Love Is in the Air (70 page)

Sure there had been a time, so long ago that Quinton could not really put a date to it, when he himself would have pulled over and stared at nature’s majesty, but no more. It had taken him a few decades, but he had learned that beauty could wait. His schedule could not.

“Whoa, look at that amazing—” Ralph’s wondrous tone cut off as Quinton’s dog licked the younger man’s glasses. “Darn it! Could you keep this dog off me?”

Ralph’s whiney tone hit a high note as he pushed the chocolate Labrador back from his face, yet somehow the dog got one more lick in.

“Hurricane, get in the back!” Quinton scolded, but the dog took this as an invitation to come visit. The dog’s whole body shimmied with delight as he tried to climb over the seat and join his owner. Taking a few licks in the nostrils himself, Quinton shoved the dog backward. Hurricane landed with a thud behind the seat but immediately bounced back up, wagging his tail and grinning that dopey Labrador smile.

“Stay!” Quinton tried to be as firm as possible. Ralph had made it clear in no uncertain terms that he was not a dog person, and Quinton really did not want another fight over Hurricane’s rambunctious personality.

While cleaning his glasses, the younger man tried to collect himself. “So do you think the locals will give us much hassle about the survey?”

Quinton gave a noncommittal shrug. As long as they did what the logging industry asked, there would be no problem at all. And he planned to have no problems on this job.

Ralph sighed heavily. “Great, now he’s panting on my neck.”

“You could have stayed at the hotel,” he grumbled.

If Ralph was not a dog person, then Quinton might be described as not exactly a people person.

“Are you kidding me? And miss this experience? I dreamt of doing an environmental impact survey my first day at Humboldt State. You know what I mean?”

His knee took another hard bump as he answered. “Not really.”

Ralph shifted in his seat so that his enthusiasm could be seen in its full form. “We are here as agents of the environment. No, no. We’re more like Mother Nature’s ground troops.”

Quinton shook his head. Back on the plane, he had tried to convince the young surveyor, whose lack of experience made him as green as the trees around them, that this trip was nothing more than a rubber-stamping stop, but Ralph had broken out some Robert Frost poems, so Quinton had given up and gone back to the
Wall Street Journal
.

It was easier to allow the harsh realities of the world to teach Mr. Pollyanna that despite the fact that they worked for a “private” environmental research company, it did not mean they were immune to the logging company’s influence. While both of them held advanced college degrees, their word carried very little weight. No matter what evidence they found to the contrary over the next few days, those beautiful, lush hills would be clear-cut by winter.

Slamming on the brakes, Quinton grumbled a curse. The logging road dead-ended in a “T.” “Right or left?”

“Yeah, I’m not seeing… Um, this isn’t on the…” Ralph dropped the tangled map and continued his mumbling to the floorboards.

Quinton tapped the GPS locator’s console panel, but the electronic map was still down. The OnStar knockoff had fizzled once they had driven deep enough into the Cascades. He stifled another curse. This time not at his associate, but at himself.

He had only himself to blame for their current predicament. Somehow he had allowed the kid to talk him into taking the “scenic” route. So, eschewing the highway, they had been driving on dirt roads for hours.

Now they were lost.

Scowling at the rumpled map, Ralph seemed no closer to figuring out their route, so Quinton peered out the window. The sun was dipping to his left, indicating west. He knew the town to be eastward of the ridge, so Quinton gunned the engine and spun the wheel to the right.

Bouncing over huge gouges in the road, Ralph’s voice squeaked as he clung to the truck’s door handle. “I think it was the other way.”

“The town… Crow’s Feet? Crow’s Eye?”

Ralph corrected, “Crow’s Landing. It’s an old Indian name for the settlement.”

“Whatever.” Quinton knew full well the town’s name; he was just loath to speak it. Besides, the Indians were long gone—forced onto reservations. With the valley’s current redneck population, they would more than likely shoot a crow than watch the bird land on their property. “The town should be just ahead.”

“There’s a reservation nearby, isn’t there?” Ralph asked. Quinton ignored the question, but his assistant persisted. “You’re a quarter Klamath, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Quinton answered, hoping his tone was harsh enough to stop this irritating line of inquiry.

Unfortunately, Ralph did not know when to stop. “Are you going to visit them while you’re here?”

Not bothering to reply, Quinton allowed a weary grin to come to his lips as they left the bumpy dirt road and the tires finally found purchase on a paved two-lane highway. His assistant must have gotten Quinton’s unspoken answer as he revved the engine, trying to make up for lost time. He wanted to get the primary paperwork out of the way so that they could go out into the field early the next morning. If the weather held, they might be out of this hick town by the weekend.

Luckily, the rest of the drive was completed in silence. Well, except for Hurricane’s panting and the squeaky complaint of the SUV’s suspension for the punishment they had just put it through.

“Wow, I didn’t think it was going to be this big,” Ralph announced, staring out the truck’s window at the approaching town.

Suddenly, in the midst of all this green, a black smear spread out before them. The town of Crow’s Landing appeared as an old scar upon the mountainside. The forest seemed to be trying to heal the wound by sprouting up trees and grass in the most unlikely places, but humans outmatched the saplings.

“It’s twice as big as Four Corners,” Ralph added as the road smoothed out and small handmade billboards began hocking the town’s wares.

Unimpressed, Quinton pulled his foot off the gas pedal. As much as he wanted to hurry, it would only slow them down to get caught in a speed trap. Even with the reduced speed, as they crept down the main drag, a patrol car followed close behind. The sheriff’s deputy eyed them suspiciously. In small towns like this, things never changed.

“Do you remember this place’s population?” his assistant asked.

Quinton shook his head, even though he had a pretty good guess. It had been over a decade since he visited his old stomping grounds, but the number was pretty easy to reach. The Blue Mountain Logging Company employed over five thousand men. Add their families and all the service industries, and that gave you a town of about fifteen thousand. The loggers needed people to feed them, clothe them, and bed them—not necessarily in that order. Each and every one of the populace was dependent upon the Company. Both surveyors
included
, Quinton reminded himself. Ralph would catch on sooner or later to the gig.

“I think that’s the office.” Ralph pointed to the four-story building just ahead.

No kidding
, Quinton felt like saying, but did not. The rest of the town had not changed a whit since his last visit. Hell, probably not since 1950. The street was lined with one-story squatty buildings complete with fake awnings and cracked sidewalks. The wares in the various stores looked about two decades out of style. People walking down the street openly stared at the two new strangers pulling into town. There was a hint of desperation in the air. The citizens looked as frayed and faded as the buildings.

The Company, however, was encased in new steel and concrete. The building was more of a fortress than an office. Bright blue letters announced The Blue Diamond Timber Industries. The place stuck out gaudy and decadent compared to the rest of town.

Ralph shook his head. “That must have cost them a pretty penny.”

Parking the car, Quinton did not bother to respond as his nose crinkled. The smell of rain was thick in the air, but wasn’t it always up in the Pacific Northwest? The streets glistened with moisture, and everyone had on a slicker.

As they walked up to the main entrance, two young ladies passed by, giggling. The blonde wiggled her fingers at them, then sauntered off with her friend. Ralph was stupid enough to wave back. Quinton knocked the young man’s hand down.

“Are you an idiot? Don’t fraternize with the locals.”

“But there’s nothing in the regulations that says we can’t.”

Quinton opened the lobby door and lowered his tone so that the receptionist did not overhear their conversation. “This may be a new millennium, but out here there are such things as shotgun weddings. Heed my advice.”

Ralph frowned but did not offer up an argument.

Surprisingly, Quinton realized that he almost wished the younger man had. Then he might not have had to consider that his warning was not so much for Ralph’s good but to cover the fact that somewhere deep inside, Quinton found just a sprig of jealousy growing toward the younger man. Because he was not so much upset that Ralph had waved, but that the girl had waved back.

Granted, Quinton was rapidly approaching forty and did not attract the women the way he used to, but he could still walk into a bar with his salt-and-pepper hair and bring home a date if he wanted. Okay, that was a theoretical. He could pick up a woman if he actually left his log home deep in the woods and went into a bar, and then engaged in the chitchat necessary to bring home a woman. Still it was strangely reassuring to know that if he wanted to he could.

But not out in the boondocks like this. Not at all.

As they approached, the older receptionist seemed nice enough. The woman had gray hair, but that still did not discourage Ralph from flirting. Again, Quinton found it odd that for such a geeky-looking fellow (he actually had a plastic pocket protector), Ralph was so self-assured.

Secretaries walked back and forth, returning the young man’s loopy grin. Were they blind to the younger man’s black-rimmed glasses and Dutch boy haircut? Or were they just so bored being cooped up in this little town that they would respond to any male attention?

“Mr. Togglehorn is out for the day,” the receptionist reported. A chill crept into her demeanor that was not there a minute ago. She must have figured out who they were and why they were here. Suddenly, all the secretaries mysteriously vanished from sight.

“But we had an appointment. They said to be here by four—”

The woman’s tone was abrupt. “You will have to come back in the morning.”

Quinton groaned. If this was the kind of reception they were getting right off the bat, this could be a long survey. Didn’t they know that as long as the company did not plan on wiping out the entire National Forest, he was going to sign off on all their permits?

Composing himself, he asked as politely as possible, “Could you point us in the direction of a good motel?”

“They’re all about the same,” the receptionist said as she turned away.

Quinton could feel his temples throb, but Ralph spoke up first. “By any chance is there one that you fancy above the rest? Someplace clean with a nice continental breakfast?”

The woman’s face smoothed over, and she gave a bit of a smile at the younger man’s coaxing tone. “The Lone Pine Inn is pretty good as long as you remember to tip the cleaning lady…”

Ralph winked at her. “I knew you had your finger on the pulse of this town.”

Her cheeks blushed just a little. “Tell them Gail sent you, and they’ll give you that breakfast you asked for.”

Ralph held out his hand and shook the receptionist’s hand, giving her a warm smile. “Thanks. We’ll see you tomorrow morning. And I’ll give you an update on the Lone Pine’s spread.”

The frigid demeanor slipped away completely. “I’ll highlight your appointment on his books.”

As they walked back out, Quinton looked at his assistant with new appreciation. Maybe the kid would be of some use after all.

CHAPTER 2

Regina Togglehorn hurried down the austere hallway. She nearly tripped as a clod of mud fell off her shoe.
Oh no
, Regina thought as she tried to swipe away the dirt. Unfortunately, she managed to only smear the mud, grinding it into the thick seams of the school’s floor tiles. When the call from the school had come, she had dropped her gardening and just hopped in the car, not even cleaning her boots. Now she had made a mess.

Giving up, she rushed down the hall. Even though the principal had called about her son’s behavior, Regina felt like she was the one in trouble.

The principal’s secretary gave her a forced smile as she entered the office. “Hello, Mrs. Togglehorn. Here to see Principal Snyder,
again
?”

The secretary’s barb was not lost on Regina, but she did not bother to rise to the bait. People in this town had to respect her because of her husband, but not many of her fellow citizens had much use for her. “Yes.”

“He will see you in a few minutes. He’s on the phone with the sheriff right now.”

Regina gasped despite herself. Oh dear God,
no! Please don’t let that be about Michael
. During the car ride over to the special high school, Regina had tried to convince herself that the news was not dire, but now she doubted her earlier optimism.

Besides, when was the last time Michael was not in trouble? He had been booted from the regular high school into the juvenile hall school, and now her son was attending a special and extremely expensive private facility that handled difficult teens. If her son were to be expelled from this educational institution, there would be nowhere else to place him.

“Mrs. Togglehorn?” The principal stepped out of his office and motioned for her to enter.

In her hurry, Regina scraped her pant leg against the metal chair, sending chunks of half-dried mud flying across the floor. Some of it splattered onto the principal’s expensive Italian shoes. His nose scrunched as he unconsciously smoothed his silk tie before turning back to his office.

Cringing, Regina wished again that she had spared a few moments and changed out of her gardening clothes. Showing up in torn jeans and an old flannel shirt of her husband’s was not going to impress the official.