Aspen in Moonlight

by Kelly Wacker

“How’s Tucker working out for you?” Kerry asked.

  “All good. I think he’s just about my speed as far as horses go.”

  “Tucker’ll never win a race, but he’ll always get you to where you want to go,” Kerry said matter-of-factly.

  Melissa was thankful to have been matched up with a horse for which the word calm could have been invented. When she’d checked in at the stables earlier that morning, the young man at the counter had handed her a clipboard with several forms to fill out. In addition to agreeing not to hold the stables liable for injury or death resulting from the “inherent risks of equine activities,” it also asked her about her height, weight, and previous experience with horses. She tried to remember when she’d last been on a horse. She couldn’t recall exactly—probably as an undergraduate in college. She wrote down twenty years. Being a year or two off wouldn’t matter much.

  The trip was described as two hours out, a half-hour break for lunch by the Blackfoot River, and then a one-and-a-half-hour ride back through meadows and forests with some gain in elevation, so Melissa hoped she wouldn’t be terribly sore the next day. So far, the ride had delivered what it promised, and the weather was perfect. But the bright-yellow rain slicker tied to the back of her saddle was a reminder that thunderstorms popped up unexpectedly in the mountains, especially in the afternoon. Behind the slicker, two saddlebags held her camera, water bottles, and lunch. The stop at the river, at a spot Betty thought might be depicted in Ursula’s painting, interested Melissa the most about this trip, though she certainly couldn’t complain about everything else she was enjoying along the way.

  Melissa asked the wrangler some questions as they meandered through the landscape. Although her responses were sometimes a bit clipped, she didn’t seem to mind talking. Given the nature of her job, Melissa imagined that she probably talked to an awful lot of people over the course of a summer.

  “Kerry, are you from around here?”

  “Not this area, no.”

  “But you’re from Colorado?

  “Nope. Wyoming. How ’bout you?”

  “Colorado originally, but I live in Georgia now.”

  “Is it as hot and humid down there as they say it is?” Kerry drew out the words, looking at Melissa with a cocky grin.

  “It is, and then some.” As soon as the words came out of Melissa’s mouth, she realized that perhaps Kerry was implying something else. She felt a creeping blush and tried to be more specific. “The climate is very humid, and it’s miserable in the late summer. And really, you know, it doesn’t even begin to feel like fall until well into October.”

  “Huh. We have snow up here by then. You ever get snow?”

  “Rarely. And when we do everyone panics, even though it usually melts when it hits the ground. As soon as the weatherman says the word ‘snow,’ suddenly everyone needs milk and bread, and they all run to the grocery store like the apocalypse has just been announced. But to be fair, the state has no snow- and ice-removal equipment, so even a little ice on the roads is really treacherous. We just stay home, wait for it to melt, and eat milk sandwiches.” Melissa paused when Kerry laughed. “But I miss snow terribly, and most people there think I’m crazy for saying that.”

  “Well, maybe a little crazy. I get tired of it some winters.” From under the wide brim of her straw hat, Kerry glanced up at the blue sky. “It sure is hard to think about snow on a day like today.”

  Melissa agreed. The sky was clear, and the chill of the morning had given way to a warm, but not hot, day.

  “Since you’re the manager, do you usually go out on trail rides? I figure livery manager would be an office job.”

  Kerry gestured, palm up, to the landscape around them. “Well, this is part of my office. I usually go out once or twice a week because it keeps me in touch with everything. I wasn’t supposed to go today, but Little Lars called in sick this morning.”

  “I think I met him when I made the reservation.” Melissa recalled the man she’d talked to at the stable office. He looked like he was in his 20s and was blond, very tall, and broad shouldered, not exactly what she’d consider little. “Why is he called Little Lars?”

  “Because his uncle is known as Big Lars,” Kerry said. Melissa wasn’t sure if she planned to offer any other explanation, but after a moment, she continued. “It helps to differentiate between the two. Big Lars is Betty’s husband, and he manages the cattle on the ranch.”

  “I thought it must be a joke. Little Lars must be six foot four, at least.”

  “At least. But, unlike Little Lars, Big Lars is a bit wider than he is tall.” Kerry pointed her finger in Melissa’s direction. “Hey, watch your head. There’s a branch.”

  Melissa turned and ducked just in time to miss a low tree branch hanging across the trail. The near miss made her think that perhaps she should pay more attention to what was in front of her rather than the wrangler behind her. The trail wound through a dense stand of pines, but when they neared the crest of the hill, the trees thinned into a grassy meadow dotted with purple wildflowers. As they rode into the clearing, snow-covered peaks in the distance appeared.

  “Speaking of snow,” Kerry said and gestured with her chin. “Those are part of the Never Summer range.”

  “Wow…” was all Melissa could say. It was a spectacular view, and Melissa reached back to grab her camera from one of the saddlebags.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take advantage of the wider path here to check in with everyone.” Kerry clicked her tongue twice, and her horse shifted effortlessly into a trot.

  Melissa took a few pictures, though the images wouldn’t look nearly as magnificent as they did in person. She stowed the camera back in the bag for safekeeping and watched Kerry make her way along the line of riders, smiling and engaging each person in conversation as she went. Her gestures were controlled and efficient, and she was very relaxed and confident. With the reins in her right hand, she rested her left hand on her thigh and moved in unison with her horse, a slow, rocking gait. It was unexpectedly sexy.

  Kerry turned her head and caught Melissa’s gaze, her lips curving into a lopsided grin that made Melissa’s insides quiver. Melissa had never been attracted to someone like Kerry, a wrangler, but suddenly she found herself thinking of that old expression, When in Rome…

  Kerry turned her horse and looped around to come up alongside Melissa. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m good, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m wondering if I’ll be sore tomorrow.”

  “Probably, since you’re not a regular rider. You have a good seat, though.”

  “I have a good what?”

  “A seat.” Kerry laughed. “The way you sit in the saddle. I’ve been watching you from behind. You’re well balanced on the horse, and you sit on your pockets instead of pitched forward like most greenhorns. You’re a natural rider.” She tucked her chin and looked at Melissa coyly. “You still might need a good massage later to work out the kinks, though.”

  “I might.” Melissa smiled back. “You know a good masseuse?”

  “A what?”

  “A masseuse—a woman who gives a massage. A man would be called a masseur.”

  “Well, Professor, around here they’re just called massage therapists.” Kerry’s expression was mischievous. “And, yeah, I know a good one.” She held up one hand and wiggled her fingers. Her fingers were long and slender, like the rest of her. Kerry looked like she had a wiry kind of strength, and Melissa imagined that under the striped fabric of her shirt she’d find well-defined muscles.

  “So, you’re telling me you are a woman of many talents.”

  “I am,” Kerry said with a roguish grin and looked ahead. “We’ll be at the river in about fifteen minutes, and then we’ll break for lunch.”

  “Really? Has that much time gone by already?”

  “Yep.” Kerry shifted her hips, a cue, Melissa surmised, and her horse slowed his pace. She nodded and moved smoothl
y back into position behind Melissa.

  Melissa smiled to herself. It was a little difficult to believe that she was on horseback, in the mountains, and flirting with a wrangler. As they traversed downhill to the river, Melissa thought less about Kerry and more about what she might find there. The river bottom was picturesque, the river itself narrow and shallow, but running fast. The sound of it was inviting, almost magnetic. Several picnic tables were lined up near the river’s edge, and hitching rails and a mounting block were located nearby under a canopy of trees to assist those who needed help getting in or out of the saddle.

  Melissa guided Tucker to an open spot at one of the hitching rails. Standing in the stirrups, she pitched her weight forward, swinging her right leg over and down to the ground, and slipped her left foot from the stirrup. She marveled at how long it had been since she had ridden a horse, yet the movement came naturally. It felt good to stretch her legs and to give her knees a break. It was easy getting down, but she eyed the mounting block, wondering if she’d need it to get back up.

  Melissa handed Tucker off to Ashley, who was tying reins to the rail, grabbed her camera, lunch, and a water bottle from the saddlebag, and sat down at a table with one of the families. She ate her sandwich and engaged in polite conversation, agreeing that the weather was great, the views spectacular, and that the red-tailed hawk that had glided over them was majestic. But all the while, she glanced upriver repeatedly to where the water cascaded over several large boulders. It looked like Ursula’s painting, but something wasn’t quite right.

  After she finished her sandwich, she excused herself from the group and meandered away, looking for a view that matched that of the painting. She didn’t expect to find the fallen tree. Eighty or more years later it certainly would have rotted away or been swept farther downstream. The “storm-blasted tree” was a common motif in landscape painting, having first appeared in European painting in the sixteenth century. The fallen tree in Ursula’s painting could easily have been artistic license added for dramatic effect.

  As she looked at the rock formations in the distance, Melissa realized what wasn’t right. The two owl-shaped rocks in the background of the painting weren’t there. Surely, those formations would still exist. Only some kind of catastrophic force could have moved them. Melissa remembered when, in the early eighties, Lawn Lake Dam in Rocky Mountain National Park failed. The lake, the headwaters of Fall River, had been dammed in the 30s to make a reservoir for farmers down on the plains. When the earthen dam had failed after decades of neglect, the water had rushed out so quickly and with such devastating force, it scoured the side of the mountain bare, flooding the city of Estes Park below. Thirty-five years later, an alluvial fan of gravel, rocks, and boulders that the flood had created was still visible, a tan scar on the otherwise green mountainside.

  Anything that could have moved those two rocks in Ursula’s painting would have left some telltale signs. Melissa looked around, upriver and down, across the other side, and behind where she was standing. She wasn’t a hydrologist, but she didn’t notice anything that indicated a major flood had occurred here any time recently.

  She took photos and decided to ask Kerry about a flood, or anything else that could have altered the flow of the river. If she didn’t know, she’d ask Betty later. When Melissa turned back around, Kerry was waving and calling everyone back over to the horses, saying it was time to get on the trail again.

  “Hey, big guy.” Melissa patted Tucker on the shoulder before she got back in the saddle. He turned and bumped her chest with his big round nose and sniffed the air. She pulled a couple of carrots out of her lunch bag and slipped them to him. While he crunched his carrots, she put the remnants of her lunch, water bottle, and camera back in the saddlebag.

  Pleasantly surprised and proud of herself that she was able to pull herself up without using the mounting block, she settled back into the saddle. The pure pleasure of this excursion had displaced any disappointment she felt in not finding the view.

  She watched Kerry tighten the cinch strap on the horse of one of the kids. At some point during the morning her thoughts had shifted from imagining being home on the range to entertaining some romantic ideas about a certain woman wrangler. She tried, but failed, to navigate Tucker back into the last position, hoping to continue her conversation with Kerry, but got stuck in the middle of the pack between two families.

  “All right, cowpokes,” Kerry said after she effortlessly swung up onto her horse. “We’re gonna head back a different way than we came.” She gestured upriver, slicing the air with her hand. “We’ll follow the river here a ways and then head up and over Widow Mountain. Then we’ll be back into Buckhorn Valley and just down the road from ranch headquarters.”

  “Widow Mountain? That sounds dangerous,” said the father in front of Melissa with a barely concealed edge of panic in his voice.

  “The upper path is a little dangerous actually,” Kerry said in a serious voice. “It’s real steep and narrow, and there was a bad rock slide last year.” Everyone looked at her incredulously, even Ashley, who turned around with a perplexed expression. Then, in a flash, a big smile erupted across Kerry’s face. “Which is why we take the lower, safer route!”

  Everyone laughed as they moved forward behind Ashley, even the worried father, who was either blushing or starting to show signs of sunburn. As they continued on the trail, Melissa became increasingly certain that it was sunburn, as the color didn’t fade, and he was looking a little blotchy.

  At the base of the mountain, they left the horse trail and turned on to a wider ranch-access road intended for vehicles. As promised, the road didn’t go up and over the mountain but wound around it, and it seemed as if they’d reenter Buckhorn Valley by crossing a low ridge.

  Melissa was admiring some boulders in a field when she heard the sound of something crashing out of the trees. The woman behind her screamed, and Melissa turned her head to see what was moving in her peripheral vision. A mule deer ran full speed directly toward her, and behind the deer, giving chase, was…a mountain lion?

  Tucker tossed his head but didn’t move quickly enough to get out of the way. Melissa stiffened, unsure what to do. The deer, an antlered buck, tried to turn away from them but made his decision too late. His momentum kept him moving forward, and as he turned, his rump hit Tucker’s side and Melissa’s leg. The impact forced Tucker to sidestep to keep from falling over. As the buck rolled off and then crossed in front of them, Melissa looked down to see the golden-hued mountain lion standing in front of her, tense and slightly crouched, its muscles bunched. Staring up at her with bright amber eyes and wide, inky black pupils, it was so close she could see that one of its ears was misshapen, a V-shaped piece of it missing. The big cat was as magnificent as it was fearsome. Its ears were laid flat, and its intensely unhappy expression reminded Melissa of a cornered domestic cat. But bigger. Much, much bigger.

  Melissa heard voices and sounds erupting around her, but the only thing in focus was the lion in front of her and the sound of Tucker grunting as he danced around. The lion held her gaze for what was probably just a second or two, but it felt like minutes. Then, without warning, it turned and ran back up the way it had come.

  Melissa didn’t have the opportunity to watch the mountain lion bound back into the cover of the forest because, as soon as it moved, Tucker’s flight instinct kicked in. He bolted in the opposite direction, running blindly, following the path of escape the mule deer had taken. It was all Melissa could do to hang on. She still had the reins, but gripping the front of the saddle with both hands, she couldn’t rein him in.

  The ride was rough. She bounced in the saddle uncontrollably and felt her right foot slip out of the stirrup, losing what little stability she had. Then, making matters worse, the saddle began to slip. Tucker kept running, Melissa kept bouncing, and with each bounce the saddle slipped sideways a little more.

  Melissa grabbed a handful of Tucker’s mane at the base of his neck with her right h
and, instinctively thinking it was a more secure handhold than the saddle, which it was, given that it was almost sideways. At the moment she thought she would lose her grip, she felt something press tightly up against her butt, and an arm slid across her chest, below her breasts. The arm was covered in gray-and-white striped fabric.

  “Kick your foot out of the stirrup!” Kerry shouted at her. “I’ve got you!”

  Confused, Melissa then realized that Kerry and her big bay mare were running alongside them. She slipped her foot out of the stirrup as directed, and the only thing keeping her from hitting the ground was her death grip on Tucker’s mane and Kerry’s arm wrapped around her.

  “Now, damn it! Let go!” Kerry demanded. “I won’t let you fall!”

  Melissa did as she was commanded, Kerry pulled her close, and they came to a sliding stop. Kerry let Melissa slip down the side of her leg, depositing her gently on the ground. “I’ll be right back.”

  Melissa watched as Kerry took off after Tucker, who was now hopping and bucking, trying to shake off the saddle that was upside down under his belly. Kerry rode up alongside him again, leaned out, and grabbed the end of the leather cinch strap. After two sharp tugs the cinch released, and the saddle fell to the ground. He immediately stopped bucking and stood still, as though nothing had happened, though he breathed heavily, nostrils flaring and sides heaving.

  Kerry trotted back to Melissa, dismounted, and walked toward her in one fluid movement. “Are you all right?”

  Melissa stood there, incredulous at everything that had just transpired. “I’m fine. I’m not sure exactly how that’s possible, but…I’m okay.”

  Kerry looked her up and down with a serious expression. “Don’t move.” She walked over to Tucker and grabbed his reins, flipping them over his head. Then she picked up the saddle and looked around for the saddle pad. After finding it, she walked back to Melissa.

  Kerry inspected the saddle. “I can’t believe he didn’t bugger this up. Do you think you can ride back?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”