long way from his tower. Who knows. He might be more reliable than I give him credit for.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem. The more eyes you’ve got working for you, the better.”

  The sheriff had given him his first break. Although Cord hadn’t gone through the formal training most search and rescue personnel received, Dale had called him to lead an expedition to find skiers buried by an avalanche on Copper. The mission had attracted widespread media attention and when Cord refused to quit until he’d found the last survivor two days after the avalanche, the wire services had picked up the story. As a result, he’d started getting calls from all over the country.

  “We’ll have to get together for a beer,” he told Dale. “Just as soon as I get Matt back where he belongs. What does the activity on the mountains look like?”

  “Unauthorized activity. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  He said yes, alert for sounds of Shannon’s return.

  “Yeah,” Dale said after a brief pause. “Yeah. Maybe. The only thing I’ve got is a report from a couple of forest service employees who were working on Breckenridge a few days ago. They heard shots, and when they checked it out, they spotted four, maybe five men with rifles. The men were pretty far away and on the move. By the time the rangers got there, the poachers were gone. My guess, they realized they’d been made and took off.”

  “You’re sure they were poachers?” Cord asked, not because he questioned Dale’s conclusion but because this was the last thing he wanted to hear.

  “There’s nothing I can take to court, but I’ve been a cop too long not to know the signs. Several men with rifles in the wilderness when it isn’t hunting season. They wouldn’t go all that way for a little target practice. Come on, Cord. You know how that adds up as well as I do.”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Look, don’t go getting uptight over this. Like you said, your son could be anywhere. There’s a hell of a lot of territory around here. Chances are, even if those characters haven’t hightailed it, your son won’t get anywhere near them.”

  “Dale? I’ve seen what poachers can do.”

  The sheriff let out a long, hissing breath. “That killing in Utah last fall. That’s what you’re thinking about, isn’t it? I forgot.”

  Cord hadn’t. Although he’d seen a lot of things in his career he wished he hadn’t, the accidental killing of an elderly man and the wounding of his wife by a couple of drunken hunters stood out in his mind.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Dale broke through his thoughts. “I’ll get in touch with forest service employees all over the county as soon as we’re done talking. I know a couple of local pilots who’ll probably check out Breckenridge for me, Anything I hear, I’ll pass on to you.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that. And, Dale? I’d like to keep this between you and me. Shannon has enough on her mind without adding anything to it.”

  “You got it. Look, Matt can be anywhere. He might have no interest in Breckenridge.”

  Maybe. Maybe not, Cord thought after hanging up. What made this so hard was having to face the simple fact that he didn’t honestly know what was going on inside his son’s head. That, and vivid memories of what a bullet was capable of.

  At the sound of Shannon’s boots on the floor, he shoved thoughts of Matt’s possible agenda and whether that might bring him in contact with poachers to the back of his mind. His ex-wife. No matter how many times he’d told himself that that was what she was, he’d been unable to exorcise the memories of when she’d been his wife.

  Other people, even men aware of how attractive she was, would look at her today and see a competent businesswoman, a strong and mature woman capable of facing everything life dished out, even this.

  But deep in her hazel eyes, fear lurked. She wouldn’t talk to him about it, and he wouldn’t bring it up. Avoiding anything of an emotional nature was one of the few rules that defined their relationship these days. They could talk about their respective jobs and lives, their son, her family, the price of gasoline, politics, anything casual friends might discuss. But as for what went on deep inside them—oh, yes, he knew how to avoid that.

  “You were talking to someone?” she asked.

  “Dale Vollrath.”

  “The sheriff? What did he have to say?”

  “Not much. Just that he’s going to do what he can here on the ground.”

  She gave him a sideways look but didn’t say anything. When she dropped to her knees beside her backpack, he joined her. Still silent, she handed him her spare clothes and watched as he secured her belongings. Her hair hung wetly around her cheeks. He wanted to brush back the strands, wanted to flatten his palms against the side of her neck and hold her there while he kissed her.

  Most of all, he wanted to tell her that their son was in no danger, and believe his own words.

  Although her parents had said they’d be over right away, Cord wasn’t waiting for them to arrive. Following his lead, Shannon stepped outside. She stood in the cool drizzle and tried to be grateful because both the wind and rain had slackened.

  He hadn’t said a word to her since telling her that he’d been talking to the sheriff, but he didn’t need to for her to understand that he was in a hurry to be on his way.

  Shoving aside her insane wish to be anywhere but here and doing this, she mounted and checked the pack she’d secured behind her saddle. She briefly wondered why Cord hadn’t helped her, then realized he hadn’t because he needed to know how she was going to handle the physical demands.

  Fine, she told him silently. Whatever you do, wherever you go, I’ll match you.

  Cord, sitting tall and nearly motionless, rode ahead of her. She’d never seen him look more like his Ute grandfather, more in tune with his wet, green, brown, and gray world. He hadn’t said anything about their needing to be quiet so he could listen to his surroundings or whatever it was he did at a time like this. She hoped he would be honest with her about what she needed to do to be the most help but until they’d picked up Matt’s trail—please, she prayed, let that be soon—there really wasn’t anything to talk about.

  The sound of squeaking leather and shod hoofs plopping on wet earth kept her aware of where they were. After wiping moisture off her forehead and then deciding it was a useless gesture, she prodded her horse.

  She wished she was on Pawnee, taking courage from his strength and energy, but the young, strong, and excitable gelding was with her son—taking him too far from her. There was nothing wrong with the horses she’d chosen, nothing except that they wouldn’t go as fast as she needed them to. But it wasn’t the horses’ fault. Cord set the pace and he seemed to be in no hurry.

  She wanted to yell at him and remind him that they had to get out of this high, wide meadow where she’d established her business and reach Arapaho as quickly as possible. But when she took note of the way Cord kept his eyes locked on his surroundings, his alert stance, how he cocked his head sometimes as if listening to something no
other human could possibly hear, she understood that he’d thrown his entire being into this task.

  What did he see, hear, sense?

  Was it good? Bad?

  And if bad, how, as Matt’s father, did he deal with it? Maybe, if she told him how horribly hard this was for her, he’d be just as honest and they could draw strength from each other.

  Maybe.

  “Why couldn’t he have at least picked a sunny day?” she asked, because she was going crazy listening to the thoughts clanging around in her head. “There’s probably a law somewhere that says kids are required to do the most illogical things in the most illogical ways so they can give their parents the maximum number of gray hairs.”

  Cord said nothing. Only slightly aware of the sound the rain made as it sluiced through pine needles on the way to the earth, she blinked water out of her eyes. She probably should have worn her slicker instead of sticking it in her backpack, but it wasn’t that cold and too much clothing restricted her movement. She fastened her attention on her hands wrapped around the reins.

  Finally they reached the first of the trees that marked the boundary of her property. Feeling slightly claustrophobic, she concentrated, or tried to concentrate, on the sounds the horses were making, the taste and feel of mountain air.

  She couldn’t keep her eyes off Cord.

  Her son’s father was painted in earth tones. Even his jeans seemed more brown than blue, a gentle fading of color until he’d become one with his environment. There were times when life took him out of the wilderness, but even then, she suspected, he carried his beloved world inside him. She’d never seen him in a suit; she doubted that he owned one.

  Good.

  He should always remain part of the elements.

  But emotionally apart from her when what they were doing was taking every bit of self-control and courage she had?

  The past seven years hadn’t changed anything. It was no different from when...

  She refused to let herself finish the thought.

  Chapter 5

  Cord ran his left hand down his pant leg. For one of the few times in his life, he didn’t feel comfortable in his own body.

  It hurt, not just being unable to reach out and touch his son today, but facing how much he was missing of Matt’s growing up. In truth, he hated that most of all the things that couldn’t be changed in his life—be hated the holes in his heart that he didn’t fully understand. Closing his mind to the pain had always ensured his emotional survival. But life seldom felt as raw as it did today.

  If they kept up this pace, they’d soon have to rest the horses. Still, although Arapaho was already dead ahead, he couldn’t make himself slow down, and Shannon hadn’t said anything about conserving her horses’ energy. Shannon, with her long legs and active life-style, shouldn’t have any trouble keeping up with him today and longer if it came to that. When he’d first seen her this morning, with her rich brown hair braided down her back, his defenses hadn’t had time to lock into place and he’d come within a breath of telling her she looked like an Indian maiden, beautiful, desirable. But she wouldn’t want to hear that from him any more than he wanted to give voice to his thoughts.

  If, in spite of the damage caused by the rain, he could locate Pawnee’s prints at the base of Arapaho, he would have a purpose, a plan, a goal. He’d no longer be susceptible to distraction, something that never happened when he was on a search. It had been dark much of the time he’d been here last night, which meant he could have missed his son’s signs. The other possibility, one he hadn’t told Shannon about but she must have considered, was that Matt wasn’t anywhere near Arapaho.

  Experience had taught him not to let his mind tangle in the unknown. Still, it wasn’t easy to turn his thoughts from the very personal object of his search to what might happen today. If Matt intended to explore Arapaho, he would have to abandon his horse when the trail got too steep. Although the rain would wash away many of the signs the boy made, if he stepped where the ground was level and the dirt dense, he would leave footprints. If that happened and if Cord was very, very lucky, he might overtake his son before nightfall. He wouldn’t have to go on looking at Shannon, thinking about what they’d once had and shared—and lost. They would go back to their separate lives and he’d find a way to stop thinking about the body of the woman who’d carried his children.

  What if Matt was trying to hide?

  There was another possibility. One he hadn’t mentioned because he’d wanted to spare Shannon any more burdens. Lost people, especially children, typically zigzagged aimlessly through the woods, making it difficult to separate a path made earlier in the day from a more recent one.

  He accepted that Matt might not understand enough about wilderness survival to know how to mark his trail so he would have a guideline in case he had to backtrack. And he wasn’t sure Matt would be aware enough of his surroundings to tell if he was going in circles. From a distance, climbing a mountain seemed like a straightforward objective but, surrounded by trees or rocks, the goal could be easily lost.

  He should have taught his son more about how to be at home in the wilderness, how to control his environment, instead of the other way around. He’d planned on doing that this summer. But maybe—no, it wouldn’t be too late!

  Straightening, he focused on what lay around him. The trees at this altitude grew in random, healthy clumps. In some areas, the pines were so close together that sunlight never reached the ground. Given the right motivation or camouflage, any animal or human being could blend into the dense shadows and even he might not see them. Still, every fiber and nerve ending in him said that his son wasn’t nearby. His son. How he loved the words.

  Classroom learning was important; he knew that. A structured setting, friends, familiar surroundings gave a child a solid foundation. That’s why Cord hadn’t asked Shannon to share custody of Matt, though he wanted his son with all his heart. With his work, he couldn’t offer Matt true stability. How could a child keep up at school if his father constantly dragged him around the country, or left him with baby-sitters?

  Shannon was a good mother. A wonderful mother. He had only to look into her eyes and see into her nurturing heart to believe that. She might be able to keep a great deal from him, but not everything.

  Somehow he knew there hadn’t been many men in her life since their divorce. Maybe it was in the way she conducted herself, her awareness of, or rather, her disregard for, her physical body. When she spoke of “we” it was always about her and Matt and sometimes her parents. She’d had a single male wrangler last year, a man Matt thought fascinating because he’d once been on the rodeo circuit. Matt said that the man sometimes asked Shannon to go to a movie or dinner with him but she never had. After three or four months, the wrangler had moved on, and according to Matt, Shannon had said she was glad to see him gone.

  But someday a new man would walk into Shannon’s life—and into Matt’s, as well.

  When that happened...

  Like a well-trained tool, Cord’s mind switched to his reason for being here and what he needed to see and hear and smell and sense. He was still aware of Shannon’s presence behind him, but his attention was now fully trained on the ground. Despite the effects of rain, he could tell horses had recently been along the main trail that ringed the base of Arapaho. Whether the prints were made by Matt’s mount or by any number of vacationers, he couldn’t say.

  He would put his training and instinct to use when the mountain started giving up its secrets—if it had any—to him.

  Because he’d done it before, he easily put himself in the mind of a ten-year-old. At that age he’d already spent more than a week alone in the wilderness, soaking dew from rocks with a handkerchief and wringing the moisture into his mouth to slake his thirst. He’d eaten wild rose hips, the inner bark from pine trees, pigweed, and returned to his grandfather, not full, but not hungry, either.

  Gray Cloud had praised his accomplishment and then told him he’d come within a q
uarter mile of a lynx den. Had Cord seen the signs? He hadn’t, but by the time he slept under an old growth pine a month later, he’d trained himself to be aware of every predator and prey for a mile around.

  Matt wouldn’t be, and that worried him. The big cats and few black bears who lived around here wouldn’t bother human beings, but although he’d taught Matt that, the lesson might not have stuck. After all, the boy had sat through a long, dark, wet night with nothing to do except listen and think. Who knew what his young, fertile imagination might have come up with? Somehow he had to give Matt peace.

  He straightened, his free hand automatically reaching behind to check the pack that held the two-way radio, waterproof matches, a multitool knife, his sleeping bag and mat, the first-aid kit, food. There was good thinking and bad thinking. He had to stay in his son’s head, not remember some of the things he’d seen in his years of trying to bring people back alive to where they belonged.

  It was fully light now although the rain made a lie of the fact that this was June. Fog clung to the ground in a number of deep pockets, and Cord couldn’t see the tops of the tallest trees. From the looks of the clouds, he didn’t expect the drizzle to let up for several hours. By the feel of the air on his cheeks, he gauged the temperature to be about fifty degrees. Most people, if they were dry and wore a light jacket and remained active, could stay out all day in this temperature. Thankfully there wasn’t enough breeze for a wind chill to factor in, but Matt was probably at a higher elevation and maybe wet.

  That was why he hadn’t worn a jacket. He wanted to experience the worst of what his son might. He felt a cool bite along the back of his neck and down his shoulders, but he was used to being exposed and had long ago stopped perceiving cold as discomfort. It wouldn’t be the same for his son.