by Laura Crum
"Mutabilus," Blue said. "So called, I suppose, because the blooms change color as they age. And don't be fooled by how dainty it looks; it's a very tough rose."
"I love it," I said truthfully.
Blue grinned. "I also brought the makings for margaritas." He lifted the brown paper grocery bag a few inches.
"Why don't you come inside," I said. "I can give you the tour, what there is of it, and you can make us a drink."
"Sounds good to me."
Blue followed me through the door and into the main room of the little house; I turned to catch a glimpse of his face as he entered. As I'd hoped and half expected, a wide smile broke out as he looked around. Many people greeted the house this way.
It was so small and craftsmanlike, so carefully detailed, and yet it was not in any way cute. There was a certain starkness to the wooden floor and walls, a sense of drama in the open ceiling and big windows. It was in no sense a "doll's house," and yet there was that aura of specialness that came with its surprisingly small size.
"This is great," Blue said.
"Isn't it? I'm very happy with it."
"Did you build it?" he asked.
"No. But I did build the barns and the fences that you see. Or really, I had someone build them for me."
That someone being Clay Bishop. I felt a small glow of petty satisfaction at the thought of him. Clay wasn't the only one who could find another date.
Blue was unpacking his paper bag and assembling bottles, lemons and limes, a juice squeezer, and a pitcher on my kitchen counter. It looked as though the tour was going to wait until after we had a drink.
I watched his back, noting the red-gold curls, the broad shoulders under the green canvas fabric of his shirt, the long legs. Turning his head, he said over his shoulder, "How was your day?"
"Not so good," I said. And without thinking much about it, I began telling him the story of last night's adventure and the corresponding tricky involvement of Nico and her mare.
Blue listened, interrupting only to hand me my drink with a "Cheers, here's to you."
I took a long swallow, blinked, and told him, "Thank you; I needed that. You make a mean margarita."
"My favorite drink." Blue took a sip of his own drink and asked me, "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," I said in frustration. "I'm really worried about Nico. Not to mention Kris. It's such a, well, creepy thought, that someone's coming to their barns at night to rape their mares."
"That does seem pretty weird," Blue agreed.
"Of course," I said, arguing with myself, "it's not like any real harm is being done. It doesn't do the mare any damage; it would really be much worse if this person were raping women." This, however, did not change my purely visceral reaction to the concept of the horse rapist, as I was well aware.
Blue stared at me with a characteristic level expression, one I had learned to know last summer. "Some harm was done to your friend's daughter."
"That's just it," I said. "Maybe this person had no intention of hurting anyone, but he bashed Jo over the head to keep her from seeing him. Or so I suppose. That could happen to Nico, or Kris, too."
"How's your friend Kris doing?"
"She's doing what there is to do. When I left her house this morning there were police all over the place. If the horse rapist has any brains, he'll stay away. But he's going to think Nico's is still safe." I looked at Blue. "And the worst thing is, I think I know who it is."
"You do?" Blue looked startled.
I explained how George Corfios had come upon the scene recently, how he had ridden to both women's houses in the past, how we thought that the horse rapist had ridden to Kris's house on a horse.
"So, you see, in a lot of ways he fits. But I didn't tell Jeri Ward, the detective, about him, because I'd have to bring up Nico, and I promised Nico I wouldn't. Damn, this is a mess." I took a long swallow of undeniably potent margarita.
"What's this George guy like?" Blue asked.
"Well, I've only met him once. Dark, handsome, physical-looking. He's a carpenter by trade. I have to admit, he doesn't look like the type to be raping horses; I'm sure he could find plenty of willing women. It's just hard to believe it's all a coincidence. He moves into the area, the horse rapes start happening, he just happens to know both Nico and Kris, and just happens to have ridden his horse to both their houses?"
"How do you know these rapes, if you want to call them that, just started happening?" I thought about that. Drank some more margarita. "Of course, I don't know."
"That's what I was thinking. This could have been going on for a while. Maybe from before George moved into the area. It's not something that most people would tell you about."
"You're so right."
I stared out the big windows at my vegetable garden and took another sip of my drink. "I really don't know what to do," I said. "Nico has a good reason for not wanting me to tell the police about her, and I don't want to betray her trust. But the whole thing seems so volatile."
Blue said nothing to this, just made steady inroads on his margarita. Aware that I was not being terribly hospitable, I went to the cupboard and produced tortilla chips and salsa. Placing these in bowls on the table, I offered, "Have a seat."
Blue was just starting to sit down when both our eyes were caught by a moving red shape coming up the driveway. It rounded the turn at the bottom of the hill and emerged in full view, revealing itself as a small, shiny, vividly red convertible sporting the dealer license plates characteristic of new cars.
"You have an upscale friend," Blue commented, watching the car with interest.
"I don't know who that is," I said. I didn't recognize the make of sports car either.
"The car's a Boxster," Blue said.
"What's that?"
"Porsche's newest model."
"Oh."
"They're nice cars."
I thought Blue's voice had a mildly wistful quality.
By this time the Boxster was close enough for me to ascertain that I did indeed know the man behind the steering wheel. "That's Clay," I said out loud.
"A friend?"
"Yeah. He built this house and my barn, too." This was begging the issue of what exactly Clay was to me, but I didn't feel any obligation to tell Blue.
We both watched Clay park the sports car and unfold out of it, something he did gracefully, as he did everything. Stepping out, I waved him over. "Hi, Clay."
Blue followed me out on the porch, and Clay approached us with his usual easy smile, but I had the inner sense he was rapidly evaluating the situation. Once again I felt a perverse little glow of satisfaction and was conscious of hoping he was jealous.
I glanced at Blue. As I expected, his face showed nothing. He looked a little more remote, that was all.
"Blue, this is Clay Bishop. Clay, Blue Winter." The two men shook hands; I made no effort at further explanations.
"Would you like a margarita?" Blue asked.
I was sure he meant it in a friendly way, and no doubt about it, the margarita makings were his; it wasn't my place to offer them to Clay. Still, the question made it sound very much as though Blue were the host here, and Clay's eyes shot to mine.
"Blue very kindly offered to come over and make me a drink," I said. "A good drink, too."
"I'd be happy to pour you one." Blue addressed Clay politely.
"Thanks, that would be great."
Blue stepped into the kitchen, returned with the pitcher and a glass, poured Clay a drink, and freshened our glasses. I brought the chips and salsa out on the porch. We all sat down a little warily.
"Nice car," Blue said.
Clay smiled, a smile that went right to his eyes. "Yesterday was my fortieth birthday," he said simply. "I bought myself a present. I guess it's just your classic midlife crisis."
Blue laughed. "I bet it's fun to drive."
"It is that."
"It's pretty," I said idly. I was not a big sports car fan. Pickup trucks had always
seemed sufficient to me.
Inwardly I was adding things up. Yesterday, when Kris and I had seen Clay having dinner with the unknown Sue, had been his birthday. This was something I hadn't even known. And Clay had certainly not invited me to have dinner with him. Still waters run deep, or something like that, I told myself. There was obviously a lot I didn't know about Clay Bishop.
"Well, happy birthday, belatedly," I said.
"Thanks."
Once again there was awkward quiet, broken only by the clink of ice cubes in glasses.
"Would you like a tour?" I said to Blue. "The house isn't very big, but I'm happy to show it to you-and the garden and the barn, if you're interested."
I glanced over at Clay. "Clay built all this, so he can give informed commentary. That is, if you'd like." I added this diffidently to Clay.
Clay gave me his pleasant smile. "Of course."
"And I'd like to look at your car," Blue said.
"Sure." Clay smiled again, seeming completely self-possessed. Maybe he wasn't jealous.
The next hour passed in a reasonably comfortable way, though I was aware of a sense of strain. I would infinitely have preferred to be entertaining one or the other of these men rather than both. However, given the circumstances, things went smoothly.
Blue admired my house and property, we both admired Clay's car, Blue made another round of margaritas. I was just wondering if I ought to offer to cook everybody dinner when Blue stood up.
"I need to be going," he said simply. "It was nice to see you, Gail. Nice to meet you, too." He shook Clay's hand. Collecting his margarita makings, he turned to leave.
I didn't know what to say. Should I go after him, invite him to come back, what? In the end I remained on the porch and said merely, "Thanks for coming over. I enjoyed it."
"You make a great margarita," Clay added.
I watched Blue get into his truck, thinking that he must assume that Clay was, at the very least, my steady date. Which was, in a sense, true. And yet, I wanted to explain, it isn't like that. I'm still free.
Once the green truck disappeared down the driveway, Clay looked at me questioningly. I said nothing. I didn't feel the need to explain Blue's presence.
Taking this silence as it was meant-Clay was nothing if not quick-he asked me, "Would you like to go for a ride in my new car? That's actually why I brought it over."
"Sure," I said without enthusiasm. Going fast in a sports car was not my favorite thing, as I frequently pointed out to Kris. "Just don't scare me," I added.
"I promise," Clay said.
Five minutes later we were zipping along the back roads, Clay maintaining a reasonable pace. I had to admit, the Porsche felt solid and reassuring; it went around the corners as though it were on rails. Clay had a wide and excited grin on his face; I could see how much he was enjoying this new toy.
We ended up in Harkins Valley; Clay slowed as he approached the Bishop Ranch. "Would you like some dinner?" he asked. "I was going to make risotto."
It took me a minute to assimilate this. Clay was offering to cook me dinner. I was intrigued. Not just about what sort of cook he might be, but also about the opportunity to see his home. I'd never been inside it before. And I had an endless curiosity about houses and gardens and the various ways that people approach their dwelling space. Not to mention, I was hungry.
"All right," I said. "Thanks."
And Clay turned in at the Bishop Ranch entrance.
SEVENTEEN
I'd seen Clay's house many times; I'd even had a beer on the porch once. It sat at the other end of the property from the main ranch house, where brother Bart lived with his mother. Clay's house was much smaller, and had obviously been the foreman's house at one time.
Clay confirmed this opinion as we walked toward the front door. "The ranch was built around the turn of the century," he said. "This was originally the foreman's house, and that little building over there," he pointed, "was the bunkhouse."
Clay's house, like every building on the place, was painted barn-red with white trim. The exterior was tidy enough, but he didn't seem to be a gardener. A small patch of lawn and several large old shrubs-lilac and philadelphus, it looked like, one red rose-no doubt dating from the ranch's early days, were the only plants to be seen.
Clay held the front door open and I stepped inside. My first impression was pure surprise. Somehow I had expected something different from the craftsman who had built my house. But this little boxlike room was very traditional, almost conventional, and looked as though it had been remodeled only slightly, if at all.
The short beige carpet was a non-statement, as were the cream-colored walls and low ceilings. The old-fashioned molding around doors and windows had been painted a contrasting warm brown-attractive, if a bit Victorian for my taste. There were a few well-worn pieces of furniture, a wood stove in the corner, and an open doorway leading into what appeared to be the kitchen.
Clay saw my glance and answered my unspoken comment. "I'm just a tenant," he said. "I haven't done much in the way of remodeling. Some day I hope to build a place of my own. Of course, the Porsche will set those plans back a year or two."
"You're just a tenant?" I asked curiously. "I thought it was your family's place."
"Not exactly." Clay looked noncommittal, as if uncertain what to say.
Not wanting to be rude, I didn't probe.
In the end, he volunteered, "Bart's my half brother. The ranch belonged to his father. Our mom married my dad when Dave Bishop died. But my dad died a year later. Mom kept living here; she changed my name to Bishop because it seemed simpler. But this ranch goes to Bart, not me, when she dies."
"Oh." This seemed to explain a few things, including the strong physical differences between the brothers, Clay's lack of involvement in the "family" business, and the fact that Bart lived in the main ranch house.
"Bart and I get along real well," Clay said. "I pay my rent here by doing handyman work. That way I can save almost all the money I make building houses. It's a good deal for me."
"I see," I said. It made sense that under the circumstances he wouldn't want to spend a lot of time and money on the house.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Clay asked.
Bearing in mind the margaritas I'd consumed, I said, "How about a glass of wine?"
"Do you like Merlot?"
"Yes, that would be perfect."
In a minute Clay emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of the deep red wine. Handing one to me, he asked, "How about keeping me company in the kitchen while I cook?"
"Of course."
Stepping through the open archway, I surveyed a plain, old-fashioned kitchen, painted white with brown trim and very similar in tone to the room I'd just left. There was a round table in the corner. I seated myself there and watched Clay pour olive oil in a large cast-iron skillet. I didn't offer to help. One of the rules of life I'd evolved as I neared forty was that I preferred to do all the cooking and cleaning in my own house, and to let other people do the same. I no more liked to fumble around someone else's kitchen searching for the correct implement than I enjoyed watching my guests bustle through the process of washing my dishes and putting them in places where I didn't want them put.
I sipped my wine and asked Clay, "Do you like living here?"
"Well, enough," he said easily.
"Do you remember the place before all the land was sold off to the subdivision?"
"Barely. My mom sold it when Bart and I were just kids."
"Warren White must have been a young man then," I said idly.
"Yeah, Warren's about ten years older than I am. He told me Lushmeadows was his first big project; he was twenty. It made his fortune."
"Uh-huh." I nodded, not much interested in Warren and his fortune. "How about Bart? Does he like living here and running the boarding stable?" I was mildly curious about brother Bart.
Clay shrugged. "It's hard to tell. Bart's life hasn't been exactly happy."
I waited.
Eventually Clay went on, talking as he chopped vegetables. "Bart got married young, nineteen, I think, and he and his wife had a couple of kids. Then she left him, and somehow she got full custody of the kids. He only gets to see them once in a while. It made him pretty unhappy. He quit his job and was sort of a bum for a while. He moved back here eventually and took over the boarding stable.
"Of course, it was a good thing in some ways. Mom used to run it, but she came down with cancer and she's been in poor health ever since. I don't know what she'd do without Bart living there helping her."
Clay sounded distinctly relieved; I thought I could imagine that the burden of taking care of his mother full-time wasn't one he wanted. Well, this explained why I'd never seen Mrs. Bishop. And it might explain some of Bart's animosity as well.
I reflected for a moment how intricate and revealing people's backgrounds were. Suddenly Clay and his family seemed to have some substance beyond their facade.
Blue Winter jumped into my mind. I knew nothing about his family or his background. At the thought, I looked at Clay, who was gently ladling chopped onions into the skillet. He was handsome and personable and I liked his company, no doubt about it. But that intense flare along the nerves that I felt when I looked at Blue was missing here. I didn't watch Clay's hands and think about how it would feel if they were to caress me.
Sipping some more Merlot, I wondered about this. Clay's hands, now chopping bell peppers, were every bit as attractively shaped as Blue's; his long forearms were as well muscled. I had a hard time fathoming what created that simple but intense physical connection, that sexual draw.
