Night of Shadows

by Marilyn Haddrill

  It was like viewing an empire — which, she supposed, in modern terms it was. She shifted her position on the lawn chair, and closed her eyes, hoping for a nap.

  But her perch was starting to become uncomfortably hot as the merciless sun beat down on her. Even the mockingbird eventually abandoned her for a cooler resting place in a nearby shade tree. Melinda was about to follow the bird's wise example and go inside the house, when the stillness was shattered by the loud roar of an engine.

  From Melinda's vantage point, she spotted a white van splashed with brightly colored murals of fierce eagles with talons savagely protruding. As the vehicle sped through the entrance gate, dust clouds billowed behind it. Unswerving, the van bore down on a ranchhand who was leading a horse from one of the blue stables across the road to a fenced pasture.

  At last, the driver squealed the brakes. Melinda's heart stopped as she watched the van skid to one side and the spirited horse rear high into the air. Jerking the lead rope from the man's grip, the animal bolted and ran like a flash of golden brown across the road and down the side of the fence.

  The swerving vehicle barely missed both horse and man, but never came to a complete stop.

  Instead, the driver again accelerated down the lane, converting it to a speedway as he headed for the house. Melinda saw the ranchhand sprint frantically after the horse.

  Just then, a pickup appeared from behind the stables where it had been parked out of sight. Even at that distance, she recognized Mac's outline in the driver's seat as he turned onto the main road to head off the horse. The terrified animal plunged recklessly ahead in panic.

  Melinda felt oddly detached as she watched the miniature drama unfold from her elevated vantage point.

  While Mac sped off in the pickup, the van slid to a dusty halt below her. Wondering what sort of dire emergency had sparked this wild behavior, Melinda craned her neck and peered over the veranda to get a closer look.

  As the brash intruders spilled out of the vehicle, Preston came into view immediately below her. That startled her. She had assumed Preston was nowhere near the house, since Harriet had assured her both brothers would be outside all day working with the horses.

  She could only assume Preston must have been expecting the visitors.

  He stopped, with his back to her, as the van's occupants — a group of four men and a woman — approached. She was unable to distinguish words as Preston said something in a low voice.

  There was an answering, indistinct response from the man who appeared to be the leader of the unruly bunch. All of them were now stopped squarely in front of Preston.

  Something about the leader's confident stance and his neatly groomed, long blond hair and beard caught her attention as he engaged Preston in conversation. She wished they were nearer, so she could hear better.

  She risked half‑lifting herself from the chair for a closer look, but was unable to fully see faces from her upper level. She cautiously lowered herself back down to avoid attracting attention.

  Those with the blond man did not seem too interested in the conversation between their leader and Preston as they bantered among themselves. All of the people in the group were dressed as garishly as the van was painted.

  Fringe and sequins adorned mock ranch style costumes that seemed more suited to a Las Vegas stage show. Long locks of hair sprouted from beneath fancy, broad-brimmed hats.

  The young woman with the group seemed to hang back, staying close to the painted van where Melinda now could read the insignia, "Eagle Ranch," on the door.

  The woman kept clasping her hands together and gazing around. Occasionally she would reach up to tug on her long, dark braid of hair. Once, when she appeared to look directly up at the veranda, Melinda shrank uncomfortably back into her chair.

  She was certain the woman had spotted her. But the blank expression on the visitor's face seemed to indicate that Melinda's presence didn't matter. The woman appeared to be high on some drug.

  Soon, the woman was looking down at a booted foot that she wriggled around as though fascinated by the sight. The abnormal behavior repulsed Melinda, who looked away and back to the leader of the group.

  The blond was nodding his head forcefully. Then, he gestured emphatically with his hands to emphasize something he just said to Preston. Although their voices now were sometimes raised in argument, she still could not distinguish any words.

  Preston, by the rigidity of his back and his clenched fists, seemed agitated.

  Melinda couldn't resist leaning forward to try again to hear what was going on. That's when she noticed the girl's eyes fixed on her. The girl's head was upraised and still, striking the pose of an alarmed deer.

  The blond leader saw. He followed the girl's gaze to where Melinda sat. That's when Melinda got her first good look at the stranger's face. His steely gray eyes penetrated her with almost a physical force, one so malevolent that Melinda actually shivered.

  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a pickup skidded to a halt alongside the van, temporarily obscuring the scene with a spewing of dust. Mac threw open the door and stepped out. His booming words were so loud that even Melinda could hear.

  That mare is with foal! She could miscarry! What do you mean driving in here like that?" Mac slammed the door to his pickup shut with a thundering crash. "Get off my property, Finch, and I mean now!"

  Finch whirled to face Mac, as his three men flanked him for reinforcements. For a fleeting moment, Melinda wondered if Mac were in real danger. Voices were lowered again, and Melinda couldn't catch what was said in the next exchange.

  But she did see Mac reach inside his shirt, pull out a gun, and point it menacingly in the blond man's face. Her mouth went dry as she recalled the morning when Mac, without hesitation, had shot the renegade bull.

  Finch instantly turned to the other intruders and gestured for them to get inside the van. As the others sullenly slipped inside, he paused and looked back toward Mac as though making a silent promise. And then again his eyes moved upward, slicing through Melinda, before he, too, climbed inside.

  The van drove away in a defiant burst of speed.

  Mac tossed the gun aside, then reached out with both hands and grabbed his brother by the shoulders — as though trying to reason with him. Finally, Mac reached down and retrieved the pistol. Then he got back into his truck, drove down the lane and disappeared behind the stables.

  Preston stood for a few seconds in a pose of defeat. He turned with lowered head and walked slowly back into the house. The van rounded a distant corner of the dusty road, and disappeared from sight.

  Melinda saw that the ranch hand was leading the mare, the first casualty of the visit, back in the direction of the stables. The animal was exhausted as it stumbled forward, its sides heaving, as its nose almost touched the gravel road. Finally, the animal was guided into a stable.

  All was quiet again.

  Except for Melinda's thoughts.

  She stood and hurried back into her room lest anyone see her excitement.

  She had no doubt that the scene she had just witnessed carried great significance. For one thing, she had at last encountered the elusive Roy Finch. And if he knew Preston, wouldn't it be reasonable to assume that he also knew Joan? And, if so, was there a connection to her disappearance?

  Having locked gazes with those wintry eyes, Melinda hoped not.

  ***

  The first part of dinner that night with Preston and Mac was spent in a chilly hush that even Melinda was reluctant to interrupt. Finally, however, she succumbed to the insistent spur of her curiosity. There was no appropriate moment or way to broach the subject. So she just plunged in.

  "I saw Roy Finch today."

  Both Preston and Mac paused in mid-bite, their forks frozen as though she had hit the "pause" button on a DVD movie. Preston unthawed first.

  "When?"

  "I was on the veranda when the van pulled up."

  "What did you hear?" Preston's voice sounded oddly strangled.


  "Nothing." Melinda could see by his expression that he didn't believe her. "Really. I was too far away. Who is the man? He certainly caused quite a stir."

  Mac carefully put his fork down. "Don't answer that, Preston. She has to learn she's not entitled to know all of our business."

  "If it concerns my sister, I'm certainly entitled," Melinda retorted coldly.

  "Oh, give it a rest, Mac," Preston said. He looked directly at Melinda. "Roy Finch is a — friend — of mine. That's all. He owns the Eagle Ranch, the spread next to us. Joan hardly knew him."

  Answers. But not very satisfying ones. By the testy silence that again fell, Melinda knew it was best not to push her luck with more questions. After a lingering silence, both brothers seemed relieved when she excused herself early before dessert and coffee were served to go up to her room.

  Melinda didn't remember falling asleep. But sometime during the night she was awakened by the muted sound of a low‑flying airplane, followed by the shrill chirping of the disturbed mockingbird.

  Puzzled, she checked the clock by her bed. It was just after midnight. She stood, reached for Joan's robe, and wrapped it around her. Then she stepped out onto the veranda to see if she could catch sight of the plane. But the only movements she saw at first were from the quivering stars and a spurt of brightness from a short-lived meteor.

  At last, she spotted the swooping shadow of an unlit plane drifting across the sky like a sinister omen. The noise of its sputtering engine faded into the distance, and she lost sight of it.

  Melinda folded her arms as a protective shield against the cool night air and stared toward the direction of the noise. A full moon hovering on the horizon provided generous illumination.

  Then, a stealthy movement caught her eye as a shadowy figure on horseback drifted away from the stables. The horse and rider moved in a slow walk, passing quietly below her on a dirt path. Then they disappeared from sight toward the right side of the house. Horse and rider clearly were headed in the direction of the airplane noise. All at once the engine's roar ceased.

  The plane must have landed nearby.

  The mockingbird, no longer agitated by the burst of sound, itself became silent. The only thing Melinda could hear now was a chorus of crickets and the yipping of a coyote far away.

  Then a sharp noise, like a boot scuffing gravel, rang out. She thought she saw a dark figure move in the vicinity of the corral and then duck out of sight behind a building. If so, then the person clearly had seen her where she was standing in the full glow of the moon.

  Shaking now with more than just the cold, Melinda stepped back into the safety of her room and closed and carefully locked the sliding veranda door.

  When she slipped back under the covers, Melinda was too troubled to sleep.

  Could someone at this ranch be involved in some type of illicit activity? But it made no sense to suspect the McClure brothers. They were prominent, successful ranchers. What possible motive could they have?

  Yet this night had triggered a memory of another time and place, when she had been ill and stranded. She had heard a plane then, too, when Mac had slipped outside and driven away.

  Melinda reluctantly admitted to herself that the phantom horseman she had spotted tonight looked a lot like Mac. What was he up to? And why would he feel compelled to meet the occupants of that plane only when he was hidden by the shadows of the night?

  5

  Melinda had little to do the next morning as she awaited the Ruidoso trip the following day. In her restlessness, she wandered the upstairs hallway with the idea of finding Harriet and requesting some paper and pencils for sketching.

  First, she stopped at her room to change from her robe and gown into casual clothes of Levis and a red pullover top. After wrapping a bandanna around her long hair, she walked down the hallway and spotted the open door to Mac's room.

  That's when she saw the painting.

  Melinda glanced around. The hallway was empty. So she hesitantly walked inside to take a closer look at the commanding pose of a long-legged black colt captured in the frame hung above the bed's rumpled covers. The artist had outlined the magnificent animal against the backdrop of a red, bleeding sunset.

  Melinda moved even closer, almost pressing her nose against the scene. Such exquisite detail had been captured that the painting lost none of its quality, even with Melinda's unfairly close scrutiny.

  Then she spotted the tiny, delicate signature scrawled modestly in the lower right corner — Colleen Davis McClure. By the date noted next to the signature, Melinda was certain that the woman had been Mac's mother. If so, she must have died shortly after this painting was completed.

  Melinda stepped back. Her attention then was caught by a color photograph of a vibrant, handsome young couple displayed on the bureau. She picked it up. It was an older picture, slightly yellowed by the years.

  The woman wore her dark hair long and loose. Her high cheek bones and prominent nose indicated Indian ancestry. The man wore a military uniform and a stern expression to match. They had to be Mac's parents.

  "What do you think you're doing in here, Missy?"

  Feeling properly guilty, Melinda quickly replaced the photograph and whirled to face Harriet. The housekeeper stood, her expression accusing. She carried an armload of fresh linens for the bed.

  "I — uh — the painting caught my eye," Melinda stammered, as she backed up and moved closer to the doorway and escape.

  "That's no reason to go poking through other people's things, now is it? Get out. Hear me?"

  Harriet shoved her way past Melinda and dumped the linens on a nearby chair.

  "I swear to you," Melinda said. "I came in here because of the painting. I'm an artist myself, you see. I — I thought this woman in the photograph probably did the painting. It's Mac's mother, isn't it? I saw the signature — "

  Harriet didn't appear to be listening to Melinda's babbling as she began tearing covers off the bed.

  "I was looking for you," Melinda continued, a little more calmly. "I wanted to ask if you might know where I could find some drawing material — pencils, papers. That sort of thing. I wanted to do some sketching."

  Harriet straightened up and made an extra movement to the side, as if to eliminate a kink from her back.

  "Will it keep you busy and out of everyone's hair?

  Melinda assured her that it would.

  Grunting, Harriet gestured at Melinda to follow. A few moments later, Melinda found herself trailing the housekeeper up some narrow stairs to the attic.

  Harriet instructed Melinda to wait at the doorway. Then, she walked on into the room, knelt, and began grudgingly to rummage around in an old chest. From where she stood, Melinda couldn't see what Harriet was doing. But, finally, the old woman stood up. A sketch pad and charcoal drawing pencils were in her hands.

  She took a deep breath and blew to clear away the dust. Then she walked over to Melinda and handed over the items.

  "Hers," Harriet said, as if it explained everything. "They ain't doing nobody much good up here."

  A few minutes later, armed with the drawing materials, Melinda stepped outside. It was still early enough for the morning breezes to be cool, and she took a deep, appreciative breath of fresh air. Directly ahead, she spotted rows of freshly painted white stables framed by green alfalfa pastures.

  Melinda was attracted by the stables, with their not unpleasant odor that brought back agreeable memories. As a teen-ager, she had owned and stabled her own horse for a short time — until boys and other distractions replaced her interest in riding.

  At the nearest pen, a large, black stallion threw up his head and measured her cautious approach. His ears flicked up and down with nervous energy. He tossed his head and snorted. Then, he lowered his nose into the feed bin for another mouthful of grain, and lifted his head once more to methodically chew. All the while, he kept a wary eye on her.

  Charmed, Melinda sat down on a nearby bale of hay. Something in the arrogant way
the stallion carried himself, and the extraordinarily long lines of his neck reminded her of the colt in the painting in Mac's room.

  The horse was the same animal, now matured. She was sure of it.

  Melinda sat down on a nearby bale of hay, propped the drawing pad on her knees, and began sketching his head. With sweeping lines, she drew the proud arch of his muscled neck, then used delicate strokes to capture the noble spirit in his eyes.

  She lost herself to her imagination as she worked.

  In another time and place, this stallion would have been destined to run free. He would have dominated any untamed land. Yet, she felt no sadness at seeing him confined. His sleek and well-groomed coat showed that domestication suited him. Melinda had an eerie feeling that the stallion remained the master of his domain, even inside his pen.

  Melinda's final drawing was superb — not because of her own talent, but because her subject demanded perfection.

  She set the paper aside with the idea of filling in the details later. Then, she stood and walked closer. Dazzled by the gorgeous animal, she reached out in a slow, tentative gesture to see if the horse would allow her to touch him.

  He apparently was accustomed to being handled, for he made no protest as she rubbed first his forehead, then his soft muzzle, and worked her way up behind his ears. He seemed to appreciate the attention, for he stopped eating and stood still. She laughed softly when he let out his breath in a long, contented sigh.

  Then, a rough voice from out of nowhere startled her, causing her to jump and the horse to shy away.

  "Joan likes the horses, too — except she prefers them on the track."

  Melinda slowly turned to face Mac. "You're still angry with my sister, aren't you? Well, everyone around here keeps forgetting one thing. Joan isn't here now. She hasn't been for days. Preston is still asking you for money, isn't he? That has to be why you're so frustrated. And if Joan isn't here, what's his excuse now?"