Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  “Sorry. He’s pretty territorial, and when we stop in a new place he can’t decide what’s his and what’s not. Can’t really blame him—sometimes I can’t either.”

  Jessie was caught by the vibrant quality of the woman’s voice, which sang with the richness of a cello, as well as with her evident good humor.

  The barking had ceased as soon as she appeared. Now the small dog stood looking up at her attentively, all wagging tail and liquid brown eyes, full of so much devotion as he beseeched forgiveness that it could have melted a glacier. Jessie, familiar with the habits of dogs, couldn’t help smiling at this conspicuous bit of chicanery.

  “That’s okay,” she assured the dachshund’s mistress, holding out a friendly hand. “Hi, I’m Jessie Arnold, your next-door neighbor for the night.”

  “Hi, yourself,” she was told in return and a lightly calloused hand with long graceful fingers, one bearing a large silver and turquoise ring, clasped hers firmly. “I’m Maxie McNabb, and this hooligan”—a nod in the dachshund’s direction—“is Stretch. Yours?”

  “Tank.”

  “An Alaskan husky, right?”

  The two dogs were now paying more attention to each other than to their humans. Muzzles thrust out, noses almost touching, they circled each other and seemed to approve of what they found, for Stretch suddenly reared up and gave the husky a quick lick on the nose, then danced back and forth on his short legs in a distinct invitation to play. Tank glanced up at the watching women, then sat down with an air of tolerance, preserving face against such a frontal attack on his considerable dignity.

  “You clown!” Maxie told the irrepressible dachshund, keeping a tight hold on the leash as she turned back to Jessie. “So—they’ve made friends. Can I offer you a drink? A good bottle of Irish is an excellent peace offering.”

  Jessie’s smile grew wider. “Jameson’s?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “You said good.”

  Maxie raised an eyebrow and nodded approval. “A woman with taste. Come along then.”

  Her motor home, Jessie noticed as she approached, was three or four feet longer than the Winnebago and had a slideout that extended a section of its width by several feet to one side, so it seemed quite a lot bigger too. Under a crank-out awning that sheltered the near side, a large piece of indoor/outdoor carpeting was spread, on which rested a padded lawn chair and small matching table. Removing the dachshund’s leash and replacing it with a line attached securely to a handy ring on the side of the RV, Maxie disappeared inside for a moment and returned with a second chair, which she unfolded and placed so the table was between them.

  “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the drinks. Water? Ice?”

  “Straight up,” Jessie told her, finding the chair exceptionally cushy, “but I’d like an ice water with.”

  “Good girl! Never ruin good whiskey.”

  Tank lay down by her feet. Stretch’s tether was long enough so that, though sensing play was not going to happen, he could join Tank, and the two were soon relaxing together like old friends.

  Maxie quickly returned with their drinks and a basket of chips, which she put on the table. Settling easily into her chair, she raised a glass of similarly undiluted Jameson’s in Jessie’s direction. “Rose-lipt maidens—lightfoot lads.”

  The unexpected quote from Houseman took Jessie off guard, into an internal stillness so profound she could scarcely take the next breath. When she did, she was dismayed to find her vision awash with tears. Setting down her untasted drink, she scrubbed hastily at her face.

  Maxie waited, saying nothing, till Jessie looked up to find her watching closely with a hint of sympathy and a tissue from one of her pockets in her hand. “Hit a nerve, did I?”

  Jessie nodded and smiled, recovering rapidly. “Yeah. Someone I know used to say that—but he almost always got it backwards.”

  A chuckle from Maxie, followed by a slightly nostalgic expression that raised the corners of her mouth and narrowed her eyes. “I remember my husbands with it—good men, both—gone now.”

  They sipped at their drinks in thoughtful silence for a minute, remembering past lovers, but were soon talking in the interested, animated way of people who already know they are going to like each other.

  By the time Jessie went back to the Winnebago, it was dark, the sky had clouded over, and a bit of wind had come up. Sometime in the previous two hours she had fed and watered Tank and been handed a plate of salad and lasagna from Maxie’s galley, but what she remembered was the agreeable conversation. There had been much laughter and congenial sharing of interests. The cabin she was soon to build had been described in great detail, along with the ups and downs of her kennel business and sled dog racing. She had heard all about Maxie’s travels in the motor home, the daughter married to an attorney who disapproved of her wayfaring lifestyle—“We have an appearance to consider, you know!”—and the son who didn’t—“Go and do whatever floats your boat, Ma. Have a great time.”

  The last thing that made her smile, as she settled comfortably into her bed for the night and reviewed the pleasant evening, was the dachshund’s name—Stretch. How perfect for a small, spirited dog, slung low to the ground but as full of life as his mistress. Their approach to the world reminded her of one of the mottoes she had noticed prominently displayed in Maxie’s motor home: “Life’s too short to drink bad wine.”

  7

  THE UNEXPECTED FURY OF THE STORM THAT SWEPT thunderously through the Dutch Creek campground during the night had startled Jessie from her contented sleep and confused her concerning her whereabouts, but having enjoyed the light show as it passed over, she had gone easily back to sleep with pleasant thoughts about what had set her on this unexpected journey and of the miles to come.

  When she was jerked from dreams again sometime later, instantly alerted by a low uneasy growl from Tank, she knew exactly where she was. He had been sleeping on the floor beside her bed, but he was now on his feet, listening attentively. Padding quietly to the coach door, he growled softly again.

  Slowly, silently, taking great care not to rock the motor home any more than she had to, Jessie slipped from her bed and crept forward to stand by his side. With one finger she parted the slats of the blind on the galley window and peered out into the glow shed by a campground light on a tall pole nearby. It lit up several motor homes and campers and a wide area of shrubs and grass still slowly dripping from the now departed storm, but she saw nothing move other than leaves on the trees and heard nothing but the mild wind that still tossed them gently.

  Tank turned and padded to the center of open space between the door and the dinette, cocked his head, and stared at the floor. Whatever he was hearing, it was beneath them. Then Jessie thought she heard something softly scrape against the underside of the rig. An animal—perhaps a bear? Too big. It couldn’t be very large if it was able to make its way beneath the motor home.

  Cautiously lowering herself to hands and knees, she laid one ear against the carpet and listened intently. Under her head, something hit the floor with a small thump, startling her back to a sitting position. Something—or someone—was definitely down there.

  Before leaving Knik, Jessie had considered taking along the Smith & Wesson .44 pistol that she carried on training runs and in races for protection against the moose that sometimes attacked mushers and their teams. But remembering that handguns were illegal in Canada and that most of her trip would take place on Canadian highways, she had conscientiously left it behind. Instead, in Coeur d’Alene, she had purchased two medium-size cans of pepper spray, one of which now lay within easy reach within a drawer under the galley sink—the work of seconds to retrieve.

  With a stern look and quick clasp of his muzzle between thumb and fingers, she cautioned Tank not to bark, then tiptoed to the bedroom where she balanced carefully to pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and slid her feet without socks into her running shoes. Quietly collecting a flashlight and the pepper spray fr
om the drawer, she returned to the door, Tank close beside her, and gingerly turned the dead-bolt to unlock it.

  She hadn’t made any loud sounds, but one cannot move in an unstablized RV without causing some slight vibration. It had been very quiet, and she had the feeling that whatever was down there was waiting and listening as hard as she was. Slowly she lifted the handle and pushed against the door. As it swung open, the edge scraped very softly against the frame with the small squeal of metal against metal.

  The result was the instant sound of whatever was under the floor moving quickly toward the other side. Jessie leaped out and, with Tank following, ran around the front of the rig, turning on the flashlight as she went, pepper spray ready in the other hand. She was just in time to see a dark human figure roll out from underneath and scramble to its feet.

  “Stop!” she snapped, directing the light and the can both toward it. “I’ll pepper-spray you if you don’t.”

  The figure froze and, turning startled eyes in her direction, was immediately blinded by the beam from her flashlight.

  It was a boy—well, sort of a boy—a young man just old enough, perhaps, to be on his own. He dropped a pack and poncho he had dragged out with him and threw up his arms to shield his eyes.

  “What the hell are you doing under my rig?” Jessie demanded sharply.

  “Please don’t use that pepper stuff,” he said. “I was just trying to get out of the rain.”

  “Don’t you have a place of your own? Who are you anyway?”

  “Rick—” He stopped, then started again. “Patrick—ah—Cutler.” His voice broke on the words. He sounded young and scared to Jessie. His arms hid his face, but a shock of red hair was just visible above them.

  “How old are you, Patrick Cutler?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “In a pig’s eye!”

  “No, really,” he entreated. “I was eighteen in March.”

  “I might believe that if I could see the rest of you. Put your arms down.” She walked a bit closer and lowered the light from his face.

  He complied and stood blinking wide blue eyes, still half blinded. His attempt not to appear frightened wasn’t working well; guilty alarm made him look like a small boy caught trying out his father’s pipe behind the barn. Tousled red hair hung over his forehead, and his narrow face bore a streak of dirt on one cheek, probably a result of his hasty attempt to crawl out from under the motor home. Otherwise he looked fairly clean, in jeans, hiking boots, and a black windbreaker jacket zipped to his chin with a hood that hung down his back and a tiny red Canadian maple leaf pin on the collar. Beside the poncho, a backpack lay at his feet and he was clutching a blue hat in one hand. A bell of recognition rang in Jessie’s mind, but adrenaline still pumping, she ignored it in favor of her anger and questions she wanted answered.

  “Anybody else under there?”

  “No, just me.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Wyoming.”

  Tank, standing alertly beside her, suddenly turned his head toward Maxie’s motor home, and Jessie realized that in her concentration on her captive she had blocked out the sound of Stretch barking inside it for most of the brief interrogation. A light came on in the galley, the door opened, and Maxie, in a robe and moccasins, came down the steps onto the outdoor carpet. Stretch jumped out behind her and flew across to help Tank confront the intruder, barking fiercely from just out of reach.

  “Shut up, Stretch,” Maxie said in mild distraction. “What’s going on?”

  The dachshund stopped barking and growled instead.

  “I just caught a sneak under my house,” Jessie replied, looking back at the unhappy young man who was still standing in the beam of her light. His shoulders now slumped dejectedly, though he kept his chin up, watching warily.

  “Interesting. What was he doing there?” Maxie asked, as she came to stand with folded arms beside Jessie and curiously examine her prisoner.

  “Getting out of the rain—he says.”

  “Makes sense. It was quite a rain. What’s that?” She nodded to the can in Jessie’s hand.

  “Pepper spray. And he’s lucky handguns aren’t legal in Canada.”

  They stood staring silently at the spotlit young man beside the Winnebago. He shifted uneasily on his feet and glanced around as if contemplating escape but, looking down at the two vigilant dogs, seemed to change his mind and remained where he was, waiting and shivering. Jessie thought that it could have been nerves, but the storm had brought cooler temperatures.

  “Please,” he said again, and she could hear his teeth chatter. “I d-didn’t mean to bother anybody. I’ll just go away.”

  Ignoring his plea, Maxie frowned thoughtfully and turned to Jessie. “Get anything enlightening out of him?”

  “He says he’s eighteen, his name’s Patrick Cutler, and he’s here by himself—from Wyoming.”

  “Hm-m. What shall we do with him?”

  Jessie shrugged and slowly shook her head, reflecting on the situation.

  Maxie sighed and narrowed her eyes at young Mr. Cutler. “You have anything dangerous in that pack—or your pockets?” she asked.

  “Just a hunting knife and some matches.”

  “It’s too wet to burn anything. Take the knife out and throw it over here.”

  He rummaged in the pack till he found the knife and tossed it in her direction.

  She picked it up. “Now—bring that stuff and come along.” She turned back toward her motor home, amusement in the glance she gave Jessie.

  “What are you going to do?” Jessie asked, now more interested than suspicious.

  “Well—I guess the only thing to do right now is feed him. Boys always want feeding and he looks hungry. Are you hungry, Patrick? I can see that you’re cold.”

  “Pat—ah—just Pat’s okay,” he stammered in confusion, but a hint of a grin twitched his lips as he used both hands to smooth the red hair away from his face. “Starving! Haven’t eaten since noon—and that was just an apple, some cookies, and part of a sandwich.”

  “I knew there was something familiar about you,” Jessie burst out, lowering the pepper spray. “You stole my lunch, didn’t you?”

  The grin now escaped his control, broke through, and transformed his dirty face into that of a cheerful, if slightly guilty, urchin with freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose.

  “Sorry?” he offered. Then, bending to collect his pack and poncho, he tromped off behind Maxie toward her lighted galley.

  Jessie gave up and went along.

  His name was Patrick Cutler, and from the driver’s license he showed them, he was eighteen—by barely six weeks. It also gave them an address in Cody, Wyoming.

  By the time they were drinking hot coffee, Jessie, across from him at the table, was attempting to gain more information (“You owe us something for not reporting you”), while Maxie fried bacon, scrambled eggs, and tossed in a frequent question or comment, and Tank kept Stretch company on the floor. Jessie quickly learned that Pat meant to hitchhike all the way to Fairbanks to visit his “best friend, Dave” and look for a job. He had started to mention Calgary but thought better of it when she gave him a dubious frown, remembered that she’d seen his driver’s license, and told the truth.

  “Do you know how far that is?” Jessie asked, astonished at his optimism. “There’s a lot of empty road just between towns on the highway.”

  “Yeah, well, I got a map,” he told her cheerfully. “And people are usually real good about giving me rides. I’ve only hiked maybe fifty miles—so far.”

  The idea of hitchhiking another 2,000 miles, much of it wilderness, was mind-boggling—though he’d come quite a way from Cody already. She stared at him, appalled and dismayed by his lack of concern.

  “Does your family know what you’re doing?” Maxie asked calmly, one hand on her hip, a spatula in the other.

  There was a hesitation and Pat’s grin disappeared abruptly. They could see that some door had been slamme
d shut in what until then had been a fairly candid communication. “Sure,” he said, a second too late for either of the women to believe him.

  “Patrick,” she tried again sternly, “does anyone know where you are, or where you’re going?”

  His grin was now firmly back in place, but it did not reach the wary unhappiness in his eyes, and the lips through which he attempted to reassure her were a little stiff. “Yeah, sure. Dave knows I’m coming.”

  With a thoughtful frown, Maxie turned back to her frying pan, but the force with which she slapped two slices of bread into the toaster betrayed her impatience with that answer.

  “What gear have you got?” Jessie asked. “If you had to crawl under my rig to get out of the rain, you must not have a tent.”

  “I’m okay—really. I got a tarp—and the poncho.”

  “Why didn’t you rig the tarp in a space with the other tents?”

  “Ah—well, I…” He shrugged and stopped.

  It was suddenly clear. He wasn’t registered, hadn’t wanted to pay the fee. Couldn’t afford it?

  “How much money have you got?” she demanded, as Maxie set a platter of early breakfast on the table and joined them, bringing her coffee mug.

  “Plenty,” he snapped back, stung. “That’s none of your business.” There was anger, resentment, and a hint of some other dark thing on his face. Jessie, momentarily nonplussed, backed off and began to spread jam on a piece of toast.

  There was a small silence while Maxie served herself bacon and eggs, then handed him the platter.

  “You’re right, it’s not,” she agreed. “And we’re not going to report you for anything, Patrick. But, you see, we’ve both driven this highway before and know what it’s like. We’re concerned that you won’t be able to make it all the way to Fairbanks. You must have had enough money to cross the border, anyway.”