Night of Shadows

by Marilyn Haddrill

  Melinda took no satisfaction in seeing Mac's defeated expression. But she knew Joan had been the convenient alibi, drawing Mac's bitterness away from a younger brother who he dearly loved and could not bear to condemn. Melinda must keep hammering at Mac, to make him see the picture as it really was.

  "Preston got married right after he was home from the service," she continued gently. "You hadn't been around him very much in those years. You blamed all the changes you saw in him on Joan, didn't you?"

  She waited patiently, until finally Mac answered.

  "You're right about one thing. It was never like it was before Preston left home the first time. We were good friends back then. Life was tough, but we were — happy. That was before money entered the picture. Back then, none of us ever dreamed we would end up so prosperous. And it all started with this old man."

  Confused at first, Melinda followed Mac's gaze. Then she realized he was talking about the black stallion that now had returned to busily munching his grain.

  Taking care not to spook the animal, Mac reached out gently to stroke the horse's neck.

  "Before Black Gold here came along, my father was a rancher — just like most everyone else who lives around here. When we were growing up, life was a whole lot simpler. We grazed cattle — sometimes sheep. We had good years and bad years, but we got by okay. It seemed like we never got ahead, though. Then one year Dad bought a little black foal from one of our neighbors, and raised him for racing. Back then, just about anyone could afford a quarter horse. No one really expected to win much. Racing was more like a hobby."

  As if recognizing that a tribute was being paid to him, Black Gold craned his head forward to receive a few more loving pats from his owner.

  "This old boy was not only a winner, he was a sensation. Old as he is now, he's still the country's top quarter horse sire. We sell breeding right shares on him for tens of thousands of dollars."

  The horse tossed his head triumphantly, as though he understood every word being spoken. The old sire seemed so enormously proud of himself that Mac chuckled. The rancher's face then filled with the wistfulness born of a young man's dreams.

  "He sure changed our lives," Mac continued. "We still have cattle, of course. But our main enterprise turned to horse breeding and racing. Don't get me wrong. Every once in a while we still have a bad year. But no matter how bad it gets, I'll never sell Black Gold to bail us out. Never. Besides, we've got a couple of colts — some of his — that I think might have every bit the potential of their old daddy..."

  Animation lit Mac's face as he continued talking about the business. He loved this life. And Melinda recognized that the two of them with all their ambition had something in common — no one with whom to share their dreams.

  She said little, avoiding interruption, for she recognized she was being shown an aspect of this man that was rarely revealed. He paused for a moment, and they stood together in companionable silence as they admired the horse. Then, Mac's next remark caught Melinda by surprise.

  "You know," he said carefully, "I'll admit that maybe Joan wasn't altogether responsible for what's been happening with my brother. But you have to understand she was part of it. She was no angel."

  Melinda was stabbed both with pain and irony. Like Mac, she had managed to place the blame entirely elsewhere, convincing herself that the fault for her sister's behavior had all been Preston's.

  "I'm not saying this to hurt you." Mac selected his words carefully. "You would understand better if you could have seen Joan at the race track. She was like a crazy person. She would bet hundreds — sometimes thousands — of dollars on one race, and most of the time lose it. I don't know why. Preston couldn't reason with her, couldn't even guide her to put her money down on something more sensible. Maybe she liked the thrill. Maybe she enjoyed putting on a show for her friends. She always had to bring them along, always had to have them around her."

  Seeing Melinda's face, Mac added hastily: "But she wasn't all bad. She was — real popular, actually. She could be a sweet kid."

  It was the first time Melinda had heard him say anything kind about Joannie. And her instincts told her Mac was telling the truth about the rest. Painful as it was, she had to find out more.

  "What — friends are you talking about?" Melinda asked. "Connie? Debbie?"

  "Yeah. Them, too. But there were others. Lots of others. We've had more than our share of guests out here. Joan and Preston both had a knack for picking up all kinds of — freeloaders."

  "Joannie was always very generous," Melinda conceded.

  "Yeah. She was. And sometimes the people she brought here would stay for days, partying every night. No one seemed to want to take any responsibility for the important things that needed to get done around here. They just ate and drank — and slept late. Harriet picked up after them all the time. I always had to take care of the business. I got sick and tired of it, so I put a stop to it all. Besides, I think there was something else going on — something I was never quite able to figure out..."

  His voice trailed off for a minute. "Anyway, I admit I thought it was all Joan's doing. But looking back, I can see Preston was in on it, too."

  Mac put his hands together and leaned against the railing of the small corral that surrounded the stable.

  "You know, even a business this big — with a bonanza like Black Gold — will go under if it isn't managed right. Dad left me in charge, and I've been putting most of my share back into the place. But Preston keeps trying to sell our best breeding stock out from under us. He wants all his money up front, now, instead of looking to the future."

  Melinda was saddened as she looked around at the empire built from such modest beginnings. Maybe Mac, being the oldest, could better appreciate the hard work that translated into their good fortune. He wasn't going to let this ranch deteriorate without a fight, even if it meant alienating his own brother. At the same time, she couldn't help but wonder just how far Mac might go to keep from losing the place.

  Mac took his foot off the rail. "Maybe I've said way too much. Let's change the subject. Come on. I'll give you a tour of the place."

  "Thanks," Melinda said. "I'd like that."

  She walked over to retrieve her drawing materials from the bale of hay. Mac followed, looking over her shoulder at the sketch of Black Gold.

  "Looks amazing," he said. "I didn't know you were an artist."

  "Oh, I draw a little and paint some, too. But I'm not nearly as good as your mother was — "

  Melinda stopped herself.

  Mac just smiled. But Melinda thought it looked forced. "Been doing some investigating, have you? Finding out all the family secrets?"

  "I just happened to see the painting in your room — " Again, Melinda stopped herself.

  "You've been in my room?"

  "Just to look at the painting. I swear I wasn't — snooping."

  "Of course not." Mac's tone was cool.

  He started walking, and Melinda hurried to catch up with him. She took his arm to slow him down.

  "Okay," Melinda said. "So maybe I was snooping — a little. But don't tell me you wouldn't do the same thing if you were me. Especially if it involved Preston. And you thought he was in some kind of danger."

  Mac stopped suddenly, and looked down at her, frowning. "Is that why you were checking out my room? Because you think I've put your sister in danger?"

  "I think someone here has," Melinda said firmly.

  "Terrific. So what were you doing? Going through my pants pockets? My wallet?"

  "I would never do that! What do you take me for? I told you, I was just curious about the painting. And I saw the photograph of your parents. Gosh, they are — were — a handsome couple."

  "They were at that."

  Mac took her arm and began leading her in the direction of a hill overlooking the McClure home.

  "So, do you think they passed it on?" he asked.

  "Passed what on?"

  "Their good looks."

 
; "Well, that's a matter of opinion — and taste."

  Mac chuckled. "Taste, eh? I suppose yours runs to slick Southern gentlemen. Someone like Perry whatchamacallit."

  "Perry?" Melinda stumbled slightly on a loose rock, and Mac tightened his grip on her arm to brace her. "I can manage fine without your help, thank you. How did you know about Perry? Oh, I remember. You got the name from that letter you mailed for me. I guess I'm not the only one in this household who can be called a snoop."

  This time, Mac laughed out loud. Then, he took her hand and pulled her up to the crest of the hill. Melinda didn't expect to see the serene meadow and the tiny, neatly groomed cemetery surrounded by wrought iron fencing with spiked points. A small spring bubbled on lower ground near several hand‑carved tombstones.

  Mac abandoned his teasing manner, replacing it with one of reverence as he opened the gate and held it for Melinda to pass through. He followed her inside. He pointed out one gravesite nearest the bushes laden with red and yellow roses. Part of the spring water had been diverted to provide permanent watering for the delightful oasis.

  "This was my mother's favorite place," Mac said quietly. "She's the one who planted the roses. It's the only thing I have left of her. I think of her every time I see these flowers, or hear a mockingbird — or smell fresh rain. She loved that sentimental stuff, loved the outdoors. 'Must have been the Indian in her."

  Next to his mother's headstone was the grave of Michael John McClure, his father. And a third headstone carried the name of Baby Patricia Ann McClure. The dates indicated the baby girl, who lived only a few months, was the first offspring of the McClure family.

  "Let's sit a minute," Mac said in a hushed tone.

  They selected a nearby boulder and sat, in shoulder‑to‑shoulder intimacy, as though they had been friends for a lifetime. Finally, Mac broke the silence.

  "Preston and I grew up kind of wild around here, even though Harriet tried her best. We needed a mother's touch, I suppose. I can be ornery sometimes, Melinda. I know I've stepped on your feelings at times and I'm sorry. I'd like to make up for it. I guess I'm learning to like you — in spite of myself."

  Melinda felt her heart swell as she became acutely aware of his nearness. This couldn't be happening to her. Not with him. Not now. She looked up, immediately feeling weak as his dark, searching eyes gazed back. He began to lower his head toward her as his arm slipped behind her waist.

  "Mac! Are you up here?"

  Mac jumped up as though he had sat on a burr. Preston's head popped above the hill as his chest heaved with the exertion of the climb.

  "There you are!" he gasped, as he finally topped the hill. He stopped outside the cemetery gate and surveyed them.

  "What are you two up to?" he asked curiously.

  "Nothing!" Mac took a few hasty steps away from Melinda, who still sat on the boulder.

  Preston grinned. "Romantic little spot, isn't it?"

  "No, it is not," Mac answered irritably. "I was just taking Melinda on a little tour of the place."

  "Yep," Preston said amiably, looking around. "If I was going to take a pretty girl on a tour of the place, this would be the first place I'd bring her."

  "Will you kindly shut up, Preston?" Mac snapped. "Just tell me what's on your mind."

  "Well, while you've been conducting your — tour — some of us have been busy working," Preston said. "I've got those papers you wanted ready. They're back at the office. The last I'd heard, you were in some big all-fired hurry for them. But maybe I was mistaken."

  "Good. That's fine," Mac said, trying to sound in control. "That was the next place I was going to show Melinda anyway."

  Preston continued grinning as the three of them made their way back down the hill. Inside the office, Preston handed over the papers. Mac inspected them, grunting his approval.

  "You did a good job on this, Preston," Mac said.

  Preston draped himself into a nearby chair. "Well, you don't have to sound so surprised."

  At that moment, Rod walked into the office. "There you are, Mac. I wanted to tell you, I took a look at Dancer's leg. She's healing nicely, and I think she's got a good chance of making it in the trials. Preston, could you check on her, too? I need a second opinion."

  Preston's jaunty attitude seemed to dissolve. He stayed seated in the chair, seemingly reluctant to move. Mac looked up, eyeing Preston impatiently.

  "Well, go on," Mac said. "You're finished up here, aren't you?"

  "Yeah," Preston mumbled. "All finished up."

  Mac frowned as the two of them walked out the door. "I don't know what good all that fancy college did him. You wouldn't know he was the veterinarian around here, the way he lets Rod do all the work for him."

  Sighing, Mac laid the papers down on the desk. "Anyway, I promised you a tour. Just leave your pencils and stuff here. We'll get them when we come back."

  Mac now seemed distant, preoccupied, and edgy as they walked around the grounds. When they returned to the office, Melinda paused to examine the walls covered with photographs of horses and jockeys in the winner's circle. Black Gold was displayed in different scenes from his racing years. She also glanced at the racks of deer and elk antlers displayed next to the photographs.

  Mac followed her look. "The hunting is good up here. That's about 20 years' worth of trophies."

  Melinda wasn't much of a hunting fan, so she said nothing. When she reached down to recover her drawing materials from Mac's desk, she spotted the proof sheet and photographs that clearly had been laid out for a full-page magazine advertising display in a horse journal. Melinda picked up the ad.

  "Who put all this together?" she asked.

  "I did," Mac said proudly. "Like it?"

  "Well," Melinda said. "I do this sort of thing for a living, and…"

  She bit off her next words, as she looked over at him.

  "What's wrong?" he demanded.

  "Well — everything."

  "So now you're an expert on horses?" he asked.

  "I didn't say that. You're the expert on horses. But I happen to know what I'm talking about in this field. I have some very prestigious accounts. I give lots of advice on marketing. For example, you have far too many words for the size of your ad."

  "Well, why shouldn't I use a lot of words? I'm paying enough for it!"

  "White space sells an ad. Not — all this clutter. It affects people psychologically."

  "So now you're a psychiatrist, too?"

  Melinda slammed the ad layout on the table and retrieved her drawing materials.

  "Forget it!"

  "No, no — tell me more."

  His edgy tone should have been a warning. But now, more than ever, she was determined to prove she was right. She picked up the page and pointed to a photograph.

  "See this?" she asked. "Who took this picture?"

  "I did," Mac answered testily. "And I happen to think it's pretty darned good."

  "Well, it's not," Melinda answered crisply, as though she were back in her Atlanta office. "It was taken with a low resolution digital camera. It's grainy. It's dark. I wouldn't recommend this for a confession magazine. Maybe you shouldn't try doing everything yourself. And maybe if you delegated a little responsibility, you would have a little more time for yourself."

  Mac dropped both hands on the desk and leaned forward.

  "This has been good enough for the horse publications for years. So maybe we don't need your Madison Avenue approach out here."

  "So do it your own way," Melinda sniffed. "You obviously know everything."

  With that, she began walking toward the exit. Mac moved quickly around the desk to the door, and opened it for her.

  "I'll walk you to the house."

  "Don't bother."

  "I insist."

  As they walked, a thick silence hung over them until Melinda spotted several horses frolicking in the pasture. She envied them their freedom. She herself had been feeling trapped. Stifled, in fact.

  And then she r
ealized that having access to a horse might give her more freedom of movement, more of a chance to explore. Besides, she had an idea hatching in the back of her mind.

  "I was wondering — Would it be possible to ride one of your horses?"

  "Absolutely not," he answered. "No amateur rides these horses. Ever."

  "I am not an amateur. And surely on what is defined as a ranch there is a four‑legged animal somewhere that could be saddled up and ridden."

  Melinda almost could have sworn she heard a low growl coming from Mac's direction. But when she sneaked a sideways look at him, his face was impassive.

  "Okay. Fine," he answered. "Ask Harriet's husband — Carl. That's my foreman. He can find you a horse. But when you decide to go riding, check with me first. I'd like to know where you're going."

  "I'm a grown woman."

  "Maybe. But I don't want you disappearing on me, too."

  When they reached the house, Mac turned toward the barn and strode off without another word.

  Fuming, Melinda went straight to her room, sat on the bed, and absent-mindedly began to flip through the pages of her drawing pad. What she saw took her mind immediately off any petty disagreements she might have with Mac. Someone had written her a note, using one of the charcoal pencils to form large block letters:

  YOUR SISTER IS FINE. GO BACK TO ATLANTA. ALL WILL BE EXPLAINED LATER.

  6

  Ruidoso's specialty shops, motels, and restaurants stretched for several miles along both sides of a major highway that brought a diversity of visitors to the mountain playland. It was an isolated resort community, and tourists attracted here made the long drive primarily from sprawling, arid west Texas cities such as El Paso or Lubbock.

  In the winter, skiers sought out the glistening white slopes of the landmark Sierra Blanca mountain peak. In the summer, gamblers embraced the cool delight of the horse racing track or indulged in a little casino action at the track or on the nearby Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation.

  From the backseat of Mac's spacious SUV, Melinda stared in contemplation at both the town and the tall pines surrounding it. Marking a drastic change in elevation, these majestic trees dwarfed the squatty pinons and desert brush that populated the McClure ranch from where they had departed early that morning.