by Gwen Moffat
‘You mean because of Skinner. You’re thinking along the same lines as me. You’re suggesting they fought? Over Skinner?’ Sophie shook her head vehemently. ‘No way. There were other women, and Val was glad to be rid of the guy.’
‘Jen might not have known that. And if she thought her behaviour was the cause of her mother’s marriage breaking up the girl could have left partly out of guilt, but also because she was frightened of Val’s reaction if she ever discovered that there was a relationship between her daughter and her husband.’
‘You could be right.’ Sophie sighed heavily. ‘So what are we going to do about it?’
Miss Pink’s shoulders slumped but she rallied. ‘She came back; that’s a good sign. You said her father is trying to find her; perhaps you should leave it to him.’
Sophie glowered. ‘Just so long as someone doesn’t drive her away again before Sam can make contact.’
2
Sophie’s mood seemed to harden with the new day. She announced that she was going to buy horses as arranged, come what may, so they’d be riding and they’d have a proper breakfast in the restaurant downstairs. Miss Pink accepted that there were to be no more confidences — at least for the present — and made no reference to the previous evening. In any event the food was good and the ambience intriguing; she had no wish to spoil any of it with discussion of other people’s domestic problems.
She finished her eggs Benedict and looked around her with approval. ‘This place must have an interesting history,’ she observed.
Sophie had been absorbed in thought but she responded, if a trifle stiffly at first. ‘The Kramers kept its character intact. The Rothbury’s one of Ballard’s oldest buildings; as a hotel it was famous in the Twenties. You have to meet Russell and Pat; he’s a sweet guy. He’ll fix shelving, unblock a drain, drive you to the airport, nothing’s too much trouble. Pat’s all right,’ she added quickly, ‘but always preoccupied with the business; that’s to be expected, she runs the office — and virtually everything else. Russell says he’s the maintenance man.’
‘What’s their background? Are they ranch people?’
‘Bless you, no! I can’t imagine Russell… high culture, that’s him: opera, ballet, you name it. Imagine, in Ballard! They — he flew to New York last winter for Rigoletto at the Met. Pat’, she added softly, ‘used to wait tables here.’
Miss Pink recalled music lovers whom she’d encountered in the sticks and, chatting animatedly, they returned to the apartment. In the top corridor Sophie paused at an open door. ‘Hi, Russell,’ she called. ‘You working on Shirl’s carpet? My neighbour’s away,’ she told Miss Pink. ‘He’s shampooing her carpet.’
A large, plump man appeared, beaming. He wore granny spectacles, stone-washed jeans and a work shirt. ‘Meet my house guest,’ Sophie said, introducing them.
Miss Pink shook hands, her eyes straying, listening to a clarinet. ‘Mozart,’ Russell told her. ‘It’s the tenant’s stereo. Lovely tone, isn’t it?’ He turned to Sophie. ‘And what’s the programme for today?’
‘We’ll see Val and Clyde off first of all. They’re going to take the big loop through the Quartz Range and back by way of Black Canyon; they’re aiming to clear the trail ready for the first pack-trip. Then we’re visiting with Charlie; I need to buy a couple of his animals if we can meet on a price.’
‘Such an enterprising lady,’ Russell told Miss Pink. ‘May one ask what you do, ma’am? I guess you’re no more retired than any of us.’ Gallantly suggesting they were all of an age when she might give him twenty years.
She confessed that she wrote Gothic novels and the occasional travel book.
‘Oh my!’ His shoulders sagged. ‘And all I can boast is I supervise an apartment building in a cow town. Former cow town,’ he amended quickly.
‘And a restaurant that’s celebrated throughout the county,’ Sophie put in.
‘Delicious breakfast,’ Miss Pink assured him.
He smiled and spread his hands. ‘My wife engages the staff. The chef was her choice.’ He turned to Sophie. ‘How is Val?’
Their eyes locked. ‘Sam’s looking after things while she’s away,’ Sophie said. ‘He’s a good, steady guy.’
‘Of course. Did you say Clyde’s going too? How long will they be gone?’
‘Only three days.’
Miss Pink sensed a hidden agenda behind this exchange. His eyes glazed momentarily, then his attention came back. ‘I’m keeping you, ladies. Have a good day. Buy some wild horses.’
*
‘Would you have liked to join this trip into the back country?’ Sophie asked as they drove out of town. ‘We could have gone along. Although they’ll be working: clearing the trail of fallen trees, that kind of thing.’
‘I love the idea, but sleeping rough, washing in the creeks? Perhaps not. This kind of day is a nice compromise: a ride, good food, sophisticated company, a comfortable bed at the end of it… most of all, no mosquitoes. I’m too old for mosquitoes. I’ll settle for day rides.’
‘You did say sophisticated company?’
Miss Pink looked wary. ‘We are eating at Glenaffric this evening?’
‘Just my little joke. But I’m afraid it’ll be ranch food.’
And the company? She saw that she might need to lower her standards but she consoled herself with the knowledge, culled from long experience, that simple company was likely to be more intriguing than refined. But ranch food? Perhaps after a day on a horse she could eat like one.
*
The scene at the old homestead was the authentic West; but for the pick-up in the yard it could have looked the same a hundred years ago except that Val was wearing blue jeans. She was saddling a horse outside the barn where other horses were hitched to the rail and a young man was tying a load on a mule. There was equipment on a tarp on the ground: a zinc food box, felling axes, a saw, ropes, bedding rolls. It looked chaotic. Miss Pink knew it wasn’t. In a short time it would all be sorted, and animals and people would be gone. She felt a little wistful.
The man finished with the mule and turned. He was a handsome fellow, a red bandanna at his throat, an old Stetson pushed back, a feather dangling from the brim. His eyes were pale in the dark face — a lined face — he wasn’t young at all, just well-preserved. He must be at least forty but he moved like a cat. Broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, he was an exciting image: the archetypical range rider in fringed chaps and spurs.
‘My nephew,’ Sophie was saying. ‘Clyde, come here and meet Melinda. I’m sorry we’re late; we got held up by Russell.’
‘And —?’ The pale eyes assessed Miss Pink. She detected a certain wariness, not unexpected in a macho cowboy meeting an old lady, a foreigner at that and an unknown quantity.
‘Just talking,’ Sophie said airily. ‘You know Russell.’
‘Enough said. Can you give me a hand over here?’
They moved away, leaving Miss Pink feeling superfluous. Sensibly, she stayed by the Cherokee where she was out of the way. She looked for Val and saw her tightening the hitch on a second mule’s pack, not calmly but snatching at it, flushed, her eyes blazing at a man standing on the other side of the beast. At that moment Val came round its rear and confronted the fellow, obviously furious. She gestured, a chopping motion, said something and stamped away. The man glanced about self-consciously. He was around fifty, small and dark, his clothes suggesting a ranch hand. He threw a glance after Val and his lips moved. Miss Pink was reminded of a vicious dog attacking from behind.
The sun was climbing. She collected her hat and camera, and started to circulate, keeping well clear of hindquarters. The fellow who had roused Val’s fury was mounting a piebald horse. There was a bedding roll behind the saddle, a rifle in its scabbard. He was staring straight at the camera as Miss Pink took his picture, using the zoom, and then she saw his legs lift as he dug in the spurs. The horse spun round and leaped away, almost trampling the little black-and-white cat — would have done so had it not streaked for a fe
nce just in time. The rider shouted wildly as he galloped down the drive.
Val had dashed over and picked up the cat, fondling it while her eyes followed the rider. Her brother joined her but they were too far away for Miss Pink to catch what was said.
*
‘Who was the fellow who rushed off in such a state?’
They were watching Val and Clyde ride away, each leading a pack-mule.
‘That was Erik Byer, one of Charlie’s hands. He thought he was riding out with Val but no way would she have him along. She’s got no time for the guy, pushing himself forward like that. He didn’t ask, he told her he was joining the party — and then he had the cheek to argue with her!’ Sophie was incensed. ‘This is the second time; he tried it yesterday when she took the dudes out and she turned him down flat.’
‘What’s his problem?’
‘He’s unpredictable. Apart from bad manners — and the dudes are paying customers remember — he goes fully armed: pistol and rifle. And Val allows no firearms on pack-trips, except her own.’
‘Val carries a gun?’
‘Oh, yes. Don’t look at me like that. It’s for the bears. Grizzlies, Melinda. They come into camp after food; the gun’s to scare them off, not to kill them.’ Sophie looked down the track where the riders had disappeared. ‘And then that Byer, he made a play for Val: eyes on the main chance, like Skinner. Fortune hunters. She saw Byer off, though. I can’t stand him, he gives me the creeps. Anyway, who needs him? Val’s a strong woman; you don’t need more than two guys to clear the trail.’
‘How does Clyde come to be working for Val? I thought he worked for his father.’
‘It’s Friday. He can be spared from Glenaffric for one day and tomorrow he’d be off for the weekend. Besides, he’s not working for Val only; the back-country trails have to be cleared for hunters too. Charlie’s a great sportsman.’ Was it her imagination or did Miss Pink detect a certain irony in that last statement?
They went into the cabin and, told to look around, Miss Pink inspected the living-room, which she had spared only a glance yesterday. It was as functional as the rest of the house: a wood-burning stove, sagging armchairs, an old-fashioned desk — and an electric typewriter. There was no television set but there was a radio and a telephone. The radio would be essential; in this kind of country you listened to the weather forecasts.
‘Val doesn’t indulge herself,’ Miss Pink said as they drank coffee on the porch.
‘She’d be content to live in a bunk-house.’
‘The long winter evenings must be a bore.’
‘Not at all. If you have horses there’s always tack to mend and there’s the logistics for next season: new routes to be worked out, accommodations to be booked in town, all that. And she’s not a recluse; she comes to see me, visits with Clyde… she keeps busy.’ The words hung in the air. She hadn’t mentioned Val’s parents. She went on quickly, ‘We’ll saddle up and ride; we’ll keep in the shade where we can, it’s going to be a warm day.’
‘I was thinking that when the others left.’
‘They’re going high: a big loop to the south; they’ll be in the forest till they reach the tree-line, then they’ll have a breeze off the snow.’
When only a few horses were needed the whole herd was brought in to the corrals. After saddling Sophie’s grey and the Arab they put the remaining animals back in their pasture and took the trail to Bear Creek, a fine stream that was bridged about half a mile below the ranch. Here there was a stone house with a shingled roof: Erik Byer’s home. ‘The cellar floods when the creek’s in spate.’ Sophie was laconic. ‘Makes the rest of the house damp. Women wouldn’t put up with it but bachelors aren’t bothered. Anyway, Charlie’s not about to build a new house just because a cellar floods. Every cent has to work for Charlie; he’ll not spend unless he sees a return for his outlay. I can tell you, it’s going to be a pain haggling over those horses.’
‘Why don’t you buy them elsewhere?’
They had climbed the far bank of the creek to stop outside a cabin. Sophie sniffed. ‘I told you: I don’t own the ranch, I lease it from him. Charlie owns everything, Melinda. This is Clyde’s home but it’s his father’s property.’
The cabin was in better shape than Val’s, the bargeboards of the gable end roughly carved, reminiscent of a cottage in Eastern Europe. There were the usual corrals and a small barn. A pick-up stood beside the house.
Miss Pink reverted to the point at issue. ‘Are you suggesting that Charlie would cancel your lease if you bought horses from someone else?’ She was incredulous.
Sophie shrugged. ‘He has the best horseflesh in the county — except for Ali. I do not like that stallion; he has a vicious streak. No way would I buy one of his foals.’
They rode for a while in silence until Miss Pink said, ‘You’d think he’d at least do up his daughter’s home. He lives in a mansion and she’s pigging it in a shack.’
‘They don’t hit it off.’
‘Why doesn’t she — I’m sorry, it’s not my business.’
‘It must seem weird to someone on the outside but there’s the background...’
‘You mean Val’s daughter?’
‘Actually, the bad feeling between Val and her father goes way back. Charlie’s an autocrat, you’ll see when you meet him. Edna’s a doormat, Clyde’s frightened of his father, but Val: she always stood up to him. There were fearful rows when she was growing up —’ She stopped.
Miss Pink suppressed a sigh and looked to the view for consolation. Now through the small sounds of their progress and the background of birdsong there was an undertone: heavy and sonorous like a big plane flying low, but this sound seemed to come from under their feet.
They came to a crest and stopped. Below, the Thunder river poured round a bend. Downstream it was a sepia flood winding through the foothills towards a confluence with its main feeder from the west. Upstream was the start of the Black Canyon, the torrent a mass of foam where it broke through the cliffs of the gorge.
The trail dipped sharply to the river and a swinging suspension bridge. On the far side the path climbed through conifers to join a trail from Ballard, the main route into the back country. This was the way that Val and her brother would return in two days’ time. They had headed into the mountains on this side of the river, Sophie explained, would traverse a pass which they hoped would be free of snow and cross the river upstream of Glenaffric’s hunting cabin to come down through the Black Canyon, completing a grand scenic loop. ‘We’ll ride the canyon ourselves,’ she promised. ‘The meadows round the cabin are stunning in the spring. How about that?’
Miss Pink, looking askance at the white water upstream, said that would be enchanting. They resumed their ride, staying this side of the river, ambling over ground that resembled rolling parkland, and after a while they came on a group of mares and foals. They were deep in a discussion of breeding points when there was a wild neigh from behind them and a horseman came pushing through the sage. ‘Charlie,’ Sophie murmured, and Miss Pink had her first sight of the local man of property.
Charlie Gunn didn’t look seventy years old; he was tall and thin, and sat his horse well, if a trifle stiffly. The animal was a stallion and obviously excited. Miss Pink felt the tension in her mare and she kept Sophie’s gelding between them as she was introduced.
The man’s face was as angular as his bony frame; it was a face that would tighten in a flash at the wrong word — or was that being subjective, given what she’d heard? The sun struck points of light from the silver conchos on his bridle, from the spurs, from his horse’s sorrel coat where it wasn’t black with sweat. He smiled, aware of Miss Pink’s scrutiny, and she saw where Clyde got his good looks. When the smile reached his eyes this man was seductive. She was charmed against her will. He asked her how her flight had been, told her she’d brought good weather, implied she was an expert by asking what kind of horse she kept at home.
Sophie’s grey fidgeted. She said without warmth,
‘We were looking at the new crop of foals. You’re doing well, Charlie.’
‘Ali here done well.’ He patted the damp neck. ‘Give credit where it’s due.’
Sophie frowned. She’d be thinking of genes; the stallion had a mean eye.
Their ride was over. Charlie wouldn’t hear of their continuing; they were to have come to Glenaffric later so they should come now. They started up the slope, Miss Pink giving the stallion a wide berth.
At close quarters Glenaffric was as impressive as it had appeared from a distance, although the effect was achieved as much by its sprawling size as by its architecture. There had been no attempt at an aesthetic whole; a central section was flanked by wings, themselves with extensions at odd angles. There were french windows, bay windows, ill-proportioned dormers, enormous bare stone chimney breasts, blatantly pointed. The walls were dazzling white, the jumble of roofs bright red. The trim — mostly ornamental shutters — was an unfortunate shade of turquoise.
They rode round to the back and left Charlie attending to the horses. Sophie had said that Edna Gunn had been the pretty sister but that now she was a doormat. An image had formed in Miss Pink’s mind of a wasted, washed-out woman, perhaps a hypochondriac — pampered? No, not pampered, not Charlie Gunn’s wife.
They entered the kitchen where a little dumpling of a woman was on her knees scrubbing the linoleum. A radio played country and western.
The cleaner stood up, red and flustered. She wore crimplene slacks under a hessian apron and an oversize T-shirt with the ghosts of stains down the front. Really, Miss Pink thought, couldn’t they dress their servants better?
‘I didn’t hear the horses,’ the woman gasped, rushing to turn off the radio. ‘You caught me before I was dressed. So you’re the famous authoress we’ve heard so much about. Please sit down, I’ll make coffee…’
Sophie introduced her sister. Miss Pink subsided on a hard chair and looked around, trying to disguise her confusion by an interest in her surroundings. A massive cooking stove shone with blacklead and white enamel. A splashback behind the double sink was tiled, each tile bearing a coat of arms. ‘Take a closer look,’ Sophie said, seeing her interest.
