by Rachel Lee
By the time Craig reached the valley, the sun had fully risen over the eastern foothills and had begun reflecting off the top of the mountains ahead of him. He’d approached Buddy’s place from this direction any number of times, and figured by now they saw him coming.
When he reached the creek that tumbled through the valley, though, he frowned. As far as he knew, they’d had a normal snowpack this past winter despite its being warmer, so why the hell did the water seem slower and not as deep as it had only a few weeks ago? He’d have to check that out. If a beaver dam or a deadfall cut the water to the valley by too much, a lot of life would suffer.
Given the warmer winter, they were apt to lose a whole lot of moose and elk to ticks as it was. They didn’t need to be going thirsty on top of it.
Dusty picked his way carefully among the wet rocks, reaching the other side without having even wetted his knees. Not good.
Craig could feel that he was being watched. The certainty settled over him but it wasn’t a comfortable feeling. In the past he knew his approach had been watched, but it hadn’t made him uncomfortable. For some reason this time it did, and his guard went up although he kept his posture relaxed.
Something sure as hell was going on. The question was what. His instincts insisted on kicking into high gear.
Keeping his pace slow and lazy, he began to wind his way up the narrow track that led to Buddy’s place from the valley. The man had a wider road that connected to a county road, but it was out of the way for right now, and not the way he wanted to approach. He wanted this to appear like just another of his friendly visits, visits he made in a neighborly fashion a handful of times every summer.
But as Dusty climbed steadily, he felt as if he were approaching an armed enemy encampment. He told himself not to let his imagination run wild because Buddy had said something a little off the wall just yesterday. But the feeling wouldn’t leave him alone. It was such an unusual notion that half of him resisted, sure he must be losing touch with reality. The other half, however, couldn’t let go of it.
Yet nothing seemed to have changed. Not one thing that he could see. The atmosphere had changed somehow, markedly. How was that possible?
At last he reached the first signs posting Buddy’s property. There was no gate to bar the way, although rusty barbed wire stretched away in each direction. He passed the signs by only a few feet, though, and waited. He knew Buddy would show up shortly. He always did, and Craig treated those no-trespassing signs with respect.
Up the hill in front of him, he could make out signs of Buddy’s house, a log cabin, really, and the outbuildings, mostly hidden by trees. He stiffened ever so slightly, though, when he glimpsed what appeared to be a new cabin under construction. Buddy didn’t have that large a family.
Changes. They might signal something, might explain Buddy’s sudden increase in paranoia. He wondered if he could find out what was going on.
Soon he heard the roar of Buddy’s ATV coming down the winding path. When it rounded the last corner he saw his first cause for worry: Buddy wasn’t alone. A stranger rode behind him, a camouflaged stranger carrying a rifle. God, what was Buddy into now?
Buddy pulled to a stop and turned off his engine. “Craig,” he said with a nod.
“Buddy.” Craig looked pointedly at the guy behind him. “You need someone to ride shotgun now?”
“Just my friend, Cap. I’m allowed to have friends, right?”
“Never said otherwise. You’ve just never greeted me with a rifle before.”
“Been having a problem with trespassers. Seeing a gun makes them pay attention to the signs.”
“Guess it would.” Nor was there a damn thing illegal about it. “Nice to meet you, Cap. Craig Stone, Forest Service.”
Cap gave the shortest of nods. Craig intuitively disliked the man. Something about his eyes, hard eyes. If he learned nothing else, Craig was learning that Buddy was changing something.
“You here for a reason?” Buddy asked.
“Actually, yes. You know the public has a right on public lands, Buddy. You can keep people off your property, but not out of the public forest. So if that painter lady wants to come back today, or tomorrow, or any time, she’s allowed to be up on that hill without you bothering her.”
“She was taking pictures of my place.”
So there it was. Craig paused a thoughtful second. “I asked her what she took pictures of. She’s trying to capture the light for painting later because it changes so fast. She hardly even knew you were here until you bothered her. So tell me, Buddy, there’s nothing about your place that you’d have to worry about being photographed from damn near a mile away. Is there?”
“Of course not!”
Cap seemed to second Buddy by spitting tobacco on the ground.
That answer was too emphatic by a mile, Craig thought, though he let absolutely nothing show on his face. “Didn’t think so,” he said amiably. “Anyway, just leave the tourists alone. You didn’t need me to remind you. As for the lady painter, I’ll tell her to point her camera in a different direction if it’s got you so worried.”
Buddy shifted on the seat of the ATV. “Naw,” he said finally. “If she’s just a painter...”
“Well, I saw her canvas. So did you, I imagine. She’ll be here a few days then move on like everyone else. It’s not like she’s settling in across the valley.”
“I guess not.
Craig started to turn Dusty, then paused. “Say, have you noticed any deadfalls or new beaver dams? Water seems low in the valley creek.”
Buddy hesitated. “No, can’t think of one. I’ll keep my eye out, though.”
“Thanks. You know how much damage too little water in the valley would do. We’ll probably lose enough elk and moose as it is.”
“Ticks are gonna be bad,” Buddy agreed. “Too many already.”
“Yup. Anyway, if you see me poking around, that’s why. I’ve got to find out why the creek is drying up.” He touched the brim of his hat, nodding to both men, and completed Dusty’s turn.
Sunlight glinted off something in the undergrowth, and his eye followed it swiftly. A trip wire? Just a foot outside Buddy’s fence?
He reined Dusty, feeling the men’s eyes on his back as if they were hot laser beams. He didn’t turn. “Buddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Trip wires are only legal if all they do is set off an alarm.”
“I know that!”
“Then have a good day. And make sure they don’t run too far past your fence. Public land again.”
Without looking back, he rode slowly away.
Now he was absolutely convinced that problems were brewing, and he was going to have to get to the bottom of it. Soon.
He hadn’t liked the look of that Cap guy, either. Hell’s bells. Trouble was coming to his forest. He knew it as sure as the sun was pushing toward midday.
* * *
Sky liked being in Conard City almost as much as she liked being out in the forest. The place had a worn charm, sort of like fading elegance, especially downtown. The downtown was old enough to bring to mind images of women in long skirts, maybe some of them sporting Edwardian stylishness, swishing along the streets. There were even hitching posts left around the courthouse square, and the courthouse looked as if it had been lifted right out of New England.
She liked to sit on the benches in that square, amidst the gardens that the city carefully tended, and now, the second morning after her encounter with Buddy, she even received nods and greetings. Some old men played checkers at a stone table with benches beneath a huge cottonwood, and she wondered if that table had always been there or if it had been put there for them.
Her artist’s eye was taking snapshots, and mentally framing them as if for a canvas. Maybe someday, if she was here long enough, she’d ask those old guys if they’d mind if she took a photo of them.
She was dressed for painting again, and she liked the fact that nobody looked askance at her splattered je
ans, shirt and jacket. It was a fact of her life that sooner or later most everything she owned showed signs of oil paint. Sometimes she joked that it just jumped out of the tubes at her.
She had carried her painting supplies with her and set up her portable easel with a blank canvas on it. On the bench beside her, she spread out her tarp and then opened her box of brushes and tubes of oils. At home she preferred a sturdy acrylic palette, but when traveling she used one covered with tear-off papers, like a stiff pad. The farther she got from a studio, the more problematic cleanup became.
Looking around, she thought about the colors she wanted for undercoating the canvas. Though the viewer would never see them, at some level they satisfied the brain, as if while they might appear invisible, they weren’t.
But even as she sat there staring at the stark white canvas and trying to pick tones and hues from the world around her, she knew she was chickening out. She ought to go back to the woods and paint what she had wanted to paint, not hide out here in the center of town.
She shouldn’t let that crank drive her off. When had she ever been one to give ground anyway? Four years in the army, some of it in a combat zone, had stripped her of ordinary fears. One man with an attitude wasn’t enough to run her off, not anymore.
But then she realized what she really wanted to avoid: Craig Stone. Her attraction to him had been immediate and strong, and she didn’t want that. Not now, maybe not ever again. And certainly she didn’t want to grow any feelings, even purely sexual ones, for a man who clearly wasn’t going to be around except every now and then. Heck, given his job, she might never run across him again.
So why hesitate? As men went, that made him pretty safe, didn’t it?
She was used to being very clear about things, at least in her own mind, but the lousy breakup with Hector had left her uncertain in some way she hated. Worse than uncertain, she realized. Unsure. Very unsure. As if she didn’t trust her own mind and feelings anymore.
After her time in Iraq, where she’d been caught up in some pretty ugly stuff, she’d had a certain amount of post-traumatic stress. Of course she had. Damn near everyone had it to one degree or another. For some it was more crippling than others, was all.
She’d been fortunate. She’d come home with a bunker mentality, a tendency to jump at every unexpected noise and a total loss of any sense of safety. But she had come back without disabling flashbacks, and after about six months she’d been able to drive again without seeing every oncoming vehicle or object alongside the road as a potential bomb. She knew how lucky she was, especially after spending the past few years working with vets who were a whole lot less lucky.
She didn’t often have nightmares anymore, she functioned, she felt safe most of the time and an inclination toward explosive outbursts had been gone a long time now. War was a life-altering experience, and not all its effects would vanish, even with years, but she believed she’d come back as far as she ever would.
This square, for example. There’d been a time when she would have found it extremely uncomfortable here, surrounded by strangers who walked by, with cars moving along streets, windows that stared blankly back at her and doors that could conceal any kind of threat. But here she was, feeling pretty much fine, although maybe a smidge less comfortable than she had felt alone on that hillside with pretty good sight lines. So maybe this sense of uncertainty was all the breakup’s fault. Hector certainly hadn’t added to her self-confidence any.
Which still left the question of why she was sitting here in the square when the place she really wanted to paint was that hillside from yesterday. That rocky valley and creek had called to her, suggesting both nature’s strength and mystery. This lovely but tame park didn’t do that.
Still, the morning eased by, the people shifted, cars left and new ones appeared. Birdsong emanated from nearby trees. A wandering dog came up to sniff her, then decided she didn’t have anything worth pursuing, like food. It wandered on and was greeted by the guys playing checkers.
She still hadn’t pulled out a brush, the canvas sat blank in front of her, and she finally accepted that something about that Buddy guy had triggered problems she had believed she had overcome.
She was sitting here paralyzed, emotionally and physically. The way it had sometimes been after she returned from the war. Lost in some place where even thoughts seemed to fall silent, where time passed unnoticed. Just plain lost.
She tried to whip up some anger, either at Buddy or herself, but it wouldn’t come. Moving meant action, and action meant taking risks. Anger was dangerous if it grew too big. She understood all about it.
She had hunkered down again in the silent, safe cave within herself, but even acknowledging it didn’t free her from it.
Damn. But the word floated through her mind with little emphasis, as if it came from some place far away. Dissociation. She understood that, too. The only question was for how long. Or how she could shake it.
Some portion of her mind managed to remain detached from her detachment, odd as that sounded. It allowed her to observe what she was doing, and started commenting. A learned skill from the therapy she’d gone through after her return.
The problem with her current dissociation was that it provided a comfortable place to be. A safe place, beyond reach. The other side of the problem, however, was that it held her paralyzed and uncaring, and therefore useless. And the observer part of her even rustled up a little annoyance that some jerk in the woods could have put her here again by doing something as insignificant as yelling at her. Man, he hadn’t even threatened her, he had just told her to go away and called her a spy.
Still, she didn’t move. The day progressed around her, the afternoon arrived with warmth and she was beyond noticing much except the way the shadows moved with the passing hours. She even quit paying attention to the activity around her, instead closing her eyes. It would pass. It always passed eventually. That was one thing she had had to learn to believe, that it would pass.
* * *
The morning after his meeting with Buddy, Craig drove a service truck into town to pick up his laundry and dry cleaning, and shop for some fresh food. Freeze-dried and other lightweight foods didn’t satisfy him indefinitely. Tonight he was going to stay at one of his favorite cabins in the forest and cook. And maybe even heat up enough water to take a comfortable gravity shower rather than the icy ones he was used to.
Oh, he could have come into town more than he did, but the fact was, he liked his job enough to want to be in the woods as much as possible. And nobody hassled him about it as long as he filed his reports on time. That had taken up most of last evening at the ranger station.
He tossed his cold groceries into an ice-filled cooler in the back of his truck, then headed toward the sheriff’s office. He and Dalton were going to have a little chat about Buddy. Not necessarily a big deal, but Dalton had jurisdiction and might be able to learn more about what Buddy was up to. For his part, Craig was confining himself to hunting for what might be damming some streams while keeping a long-distance bead on the Jackson place. Problem was, his duties were going to carry him farther afield. They always did. It was a big forest he had to keep an eye on, from humans to animals to growing things. He couldn’t stay in one area too long without overlooking other important things.
But now he was concerned about Skylar Jamison. Maybe he should hunt her up and make a strong suggestion that she paint elsewhere. Who knew what kind of paranoia Buddy was ratcheting up with his new friend.
When he got to the sheriff’s office finally, he saw her sitting in the courthouse square with her painting stuff. At least she would be easy to find, and he didn’t have to worry about her being out on that hill before he could talk to her.
Inside, the dispatcher, Velma, sent him straight back to the sheriff, Gage Dalton. Dalton had a small office, his desk overrun by a computer on one side and papers on the other. He almost looked glad for the interruption.
“What can we do for the forest servi
ce?” he asked.
Craig dropped into one of the wooden chairs facing the desk. “I’m not exactly certain, but I am uneasy. I’m sure you know Buddy Jackson.”
“Most folks do. And most folks stay clear. It’s not that he’s done anything wrong, he just makes people uneasy with all that doomsday stuff.”
Craig nodded. “I’ve been thinking of it as basically harmless.”
Gage straightened a bit. “But not now?”
“Damned if I know. That’s why I stopped in. Twice this summer he’s tried to chase off visitors. Last month it was a group of campers. Two days ago it was an artist who was sitting across the valley and painting. He called her a spy and told her to go away.”
“Spy?” Gage repeated the word disbelievingly.
“That was my reaction. The word was over-the-top. So I paid Buddy a visit yesterday morning to remind him he can’t drive the public off public land. Just a neighborly reminder, but what I saw bothered me.”
“Such as?”
He told Gage about the Cap guy, the AR-15 and the trip wires. As he did so, Gage began to frown. “I can see why you’re uneasy. And Buddy’s out of your jurisdiction.”
“Exactly. But he’s in yours. Those trip wires especially bother me. They’re just outside his fence, which means they’re most likely still on his land, but you know the law about them.”
“I surely do. Warning only. Well, I guess I’ll have to mosey out that way and have a little chat with Buddy. See if I can do some snooping. The problem with these preppers is that they’re so secretive. They don’t want anybody to really know what they’re up to.”
“Of course not. Innocent folks who haven’t prepared might come looking for help.”
“Only they don’t phrase it that way,” Gage said grimly. “It’s not people looking for help. It’s thieves looking to steal and kill. I didn’t think Buddy had gone quite that far, but I’ll look into it.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know if I get wind of anything.”
“Same here,” Gage promised.
As he emerged into the main office, Craig glanced out the window and saw that Sky was still sitting in the same place. In fact, it looked as if she hadn’t moved at all.
