Strawberry Hill

by Catherine Anderson

  “No, Butterscotch! Whoa! Are you trying to kill me?”

  The horse only increased his pace, and in her panic, Erin couldn’t think how to make him stop. The lunging motion threw her backward, and she almost went flying off over the gelding’s rump. It flashed through her mind that she could mortally injure herself if she fell and hit her head on the rocks. Realizing that she’d completely lost control of the situation, she turned loose of the reins and threw her arms around the horse’s neck to stay on him. That decision resulted in breath-robbing punches from the saddle horn to her belly.

  When they reached the top of the hill, Butterscotch settled back into a walk, and Erin sent up prayers of thanks, silent ones because she felt as if her lungs had collapsed. As the horse moseyed forward, she finally caught her breath and dimly registered that the reins were dangling from the roan’s nose. Now what? Butterscotch was still moving, and she’d lost her grip on her only way to steer him. She got both feet back in the stirrups and leaned as far forward over his neck as she dared, trying to grab the long strips of leather. He stopped and raised his head, bringing the reins closer so she was able to catch hold, one in each hand.

  “Thank you, Butterscotch! Thank you!” She was so grateful that she wanted to hug him. As she got herself situated in the saddle again, she said, “Maybe you don’t like it any better than I do when I have no control.”

  The horse chuffed, and Erin smiled shakily. She could have sworn he was saying, “Of course I don’t, you idiot.”

  Erin sighed, took a moment to collect her composure, and then realized Butterscotch had stopped again. This time, she knew to click her tongue and nudge him with her heels simultaneously, and he moved back into a walk. She scanned the grassy flat that stretched to another tree line about a quarter mile away. Just ahead of them was a trail that intersected with the one they were on. At the junction was the large wooden box with a rickety, hinged lid that her boss had told her about. A drop station, he’d called it. When outfitters who provided guided hunts ran out of things at their base camps, they could find a hilltop that got cell phone service and text someone in town to bring what they needed to the drop station. It saved them from having to ride clear back down to the trailhead for a trip into Mystic Creek, and the people who delivered the goods were tipped handsomely for their trouble.

  “We made it, Butterscotch! Sheriff Adams said there’s only one uphill trail that flows into this one, so that has to be it. We can set up a checkpoint right on the other side, and nobody will be able to get past us without me seeing them.” Erin couldn’t help but feel proud of herself. She’d made it, and for a born-and-bred city girl, that was no small victory. The sound of rushing water that she’d heard earlier came from just ahead of them, too. That would be ideal. She’d brought water for herself, but it would be nice if Butterscotch could get a drink as well. “Yay! Now if I can just find some shade, we’ll have a reasonably comfortable place to set up shop. I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready for a break.”

  They didn’t go far before Erin saw the stream off to her left. It wasn’t very wide, and due to the rocks, brush, and trees that peppered its banks, the water was almost inaccessible. But she did see one reasonably level place where she thought Butterscotch could slake his thirst. She also saw a big boulder partially shaded by trees, which would offer a comfortable spot for her to sit and watch the trail. She’d be a little way off the beaten path, but she saw no problem with that. If anyone pulling a string of packhorses appeared, she could just holler out and check their hay before they went any deeper into the wilderness. Perfect.

  The crown of her brown Stetson, which was as much a part of her uniform as the tan britches and dark chocolate shirt, absorbed heat from the sunlight that bathed the clearing. As she steered Butterscotch toward the boulder, she realized that her head felt sweaty, and a hank of her dark brown hair had worked loose from the twist at her nape to tickle her neck. It felt like a bug was crawling on her. She’d be so glad for some shade, and a drink of water would be welcome, too.

  Butterscotch quickened his pace and whinnied softly, indicating to Erin that he was as eager for a rest and some lunch as she was. She leaned slightly forward to pat the animal’s neck, which was as sweaty as she felt.

  “You okay, buddy?”

  The gelding snorted and then blew air out his nose. That didn’t sound like a positive reply.

  “We’ll get to rest in a minute,” she assured him. “I’ll take you over to the stream to wet your whistle first. How does that sound? And just look at all that grass! Sheriff Adams stressed that you’d be happiest if I could find a place where you can graze. This will be awesome for both of us.”

  The sky, now visible since they’d entered the clearing, was incredibly blue and wisped with fluffy white clouds. Erin could barely wait to get down, stretch her legs, and take off her hat. As they drew near the large rock, she pulled back on the reins to halt the gelding. Grabbing the saddle horn in both hands, she lifted her right leg back over the cantle and shifted her weight onto her left foot still in the stirrup. The next thing she knew, she hit the ground with such force that it nearly knocked the breath out of her. Stunned, she pushed up on her elbows and looked at Butterscotch, who’d turned his head to study her. He looked bewildered. That made two of them. She couldn’t feel her legs. What the heck? Even her butt felt numb. What if she couldn’t get up? The horse might step on her.

  She wiggled her feet, hoping to get her circulation going. The prickly feeling shot to her thighs. “Ouch!” she said loudly. Then to the horse, she added, “You are sworn to secrecy. If the guys at the department hear about this, they’ll razz me again about staying home where I belong and making cookies.” Her hat lay about four feet away. It looked undamaged, and for that she was grateful. She’d have to replace it herself if it got ruined. She sighed and decided to wait for the numbness in her legs to go away before she tried to stand. “The last time they made cracks like that, I almost made the jerks laxative cookies when I got home that night. Chocolate chip, my specialty.”

  Butterscotch snorted and looked as if he nodded. Erin grinned and decided they might become good friends before her stint as a hay inspector was over. According to the sheriff, she had to do it for only a few days. A group of U.S. Forest Service agents—or were they called rangers?—had been on the way to an educational conference in Albany the previous day when the bus carrying them had plowed into the back of a stalled SUV on Interstate 5. A few people had been badly hurt, and as a result, the normally well-staffed department was faced with a temporary shortage of personnel. Late in the afternoon, the USFS had called Sheriff Adams to request emergency help. That was a big deal to Blake Adams. At a county level, he rarely dealt with the feds, and he acted as if working informally with the Forest Service was the equivalent of joining forces with the CIA.

  The first of the autumn hunting seasons began in a little over a week. From now until opening day, outfitters and their employees would be entering wilderness areas to set up their base camps for paying guests. It had fallen to Erin to man a checkpoint on Strawberry Hill to check their hay for weeds. Why this mountain was called Strawberry Hill, she hadn’t a clue. She hadn’t seen a strawberry yet, and referring to a peak as a hill was an understatement.

  She worked her way slowly to her feet and then took some tentative steps to make sure her legs would hold her up. Her inner thighs screamed with every movement. Riding a horse should have been easy for her, as religiously as she exercised.

  “I’ll get up to speed,” she assured Butterscotch as she dusted off her pants. Determination welled within her. She hated when a new activity got the better of her. It made her go all wonky in the head about having to master it or die trying. She suspected she’d gotten that trait from her father, also a law officer and fitness freak. At fifty-five, he prided himself on still having the body of a thirty-year-old and worked out every day to keep it that way. “By nex
t week, if this stupid assignment even lasts that long, I’ll be jumping off your back like a gymnast on steroids.”

  Butterscotch snorted again. Erin had decided that was something horses just did and wasn’t a sign that they were unhappy about anything. She grabbed the gelding’s reins and set off for the stream. The grassy spot along the bank was level enough, and although tiny pine trees poked up here and there, the way was clear for the animal to reach water. Curious about how horses drank, Erin watched Butterscotch closely and decided he must suck it up, much as she did from a straw.

  When the animal had slaked his thirst, Erin led him back to the boulder. Problem. She saw nowhere to tie his reins off so he couldn’t run away. The ponderosa pines grew tall and nearly straight with no low branches. The moment she stopped, Butterscotch began eating grass. He seemed content and totally focused on grazing. She let the reins slip from her grasp to puddle on the ground. The equine seemed oblivious and didn’t attempt to go anywhere. She determined that he’d probably stay put as long as he had grass to munch.

  Tipping her head back to gaze at the sky while the midday breeze wafted over her hot cheeks, she sighed. She’d come to Mystic Creek with the hope that she would take frequent hikes into the wilderness areas, but she’d been too busy so far to hit a trail even once. As the newest deputy, she got assigned the shit details more often than not. If someone called in sick, she was expected to fill in. While people went on vacation, she worked double shifts to help take up the slack. She’d found precious little time for hiking—or for having a social life. The latter bothered her immensely, mainly because she really hoped to meet a nice guy. So far, that hadn’t happened. Men who were about to receive a citation for illegal parking, speeding, or driving under the influence had no romantic notions about the woman who’d collared them. It was more like hate at first sight.

  While Butterscotch continued to graze, Erin stroked his neck. His hair, which looked silky, felt coarse under her palm. He didn’t act interested in going anywhere. She stopped petting him to open the saddlebags and retrieve her lunch case and water bottle. The shady area around the boulder called to her. She could sit on the grass with her back braced against the rock and be fairly comfortable. After she ate, she would have time to skim through the pocket manual her boss had given her and learn mostly everything she needed to know about weed-infested hay and how to recognize it.

  As she settled on the ground, Erin glanced at Butterscotch, wishing her uncle Slade could see her now. He’d laugh, she felt sure. All summer long, he’d been after her to visit the ranch and go trail riding with him. The Wilder Ranch, which he had inherited in its totality because Erin’s mother wanted no part of it, adjoined public lands that were a gateway to seemingly endless outdoor recreation, horseback paths included. Erin had wanted to go on a ride with her uncle, but her work schedule had been too crazy. As often as possible, he met her in town for a meal at one of the eateries. She loved seeing him, even though he always pestered her about coming out to visit. Erin didn’t blame him for that. He wanted her to familiarize herself with the lifestyle that her mother had rejected. He had never married, so he had no kids of his own to take over when he retired or died. She was the only possible heir.

  Erin wished she could develop a love of ranching. She would change professions in a heartbeat. In the Seattle area, she’d gotten burned out on law enforcement. The ugliness of street crime, drug busts, and domestic violence had taken a toll, changing her in ways she regretted and might never be able to undo. She’d once been tenderhearted and sometimes moved to tears by sad stories about battered women, abused children, abandoned pets, and homeless people. The first time she’d been called to the scene of a shooting, she’d been so horrified by the sight of the dead man’s wounds that she had embarrassed herself by losing her lunch all over the sidewalk. Her partner, Clyde, had clamped a hand on her shoulder and assured her that she’d get used to the blood and gore that came with the job, and eventually she had, but she couldn’t be sure she was a better person for it. Where her feelings had once resided, she now felt hollowed out, and even when she searched within herself, she couldn’t find the compassion she’d once had. Her job was much easier in Mystic Creek, but if it hadn’t been for her parents, who’d financed her education, she would happily take off the badge and never look back. Her father loved being a cop, but she didn’t. That was the long and short of it. Her heart just wasn’t in it anymore. While still at school, she’d had her head in the clouds, imagining that she would help people in a significant way, the equivalent of Mother Teresa in a deputy uniform. Now she had no such illusions. She hadn’t made a difference in Seattle, and she wouldn’t make a difference here.

  Feeling sad, Erin forced herself to open her lunch case. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since three o’clock that morning when she’d staggered around the cottage kitchen to make a sandwich and toss crunchy vegetables into snack bags. She couldn’t even remember what she’d packed. Carrots. Broccoli. An apple and an orange. The sandwich, made with low-fat deli chicken, had been slapped together while she was still half-asleep, and now light mayo and mustard oozed out over the edges of the bread. Not wishing to soil her uniform shirt, she worked the zippered edge of the baggie down, grabbed a section of paper towel, and let the plastic serve double duty as a drip catcher as she took the first bite. Then, holding her main course in one hand, she fished the pocket manual from her hip pocket, hoping to familiarize herself with the particulars of this assignment as she ate.

  Three bites later, Erin was frustrated. The booklet opened with illustrations of and captions about all the noxious weeds that existed and what havoc they might wreak on the flora in a wilderness area. Hello? How would she ever remember what each species looked like or the effect it might have on the health of a forest floor? What had Sheriff Adams been thinking to send her up here to perform duties for which she was completely unprepared?

  Feeling a little panicked, Erin set aside her half-eaten sandwich and leafed farther back in the book, searching in vain for any information that might leap out from the tiny print. Nope. It was page after page of small-font gibberish, and she’d have to read every word to learn anything useful. Why couldn’t the federal government publish stuff in plain English and leave all the reference sources out of the text?

  Just then she heard an odd clanking sound. Snapping her head up, she stared at the trail. It couldn’t be an outfitter. Not yet! She’d look like a complete idiot if she had to inspect hay right now. Only she heard the clanking again and then the sound of clomping horses’ hooves reached her. She shoved the manual back in her pocket, pushed aside her lunch, and sprang to her feet.

  Just then a rider came into view at the crest of the hill that Butterscotch had ascended earlier at a brisk jog. At first all she could see was the bobbing crown of a brown western hat a shade lighter than her own. Then the horse’s golden head and the upper body of the human on its back came into view. The horse, a palomino with a flowing platinum mane, was beautiful. And so was the man. Normally Erin wasn’t into the cowboy look, possibly because very few guys had the right build to pull it off, but this one did. He was twisted at the waist to monitor a string of pack animals behind him, so she couldn’t see his face, only a drift of straight blond hair that fell forward to touch the center front of his faded blue chambray shirt. Equally washed-out Wrangler jeans, a hand-tooled belt with a large silver buckle, and dusty riding boots completed the ensemble. He nudged his mount with his heels to increase the pace and kept his attention fixed on the horses and mules that were spilling over the rise behind him.

  As Erin moved toward the trail, she thumbed the corners of her mouth and licked her lips to be sure no mustard was on her face. “Hello!” she called, trying for a cheerful, friendly tone. “I’m Deputy De Laney, and if you don’t mind stopping for a moment, I need to inspect your hay.” The guy gave no indication that he’d heard her, and he didn’t slow down when all six packhorses had made
the ascent. Erin raised her voice and repeated herself at a higher volume. When the man still didn’t glance her way and just kept going, she yelled, “Hey! I’m a county deputy! You can’t just pretend you don’t hear me and keep going!”

  But that was precisely what he did. Erin waved her arms. Yelled again. And the only reaction she got was from Butterscotch, who snorted, whirled, and ran off into the trees. Caught between two choices, chasing the horse or the man, Erin allowed her sense of survival to be the deciding factor and dashed into the woods after the equine. She’d run only about a hundred yards when she saw the flash of Butterscotch’s rump disappear over a hill. Her common sense reasserted itself. Aside from the saddle, the horse bore no weight on his back and could easily outrun her. She probably wouldn’t catch up with him until he reached the trailhead.

  She cut back through the undergrowth to the trail. The cowboy with the string of pack animals had reached the edge of the clearing. Erin sprang into a run. “Police! King County Sheriff’s Office! Halt! Stop where you are!” She winced even as she increased speed. King County? Old habits died hard, she guessed, especially in stressful situations. She hadn’t been a King County deputy in well over a year. “Evading a police officer is against the law!”

  The cowboy pressed forward, never even glancing over his shoulder. His dog, black and white with a collie-like coat, circled back to bark at her, but the man just kept going. Well, that wasn’t going to fly. Not with her. There was no way, absolutely no way, that he couldn’t hear her. By the time she reached the edge of the forest, he and the pack train had vanished, and all she could see was trees. She’d dealt with people like him in the Seattle area. They had no respect for the law or the officers whose job it was to enforce it.

  She drew to a stop to analyze the situation and decide whether she should pursue the guy on foot. After being in the saddle for well over three hours, she was hot, tired, and in no mood for a run. On the other hand, Sheriff Adams had put his faith in her to do this job, and her father, once a marine and now a gung ho cop, hadn’t raised her to be a sissy. Just the opposite. He’d wanted a boy, gotten a girl, and refused to change her diapers so he could pretend she had the right equipment. Now as an adult, she was competitive, and being the winner in almost any situation was inordinately important to her. She’d long since realized that and worked hard to correct the character flaw. Winning remained important to her, though, and it didn’t seem to matter what she was doing—playing pinochle, practicing self-defense, or engaging in aggressive takedowns on a mat with a man twice her size. When doing her job, she still felt a rush of outrage and an underlying sense of inadequacy when she lost control of a situation.