Night of Shadows

by Marilyn Haddrill

  "You don't live here at all, do you?" she asked.

  "Well, ma'am, I hate to ruin the sterling impression you have of me, but — no, I don't. I'm a rancher. We just use this place for some of the hands when they're out branding. Lucky for you and me, it's kept stocked with food and water."

  "Then surely you have some kind of vehicle. You can certainly use it to get me out of here," Melinda said.

  "Oh no. Not that again." He spoke slowly then, emphasizing each word. "I explained all this to you once before, lady, and now I'm going to go over it again. In detail. We can't leave. The canyons are still running water."

  "Then call someone."

  "There's no cell phone coverage in this area, but my people know we're here. I have a radio in my jeep, and it keeps me in touch with the main ranch. Besides, even if we could leave right now, it'll be a day or two before you can travel. Fate has thrown us together, like it or not. And, believe me, I don't like it any more than you do."

  There it was again — that ambivalence, something he made sound like a personal dislike for her. Why? She had done nothing to him.

  As if to ward off more questions, he stood suddenly. "Tell you what. There's a deck of cards around here somewhere. Let's make the best of a bad situation, and pass some time."

  He walked over to a kitchen drawer, opened it, and pulled out some cards that he shuffled as he strolled back towards her. He pulled up a chair to serve as a table between them, and shuffled some more.

  "How about some poker? We'll use matches for the ante."

  "I'd prefer gin rummy."

  "I don't know gin rummy. So we'll have to play poker." He started dealing.

  With distaste, she picked up the five grimy, dog‑eared cards he dealt her. They were so thick she could hardly spread them out to see what she had. But each time she exposed a card, it was an ace or a king. The last card was a four.

  By now, Michael had distributed the matchsticks he had dumped from a box fished from his pocket. Melinda tossed one out to indicate her bet. He did the same. He scratched the stubble of his beard as he examined his hand.

  "How many cards do you need?" he asked,

  "Just one."

  "One! Is that all? I need three."

  He peeled several more off the deck. She picked up her one, which gave her a full house — aces over kings. When she looked up and saw his penetrating stare, she molded her face into an implacable expression. His face showed nothing. She ran a fingernail over her cards as he arranged his.

  "Well?" he asked finally. "Now what's your bet?"

  Melinda smugly shoved all her matchsticks out into the center of the table.

  "Are you sure you want to do that?" he asked.

  "You play it your way and I'll play it mine."

  She gave him a superior smile. He smiled back.

  Then in one quick motion he pushed out his matches. "Whatcha got?"

  She triumphantly laid down her cards, one at a time for effect, and reached out for the matchsticks. He placed his hand down on hers.

  "Not so fast, Missy. That's a good hand, all right. But it don't beat four‑of‑a‑kind."

  He slapped his four deuces on the table, threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Am I good, or what? Here, I'll loan you some of my loot."

  He shoved half the matches her way. Then he proceeded to beat her at every hand. Each time, he gleefully raked in the matchsticks as if they were real money.

  "Well," she finally informed him. "I'm just not playing anymore." She put down her latest hand. "Besides, I think you're cheating."

  "Cheating? No one would have to cheat to beat you."

  He looked wounded as he gathered up the cards, and stood to put them away. "If you have to be such a spoil sport, I'm going back out to check on the horse. He's better company than you, anyway."

  Michael stayed gone for a long time. Finally, Melinda could hear him as he paced back and forth on what she presumed was the porch outside, where he must have been protected from the weather. Lightning zinged outside, causing her to jump. Apparently he preferred even the storm to her company.

  She sighed, then reached over to examine some ancient Western magazines stacked on the table at her elbow. She tried to become absorbed in a classic frontier adventure story, but it was hard to read by lantern light. Exhaustion finally overcame her. She stumbled off the sofa and back to the bed, where she crawled in and drifted off to sleep.

  Much later, she awakened to a different sound — a silence. Rain no longer pelted the roof. Good, she thought. Maybe the floodwater would recede, and she could leave this place.

  A few minutes later, she was dumbfounded to hear the roar of a low‑flying airplane that seemed to be just overhead. Her heart lifted with hope. Maybe there was a nearby landing strip where a plane could touch down. Maybe there was a way out of here other than overland.

  In the inky darkness, she was dimly aware that the outside door opened and then closed. Then she heard the sound of a motor starting up and a vehicle leaving. Odd. Where would Michael be going? Where could he go?

  She must have dozed off. Later in the night, she again was awakened — this time by the grinding of gears as a vehicle came to a halt right outside. The door creaked open. The dark, tip‑toeing man outlined against the red coals of the fireplace was Michael.

  She pretended to be asleep as she watched him silently pull off his boots, and place them carefully on the floor. He stretched out on the sofa, and before long began to snore. She was too tired to dwell on the mystery. Tomorrow would be time enough to question him.

  The next morning, she was aroused by the bright sunlight pouring through the window. The smell of coffee brought her fully awake. She took a deep, appreciative breath as Michael approached with a cup in his hand. She smiled involuntarily at him, and was treated to an unexpected answering smile. Her spirits lifted with unexplainable affection when he placed the coffee in her hand.

  "Soup's on. It'll be ready in a minute," he said cheerfully.

  Later, they ate at the table in companionable silence. And when he spoke again, she understood why he seemed to be in such a better mood.

  "I just took a look outside. The water seems to be going down. I'm sure I can get you back into town today. That is, if you feel up to it."

  "That would be wonderful!"

  He grinned. "At no charge."

  "I guess I deserved you having a little fun with me," Melinda said. "It was — rude — of me to treat you like you were some sort of hobo."

  "No problem," Mac said. "I haven't exactly been on my best behavior either."

  Already, she had pleasant visions of a motel room and a hot shower. She would buy some clothes to replace the ones she lost in the flood. And then, the next day, she would search for the McClure place again — this time with a hired driver.

  She considered asking Michael to take her directly to the ranch, but somehow she couldn't face the McClures looking like some kind of war refugee.

  They leisurely finished their meal. This man soon would be part of the past. Idly, she recalled the previous night — the airplane and the vehicle noises that had so abnormally pierced the quiet of their isolation.

  "Did you hear anything last night?" she asked casually.

  "A few cattle are milling around — those that weren't caught on low ground when the waters came up. That's about it."

  "Yours?" she asked sympathetically.

  He nodded. She wondered then if part of his chronic ill temper might be blamed on concern for the livestock that must have been destroyed in the storm. It was his livelihood, after all. However, he still had not satisfied her curiosity.

  "Wasn't that airplane horribly loud?" she asked. "It came so close. You went out in the jeep about the same time, didn't you? I heard you."

  "Planes fly over here all the time. It didn't mean anything. I just went out to check some cattle."

  "In the pitch dark?" Melinda asked incredulously.

  "If you're so interested, then
you tell me what it means." Michael's tone turned cold.

  Melinda was sorry she brought up the subject. He stood, almost turning over his chair. Then he cleared the table by piling dishes onto one arm. He dumped everything in the sink before he turned around to face her. As he wiped his hands on a dish towel, his tense stance contradicted the forced indifference of his voice.

  "Really," he coaxed. "I want to know. Why are you so concerned?"

  "Well, I — it was just strange, that's all."

  "Something to do with Roy Finch, do you suppose?"

  His voice was so accusing that Melinda found herself gaping at him.

  "What are you talking about? Who's Roy Finch?"

  "Don't give me that," Michael said in disgust. "That road you were on leads to Eagle Ranch. What was your business there?"

  He walked slowly over to the table, and leaned over it to scrutinize her at close range.

  "You may as well tell me all about it. I know more than you think I do."

  Melinda responded angrily. "You've definitely got me mixed up with someone else. And I don't want any part of whatever you're involved with. But just to clear things up — not that it's any of your business — I was on my way to Sacramento Ranch to see Preston McClure."

  Michael's eyes flashed with surprise, then mistrust as he straightened and stepped backward. "I don't believe a word of it. Why would Preston have anything to do with the likes of you?"

  Melinda scooted her chair back, stood, and faced him squarely.

  "Now look here. I've had about enough. I'm Preston's sister‑in‑law, Melinda Bailey. And contrary to what you seem to think, I have every right to be here."

  Utter disbelief wiped away his hostile expression.

  "Joan's sister?"

  "So you know the McClures?"

  Michael's face turned a flaming red. "I should have known. When you said your first name, I should have recognized it. And you both have that Southern accent. What's the matter with me? I never even made the connection. I never dreamed anybody could be that dense, to come charging up here all alone — "

  "Thank you. I'm flattered." Melinda was beginning to guess the truth.

  "No, I didn't mean it that way. I apologize. For everything." He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. "This is very awkward for me, Melinda. I guess I should have introduced myself properly before. My name is Michael McClure. My friends call me Mac. I don't know what Joan calls me. Nothing complimentary, I'm sure."

  "So you're Preston's brother." Melinda said it without enthusiasm, as she recalled her sister's scathing descriptions of him during rare telephone conversations. She was the one who should have guessed, long before this.

  It wasn't such a coincidence that she had crossed paths with him, after all. She was destined for the Sacramento Ranch when she took a wrong turn. How many ranches could there be in this vicinity? Right now, though, Melinda's first thought was for her sister's welfare.

  "Have they found her yet?" she asked anxiously. "Is she all right?"

  His grim face told her everything. "I checked with Preston on the radio this morning. Nothing has changed. And you being here isn't going to help matters, either."

  "Is that your way of telling me I'm not welcome?"

  "I didn't say that." His voice sounded harsh despite the protest. "Besides, you're Preston's responsibility, not mine. Now, if you'll just step aside, I'll straighten this place up so we can leave."

  "Fine," Melinda said tersely. "I need some fresh air anyway."

  "Look, I'm sorry if I — "

  She slammed the door on his apology. Then, feeling a little childish, she took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. With the reception she already had received from Mac, she hardly relished the upcoming meeting with Preston.

  She walked over to the porch's wooden railing. The shelter was, indeed, on high ground, offering a panoramic view of a deep canyon where a ribbon of water far below showed evidence of recent flooding. A soft, cool breeze that carried the fragrance of wet juniper and pinon trees fanned her face.

  Then, a loud crash in the underbrush right below caused her to flinch, and grip the railing in alarm. When a deer appeared in the clearing, it spotted her immediately and bounded up the hill to her left. She was delighted as she followed its progress, and saw it join a group of three more deer in the distance.

  They disappeared briefly behind a cluster of trees. She leaned over the railing as she strained to catch a glimpse of the animals. Occasionally, the distinctive white spot of a rear end gave one away. She had no idea how long she had been watching them when the door behind her opened.

  "You'll have time for sight‑seeing later," Mac said. "Come on. I've had enough of this place for a while."

  He handed Melinda her purse, and she followed him to the jeep parked nearby. He gave her a quick boost inside. Then he walked to a small corral at the side of the shack, opened the gate and slapped a raw‑boned, tall white gelding on the rump. The horse shot out of the enclosure and took off running.

  Mac watched the horse disappear into some nearby trees with an expression of open fondness. It was nice that the man was capable of some affection, Melinda thought. Then, he stepped inside the vehicle.

  "Ol' Bismark will probably beat us home," he observed with admiration. "I'll send someone back to pick up the trailer later."

  When Mac took off with a roar of the engine, Melinda held onto the jeep's dash to keep from bouncing through the top. Mac was none‑too‑careful as he maneuvered the rocky road that now veered downhill.

  "We'll be going higher up into the mountains, so we should be able to get out of these canyons pretty soon," he explained.

  He guided the jeep through some hub‑deep water still pouring through an arroyo. Mud holes had formed at the side of the road, where occasionally the jeep would slip sideways. Mac gripped the steering wheel and seemed to physically force the vehicle to straighten out.

  They climbed upward, leaving the canyon behind. Melinda was lost in her own world, as the road and the scenes blurred by. Back in the sanctuary of her Atlanta office, she had not realized that this country was so enormous — so wild.

  Joan could be lost in this wilderness, and no amount of manpower would ever be able to find her. Maybe Mac was right. Maybe Melinda could make no difference at all.

  "Are they still looking?" she asked glumly.

  Mac stared straight ahead. There was no feeling in his voice as he answered.

  "The rescue squad called off the search. After this rain — "

  He shrugged, without finishing the sentence.

  "You don't like her, do you?" Melinda was too discouraged to sound accusing.

  His silence was her answer.

  As they pulled onto a graveled road, clear of the mud they had just left, he reached for the CB radio.

  "I'll check with Preston and see if anything's turned up. I already told him who you are."

  The two brothers carried on an abbreviated conversation over the airways. Of course, there was no word of Joan. Then, the voice over the radio continued.

  "Tell Melinda not to worry. We've got a room ready. We'll take good care of her."

  At least Preston sounded friendlier than his brother. As they drove on, Melinda pursued her questioning.

  "Who was the last person to see Joan before she disappeared?"

  "I was."

  The jeep lurched, almost as though Mac had chosen that moment to deliberately drive over a chuckhole. Melinda refused to be subdued by his shortness. She would have her questions answered — all of them.

  "What was she doing when you last saw her?"

  "Look!" Mac exploded. "Don't you think the sheriff has been out here asking all the same questions? You're hardly being original."

  "Just tell me what she was doing, please."

  Mac's sigh was heavy. "She wanted me to take her into town. She said she had some business to attend to. That was — let me see — about two weeks ago. It was in the afternoon."


  "Was she upset?"

  "No more than usual."

  Melinda glared at Michael — Mac. Her sister was precious to her, and that she was less than admired by him was something he didn't bother to hide.

  "Well, did you take her into town?"

  Mac shifted the jeep down to a lower gear and concentrated on maneuvering an especially deep crossing filled with running water. She could see he wanted to ignore her.

  "You listen to me," she informed him, her voice rising a few decibels. "When Preston called me and told me Joan had disappeared, that's all the information I ever got. Am I supposed to believe there's nothing more to it? I don't know your brother. And I don't know you. But I love my sister, and frankly, I don't care what either of you think. I'm going to find out what happened to her. Now, are you going to answer my questions or not?"

  She saw Mac's hand squeeze the gear shift. He must have been holding his temper, for he exhaled sharply. She could see his indecision as he avoided looking in her direction. His behavior made her think he was about to fabricate some story to shut her up.

  "No, I did not take her into town."

  "Why not?"

  "I had something else I needed to do."

  Did he sound defensive? Maybe even guilty? He must have felt Melinda staring at him, because he glanced at her with exasperation.

  "Darned it all, your sister was always coming up with some crisis! I had to look after some horses that day. How was I to know — ?"

  He paused, and looked away from Melinda to direct his full attention to the road ahead.

  "Know what?" she finished for him. "That this time she might have really needed your help?"

  She couldn't help her accusation. If Mac had answered her sister's plea, if he had taken her into town...would things now be different?

  Mac savagely jerked the wheel to avoid a huge boulder that had slipped down the side of a canyon and onto the road.

  "Listen," he answered. "I spent hours — day and night — helping to look for that girl. I've went out in the jeep. I've been out on horseback. There's no sign of her. And I still wonder if..." He looked over at Melinda, hesitant, before he continued. "I still wonder if this isn't another one of her little acts."