Stormwalker

by Dallas Schulze

  "I understand." Sara finished her coffee. "On the phone you said that you could give me the name of someone who might be able to help me."

  He nodded reluctantly. "Actually, it was my wife who thought of him. He's found a couple of crash sites that we'd given up on. No survivors in either one, but he did find the sites. He's not very sociable. He's refused to work with us on any official basis, but he knows the area where your nephew's plane went down, and he might be willing to help you."

  "I'll try anything. What's his name and how do I find him?"

  "Wolf. That's the only name I've ever heard. Don't know whether it's first or last. He raises horses just this side of the Wyoming border. In fact, his place isn't far from where we think the plane went down. He doesn't have a phone, but I can tell you how to get there."

  Sara glanced at her watch. "I suppose it's too late to start tonight," she said reluctantly.

  "Best to start first thing in the morning," he said.

  Janet Larkin entered the room on her husband's words. "You can sleep here tonight," she said. "The sofa opens out into a bed."

  "I don't want to put you to any trouble."

  Janet waved away Sara's protest. "It's no problem. There's no sense in you trying to scare up a place to sleep when we've got room here."

  Exhaustion swept over Sara in a wave so powerful that it was suddenly almost impossible to summon up the energy to speak. "Thank you. I really appreciate this."

  "Tomorrow morning, you'll be fresh and ready to tackle the drive."

  "More likely, she'll need to be fresh to tackle Wolf," John muttered.

  Chapter 2

  The route Sara took the next morning skirted along the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. When she turned off the interstate onto the less-traveled highway, the mountains sat squarely in front of her, dominating her field of vision as she drew closer.

  They were beautiful, aloof, unconquered, magnificent ... and deadly. She thrust the insidious thought away. She would not let herself think in those terms. She had to keep believing that Cullen was alive.

  It was early afternoon when she turned off the main road onto a narrow dirt lane, which she hoped would lead her to the mysterious Wolf. The road dipped down, enclosing her between bluffs of red sandstone. She shifted gears as the road began a shallow climb and suddenly she was at the top of the incline.

  Despite the circumstances, she could not help but release a gasp of appreciation. Right in front of her was an old-fashioned wooden gate that arched high overhead. At the top of the gate hung a sign with a brand burned into it announcing pictorially that this was the Arrow Bar W Ranch. A sign hung on the barbed wire fence to the right of the gate announcing that no hunting was allowed.

  Through the gate, Sara could see the land spread out in a verdant carpet of fall grasses. A mile or so from where she was, a rambling house sprawled lazily in the crisp sunshine. A barn and several outbuildings stood off to the right. Beyond the house the green valley floor widened between more of the red sandstone bluffs. From this distance, it looked as smooth and lustrous as a carpet that rolled across the gradually rising land until it disappeared beneath the darker green of the pine forest that covered the lower slopes of the mountains.

  And the mountains themselves. If she had thought them omnipresent before, she realized now that what she had seen before had been only a sample of what they could be. Here they dominated the landscape, overshadowing the jewellike valley while at the same time seeming to shelter it. Like a mother protecting a child.

  She shook her head and took her foot off the brake. She hadn't even been aware of stopping until that moment. She drove over the cattle guard beneath the gate and started down into the valley. For some reason, the sight of the peaceful valley nestled so snugly among the mountains made them seem less threatening and renewed her hope for Cullen.

  She pulled the truck to a halt in front of the house and climbed out hesitantly. Gravel crunched beneath her boots as she approached the wide porch that wrapped around the front of the building. Flower beds flanked either side of the steps, the last of the summer's marigolds glowing orange and yellow against the gray of the weathered wood facade.

  The front door was open and she knocked on the screen door, trying to resist the urge to peek through the patched screening and into the house. There probably wasn't much need for locked doors this far from civilization and the crime that went with it.

  She glanced around while she waited for some response to her knock. An old-fashioned porch swing was suspended across one end of the porch. It looked much newer than the house, and she wondered if there was a Mrs. Wolf. The swing and the flowers seemed to be decidedly feminine touches, and Sara began to revise her image of a crusty old mountain man.

  She knocked again, and this time she peered through the door, tentatively calling out a soft hello. There had been a truck parked next to the barn, which seemed to indicate that someone was home, but he obviously was not in the house. With a sigh, she knocked one last time. She hoped that she could find someone without searching the entire ranch. Maybe he was in the barn feeding horses or stacking hay or something. She turned away from the door, her eyes skimming over the swing again as she moved toward the porch steps.

  She came to an abrupt halt, automatically steadying herself with one hand against the railing. The man who stood at the bottom of the steps could have come from a painting of a different time. A dusty brown cowboy hat was tilted slightly back over casually cut black hair that brushed the back of his collar. His shirt was of plain blue cotton and, like his jeans, it looked as if it had been softened by years of washing.

  But, instead of the boots that should have completed the look, the bottoms of his jeans disappeared into suede moccasins that looked as if they had been molded to his feet. Leather thongs laced the soft boots to his legs. The moccasins and his almost hawk-like facial features made him look as if he were composed of two pictures, one over the other—the cowboy barely covering the savage underneath.

  Was this the Wolf she had come to find, or was he a drifter with no business being here?

  "May I help you?" The polite question added the final contrast to his image.

  Sara cleared her throat. "Are you Wolf?" She brought the name out hesitantly, realizing that it fit him all too well. There was something lean and tough about him.

  "I'm Wolf." The flat statement hung on the still air between them. He didn't add to it. Didn't ask her why she was looking for him. He just watched her with eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat.

  Sara drew in a deep breath and moved down the steps until she stood on the second one from the bottom, her face level with his. He didn't move away as she drew nearer, but she sensed a harrier going up between them, like a clear wall that said "only so far and no closer."

  "I'm Sara Grant."

  She held out her hand. His eyes lowered from her face to the delicate contours of her hand and, for a moment, she thought he was going to ignore her gesture. Slowly, his hand came up and he clasped her fingers. For the brief instant that his palm held hers, Sara had the sensation of having touched something intensely alive.

  She drew her hand away, slightly shaken by the sensation, and rubbed her fingers unconsciously across her palm, as if she could still feel the callused strength of his hand. Wolf's eyes narrowed on the gesture.

  Uncertain in the face of his continued silence, Sara spoke again. "John Larkin gave me your name. He seemed to think you might be able to help me."

  "I'm sure John was wildly enthusiastic about your contacting me." The words were spoken with an undertone of irony that confused her.

  "Actually, it was his wife who thought of you."

  "I'm sure it was." He studied her silently for a moment, and Sara had the urge to reach out and tug the hat off his head so that she could really see his eyes.

  As if he'd read her thought, he pulled off his hat and stepped around her. "Come in and you can tell me why you thought I might be able to help you."


  She followed him up the stairs and into the house. His hat sailed onto a table in the living room. Sara quickened her pace to keep up with him, trying to take in her surroundings as she went. She got only a glimpse of the living room—heavy furniture and a huge painting on one wall—before he led the way through a wide door and into the kitchen.

  "Coffee?"

  "That would be nice, thank you."

  She sat down at the table, resting her hands on the battered Formica top. His movements were easy, almost fluid, as he reached for cups and poured the fragrant liquid from a coffee maker that looked like the last word in high tech. A few feet away, a cast-iron pot simmered on top of the wood-burning stove, releasing the appetizing scent of stew.

  Contrasts. He seemed to be a man of contrasts. A cowboy hat and Indian moccasins, weathered boards and flower beds, high-tech coffee and a wood-burning stove. What next?

  He set the cups on the table and then sat down opposite her. "I can offer you sugar, but I'm afraid all I have is canned milk."

  "That's okay. I prefer it black." She took a sip. "It's very good."

  "Jamaican. I order the beans from back East."

  She lifted her gaze to his face and then forgot what she had intended to say. Contrast. The warm copper of his skin against eyes so green they dazzled. Heavy, straight black lashes surrounded them, emphasizing their extraordinary color.

  She flushed wildly and lowered her eyes when he arched a dark brow in slow inquiry. A swallow of coffee gave her a few seconds to regain her composure.

  "Mr... er... Wolf."

  "Cody. You seem uneasy with my last name."

  "Well, actually, it's not that. I just wasn't sure if it was your last name or your first."

  "Why did Larkin send you here?"

  Sara almost sighed with relief. There was something about this man that confused her. She seemed to be having a hard time keeping control of the conversation.

  "He said that you've been able to locate two crash sites that search and rescue couldn't find. I—"

  "No."

  Sara stopped in midsentence and stared at him.

  "No? You haven't even heard what I'm going to ask."

  "You want me to find the plane that crashed near here ten days ago. No."

  "Near here? Did you see it? Do you know where it is?"

  Cody hardened himself against the hope in her voice, the eagerness in her eyes. Eyes he had seen before. In a dream.

  "I didn't see it and I don't know where it is. I listen to the radio, and there have been a lot of search planes going through. It was pretty easy to conclude that it must have crashed in this area." He didn't mention the dream that told him about the crash long before the radio had. That was something he didn't share with anyone. Certainly not with this fragile-looking woman with hair the color of golden silk and columbine eyes.

  "John seemed to think you might help. He said—"

  "He was wrong. I'm sorry you made the trip for nothing." He was on his feet and on his way out the door before Sara had a chance to say anything. The door had shut behind him by the time she got to her feet. When she got to the door, there was no sign of him. But that didn't stop her.

  Along with her concern for Cullen, a healthy anger began to sizzle. Cody Wolf wasn't to get rid of her so easily. He'd help her whether he wanted to or not.

  ❧

  Cody felt her coming long before he heard the rapid scrunch of gravel crushed beneath her narrow boots. He pulled the brush a little more rapidly across Dancer's coat, causing the stallion to live up to his name as he danced uneasily away from the shimmering tension that surrounded his owner.

  Cody murmured to the horse softly in a mixture of languages, forcing his hand into a steady stroking motion until the bay stilled beneath his touch. The barn door creaked open, the wail of hinges an appropriate accompaniment to the slim storm that blew in wearing the guise of a woman.

  "Our conversation is not finished, Mr. Wolf. After making this miserable trip out here, I think courtesy demands that you at least hear me out."

  "Do you?" His hand didn't pause. He didn't want to hear her out. She was a danger to everything he'd worked for. He didn't know how or why, but she threatened his plans.

  Sara stared at him for a moment without speaking, reading in that impassive expression the collapse of her last hope of finding Cullen. If he refused her, she was left with nowhere to turn. Cullen was in those mountains somewhere, maybe hurt and needing her, and she couldn't get to him.

  The extended silence finally drove Cody to look at her, and he muttered a curse. Her eyes shimmered with tears. He wanted to dismiss it as a trick. A woman's weapon to gain sympathy. But her teeth bit deep into her lower lip and there was a look of pride in her expression that told him she hated this display of weakness.

  "Hell." He wrapped his hand in Dancer's mane and backed the stallion out of the stall. A pat on the rump sent the big horse out the side door and into the corral on the side of the barn.

  "Tell me why you came to me."

  In the dim light of the barn, it was impossible to read his expression. He must have picked up his hat on the way out of the house because it was once again shielding his eyes. Sara thought she could read reluctant sympathy in his voice, and for a moment her pride rebelled. She despised women who used tears to get their way. But pride was irrelevant beside her need. Without him, she didn't have a chance of finding Cullen.

  She glanced around for a seat. There was nothing available to sit on except bales of hay, and she sat on one without complaint. The last week and a half had been draining, and even the scratchy support of the hay felt wonderful.

  "Ten days ago, a single-engine Cessna went down in the mountains somewhere in this general vicinity. The search-and-rescue people have done everything they can, but they haven't been able to find the crash site. John Larkin said that you've had some luck finding a couple of planes they'd given up on."

  "Did he also tell you that there were no survivors in either of those crashes?" There was an emotion in his voice that she couldn't define. Her eyes narrowed, but he was little more than a silhouette against the open door behind him. One shoulder rested against the edge of a stall. His pose was suggestive of ease, even indolence, but she was sure that wasn't what he was feeling.

  "He told me," she admitted.

  "But you still want me to find the crash."

  "Cullen isn't dead." It was a flat statement.

  Cody took in the stubborn angle of her jaw and swallowed the urge to curse long and loud. "Small-plane crashes do not result in a lot of survivors." He tried to keep his voice reasonable but firm. "It's been ten days since it happened. Even if anyone survived the crash, ten days in the high country is enough to kill even an uninjured man."

  "I know that, but I also know that Cullen is alive."

  Cullen. Her husband? The thought brought a confusing mixture of feelings. Something in him rejected the thought of her belonging to another man, and yet, if she were married, what possible threat could she offer to him?

  "Ms Grant, I wish I could help you, but I think you're just going to have to accept the fact that your husband is..."

  "Cullen is my nephew and I'm not going to accept anything except that he's alive and waiting to be rescued."

  Cody tugged his hat off and slapped it idly against his thigh, uncertain whether he was glad or sorry that it wasn't a husband she was trying to find.

  "Your nephew? That makes it even more unlikely that he'd survive. If we assume he made it through the crash uninjured, which isn't likely, he'd have been alone with a dead or badly injured pilot. The mountains can be very unsympathetic, Ms Grant."

  "Cullen isn't a little boy. He's eighteen and his hobby is wilderness survival. He's been camping and hunting since he was a child."

  "Even so..."

  "Cullen is a survivor. And the man who was flying the plane also knows what he's doing. If any two people have a chance, Bill and Cullen do. I can't just give up on them."

&nb
sp; "There's such a thing as facing reality. The high country has already had the first snows of the season. Even two experts in survival would be hard-pressed to keep warm, especially if one or both of them were injured, which is almost inevitable."

  He shook his head and stood away from the post. "I'm sorry, Ms Grant, but I've got a ranch to run. I can't help you."

  "Ten thousand dollars."

  Cody froze, half turned away from her. Outside, a meadowlark called musically. Through the open door, he could see Dancer rubbing his shoulder against a convenient fence post. The barn was silent. He had the feeling that she was holding her breath. Slowly, he turned to look at her.

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Ten thousand dollars to look for my nephew."

  It shouldn't be possible for such a delicately feminine jaw to look so hard. Everything about her, from the fragile angles of her face to the slender curves of her body, spoke of helpless femininity. Everything except the angle of her jaw and the determination in those amethyst eyes.

  "I don't think..."

  "Fifteen thousand. Fifteen to look for him and twenty-five if you find the wreckage. Whether he's dead or alive."

  "You don't..."

  Sara got to her feet and moved closer. Cody inhaled the warm floral fragrance of her perfume and wondered if it was possible to be drugged by a scent. She tilted her head until she could look straight into his eyes. Even with her boots on, her head just reached his chin, but she seemed unaware of her disadvantage.

  "I don't know much about ranching, but I do know that everything costs a lot of money these days." She spoke rapidly, her desperate need to persuade him giving her speech a staccato ring. "Think of all the things twenty-five thousand dollars would buy. It could make a big difference in a small operation."

  Cody raised one eyebrow, trying to decide if he was angry that she was trying to buy him, or if he admired her stubborn persistence.