Ride the Thunder (17 page)

“Those are the Bighorn Crab.” Jordanna had oriented herself with an area map and identified the mountain range.

“Is that where we’ll be going?” He studied the wild terrain with an apprehensive look.

“No. We’ll hunt west of the river, as I understand it,” she answered. “In the Idaho Primitive Area, where no motorized vehicles are allowed unless they belong to private ranchers in the area.”

“I can’t imagine living out here.” Her brother shook his head at the thought. “It’s so lonely.”

Lonely? Jordanna looked around again. Somehow she wouldn’t have used that word to describe it. It was isolated, yes. Few people would stop by for a visit or a cup of coffee. But she had known times when she had felt the loneliest and was surrounded by people. Lonely was a state of mind, not a place.

“It takes a special breed to live out here and not go stark-raving mad,” he smiled wryly and turned from the scene.

“You may be right.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Christopher said, “compared to those mountains,” he gestured behind him to the Bighorn Crags, “the other side looks tame.”

“Don’t be fooled, Kit,” Jordanna warned. “They are wild. One day in that terrain and you’re going to discover muscles you didn’t know you had.”

“Have you been here before?” He looked surprised by her knowledge.

“Not here. But Dad and I have hunted in the Canadian Rockies for Stone Sheep and in Alaska for Dall. It can be a demanding country, it takes all the strength you have and forces you to dig deep for more. It’s amazing sometimes when you think you can’t go another step, you wind up pushing yourself another mile or more. It’s been said if you flattened all the mountains in Idaho, you’d have a state bigger than Texas.” She grinned.

“I can believe it,” her brother laughed.

“That’s enough sight-seeing,” her father called. “Come on and give us a hand.”

Their gear was being unloaded from the back of the all-road vehicle. Her father and Tandy Barnes were doing all the work while Max Sanger stood to one side supervising. Jordanna glanced at the slender man, surprised that he was talking about his company. That’s all he’d done since they’d left New York.

“Do you suppose Max is going to expect us to carry his things?” she muttered to her brother. His dark
eyes narrowed on the man, then immediately slashed to their father. “I wish Dad would buy his stock, or whatever it is he’s trying to sell him. Maybe he’d change his mind about the trip.”

“That’s what I keep wishing,” Christopher agreed with a strangely sober expression.

“Here.” Her father held out her rifle scabbard, its excellently crafted leather showing signs of use. It had protected the rifle inside on many a hunting trip. Jordanna took it from him and slung it behind her back. Her personal saddlebags were draped over her shoulder, along with the cases for the spotting scope and binoculars. The dufflebags were unloaded from the back and separated to go to their owners. As Jordanna reached for hers, Tandy grabbed it first.

“I’ll carry it for you,” he offered in a gentlemanly fashion.

A small suitcase containing clothes she wouldn’t be taking into the mountains was already in one of her hands. He obviously felt she couldn’t be expected to carry more.

“I carry my own gear, Mr. Barnes. Thank you.” Determination was in her smile as she reached out and took the dufflebag from his grip.

Max hadn’t been pushing people aside to claim his things, but when he heard Jordanna refuse the cowboy’s assistance, he came forward to pick up his. Jordanna noticed it and her lips curved into a dry smile of amusement.

Tandy Barnes continued to eye her hesitantly, as if expecting her to collapse any minute under the load. Her father glanced up from his sorting and noticed the cowboy’s hesitation. His gaze swung to Jordanna and back to the man.

“Don’t worry, Tandy,” he said, already on first-name basis with the man who would be the wrangler for the packstring. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

“Maybe.” As he scratched the back of his head, his hat tipped forward, revealing a balding patch in his dark hair. Tandy Barnes had admitted to Christopher
to being forty-six, but Jordanna suspected he’d left six years off somewhere. His squat, barrel frame looked fit enough for a man half his age. He pushed his hat back on his head and pulled the front low on his forehead. Glancing in the back of the wagon, he announced, “That looks like it’s everything.” There were only two items left to be carried and he picked them up. “You folks travel light.”

It was a compliment, noting their experience at packing back into the mountains, where only the essentials were taken. Jordanna met her father’s glance. The sizing-up process was always the same between hunter and outfitter.

Leading the way, Tandy Barnes started down the path to the river, and they followed single file, with Fletcher Smith bringing up the read behind Max. The pack bridge across the river was substantial, although its narrow width gave it a deceptively flimsy appearance. Upstream, the water tumbled over large boulders and sawtooth rocks. The steep granite walls of the gorge echoed the roar of white water. Below the bridge, the river slowed to turbulent eddies before dumping into a deep placid pool where the banks widened downstream. There, a white sandbar jutted into the water to form a short, wide beach.

“I’d hate to fall off this bridge,” Max commented behind Jordanna. She glanced over her shoulder. He had paused to look down at the water below. She knew how hypnotic those spinning whirlpools could be and the uncanny sensation they created of pulling a person down. “Are you sure it can hold all of us at the same time?”

“I’m sure.” Her father nudged the man’s shoulder with his dufflebag.

Christopher had stopped at the sound of the conversation. “Is everything all right back there?” he called.

“It’s fine. We’re coming,” Fletcher answered as Max walked cautiously forward.

Tandy waited on the other side until they were all
across the bridge. Jordanna paused beside him to look downstream. “The Middle Fork is protected under the Wild and Scenic River Act, isn’t it?” At his nod, she asked, “The Salmon River is north of here, isn’t it?”

“North and east is the way the current flows.”

“Why is it called the ‘River of No Return’?” An absent frown creased her brother’s forehead.

“Because it was so wild and rough, there was only one way to go—downstream. ’Course now they got power boats and jet boats that can make the return trip,” he explained.

Fletcher Smith joined their semicircle. “Lewis and Clark tried to navigate it and turned back. They named it the Lewis River. The Indians called it the Big Fish Water because of the salmon that swam up to spawn.”

“We catch salmon here during their spawning run. There’s a fish ladder way upstream by Dagger Falls,” Tandy told them. “There’s steelhead, cutthroat, rainbow and Dolly Varden in the river, too. Frank caught quite a batch of Chinook salmon the other week. If we’re lucky, Jocko will cook it for supper tonight.”

“The Middle Fork is a major spawning ground for the salmon, isn’t it?” her father asked.

“Yup. If you want to try your hand at fishin’ later this afternoon, this is a good spot.” Tandy pointed to the sandbar.

“I might do that.”

“Let’s get this gear to the house so you folks can settle in.” The cowboy shifted the case he carried. His gaze briefly touched Jordanna before he started on.

The path was wider on this side of the river. It curved around a solid granite boulder that rose twenty feet above them. The first glimpse of the ranch came when they rounded the rock. A wide meadow spread out before them, thickly tufted with brown grass. A stand of aspens shimmered gold from an autumn frost. Their white bark contrasted with the darker green of the pine trees on the distant mountain slopes.

Scattered across the rolling pasture, a herd of Hereford
cattle grazed. Farther away, Jordanna saw a flock of sheep and heard their bleating calls, muted by the scuffling sound of their own footsteps. The air was fresh and clear, lightly scented with pine and hay. Beyond, the rugged mountains blended in with the pastoral scene.

Turning her gaze from the view, Jordanna saw the ranch buildings on the near side of the meadow. A log barn loomed tall, surrounded by a corral where more than a dozen horses were held. Tall mounds of hay were fenced with the same wood poles as the corral, winter forage for the livestock when the snows were deep. Jordanna recognized a smaller log building as a smokehouse.

The ranch house was nestled near the granite rocks that formed the gorge on the riverside. It, too, was constructed of logs, a compact, two-story building. The front porch was designed from rough hewn logs, in varying sizes for the railings, posts, and beams.

Tandy’s boots thumped on the porch steps and floor as he walked to the front door. He held it open for the rest of them. Jordanna walked into a small living area dominated by a black wood-burning stove. A set of stairs rose into a ceiling well to the second floor.

There was a sofa and a couple of worn-looking armchairs. A desk was against one wall, its top cluttered with papers, and a crude chair sat before it. The walls themselves were bare of pictures. The only ornamentation was the tanned hide of a black bear, hanging on one wall. There was a shelf of books and a card table and chairs. A worn deck of cards was on the table, spread out in a game of solitaire that the player had lost and left.

“Just set your gear down anywhere.” Tandy followed Fletcher to be the last one entering the house.

“We might as well take it to our rooms,” her father stated.

“Well . . .” he hesitated and glanced at Jordanna. “I don’t exactly know how Brig was going to arrange that. You’d better wait until he comes.”

“Where is McCord?” Her father glanced around.

“I thought Brig would be here,” Max added.

“He’ll be here directly,” Tandy promised. “There’s always coffee on the stove. Would anyone like a cup?” Christopher was the only one who refused. Tandy walked to a door half-hidden behind the staircase and disappeared through it.

By the time they had stacked their gear in a neat pile near the front door, he was back carrying three unmatched mugs steaming with hot coffee. He was followed by another man. The second man was as tall as Tandy, but his slight build gave the impression he was smaller. Hatless, his thick, dark hair was shading to gray. Although his swarthy complexion gave his lean features a foreign look, his dark eyes held untold gentleness. In one hand, he carried a mug of coffee and in the other, a plate of donuts.

“This is Jocko Morales.” Tandy introduced the man. “He’s the best cook around when you can drag him away from his sheep.”

He was a shepherd. Somehow, Jordanna felt that explained the quality of gentleness she had observed in his face.
“Buenos dias.”
The lilting Spanish greeting was directed to all of them. “Welcome.” The accompanying English phrase held only a trace of an accent.

While Tandy passed out the coffee mugs to the others, the shepherd walked to Jordanna to give her the mug he carried and offer her a donut. She could see he was not a young man, but the years sat easily on his shoulders.

“Thank you, Senor Morales.” She took one of the donuts.

“Please. It is Jocko,” he corrected graciously.

“Thank you, Jocko.” Jordanna smiled. It was very easy to smile when she was looking into such gentle dark eyes. It was also easy to ask him questions without feeling that it might be considered prying. “Are you from Mexico?”

“My family is from Spain. I am Basque.” There
was pride in the statement. With a nodding smile, he turned to offer the plate of donuts to her father.

“Would anyone like sugar or milk for their coffee?” Tandy asked.

“Sugar,” Max requested.

Biting into the moist and airy donut, Jordanna glanced at her father. His look mirrored her own. If the donut was an example of Jocko’s ability, he was going to be an excellent cook on the trip. A good cook was a vital ingredient on a hunt.

From outside came the drum of hoofbeats. Eating her donut, Jordanna wandered to the front window, one of the few in the log house. Two riders were approaching at a canter. One of them was a big, heavyset man. There was something aggressive about the way he sat the bay horse, as if he expected people to get out of his way. Jordanna suspected he was something of a bully and wondered if he was the rancher McCord.

She licked the frosting from her fingers and glanced at the second rider astride a big buckskin. Relaxed, almost slouching in the saddle, he appeared to be an extension of the horse. The width of his shoulders was accented by the insulated black vest he wore over a faded plaid shirt. As he turned his head to say something to the other rider, craggy features that had been shadowed by the wide brim of his hat were exposed.

Her stomach did a somersault. It couldn’t be! Jordanna stared in disbelief, certain her eyes were playing tricks on her. It was just the mustache that made him resemble the man from the party, her shocked mind insisted. It was a mistake she had made before. Besides, what would he be doing here?

The riders reined their horses to a halt in front of the porch. The big man riding the bay stayed in the saddle. Jordanna watched the second man dismount with a lobo-like grace that erased the last doubt. She felt shattered, raw, exposed, and rooted to the floor at the sight of him. He handed the reins of this horse to the other rider, who immediately started toward the
barn while the mustached man mounted the porch steps.

“Take care of my horse.” Brig flipped the reins to Frank.

“Tell Jocko not to let them dudes eat all the donuts. My mouth’s been watering for some of them all day.” Leading the buckskin, the big man kicked his horse into a trot toward the barn.

His gaze flicked upwards to the roof of the two-story house as long, unhurried strides carried him to the porch. Dudes. Brig hoped they were prepared for some cramped accommodations tonight. A bunkhouse had seemed a needless building. Frank, Tandy, and Jocko, when he was at the ranch, all shared Brig’s living quarters. They used the two bedrooms upstairs, while his was on the first floor. Tonight they’d be bunking on the floor of the living room so Fletcher Smith and his group could have the bedrooms. Frank had done considerable grumbling about that.