A surge of guilt washed over Shadoe at her own thoughts. Her mother had learned to handle the anxieties of life in her own way. Connie Deerman had loved her husband and son, and it was the loss of them that had made her change so completely. For a period of time, Shadoe herself had been tempted by the idea of using prescription medications, parties and a highball to ease her down the road to life.
“Steady, boy.” Shadoe settled the stud as he fidgeted while she adjusted her stirrups. The horse was definitely picking up on her internal conflict, no matter that her hands were steady and her voice calm. Horses were a lot smarter than anyone gave them credit for being
She swung up into the saddle and felt a measure of comfort at the power of the horse beneath her. He was a fine animal, and she had trained him well. He wasn’t the show horse that Luster was, but his talents lay in a pleasurable ride and the ability to produce foals that shared his athletic ability and laid-back disposition.
Once out of the barn and down the drive, she gave him the signal to canter. But not even Scrapiron’s eager plunge into the ride or the sweet smell of mountain laurel could push out the sound of Connie Deerman Frazier’s worried voice. Shadoe’s mother had been violently opposed to Shadoe’s return to Montana. But then Connie had not been pleased by any of her daughter’s actions lately. Not since her interest in horses had been reignited by John Carpenter. With Jimmy and Joey’s deaths, Connie had reinvented herself. She had carved a new life for herself with a new marriage and the high-class society whirl of West Palm Beach, Florida. She couldn’t understand Shadoe’s desire to return to the place that had broken her dreams into a million pieces.
Shadoe didn’t really understand it herself. She only knew it was something she had to do. Or else she’d drift through the rest of her life never fully giving herself to anything, or anyone.
Scrapiron flexed his powerful neck and tugged at the reins, and Shadoe gave him the freedom to gallop. He needed the exercise, and she wanted the wind to whip her thoughts out of her head.
No matter how hard she rode, the past years spun before her in grim truth. Her adult life had been a series of evasive maneuvers. She’d gone into advertising, hoping the glitz and excitement of that career could erase what she had lost. For a few years she’d enjoyed her job in Dallas at one of the biggest advertising firms in the Southeast. She’d lived high on the hog with a red Porsche and a beautifully furnished house where she gave parties for the firm’s clients that made the society pages of the Dallas papers. She’d spent every penny she made, which was considerable, and most of the money she’d gotten from her father’s insurance policy. She’d dated bankers, lawyers, business executivesanyone who wore a suit. And then she’d run across John Carpenter and the wall she’d built around herself had begun to crumble.
She’d squandered her money and years of her life, and worse than that, she’d been running the whole time. Well, she was through running, and her mother would just have to trust her to be smart and strong enough to survive.
Feeling the challenge of the future rather than the regrets of the past, Shadoe focused on the beauty of the landscape. She’d taken the trail that crossed Silver Flash Creek, and as the incline steepened, Scrapiron slowed his wide-open pace and dropped to an easy jog. This was a part of the ranch she hadn’t visited since her return the previous fall. She found that she had to make her reacquaintance with the land in tiny increments. There was the beauty itself that could sometimes be painful, and then the layers upon layers of memories.
Every acre of the ranch echoed with her father’s laughter, a bit of legend or folklore. A lot of Montana newcomers thought Silver Flash Creek had been named for a mineral find, but Jimmy Deerman had told her the truth. The small creek, which was clear amber and cold even on the hottest summer day, was the place where a spirit dream had touched Crazy Horse. In the swirl of the crystal current, the legendary Indian warrior had heard the thunder of calvary hooves and had seen the flash of the sun on the metal bores of the long rifles that were to be the death of his people, and he had urged the Sioux nation to war.
Shadoe topped the rise and looked down on the narrow band of water that snaked over rocks and rugged terrain until it disappeared behind a jutting crag of rock. She listened for a moment, a half smile on her face. She and her father had camped along the creek many times, listening for the sound of hooves mingled with a bugle and the cries of the Indians. Scrapiron stood perfectly still, as if he, too, listened for the ghost of horses long departed.
The sun was hot on her shoulders and she nudged Scrapiron down the rough slope to the water. He was hot and eager to drink, but she allowed him only a swallow or two as he stood, hock deep in the cold stream. During a heavy rain, or when the snows were melting higher up, the little creek would be very dangerous. So much of the beauty of her home hid sudden dangers.
That made her think of the wolves. In a week or so, they would be roaming the timberland north of her. The furious anger that had first gripped her was gone. In its place was a far more complicated array of emotions. In the middle of it all was Hank Emrich. He confused everything.
His behavior up at the wolf site had confounded her. Instead of going to Harry Code’s aid, Hank had seemed to protect her. He’d always had a problem with authority, but he also had a major problem with her. Yet she’d seen the amusement in his eyes. She could have sworn she also saw pleasure, and congratulations.
But why?
She’d gone to speak out against something he believed in. Or at least it was something he said he believed in. That was one thing that troubled her. Hank had always dreamed of being a rancher. They’d spent all their high school years planning a life together that involved cattle and horses. Hank knew the devastation a wolf pack could cause, and yet.and yet he was cramming it down the throats of the ranchers he’d grown up among.
Wolves. The very creatures that had taken the man who’d loved Hank like a son.
It didn’t make a bit of sense. Unless it was personal.
Scrapiron snorted and swung around as if he sensed someone behind him. Shadoe, too, looked into the line of heavy timber that grew along one side of the stream. She’d learned never to underestimate her horses. Their sense of hearing was extremely keen.
The woods were dark, the limbs of the blue spruce meeting overhead to create a dark haven of trunks. Beneath her legs, Scrapiron trembled.
Gathering the reins, Shadoe angled toward home but kept the line of trees in her vision. She wasn’t spooked, not exactly, but something was in the woods. Maybe a bear. Maybe one of the big cats. There were predators other than wolves, but they hardly ever came as close to the settled areas, and more importantly, they didn’t run in packs.
A coyote was the more likely candidate, and they were harmless to a person. Coyotes preyed on smaller animals and were basically cowards. The threat they offered to livestock or humans did not compare to wolves.
“Easy, Scrap,” she whispered as she tightened her legs on him to let him know she was there, that she was in charge.
Something moved in the woods. There was the crackle of a limb, a shift in the gloom of the trees. She felt her heart pump harder. Her ribs were almost healed, but she felt the tenderness as she sucked in a lung full of air and prepared to ride. The little clearing beside Silver Flash wasn’t the place to stage a standoff. The animal had the distinct advantage. The trail out was the perfect place for a predator to attack.
Just as Shadoe was weighing her options, the creature in the woods bolted. Instead of coming at her, it went north, deeper into the woods. Survival instinct made Shadoe prompt Scrapiron forward, toward the trees. If the animal was running, she wanted to really make it think she intended to pursue. A bitter spike of remorse made her clamp her lips tight at the thought she’d left her rifle back at the house. One day she’d learn not to take anything for granted. Not in Montana.
Scrapiron caught a glimpse of the quarry, and though she’d never seriously trained him in cutting, he knew enough to h
ead on a diagonal to cut off the escape path. She urged him on, thinking perhaps she’d gotten herself worked up over a deer coming down to the stream to drink.
The animal was on the run now, and Shadoe felt her tension ease up. She’d let Scrapiron play a minute more, then pull him up. If it was a deer, she didn’t want to give the animal a heart attack, and it was thrashing deep in the woods, so afraid now that it didn’t bother to try to move silently. She wanted a glimpse of it, just to satisfy her cu riosity. Then she’d call it quits.
Scrapiron had chosen an opening through the trees that angled into the woods. As soon as horse and rider entered, Shadoe felt the temperature drop a good ten degrees. The blue needles of the spruce trees met overhead and seemed to drink the April sunlight. A shiver of apprehension marched along her skin. About fifty yards to the northeast, the animal was running, but in the gloom and thickness of the trunks, she couldn’t get a clear view.
She leaned forward and let Scrapiron plunge ahead, picking up speed as he followed what once had been a neatly maintained trail that her father had cut for them to ride on.
They were drawing closer to the quarry, and Shadoe stood in the stirrups to try for a better view. She wasn’t certain what happened next. There was a terrible pain just below her neck, a searing line of fire that struck her with such force she was propelled backward off the horse. She hit the ground with full force, losing all of the wind in her lungs.
Startled by the loss of his rider, Scrapiron stopped a few yards ahead.
At first Shadoe could only try to find enough oxygen to breathe. She lay on the ground like a fish pulled from water, gasping and unable to sit up or do anything to help herself. Bright red lights swam in front of her eyes, but she forced herself to think only of breathing, of filling her lungs with air.
There was the sound of someone, or something, scrabbling rocks on the trail up ahead, but she was helpless. If some wild animal was coming after her, she’d be an easy victim. And Scrapiron, too. He stood, reins dangling to the ground, waiting for her command.
Just when she thought she was going to faint, Shadoe got air into her lungs. The sound of something approaching was louder, eager sounding, and she forced herself to her hands and knees. Her entire chest felt as if she’d been slammed with a board, and she finally realized what had happened. She’d been clotheslined. She forced her head up and searched the area across the trail. The gray wire was detectable only because she knew where to look. Had she not been standing in her stirrups, the height of the wire would have struck her neck, possibly killing her.
Fury powered her to her feet, and she was standing when the lone figure stepped out of the woods. He was a big man and he held a hunting rifle in his hand, his face shadowed by a cowboy hat. He paused only a second before he continued toward her. Shadoe reached for Scrapiron’s reins, fully intending to get at least one foot in a stirrup and riding for her life. She didn’t know who the man was, but she didn’t like the idea of being caught helpless and alone in the woods with him. At the very least he was trespassing. At the worst he was responsible for nearly killing her.
Still pulling hard for oxygen, she found that her fingers were clumsy as she reached for the horse. Her foot refused to obey her. When she looked over the saddle, he was on the other side of Scrapiron, his hand reaching for the reins.
“What the hell are you doing up here, Shadoe?”
It was his voice that halted her. She ducked under Scrapiron’s neck for a better look and saw what her mind had not allowed her to register. Hank Emrich was staring at her with a blend of concern and anger.
Instead of a cutting reply, she could only drag air into her lungs.
He moved around the horse so fast she didn’t realize what had happened until she felt his arms around her, offering support and an unexpected charge of heat. Dizzy already from the fall, she felt the reins slip from her fingers and she could not resist his forceful arms as he drew her against him and held her.
“Take it easy.” One arm was wrapped around Shadoe’s waist and he could feel the pounding of her heart, sense the slackness in her body as she almost fell. If he had not been holding her, she would have hit the ground.
He eased her away from the horse and over to a fallen tree where he sat her and gently pressed her head down between her knees.
“Just take long, slow breaths,” he said. His fingers slid through her silken hair, and in the distance a hawk cried. The sense of the past was suddenly so strong for Hank that he felt dizzy himself. The soft feel of Shadoe’s hair, the delicate scent of honeysuckle on her skin; he felt as if he were falling, falling deep into the past, and he wanted to make no effort to stop it.
As soon as the dizziness passed and she felt the sweet relief of oxygen in her lungs, Shadoe forced her head up. He moved his hand, allowing her to straighten. Even when he no longer touched her, she could feel where his hand had been. Her skin felt naked, vulnerable, and she recognized that feeling as longing. For what once had been, for that one touch that had always seemed to complete her. For a dream that was long gone. When their gazes met, she saw the young man she’d left behind nearly twenty years before. And this time she wasn’t afraid. His dark gaze was open, pain shimmering for an instant before he covered it.
“Are you okay?” His voice was roughened by his own emotions.
She nodded, unable to speak such a direct lie. It wasn’t the pain across her chest or the bruises she’d received in the fall. She was hurting in a way she hadn’t hurt in years. Deep beneath the bruises, her heart was cracking wide open. Tears stung her eyes and she focused on the dirt beside her boots where a line of ants marched determinedly toward a hole in the fallen tree.
“What happened?” Hank knew Shadoe hadn’t fallen from the horse. He’d seen her ride in the competition. She wasn’t the kind of rider who took a tumble without provocation. He glanced around the area, but there was nothing he saw that would have caused an accident.
Shadoe found it impossible to answer. Her throat was blocked with emotion that she couldn’t afford to express. She rose, slowly at first, then with more confidence as she walked toward the wire. It took her a moment to find it, but when she did, she heard Hank’s soft whistle.
“You could have been killed.”
“Yes.” She’d finally gotten a grip on her emotions and she turned to face him. “I was standing in the stirrups to look ahead. Otherwise it would have caught me right at my throat.”
Hank’s vision drifted from her eyes to her lips to her neck, and stopped at the level of her collar bones. “Let me take a look at that,” he said.
Shadoe looked down and for the first time saw the blood on her shirt. The bleeding was minimal, but she knew the wire had left its mark.
“It’s okay.” She shook her head. As vulnerable as she was to Hank, she certainly didn’t want him tending her wounds. It was too personal, too caring. She might just die from the treatment.
“Just to be sure it’s not serious.” He walked over to her and undid the first button of her shirt. His fingers fumbled the button, and he saw his hands were shaking. Shadoe looked steadily at a tree. When at last he’d managed to move the collar of her blue denim shirt aside, he saw the ugly mark of the wire. The skin had been torn and cut, but the external damage was not serious. Already the tender flesh was bruising, and he saw the first dark mottling in her beautiful bronzed skin. He wanted to touch her, to soothe her and wipe away the damage, but he could not. Beneath the injury was the swell of her breasts, and as much as he wanted to comfort her, he also wanted more.
“No serious damage, but I know it hurts. When we get home, we’ll put some ice on it.” He had to step away or he was going to take her into his arms and kiss her. That was the one thing he wasn’t certain he could survive.
For Shadoe, the entire world had narrowed to the feel of his gaze on her chest, the knowledge that his fingers brushed the naked skin of her throat, and the urgent beating of her heart which had begun to awaken so many parts of her
body. If her injury was painful, she didn’t feel it. Pain sensors were shut down. What she felt was a sudden and nearly overwhelming desire. She had lain in Hank’s arms along Silver Flash Creek. They had picnicked and camped and fished and dreamed of their future together, laughing and talking, and kissing. They were waiting only to finish high school. They had promised Jimmy they would wait. In the end, they had waited too long.
Hank carefully rebuttoned her blouse and stepped back from her.
“This hasn’t been your week, has it?” he asked.
Something of the understatement of his words caused her to smile. “You could say that.”
As natural as if they’d taken a hike together he put his hand under her elbow and led her back to the fallen tree. “Sit down for a few minutes.”
Shadoe did as he asked, feeling as if her will had been suddenly suspended. Hank had stepped out of the woods and taken charge. It seemed as right and natural as drawing the pure mountain air into her lungs. His very touch was soothing. Later, alone in her bed at night, she’d pay a terrible price for this, but she had no intention of running away from him now. She had faced some truths on her ride to Silver Flash Creek, and she acknowledged another one. When she’d left Montana, she’d been running from Hank and her feelings for him as much as running away from the tragic loss of her father and brother.
Hank sat beside her and started to talk. He could not trust himself to let the silence continue. “Remember the June night we camped out up here with your dad and Joey?”
At first Shadoe balked at the memory, but then she had a clear image of the campfire, of her father’s face across it, highlighted by the flickering flames. There was Joey, too, all blond excitement at being allowed to camp with them. And Hank, bringing up another load of firewood so they could sit up late into the night and listen to her father’s stories.
Midnight Prey Page 9
