Aunt Dimity Goes West

by Nancy Atherton

  I paused with my hands on the doorknobs and held my breath. If Toby explained that human food attracted wild animals, the boys would probably create a trail of leftovers to guide bears to the playroom window. But Toby didn’t fail me.

  “It’s unhealthy for the squirrels,” he went on. “If we feed the squirrels, they’ll get fat and fall out of their trees, splat.” He smacked his hand on the breakfast bar, making the boys jump.

  “We won’t leave food out,” Will promised, round eyed.

  “We like squirrels,” Rob said earnestly.

  “Second rule of the Aerie,” Toby went on. “No playing with matches. Forest fires are a very real danger in the high country. One careless match and”—Toby snapped his fingers—“no home for the squirrels.”

  “We never play with matches,” Rob declared.

  “Never,” Will asserted.

  “Then we’ll get along fine,” said Toby.

  “Morning, all,” I called, crossing to give my sons their morning hugs.

  “Good morning, Lori.” Annelise favored me with a penetrating glance. “How did you sleep?”

  “I don’t remember,” I said triumphantly. “I was asleep.”

  “I’m making tomato and spinach omelets to go along with the bacon,” said Annelise, turning back to the frying pans. “You’ll never guess what Toby brought for breakfast.”

  “Rattlesnake steaks?” I ventured, climbing onto a stool.

  “Not for breakfast,” Toby scoffed, and pushed a large plate across the breakfast bar toward me.

  “Scones?” I said, staring incredulously at the pile heaped on the plate. “You brought scones?”

  “He brought homemade strawberry jam as well,” said Annelise, sliding omelets onto our plates.

  I looked from her to Toby. “Where on earth…?”

  “Caroline’s Cafe,” Toby answered. “Carrie Vyne makes her own jams and jellies, and she makes scones from scratch every morning. I ran down there in the van and bought a batch fresh from the oven. I thought you’d enjoy a taste of home.”

  I beamed at him. “If anyone had told me that I’d spend my first morning in the Rocky Mountains feasting on homemade strawberry jam and made-from-scratch scones, I would have told them they were dreaming.”

  “That’s my job.” He spooned jam onto a scone and offered it to me. “Making dreams come true.”

  Our fingers brushed as I took the scone from him, and I felt a distinctive jolt that had nothing to do with the altitude, so I passed the scone quickly to Rob, cut Will’s omelet into bite-sized pieces, and ordered myself sternly to act my age.

  “When do we get to see the cowboys?” Rob asked, through a mouthful of scone.

  “Not for a couple of days,” I said. “We have to get used to the altitude before we go riding. But there are plenty of other things to do while we’re here. Toby’s going to give us a tour of the Aerie after breakfast.”

  Rob and Will were seriously underwhelmed by the prospect of traipsing through the Aerie, looking at rooms—the playroom was the only room that interested them, and they’d already seen that—so I suggested that Toby take them on a short hike after breakfast while Annelise and I poked around the Aerie on our own.

  “Great idea,” said Toby. “We’ll go up to see the eagle’s nest.”

  The boys brightened visibly, gobbled their breakfast, and ran off to fetch their hiking boots. I would have bundled them up in their warmest winter jackets as well if Toby hadn’t stopped me.

  “Light windbreakers over their sweatshirts will do,” he said. “Hiking’s hot work.”

  “But there’s snow on the ground,” I protested.

  “It’ll be gone by noon,” he said, laughing. “We have four seasons every day in Colorado. Granddad used to say it should be the state motto. You’ll see.”

  Annelise and I spent an hour exploring the Aerie before we were spent. After meandering through three guest suites, the laundry room, the arcade game room, the billiards room, the home theater, the library, the outdoor spa—which included a sauna and a massage cubicle as well as a beautifully landscaped hot tub—and myriad decks, balconies, and porches, we staggered back to the great room for a gulp of water and a well-deserved rest.

  “Too many stairs,” said Annelise, her chest heaving. “It’s like climbing Mount Everest.”

  “Without oxygen tanks.” I peeled off my sweater and sprawled on the sofa. I’d just put my feet up when my cell phone rang.

  “Lori?” Bill sounded far more alert than he had when I’d called him in the middle of his night. “Why are you out of breath? You’re not overdoing things, are you? You’ve only just arrived.”

  “You’ll be happy to know that I’m reclining on a couch as we speak,” I said. “Will and Rob are out hiking with Toby, but Annelise and I are taking it easy.”

  “Then why are you out of breath?” Bill pressed.

  “Annelise and I have been hiking through the cabin,” I said. “It’s like Versailles. Glorious, but big.”

  “I knew you’d like it,” said Bill. “Danny never does anything halfway. About Toby Cooper—I didn’t know the other caretaker had quit until I read Danny’s e-mail last night. Is Toby okay?”

  “He’s great. The boys are crazy about him.” So are you, muttered my conscience. I told it to shut up and hurriedly changed the subject. “It’s strange about James Blackwell, though. Did Danny tell you why he quit?”

  “Danny doesn’t have a clue,” said Bill. “Blackwell had worked as his caretaker since just before Christmas. The pay was good and the job was relatively undemanding, so Danny can’t understand why he took off the way he did, without giving notice. Danny’s pretty upset about it, but he assured me that Toby Cooper would take good care of you.”

  “He brought us fresh-baked scones this morning,” I said.

  “Say no more,” said Bill, sounding relieved. “I’ll tell Danny you’re happy with him.”

  I sat up on the couch and looked toward Annelise, who was standing at the window wall, dutifully drinking water while surveying the stunning scenery. Since she wasn’t privy to the secret of the blue journal, I couldn’t mention Aunt Dimity while she was within earshot, so I acted as if the next question were my own.

  “Bill,” I said, “did Danny have a family emergency last Christmas?”

  “I don’t know,” Bill replied. “I wasn’t in regular contact with him back then. Why do you ask?”

  “He and his family spent Christmas at the cabin,” I explained, “and they left some of their clothes behind. It looks as though they packed without double-checking the drawers and closets. I was wondering if something happened to make them leave in a panic.”

  “They’re probably just absentminded.” Bill’s voice was edged with concern. “What’s all this about a panic? You’re not getting spooked are you, Lori? How did you sleep last night?”

  “Like a log,” I said flatly. “Until half past eight.”

  “No nightmare?” Bill asked incredulously.

  “Abaddon took the night off,” I told him. “I’m not spooked, Bill. I’m curious. Would you ask Danny if anything happened at Christmas?”

  “I will.” Bill paused. “You really slept through the night?”

  “I really slept through the night, undisturbed by my creepy nighttime companion,” I told him. “You’re a genius. The mountain air is like a tonic.”

  “Yay,” he cheered softly, and went on to bring me up to date on affairs in Finch.

  Nell Harris had returned from France but wedding bells hadn’t yet chimed for her and Kit Smith, Peggy Taxman had made a ludicrously low offer for the greengrocer’s shop, and the weather had been drizzly. I tried to describe the Aerie and the view from my deck, but failed so miserably that I gave up in the end, and told Bill he’d simply have to fly over and see it for himself.

  “I wish I could,” said Bill. “I know you had doubts about the trip, Lori—”

  “And I was a fool to have them,” I interrupted. “Your br
illiant idea was truly brilliant, Bill. The only thing missing is you.”

  After promising to pay closer attention to the time difference when calling him, I rang off.

  “The snow’s all but gone,” Annelise observed, turning away from the window wall. “And there’s hardly a puddle to be seen. There’s something to be said for dry air.” She strolled toward the sofa. “All’s well at home?”

  “I’ll fill you in while we fix lunch,” I said, getting to my feet. “The boys will be famished when they get back.”

  “I’m a bit peckish myself,” said Annelise. “And I intend to take a nap after lunch.”

  “We’ll all take naps after lunch,” I said determinedly. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

  We stayed in or near the Aerie for three full days, but no one was bored. We took long hikes after breakfast, naps after lunch, and slightly shorter hikes before dinner. While we napped, Toby packed the Auerbachs’ possessions and took the boxes to the Bluebird post office for shipping. He came back from town each day with something new to round out our wardrobes: wide-brimmed hats with ventilated crowns, shock-absorbing hiking poles, and lightweight headlamps for night hiking. Since my injured shoulder made wearing a day pack uncomfortable, I asked Toby to buy a waist pack for me; it came with pouches for two water bottles and a zippered compartment for small essentials.

  Toby joined us for every meal and spent the evenings with us around the fire pit near the outdoor spa, singing songs, telling stories, and making beautifully gooey s’mores. It seemed a shame not to take advantage of the arcade games and the home theater, but no one wanted to stay indoors when the outdoors was so enticing.

  When I finally took the time to explore Mrs. Auerbach’s library, I found that it contained books on Colorado flora, fauna, geology, art, architecture, folklore, photography, and history, as well as biographies of prominent Coloradans. I selected a volume on Colorado pottery to read in bed, but I never made it beyond the first paragraph of the introduction because I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to read further. The thin air was like a narcotic.

  The trails around the Aerie were narrow, rock-strewn, and crisscrossed with tree roots, which made them far more challenging than the smooth, well-trodden paths surrounding Finch. Since I’d been all but bedridden for six weeks, I had trouble keeping up with the others, but Toby was never in a hurry and he always found clever ways to keep the twins occupied while I plodded slowly uphill, wishing I had an ice pack for my throbbing shoulder.

  Toby was the ideal guide, extending our hikes gradually each day as our stamina increased. He pointed out famous landmarks and repeated their names until we knew them by heart: Ruley’s Peak, Mount Schroeder, Chaney Canyon, the Bartos Range. We waded in Willie Brown Creek, picnicked in Getty’s Gulch, and snapped photographs of mule deer grazing near the defunct Luddington Mine.

  Toby had us stand stock-still and listen as the leaves chattered in stands of white-barked aspens. He drew us close to ponderosa pines, to smell the vanilla fragrance in the deeply creviced bark. He spotted a pair of luminous Mountain Bluebirds perched atop an old fence post at the edge of a meadow, and told us that an early prospector had named the town after a pair that had guided him to his first gold strike.

  Toby also taught us to wear gallons of sunblock, to stay with the group, and to bring extra water on every hike. Thanks to his sage advice, and good fortune with the weather, we managed to avoid dust storms, sunstroke, rattlesnake bites, hypothermia, altitude sickness, and a host of other woes that awaited unwary travelers in the mountains.

  Rob and Will were so carried away by their high altitude adventure that they insisted on “camping out” in the playroom every night. They got a huge kick out of crawling into the sleeping bags in the freestanding tent and furtively switching on their headlamps after I’d called for lights out. I didn’t mind. I liked knowing that the only bears in their wilderness were plush and toothless.

  Bill called after breakfast every morning, but he was unable to answer Dimity’s most pressing question. Danny Auerbach had switched his e-mail to auto-reply while he negotiated a new deal somewhere in Alaska, and Bill had been unable to reach him by telephone, so we still didn’t know whether or not a family emergency had cropped up for the Auerbachs around Christmastime. Dimity found Danny’s sudden inaccessibility deeply suspicious. I thought the altitude was making her daffy.

  At our campfire on Friday, Toby made the momentous announcement that the boys were fit enough to ride the next day.

  “I called ahead to the Brockman Ranch, so they’ll be expecting us,” he informed us. “They’re providing two English-trained ponies, according to the instructions your husband gave them.”

  “Do they have English-trained ponies?” Annelise asked, surprised.

  “Sure,” Toby replied. “The Brockman used to be a working ranch, but beef isn’t as profitable as it once was, so Deke and Sarah Brockman run it as a dude ranch now. They cater to riders from all over the world.”

  Will and Rob didn’t like being thought of as dudes—once we’d explained to them what a dude was—but they were so anxious to climb into the saddle again that they asked to go to bed early. I left them zipped into their sleeping bags in their tent, to dream about horses, and shortly thereafter went to my bed, to dream about sweet-natured, blue-eyed cocker spaniels. Abaddon couldn’t compete.

  Seven

  Toby did a double take on Saturday morning when Will and Rob paraded before him, nattily attired in tailored black riding coats, white turtlenecks, fawn-colored breeches, and tall black boots, with sturdy black riding helmets in their hands.

  “You were expecting blue jeans and cowboy hats?” I said, raising an eyebrow at him.

  “It’s what most people wear at the Brockman Ranch,” said Toby, “wherever they come from.”

  “Well, my boys learned to ride in England, and they’re accustomed to English riding clothes.” I folded the twins’ distinguishing bandanas and tucked them into their breast pockets, so that only the tips protruded. “I may pick up some western gear for them to wear after they get used to their new ponies, but for now I’d like everything to be as familiar as possible. But I’m bringing clothes for them to change into when they’ve finished riding.”

  “Can they ride?” Toby asked, eyeing the boys’ formal outfits doubtfully.

  “Like the wind,” I said proudly. “Don’t worry. No one who sees my sons on horseback will make fun of the way they’re dressed.”

  Since it was our first nonhiking day, Annelise had donned a pretty sun dress, a pale blue cardigan, and a pair of canvas slip-ons that were entirely unsuited for the trail. I’d dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, with a zippered sweatshirt on top to ward off the morning chill, and Toby was clad in his usual ensemble: T-shirt, flannel shirt, multipocketed trousers, and hiking boots. We all wore our wide-brimmed hats and copious sunblock, and carried our trusty water bottles in our packs.

  The morning was a carbon copy of the three that had preceded it. The sun shone like a blowtorch, the sky was preposterously blue, and the air was so crisp it almost twinkled. Bill called after breakfast with nothing to report but the vicar’s decision to leave rock and roll alone and ask the old reliable brass band to play their usual selection of familiar tunes at the village fête, a decision which had met with the villagers’ heartfelt—and loudly expressed—approval. After the boys had taken turns telling their father about their plans for the day—“We’re going to ride with cowboys!”—we all piled into the van.

  Toby took the two-lane highway west out of Bluebird, over a mountain pass and down into a rolling valley dotted with stands of aspen and bisected by a willow-lined creek. As we came down from the pass, we could see the Brockman Ranch laid out before us.

  A dirt road led from the highway to a sprawling log house with a deep porch, three stone chimneys, and a huge rack of elk antlers nailed over the front door. Spread out behind the house were a large barn, a spacious riding ring, and assorted hold
ing pens, paddocks, outbuildings, and sheds. A row of rustic-looking cabins sat among the willows along the creek, with cars and campers parked beside those that were, presumably, occupied by dudes. Rob and Will nearly popped out of their booster seats when they saw a herd of buffalo grazing in the distance and a string of horses munching hay in one of the paddocks.

  “The Brockmans had to go to Denver today,” Toby informed me, as he parked the van in front of the ranch house, “but I spoke with the head wrangler, Brett Whitcombe, and he said he’d look after Will and Rob personally. Ah, here he is now.”

  A tall, slender man with short-cropped gray hair had emerged from the house. He was dressed predictably, in faded jeans, a red-checked shirt, a tooled leather belt with a big silver-and-turquoise buckle, and pointy-toed boots. He carried a battered straw cowboy hat in one hand, but he put it on as he strode across the porch and came down the steps to greet us.

  “Welcome to the Brockman,” he said as he opened the passenger door for me. He looked as though he might be in his midthirties—too young to have gray hair, in my opinion—and his voice was gravelly but gentle. “I expect you’ll be Ms. Shepherd.”

  “Lori,” I said, staring up at him as I stepped out of the van. “Please, call me Lori.” I pointed haphazardly over my shoulder. “Annelise, the boys’ nanny, and Will and Rob, my sons.”

  “How do you do?” he said, tipping his hat in their general direction. “I’m Brett Whitcombe, head wrangler at the Brockman. Everyone calls me Brett. Good to see you, Tobe,” he called as Toby came around the back of the van.

  Toby nodded amiably, acknowledging the nickname. “Likewise, Brett.”

  While Annelise and Toby helped the twins out of the van, I stood frozen in place, unable to tear my gaze from Brett Whitcombe. The straw hat threw a shadow across his face, so I leaned in for a closer look.

  “What color are your eyes?” I asked.

  “My eyes?” Brett seemed surprised by the question, but he replied, “My wife tells me they’re violet, but I’ve always thought of them as blue.”