Aunt Dimity Goes West (6 page)

armed to the teeth and meaner than a bear with a blis-

tered paw. I remember one time . . .”

I gave Toby an amused, sidelong glance as he went

on to describe a hair-raising battle with a gang of des-

peradoes. I was no expert on American history, but I

was pretty sure that the great cattle drives had ended

in the late nineteenth century, when ranchers began

transporting livestock by rail. If Toby could remember

those days, he was remarkably well preserved, but I sus-

pected that he was simply introducing the boys to the

fine western tradition of telling tall tales.

“How high is Bluebird?” I asked, when the twins

had fallen into a bedazzled silence.

“About eight thousand feet,” Toby replied.

“Eight thousand feet,” I said weakly. The caffeine

had definitely worn off. “How long will it take us to

get used to living at eight thousand feet?”

“No more than a few days,” he assured me. “It’s

normal to feel a little lightheaded at first, but if you feel a headache coming on—a serious headache, that

is, as if someone were driving a chisel into your

Aunt Dimity Goes West

41

skull—let me know right away. It could be a sign of

altitude sickness, and that’s no laughing matter.”

I closed my eyes and decided that it would be

much better for my peace of mind if I refrained from

asking any more questions. When I opened them

again, I was swaying slightly from side to side and

squinting in the glare of oncoming headlights.

The broad interstate and the wide open spaces had

vanished, replaced by a two-lane highway that wound

halfway up the wall of a twisting, serpentine canyon.

In the dim light of the dying day, I could see a white-

water stream foaming below us, while above us pine

trees appeared to cling by their root tips to whatever

soil they could find in the rocky terrain.

The road seemed to be made up entirely of blind

curves bordered intermittently by bent and dented

guardrails. As cars, campers, and trucks hurtled toward

us out of nowhere, it became bloodcurdlingly clear to

me that my husband had been both wise and farsighted

to hire a local driver for us. Had I been foolish enough to take the wheel, I would have sent the van crashing

into the canyon wall or plummeting into the rushing

stream before we’d rounded the first bend.

I must have flinched, because Toby noticed that I

was awake.

“Enjoy your nap?” he asked softly. He jutted his chin

toward the backseats. “The others have dozed off, too.”

“I wish I were still asleep,” I confessed, tightening

my seat belt. “I enjoyed the drive more when I was

unconscious.”

42

Nancy Atherton

“It takes getting used to,” Toby conceded, “but

we’re almost there, and you wouldn’t want to miss

this next part.”

He’d barely finished speaking when the canyon

opened out onto a scene of such startling beauty

that I caught my breath. We’d entered a long valley

surrounded by high mountain ranges. A black lake

filled the valley floor, reflecting the handful of stars that had appeared in the darkening sky.The lights of a town

twinkled at the lake’s western tip, like birthday candles set in black velvet, surmounted by the serried silhouettes of peaks backlit by the setting sun.

“Welcome to the Vulgamore Valley,” said Toby.

“Bluebird’s just ahead. Nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s gorgeous,” I said softly. “Absolutely gorgeous.

I didn’t expect a lake.”

“Technically, it’s a reservoir,” said Toby. “But we call it Lake Matula, in honor of Annabelle Matula, the first

woman to settle in the Vulgamore Valley.”

“Are there fish?” asked a sleepy voice behind us.

“Lots of them,” Toby replied. “And you’ll find fish-

ing poles at the cabin.”

“Good,” murmured Will. “I like fishing.”

“Me, too,” Rob chimed in, though he sounded even

more drowsy than his brother.

When I next looked over my shoulder, they were

both nodding in their booster seats, fast asleep. It had been a long day for my little guys.

The two-lane highway followed Lake Matula’s

northern shore, but trees grew right down to the edge

Aunt Dimity Goes West

43

of its southern shore. Search as I might, I could dis-

cover no glimmer of light in the forest, no sign of

habitation anywhere but in the cluster of buildings to

the west. It looked as though every human being in the

Vulgamore Valley lived in Bluebird. Where, I won-

dered, was the cabin?

The posted speed limit fell from fifty to twenty

when we reached Bluebird, at the far end of Lake

Matula. The town had looked tiny from a distance, but

it was at least three times larger than Finch. I could

tell at a glance that it differed from Finch in many

other ways as well. The golden limestone used to

build Finch’s houses had come from one quarry, so

the village possessed a pleasing homogeneity that at-

tracted world-class artists to its cobbled streets.

The same could not be said of Bluebird, which

seemed to pride itself on the helter-skelter individuality of its dwellings. We drove past tiny Victorian cottages, stark cinderblock huts, ramshackle wooden houses, and

at least one geodesic dome. It was too dark to pass judgment on the church, and I had only the briefest glimpse

of the business district, but the gas station was a brightly lit eyesore flanked by heaps of dirty snow.

Toby turned left at the gas station onto a side street

that became a dirt road at the edge of town. The stars

vanished from view as we entered the dense, pitch-

black forest bordering Lake Matula’s southern shore.

Toby followed the dirt road for about fifty yards, then

slowed the van to a crawl and turned onto an even

narrower dirt road that zigged and zagged upward.

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Nancy Atherton

“Lots of deer in these woods,” he explained. “I

wouldn’t want to hit one on your first night here.”

“Or any other night,” I said, and peered anxiously

ahead, hoping that our bouncing, juddering headlights

would discourage all woodland creatures from cross-

ing the road.

After what seemed an eternity, we reached a level

clearing in the forest. Toby promptly shut off the en-

gine and doused the headlights.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

I waited nervously while he disappeared into the

gloom, wondering if bears knew how to open car

doors; then I shrank back, blinking, as a blinding blaze of light drove away the darkness.

There, in the clearing, illuminated by a constella-

tion of floodlights, stood Danny Auerbach’s log cabin.

It wasn’t a shack.

Five

D anny’s cabin was unlike any building I’d ever

seen. It sprawled across the clearing and

climbed up the hillside like the roots of a

gigantic tree, bending itself around boulders, bridging

small gulleys, and encircling saplings.

In some places the cabin was one story tall; in

others it rose to three, but each level bristled with

balconies, decks, and porches. There seemed to be

hundreds of sparkling windows, and they came in all

shapes and sizes: portholes, stars, octagons, massive

sheets of plate glass, tiny panes of leaded glass. At least six stone chimneys, three weathervanes, and a flagless

flagpole rose from the irregular roofline. The largest

chimney belonged to the cabin’s central feature: a

soaring A-frame structure, with a front wall made al-

most entirely of glass, that extended into the clearing

like the prow of a ship.

“Wow,” I said faintly.

“Pretty cool, huh?” said Toby.

“It’s . . . it’s
wonderful,
” I managed, wishing I could think of a bigger word. “It’s magical, incredible, better than I—” I broke off, pricked by a sudden suspicion,

and turned toward Toby so quickly that the seat belt

46

Nancy Atherton

snapped taut across my chest. “Does a crazy neighbor

live nearby? With a shotgun?”

Toby eyed me in puzzlement. “The Auerbachs have

owned the south side of the valley for five generations, Lori.They’ve never allowed anyone else to build here.

Our nearest neighbor is Dick Major, and he lives at

the edge of town, where the dirt road begins.” Toby

pointed to the east end of the cabin. “My apartment’s

behind the garage, and I don’t own a shotgun.”

“Just checking,” I said, and settled back, relieved to

know that two of my biggest worries had failed to ma-

terialize. The cabin wasn’t a dilapidated shanty, and I

wouldn’t have to deal with a crazy neighbor. So far, so

good, I thought. Now we’ll see about the drains.

Toby restarted the engine, drove past the central

A-frame, and parked the van in front of a short, broad

staircase that led to an imposing wooden door in-

cised with images of soaring eagles.

“Welcome to the Aerie,” he said. “I’ll get the lug-

gage while you and Annelise bring the boys in. We can

take them straight to bed, if you like.”

I turned to look at the twins, who were still fast

asleep. “Bed is where they need to be, but I can’t

lift either one of them. I hurt my shoulder a few

weeks ago and it’s still a little weak, so would you

mind . . . ?”

“No problem,” Toby said and stepped out into the

crisp night air.

<

Aunt Dimity Goes West

47

An hour later, the boys were in bed, Annelise was en-

joying a well-earned bubble bath in a bathroom fit for

a queen, and Toby and I were sitting on a huge, soft

leather sofa in the great room, sipping hot chocolate

in front of a roaring fire.

“Are you
sure
we’re supposed to use the family’s bedrooms?” I asked for the third or fourth time.

Toby nodded. “James left a note instructing me to

put you in the family rooms. He thought you’d like be-

ing on the same corridor, but if you want to move—”

“No, no,” I said hastily. “I don’t want to change a

thing.”

Will and Rob would have disowned me if I’d moved

them from the room James Blackwell had assigned to

them. The boys’ bedroom was a
boy’s
bedroom. The furniture was child-sized and made from rough-hewn logs.

The chest of drawers had horseshoe handles, the twin

beds had cartwheel headboards, and the metal bases of

the bedside lamps were shaped like bucking broncos.

The wide-planked floor was covered with Navajo-style

rugs, the beds with Navajo-style blankets, and colorful

paintings of hardworking cowboys hung on the walls.

The pièce de résistance was the open archway in

the rear wall that led to an enormous playroom. The

playroom’s cupboards were filled with toys and board

games, and a freestanding tent stood in the back cor-

ner, but the main attraction was the log fort with its

rope ladder, slide, and tower. Annelise and I agreed

that the fort would be a godsend if summer blizzards

kept the twins cooped up indoors. The playroom also

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Nancy Atherton

had a large picture window, but, thankfully, no porch,

deck, or balcony from which my adventurous off-

spring could tumble.

Annelise, too, would have objected to any sugges-

tion that she move from the room James Blackwell

had selected for her, for practical as well as aesthetic reasons. Her bedroom was conveniently located directly across the hall from the twins’ and next door to

a splendid family bathroom, but it was also charm-

ingly furnished and had its own little balcony.

The master suite, at the end of the same corridor,

was sparely but beautifully furnished with simple pine

furniture. White curtains hung at the windows, fluffy

white rugs covered the polished plank floor, and the

king-sized bed was draped with a crocheted white cov-

erlet over a white duvet. A pair of white-upholstered

armchairs sat before a corner fireplace made of smooth

river stones, and the bathroom was a spacious oasis of

comfort, with a cedar-clad Jacuzzi tub, a glass-walled

shower stall, and double sinks set into an antique side-

board. A set of French doors in the bedroom led to a

deck that overlooked the clearing in front of the Aerie.

I had no desire whatsoever to exchange the master suite

for another room.

“It’s just a bit strange,” I said, turning to Toby. “I

mean, there are clothes hanging in the closets. I feel as if we’re intruding.”

“You’re not,” he assured me. “James Blackwell was

supposed to ship the Auerbachs’ stuff to them, but I

guess he never got around to it. I’ll take care of it

Aunt Dimity Goes West

49

tomorrow. But if you want to move to one of the guest

suites—”

“No, thanks,” I said firmly. “James Blackwell made

the right call. I like being near my sons and Annelise.

How many children does Danny Auerbach have?”

“Three,” he replied. “Two young sons and a teenaged

daughter.”

I looked around the great room and sighed. “They

must be the happiest kids on earth.”

The great room was the A-frame structure at the