Garison started to admonish her about working too hard again, but he knew it would do no good. He knew Heather was working so hard because Sarah was staying two nights with her grandparents in Denver and Heather was trying to take her mind off her worry with hard work. Garison knew it wasn't working because Heather's work was getting harder and harder. He just hoped he could find some more work for them to do when the fence was done or he was afraid Heather might have a nervous breakdown before having a physical breakdown. He figured a physical breakdown might be easier to recover from.
They were conducting what was a yearly ritual for most of the residents of the La Plata Canyon—and, indeed, almost all of the rural west. While barbed wire could withstand the elements for quite a few years, it couldn't withstand the sharp hooves of deer and elk. As they jumped the fences, the animals would often clip the top strand with hooves as sharp as any wire cutters. The result was broken top strands that had to either be repaired or replaced all around the property every year. If not for the fact that his barbed wire helped to keep neighboring livestock out, Garison had thought more than once about just letting the wire go. But, like Heather, the work kind of made him feel like a real, old west cowboy, too.
He was about to say something when they heard a car coming from up the canyon. They both looked up, as vehicle traffic in La Plata Canyon was fairly rare. They knew the vehicles of everyone who lived in the canyon and often waved when they saw someone they recognized. Heather had once groaned that they had become true country hicks—looking up at the sound of passing motorists—but the truth was she loved the friendliness after growing up in Dallas's most haughty suburb.
They looked at each other with interest when they saw that the car going by was an old one. While Garison wasn't a car buff exactly, he knew enough to spot that the car was from the late 1940s. He was about to remark as such, showing off his limited knowledge of vintage autos, when Heather said, "1947 Hudson and Terraplane. I haven't seen one of those in years. Looks like it's in great shape, too."
"I'd say so," Garison nodded in more agreement than he really had. He was still marveling at the fact that Heather knew the car.
Heather caught the look on his face and snapped playfully, "What? Did I wound your chauvinistic pride? Don't think women can be motorheads?"
"No," he hastily replied, "But in the two and a half years I've known you, you've never said anything about cars. I mean, what little work we've had to have done, I did it or we took it in. I thought you were just into planes."
"I am," she laughed. With a chuckle she added, "My brother Hank's a car freak and I went to just enough old car shows and a few junk yards with him to pick up a little. He had a car like that at one time." Heather looked down the road where the car had already passed around a bend and added, "Although his was never in that good of shape. He would have liked to have seen that car. Someone's really been keeping it up."
At the sound of another car coming from up canyon, Garison looked up. He remarked with surprise, "He'd probably like this one, too."
Heather turned her gaze in the same direction as Garison's and asked, "Is there an old car rally up canyon somewhere?"
"Not that I know of. Who would hold an old car rally up there where the road becomes dirt? Not the best way to protect your custom paint job."
The car in question was a hearse. It had a big Pontiac symbol on the hood and looked to be from the same era as the previous car. And, like the Hudson, it looked to be in excellent condition. Almost new, in fact.
Just as Garison was about to ask what year it was, Heather told him, "By the grill work, I'd say this one's from about '46. That hood looks a little strange, but maybe it's because it's a hearse. I've never seen one of those before. Not from that era, anyway."
As they were looking at the hearse, it pulled to a stop in front of them. They watched with interest as a tall, solidly built, middle aged man got out. He smiled up at them and ascended the short incline between them and the road.
At the fence, he extended his hand and offered, "Stuart Jameson, at your service."
Garison pulled off his right-hand work glove and took the man's hand. He suddenly realized the man had the largest hands Garison had ever encountered. The man's hand wrapped completely around Garison's own rather large paw almost as if taking an adolescent's hand. For a brief moment, Garison thought the man could probably touch Heather's elbow while shaking her hand. Besides just the hands, though, the man was big—probably six four or better, Garison mused.
"Garison Fitch," he returned. "And this is my wife, Heather."
Stuart Jameson nodded and said, "I hate to impose on you like this, but I'm with Holt & Jameson, the funeral parlor in Durango. Anyway, we just interred a young man on his parents' property and, well, my man hasn't shown up here with the digging tools. I wonder if I might trouble you to help me, um—I really hate to even ask this. Could you, um, help me fill in the grave?"
He had a deep voice, much like what one would expect the voice of God to sound like. It was deep and sonorous, yet oddly soothing. Every word he said was in the tone of voice one would use when comforting bereaved loved ones. It occurred briefly to Heather to wonder if he talked like that all the time. She guessed that he did since he was talking that way to ask for help filling in a hole.
Heather and Garison shared a puzzled look, then Garison replied, "I guess so." They picked up their shovels and followed the man to the hearse.
"I'm afraid we'll have to all squeeze into the front seat," he apologized.
"No problem," Heather quickly answered, shuddering as she even thought of riding in the back of the hearse.
Walking to the car, Stuart Jameson was whistling something Garison couldn't quite place. After a moment, he realized it was "American Patrol". Odd, he thought, that the man would whistle a tune from the same era as the car.
As they got in and Stuart started the engine, Heather complemented, "This car is in remarkable shape."
Jameson cast her a somewhat puzzled look, but replied, "Thank you. I only got it a year ago—so it hasn't seen much use. Ordered it direct from the factory."
"Doesn't look like a kit," Heather mused, drawing another puzzled look from Jameson.
Garison was only listening with half an ear. What he was paying attention to was the fact that the man's clothing was fantastically out of date. Jameson was wearing a conservative brown suit, but the lapels were too wide, the tie was too short, the pants were cut all wrong and the material was some sort of heavy woolen weave that looked like it would weight fifty pounds. Below the pants the man wore brown leather shoes that were polished but obviously worn. Even in their worn condition, though, Garison couldn't imagine that they were comfortable. The thought popped in his mind that they were the type of shoe formerly referred to as brogans, but he wasn't sure.
He was shaken from his study of the man's attire by a quick turn to the right. Garison looked up in surprise to find that they were taking a dirt road that followed along just outside his northern fence line. He had walked the selfsame road just two days before when checking his fence and it hadn't been in nearly as good shape. He figured someone must have grated it for the funeral, but was surprised he hadn't heard the equipment doing it. The sound of machinery often carried well in the La Plata, partly because it was so incongruous.
They pulled up to a little clearing neither Heather nor Garison recognized and got out. At the edge of the clearing, a small man in another outdated suit stood next to an open grave and a pile of dirt. He was tapping his foot and looking impatient, until he saw Heather. She was just dressed in faded (if tight) blue jeans and an old sweat shirt, but he gulped and watched her legs like he'd never seen such a sight. Heather noticed the look and edged closer to Garison. She was used to men watching her, but this man was looking at her like she was a space alien . . . or a chorus girl.
"If you could just give me a hand," Jameson said, taking Heather's shovel and motioning for Garison to join him. Garison nodded and be
gan tossing dirt in on what certainly looked like a casket. They could hear the hollow thump of the dirt on the wood and the sound gave Heather an uneasy feeling. For his part, Garison was noticing that it was a wooden box, and not the fancy metal ones he was used to.
Heather watched for a bit, then opened, "If you don't mind me asking, who are you burying and why are you burying him here? Him or her. It's so far from a cemetery and all."
Jameson first said, "Harris, spell Mister Fitch for a bit, won't you?" Harris nodded and took the shovel like someone who had never worked one before. He was little help and Garison was thinking Heather could have done a much better job.
Jameson explained, "It is a young man in the grave, Mrs. Fitch. His name is—was—Guy Wilson and, sadly, he was killed in France during the war."
"What war?" Heather asked suspiciously.
Harris looked up with surprise and spoke for the first time, "World War Two, of course." He said it like he was talking to someone who had to be a moron.
Heather looked from Harris to the grave and queried incredulously, "And they're just now bringing his body home for burial?"
Jameson nodded and replied, with practiced sadness, "Things move slowly after such a devastating conflict."
Taking the shovel back from the slow working Harris, Garison said, "But this has to be some sort of a record."
Jameson shrugged and said, "I just hope he's the last for me. I have buried far too many from this conflict—or arranged memorial services for those whose remains were never recovered. A sad, sad business."
Heather mumbled, "I don't think there's much chance of any more coming home. Not if they haven't come home by now."
"Let us hope so," Jameson nodded. Heather and Garison shared another puzzled look. After all, did he really expect any more bodies from World War II to be found sixty years late?
"So, why here?" Heather reminded them of the second part of her earlier question.
"Ah, yes," Jameson nodded. It was a warm day and he stopped to remove his coat and wipe the sweat from his brow. It drew both Garison and Heather's attention that he still wore his tie. He finally told her, "This land is owned by the Wilson family; as you probably know, since you live nearby."
"Actually, I didn't," Garison told him. "I mean, they call it the Wilson place, but no one's lived here as far back as I can remember."
Jameson nodded and continued, "The Wilson's haven't lived here in, oh, must be ten years by now. The family had lived here for many many years—since Carlton Wilson struck gold here back in the late 1800s, in fact. Guy and his brother John grew up here—in the old house up the road."
Heather and Garison shared a look that meant, "What old house?"
Jameson looked puzzled by their question, but went on, "But when the boys graduated from high school and left home, Lydia talked Harold—he was Carlton's grandson, I believe—she talked him into moving to Denver. They haven't been back until today, I believe. You may have seen their Hudson going down the road ahead of me. I believe Guy had said he wanted to be buried in La Plata Canyon. Boyhood memories of happiness here, I suppose." He said this in a voice that conveyed infinite sadness and sympathy.
"Interesting," was all Garison could say. Heather just nodded, confused and bewildered.
When the grave was filled in, Jameson looked at his watch and said, "I can't imagine what has happened to Phil. It's not like him to be late. I hope he hasn't met with any misfortune. He was supposed to be here by three, and here it is almost four."
Heather looked at her own watch and said, "It's not even noon, yet."
Jameson smiled and offered, "Your watch must have stopped." Showing her his own watch, he said, "I have fifteen 'til four—and my watch is running."
"So's mine," she returned, shaking her watch as if that would change anything.
Garison looked at his own watch and said, "Huh, mine matches Heather's. You sure yours is right?"
Harris looked at his watch and showed haughtily, "See, a quarter of four."
Garison shrugged, then put his shovel over his shoulder and said, "Well, we'll keep an eye out for him in case he shows up later. Folks always have trouble finding our house even when I give them directions. Maybe he just got lost in the canyon. Took the wrong dirt road or something."
"Perhaps," Jameson nodded. Harris made a motion that indicated he thought Phil had had to much to drink for lunch, but Jameson shook his head and said, "No, I don't think so. He's been dry ever since he came back from the south Pacific."
"Why was he there?" Heather asked.
"It's where the Navy sent him," Jameson replied, wondering if Heather and Garison might possibly be mental. "In fact, I think he was on Iwo Jima."
"That was a while back," Heather mumbled, though something about the whole conversation bothered her. It was as if she and Jameson were having two spearate conversations that sort of met in the middle—but didn't.
Jameson extended his massive hands and shook those of Heather and Garison. He smiled and said, "I certainly appreciate your help, Garison, Mrs. Fitch. Sometime when you're in Durango, allow me to buy you dinner."
"That's not necessary," Garison shrugged.
"Yeah, we were planning on spending the day digging and working, anyway," Heather smiled, though still uncomfortable about the whole interchange. "This just took us away from working the fence."
"Ah, I've taken you away from your work," Jameson apologized.
"That's fine," Heather smiled. "No one ever got mad about missing out on stringing barbed wire."
Jameson nodded with a deep chuckle and reminded, "Well, the offer is still open if ever you'll take me up on it. Thank you again. Now, can I give you a ride back?"
"No, thank you," Garison replied. "We can walk back. I want to look at the fence again, anyway. We may have to get a surveyor out here for a couple sections."
Jameson nodded as they set off.
When they were out of earshot, Harris remarked, "Where'd they get those clothes?"
Jameson shrugged and said, "I have no idea. Mrs. Fitch certainly fit well into those dungarees, didn't she?"
"It was shameful," Harris replied snootily.
"Not so shameful that you refused to let your eyes bug out at her every move, I noticed."
Harris harrumphed and walked to the hearse. Jameson chuckled and followed along behind. He hated to admit it, but Mrs. Fitch certainly had fit well into those jeans. And there was something about that torn patch on her thigh . . . He checked his watch and wondered if his wife were home, yet.
When they were out of earshot, Heather asked, "What did you think of those clothes?"
"Little outdated, weren't they?" Garison nodded.
Heather, her voice low, agreed, "Very. I don't know fashion as well I do cars, but I'd guess those suits came from about the same era as the cars."
"That's what I was thinking. And I don't know if you noticed it, but that guy was whistling an old 'big band' tune. Granted, music's eternal, but—" He stopped walking just as she did and asked suspiciously, "Are you thinking now what I'm thinking?"
"I am if you're thinking about sneaking back, waiting until they're gone, and finding out what was buried back there." He nodded and she looked at her watch, suggesting, "Let's give them a few minutes then slip back."
They walked quietly through the woods back to the little clearing. They hadn't heard the car drive away, but they hoped it had. If not, they figured they might spy for a while and see what the two men did alone.
They crept up to their fence and slipped through onto the old fenceline road.
There was no hearse, no funeral director, no Harris, no grave, and no clearing.
Chapter Two
"Maybe we're at the wrong place," Heather mumbled, looking all around for a gravesite that was nowhere to be seen. She didn't sound convinced.
"Maybe," Garison nodded, though not believing it, either. He had spent a lot of time wandering the woods on and around his property and he was certain they had ta
ken the exact same route back that they had traveled moments earlier. Still, the evidence seemed to indicate otherwise. He finally said, "Let's follow the fence down hill. We must have come out above the grave somehow."
She nodded and they set off down hill. Heather remarked, "That has to be it. Look, this road—or track, or whatever you'd call it—obviously hasn't been driven on in a long time. We have to be above the gravesite."
"You're right there," Garison agreed reluctantly. He just couldn't believe his reckoning had been that far off. He had even walked around in the snow and done well with reckoning.
Suddenly, though, they were at the road—the main road at the bottom of the canyon. Garison put his hands on his hips and looked both ways in utter disdain. Heather, too, seemed confused but offered, "We must have come out below the grave, not above it."
"I wouldn't think so. I mean, look at the road, but—" his reply trailed off.
Heather shrugged and started up the hill. Garison gave things another curious look, then shrugged himself and followed her.
"OK," he nodded, getting his bearings. "Here's where we just came out of the woods. See, there's that break in the barbed wire we went over. The gravesite must be further up hill. Still . . . " he let it trail off.
Heather nodded and they started up, expecting to find the grave within a few yards. When they had gone a couple hundred yards, and the hill began to get steep, it became obvious they had somehow—again—missed the grave.
As Garison looked around in confusion, Heather asked, "We're on the right path, aren't we? I mean, there's not another one further along, is there?"
"No. I mean, yes this is the right path. No, there isn't another one further along. Not for half a mile, anyway." He looked around and muttered, "This is like . . . "
After a bit, Heather asked, "Like what?"
"This path is like it was the other day—when I was checking the fenceline."
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 2): Saving Time Page 2
