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by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Susanne shook her head. “I can’t, but thanks so much for the invite.”

  The look in Ronnie’s eyes said she wasn’t fooled. “Next time, then. See you later.”

  Susanne said, “Have a nice day.”

  “Bye, now,” Vangie called after her. Then she leaned over to Susanne. “She’s not that bad, you know.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Do you really have plans? Because if you don’t, you can come with me to Billings to shop.” Vangie made frequent trips to Montana to buy things for the Sibleys’ ranch, Piney Bottoms. Montana didn’t charge sales tax, so it saved a little money to shop there if you were buying big-ticket items or in bulk.

  “My plan is to get in a bathtub with that new book everyone’s talking about—Where Are The Children?—a bottle of white zinfandel, and candles. The house is quiet, and it’s all mine.” Notwithstanding her weird sense of unease, she felt a little guilty for how excited she was to have a few days to herself. And for admitting it to Vangie, who was having so much trouble starting a family of her own. But it was a luxury, and a rare one. “Rain check?”

  “Rain check. For sure.”

  “But be careful. I’m worried about you.” About the baby, of course, but she also worried about Vangie driving alone on the interstate. “Don’t stop for hitchhikers. There’s a murderer loose. He killed a Big Horn deputy.”

  Vangie’s rosebud mouth flew open. “Really?”

  “That’s what the coroner told me just before lunch.”

  Vangie speared at her salad and waved a bite on the tines of her fork. “Best for me to be out doing something, so I don’t curl up in the fetal position worrying about this baby. Don’t worry. I’m armed and dangerous, and I won’t stop for anything.”

  Chapter Six: Evade

  Big Horn, Wyoming

  September 18, 1976, 1:00 p.m.

  Trish

  Trish walked from McDonald’s to the horse trailer. Cindy was kicking rhythmically. The horse had a future as a drummer, even though her dad liked to say she was destined for the glue factory if she didn’t stop beating up their trailer. Trish petted Goldie’s muzzle through an open window in the side of the trailer. The palomino horse had a nose like the Velveteen Rabbit. Trish had wanted a Black Beauty, but she’d fallen in love with her blonde partner. And she liked that their hair matched.

  Her horse nickered and nudged her, looking for a cookie. Trish didn’t have one.

  “Sorry, girl.”

  Trish got back in the dented white truck. Her dad already had it started and in gear. She was still a little flustered by the call she’d made from the pay phone. She’d had Mrs. Lewis take a message about the change of plans from Hunter Corral to Walker Prairie, after the grumpy woman had told her Brandon wasn’t there and started to hang up. Trish hoped he wasn’t already on his way to Hunter Corral to see her. And that Mrs. Lewis delivered her message.

  Perry and her dad were talking about the Dallas Cowboys’ chances for the Super Bowl that season. They loved the Cowboys. It was like if you grew up in Texas, you had to root for them, unless maybe you were an Oilers fan in Houston. Here, people cheered for the Denver Broncos. Trish had decided that since she was a Wyoming girl now, they were her team.

  Her dad turned out of the parking lot toward the mountains. Away from the interstate. Again, he was going the opposite direction from what she expected.

  “Dad, what are you doing?”

  Perry was still droning on. “Roger Staubach is a shoo-in for the Hall of Fame.”

  Her dad smiled at her. “We’re taking a shortcut.” He pointed. “See that dirt road up the face of the mountain?”

  She squinted. She saw one. Barely. “Yeah.”

  “That will shave an hour off our drive.”

  She remembered a heaping handful of times her dad’s shortcuts had ended badly. Getting stuck. Dead ends. Broken-down vehicles. Getting lost. “Great.”

  Patrick went back to the football conversation with Perry. A stodgy voice replaced the music on the radio station with an update on a search for some fugitive. Trish rotated the tuning dial, scrolling through the few stations—all staticky—available in northern Wyoming.

  They passed a city limit sign for the town of Big Horn. Trish had never heard of it. Since they were through it in less than a minute, she understood why. It was even smaller than Buffalo. She was convinced there were fewer people in the whole state of Wyoming than in Irving, the town in the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex where they’d lived before moving to the real Cowboy State.

  Slowly the scenery drew Trish in, and she left the radio on a gospel station without realizing it. Deer, antelope, and turkeys roamed everywhere. The road took them next to a meandering creek, its banks thick with aspens and cottonwoods. She rolled the windows down. A hint of the sweet scent of Russian olive trees still lingered in the air, when she sniffed hard. The last trace of summer. In the distance, the mountains rose steeply, their sides crowded with tall pine trees, save for the enormous rock formations in a variety of hues. Pink, red, black, white, gray. The warm wind whipped through her hair, but she felt a crispness running through it that announced autumn. Snow would be coming soon. Her mom always said Trish was just like her dad. Trish didn’t see it. Her dad was a hard-ass and wanted everything his way. But she did love the mountains like he did, so there was that. And horses. She really, really loved horses.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” her dad said.

  She kept her gaze out the window. “Uh-huh.”

  A memory surfaced. Her mom had asked Trish to pass along a message for her dad to call the coroner. She’d tell him about it later. She wasn’t through punishing him for bringing her on this dumb hunting trip. He needed to believe in her misery. But she didn’t stop admiring the scenery, and when she glanced at her dad, she saw that he was smiling at her, not fooled at all.

  The tires bounced from pavement to a dirt road. The incline pitched upward. The frame vibrated, the engine whined, and the cab noise grew louder.

  “Have you ever been on this road?” Trish asked. “Is it even safe?”

  Her dad’s lips started moving with no sound coming out. That gave her the answer. No.

  The truck crested a hill, then a tire hit a rock. There was a pop, then the entire truck lurched to the right, which was the uphill side, luckily. A buh-bud-uh buh-bud-uh buh-bud-uh noise started.

  Patrick’s eyes cut to his side-view mirror, and he pulled over on a flattish section. “Shit.” Then, “Don’t tell your mom I said that.”

  “What is it?” Trish asked.

  “Flat tire on the trailer. I think the horses may be kind of heavy for this rough road.” He put the truck in park and turned off the engine. “Okay, kids. This is where things get exciting.”

  Perry leaned over the back seat eagerly. “What is it?”

  Trish crossed her arms.

  “I’ve heard this road gets pretty steep, and it’s not going to get any smoother. I want you guys to saddle up your horses and ride to the top, ponying the other two. That’ll take the weight off the truck and the tires. I don’t have another spare.”

  “So it’s not safe. Are you serious?” Trish asked. Her mom would not be happy when she heard about this.

  “As a heart attack.”

  “Cool,” Perry said. He was already clambering out the door.

  Trish followed him, shaking her head. Another story to add to her dad’s shortcuts legend. When they had the horses out of the trailer, she said, “How far is it to the top?”

  “Not far. A few miles.”

  That wasn’t too bad.

  She saddled Goldie. Patrick helped Perry with Duke, his paint horse. Duke was tall and a notorious belly-bloater. He sucked in gut-enlarging gulps of air every time someone came at him with a stomach cinch, which made it hard to get the strap tight enough. Trish was mounted and had Reno, her dad’s giant black Percheron cross, and Cindy, a short, stocky sorrel, ready before Perry was in the saddle. In addition to being short,
he bounced from one task to another like a rubber ball, so it took him forever to do anything. Finally, he was on board.

  Patrick said, “I’ll just change the tire. You guys go ahead.”

  “Okay,” Trish responded.

  Perry took Cindy’s lead from her and clucked to Duke. Trish patted Goldie’s neck, then shifted forward, tightening her legs slightly around her horse. The six of them—Trish, Perry, and the four horses—ambled off. Not twenty minutes later, their father waved as he pulled the truck and trailer around them and started creeping up the mountain, faster than the horses, but still quite slow. He disappeared through an S curve, and then she and Perry were alone.

  Trish drank in the view. Every time there was a break in the trees on their downhill side, she could see across the foothills and deep into the buttes, the color of red bricks. For a few minutes, Perry didn’t say a word. Birdsong and the screams of eagles were the only sounds besides the clatter of hooves on the roadbed. But it didn’t last.

  Perry trotted Duke and Cindy to pull even with her. “Who did you call at McDonald’s?”

  “Zip it.”

  “Was it a boy?”

  Trish didn’t answer.

  “Was it Brandon Lewis?”

  “What?” Trish whirled on him. “None of your beeswax.”

  “You like him.”

  “You’re a brat.” She increased her leg pressure on Goldie. The horse responded with a slow trot. Reno resisted. The line grew taut. Trish shook her head. Reno was a stubborn beast. Goldie leaned into it, and Reno gave up, although the line never went slack.

  Perry shouted, “Wait.”

  Behind them, a roar of engines approached. Trish moved her horses all the way to the right side of the road, against the mountain face. She didn’t look behind her, knowing that would create a chain reaction with Goldie and Reno, and that they’d veer back into the road.

  “Scoot over, Perry.”

  If he answered, she couldn’t hear him. A minute or so later, two motorcycles pulled up beside her. The bikes were big and black with silver chrome. They had banana-shaped seats that made the riders lean back. The men wore jeans with leather chaps, leather vests, and bandannas around their foreheads. Both of them had long, wispy beards and mustaches. One had a ponytail. The other had a weird flattop like Perry’s. The ponytailed guy, who was shirtless under his vest, whooped when he saw her. Trish tried to unsee his armpit hair. Gross. He braked in front of her and turned his motorcycle crossways across the road. The other man did the same.

  The horses stopped short.

  “Yo, pretty little thing. Who’s this ya got with ya?” The ponytailed man thumbed toward Perry.

  Shocked, Trish stared straight ahead and guided Goldie around the bikes. His accent wasn’t local. Which made sense, because no one from Wyoming would act that way. But she couldn’t place it. Not Texan. Northern. Southern. Or East Coast, like Boston or New York.

  “Don’t be stuck-up just because you’re good-looking.”

  Perry’s voice, when he spoke, was so high-pitched he sounded like one of the Chipmunks. “Leave my sister alone.”

  The men looked at each other and busted out laughing.

  The man with the flattop said, “Her hero. That’s a good one.”

  “What are ya going to do if we don’t, runt?” The ponytailer slitted his eyes at Perry.

  “Come on, Perry,” Trish said. “Ignore them.”

  “Where ya headed, sugar? Maybe we’ll see ya later.”

  Again, she didn’t answer them. Perry was having trouble getting Duke past the motorcycles.

  “Smack him on the butt. He needs to know you’re the boss,” she told her brother.

  Perry did as she suggested, and Duke snorted and trotted forward with Cindy, past Trish, Goldie, and Reno.

  “I like her attitude,” the flattopped man said.

  The men started their engines, revving them as they pulled around Trish, Perry, and the horses, but not stopping. The muffler backfired on one of the bikes. Duke shied hard to the left. Perry grabbed his saddle horn. Some people were naturals with horses. He wasn’t. His body lurched and tilted, but he hung on. Goldie tossed her head, snorting.

  The motorcycles disappeared into the distance.

  Trish heaved a sigh of relief.

  Chapter Seven: Churn

  Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming

  September 18, 1976, 2:00 p.m.

  Perry

  Riding up the steep road, with a major drop-off to his left and a nearly straight-up hill to his right, Perry’s heartbeat wouldn’t slow down. He wasn’t usually scared of heights, but he felt like a giant magnet was pulling him toward the edge. Duke and Cindy weren’t making it any easier. He couldn’t get them to stay away from it. Duke had nearly jumped over the side when the men on the motorcycles drove off revving their engines and one backfiring.

  Those men had looked at his sister in a bad way. He was so mad. Mad like he’d been the time Judd, a bully at his school, had called him a weaselly little girl. Perry had windmilled his fists at him, and Judd had laughed in his face, catching Perry’s wrists and not even bothering to punch him. Judd’s face was replaced now by the tobacco-stained teeth of Ponytail and the beady eyes of Flattop, his laugh by their voices. They hadn’t taken him seriously, either. There had been nothing Perry could do to protect Trish. He couldn’t even get his dumb horse to make a getaway without her help.

  Why does everyone treat me like a baby?

  Tears burned his eyes, and he was glad he was behind his sister. He didn’t wipe them away, just let them dry in the Wyoming wind. He wanted to be bigger and stronger—yesterday.

  The quiet was heavy, broken only by the hoof clomping, heavy breathing, and occasional lip-sputtering sighs of the horses. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with marshmallows. He couldn’t even say to Trish what he wanted to. That he was sorry he had been no help. Sorry and scared. Did she feel the same way? Was that why she wasn’t saying anything to him either?

  He just hoped the two men wouldn’t come back.

  A top-heavy truck wobbled its way down the road toward them. Duke’s ears pricked forward and his head went up. As it drew closer, Perry could see that it had a wooden deck on top of the cab with a vertical rail fence around it. The tiny paws, pointed nose, and gently flopping ears of a wiener dog peeked over the front of the deck fence, beside a Saint Bernard so enormous it seemed impossible he wouldn’t capsize the truck.

  A driver with bushy black facial hair lifted two fingers in greeting as he passed. Perry gaped at the vehicle. The top deck matched a larger deck on the truck’s flatbed, although the fence around it was a more traditional split rail. Behind the truck was an ancient horse trailer with no roof. A horse spotted like a Dalmatian whinnied at Duke.

  Duke snorted.

  Trish put a hand on the back of her saddle and turned all the way around to watch the truck. “Only in Wyoming.”

  Perry nodded. The funny truck made him feel a little better. People in Wyoming were definitely different than back in Texas. Finally he saw his dad’s truck and trailer up ahead. When he and Trish reached it, they found their dad reading maps spread out across the hood.

  “Took you long enough.” Patrick smiled and started folding the maps. “Ready to load up?”

  Trish said, “Did you see the motorcycles?”

  “I did. Harleys. You don’t see many of those up in the mountains.”

  Perry squeaked, “Those guys were assholes. They were bothering Trish.”

  Patrick froze as he was stuffing the maps into his waistband. “What?”

  “They were all talk.” Trish dismounted.

  Patrick took Duke’s reins.

  Perry hopped to the ground. “They scared Duke.” He didn’t mention how much they’d scared him.

  “Did you talk to them?” Patrick’s eyes bored into Perry’s, knowing well which of his kids was more likely to cough up information.

  “No. But they wanted to know where we were goin
g.”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  They walked to the back of the trailer. The three of them were silent as they put up the tack and saddles and loaded the horses. Perry’s fear started to shrink. Just being around his dad helped. He looked around. He hadn’t seen the mountains from this side before. The view of this peak, close-in, made him feel hollow. From the Buffalo side, Cloud Peak was the biggest. From this angle, an angry-looking black-toothed peak seemed like it was.

  They got in the truck, and Patrick started driving slowly along Red Grade Road.

  Trish said, “This reminds me of the Swiss Alps in Heidi.”

  “Huh?” Perry said.

  “You know, the book, Heidi?”

  Perry looked out the window. Trish loved to read. He hated it. The conversation stopped, but he didn’t mind. For half an hour, his mind floated from thoughts of football to fishing and elk hunting and then to nothing at all as they passed bogs, moose grazing on water plants, streams, wide-open parks with brown grass, and the occasional cabin.

  Perry must have fallen asleep, because he woke up when Patrick turned right onto a forest road across from a creek.

  “We’ll park near here and pack in to camp.” Patrick cranked the window down on his side.

  Trish left hers up, but Perry rolled both down in the back seat. They drove by a truck and travel trailer with Harley motorcycles parked outside. The trailer windows and doors were blacked out with something taped from the inside.

  “Those are the same motorcycles.” Perry wrinkled his nose. “Something smells funny.”

  Patrick tilted his nose toward his open window. “Like ammonia.”

  Trish shuddered. “They’re in there. Let’s camp far away from them.”

  Patrick nodded. “The place Henry recommended is a long way off.”

  A mile later, Patrick parked the truck and trailer. Cindy, as always, was kicking the trailer.