Smoketree (5 page)

Cass broke from Harper and went to her uncle, wrapping an arm around his waist. She leaned her head against his shoulder, commiserating with him privately.

Harper came over to Oliver with hardly a glance at me. He shoved grimy hands through tousled dark hair, and I realized he was hatless. It seemed odd. His thick hair stood up in smoke-stiffened ridges and ash clung to his moustache.

“Well,” he said wearily, “I think it’s done for. I’ll stick around to keep an eye on it, but the rest of you should go back to bed.” He nodded at Oliver. “Thanks for your help.”

“Couldn’t offer much, I’m afraid,” Oliver said. “But at least the insurance will cover the loss.”

A ragged, humorless smile crept out from beneath the moustache. “Nathan let the policy lapse several months ago.” Oliver glanced past him to the wreckage of the barn. His opinion was eloquent, though he said nothing. When he looked again at Harper I saw pity in the older man’s eyes. “May I ask why he would do such a foolish thing?”

Harper stood hipshot, rubbing carefully at a sore eye. I thought he wouldn’t answer; who was John Oliver to ask such a personal question?

But he did answer. “We’ve had some—difficulties—the past few weeks. Nothing serious, but it gets expensive when the insurance company keeps boosting the premiums. Don’t worry-guests are automatically insured against any sort of injury-but the barn wasn’t.” He shrugged. “We’ll make do without one.”

“Difficulties,” I echoed. “Like someone turning Cass’s horse loose on government land?”

He looked at me sharply. “What do you mean?”

“You said someone had cut the lock on his pen. That’s not accidental. Maybe this fire wasn’t either. ”

He smiled. “You a detective, Miss Clayton? Maybe a private eye?”

“No,” I told him. “Just curious.”

“You know what they say about that,” he said smoothly. “Something about an old cat, as I recall. ”

“You don’t sound surprised by my suggestion that it was set purposely. ”

“Nope,” he agreed. “I think it was. But that’s for me to worry about, not you. ”

I looked past him to the smoldering barn. Part of it still stood, a charred silhouette against the full moon. “Patrick Rafferty was down here,” I told him. “Alone.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Harper returned. “
You
were here.”

My mouth fell open. After a moment I managed to regain a little decorum, but not much. “You can’t be serious!”

His smile was lopsided. “Of course I can’t. Now, do you want an escort back to your cabin?”

“I can find my way without one.” And with what little dignity I could muster, I did so. 

I woke up hungry and stinking of smoke. I nearly drowned myself in a steaming hot shower, aimed a blow-dryer at my head long enough to make some sense out of my hair and then left my cabin intent on demolishing my hunger. But I saw the barn almost at once—or the remains of it—and lost a lot of enthusiasm for food.

The stark, weather-beaten old building was a charred shell. It stank of burned leather, horsehair and liniment. Most of the roof lay crumbled in the center, surrounded by the black skeleton that loomed over it in the sunlight. It was doubly incongruous in the light of a new day, but there was no escaping what had happened. Smoketree lacked a barn because someone had set it afire.

Someone had moved the horses closest to the barn to more distant pens. Harper, I guessed; perhaps Cass and her uncle as well. None of the animals appeared unduly upset by what had happened. But then I wasn’t much of a judge of equine behavior. I’d done some riding as a girl, but those years were long gone. I had little doubt the knowledge was gone as well.

As I approached the Lodge I saw a hunched figure seated on the edge of the porch, elbows on knees and chin in hands. Cass. Her dark hair hung in a single braid over a shoulder; sunglasses perched atop her head.

“Are you all right?”

She glanced up as I approached. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed from the effects of the smoke, and possibly tears. She attempted a brave smile and gave it up almost immediately. “I’m depressed.”

“No wonder.” I paused before mounting the steps. “You weren’t burned…”

“No.” She shook her head and tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. She was pale and dark circles outlined her eyes. But I watched as she straightened and managed to sound more natural. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m only hunting some breakfast, if it can still be had this late.” I gestured. “I overslept.”

“So did I.” Her expression tightened again. “Not Uncle Nathan, though. Up at dawn, as usual—checking. But I wish—” She broke off as if realizing she should not be talking about personal things to a guest. “It’s not too late. Go on into the kitchen and tell Maria you’d like something.”

“Cass—” I stopped, not certain what I should say, or even if I should say it. “Is everything okay?”

Her face and eyes said no. “Of course everything’s okay. It was a lousy accident, but it could happen to anyone.” She looked past me to the barn. “We’ll rebuild.”

I threw a glance over my shoulder and saw how spindly and oddly shiny the burned beams were in the bright sunlight. I wondered how much it would cost to rebuild something as big and functional—and picturesque—in today’s world.

I looked back at Cass. “How is Preacher?”

She pushed herself off the high porch and dropped down to my level. “Preacher’s fine, thank God. A little ruffled by all the excitement last night, but no worse for wear. Come down and see him sometime.” She brightened. “Why don’t you come after you eat? I’m going to be working him in the arena. You can see what barrel racing is all about.”

She sounded happier. “I’ll be there,” I told her.

Cass waved a hand. “Go on in and help yourself. Smoketree doesn’t stand on ceremony. ”

I went in, recalling my midnight meal with a silent cowboy.

Half an hour later, energized by my breakfast, I accepted Cass’s invitation and walked down to the pipe arena on the flat below the barn. She was putting a big bay through his paces and I was suitably impressed. He was a good-looking horse, even from my inexperienced point of view: a tall, leggy animal, gleaming in the sunlight. His mane had been shaved to his neck so it wouldn’t interfere with the reins—that much I knew about riding; a strip of white marked his face between his eyes; big, kind eyes. Otherwise he was a solid, rich red-brown with black points on all four legs.

For now the gelding circled the arena with his head bobbing low, ears flicking as Cass spoke quietly to him. He seemed perfectly at ease, perfectly relaxed, and yet I got the distinct impression he was energy on four legs, simply waiting to be released.

Cass appeared just as relaxed, slightly round-shouldered as she sat in the saddle. The reins—actually, a single rein running from one side of the bit to the other—were slack on his neck; Cass’s hands didn’t touch them, as if she trusted the horse to maintain his steady walk around and around the arena.

I hooked my arms over one of the rails and watched, admiring the clean lines of the horse. He was heavier than the thoroughbreds I’d seen a few times at the track. A quarter horse, no doubt; Cass had mentioned registration papers, and I’d seen a single rodeo several years before. I recalled the announcer saying something about the awesome sprinting power of the breed and their uncanny maneuverability.

Three barrels stood in the center of the arena, spaced apart so they formed a perfect triangle. I knew Cass and Preacher’s task was to weave a cloverleaf pattern through and around all three in the shortest amount of time. I wondered how it would feel to ride a big horse at top speed through an intricate pattern that required turns abrupt enough to trip a horse lacking quick reflexes.

Cass hadn’t seen me. Her mirrored sunglasses flashed as she reached forward to pick up the reins; she circled Preacher back toward the barrels. I saw the subtle shift of her weight as she leaned forward. Her left hand clasped the saddle horn and the right pushed the reins forward on Preacher’s shaven neck.

In what appeared to be one explosive movement, the big bay made the transition from calm walk to all-out run. Cass aimed him at the right-hand barrel, hunching forward in the saddle. I saw her heels dig into Preacher’s sides, and the tension in the line of her legs. As the big horse reached the barrel she joggled the reins a little, mouthed something to him over the pounding of his hooves and I saw him nearly lie down on his side as he dropped a shoulder and slid around the barrel. He came up, lunging forward, and headed straight at the second barrel.

Automatically Cass changed hands on the reins. Now her right held the horn and her left the strip of leather; she flipped it again, spoke to him and leaned to the left as he dropped the alternate shoulder and dug into the dirt. Cass’s face was a mask of concentration as she brought him out of the turn and aimed him at the point of the triangle.

I held my breath. Preacher slid around the last barrel in a cloud of dust and came home, running for all he was worth. Cass was a female centaur, hunched forward in the saddle as she urged him on. My hands gripped the top rail as they approached the end of the arena at a speed that precluded a halt. She sat back in the saddle, popped the reins and told him to stop. As her knees shifted forward and she took a deep seat in the saddle, I saw the big horse tuck his rear legs underneath his haunches and literally sit down. Preacher plowed two furrows in the dirt, but he came to a dead halt with room to spare. And Cass smiled.

She walked him at once, allowing him to work the tension out of his body. Around the arena they went again, and this time she noticed me. I saw her teeth as she grinned.

“What’d you think?” she called.

I shook my head. “I’m impressed! I thought you’d hit the rails for certain.”

She patted the dark neck beneath her hands. “Not him. Preacher turns on a dime and stops dead the instant you tell him to. He’s a natural athlete, this horse. It’s why I know we’ll be a winning combination. ” She angled him over in my direction and paused long enough to push some loose strands of hair out of her face. Preacher snorted and shook his head.

“When do you plan to go on the circuit?”

She shrugged. “Soon as I can, but it’ll be a while. He’s won everything in this part of the state, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready for the pro circuit. It takes seasoning, and that’s something we haven’t had a chance to get yet. Not while I’m tied to Smoketree.” Her eyes were masked by the sunglasses, but I heard the tension in her voice.

“Tied how?”

For a moment she said nothing, concentrating on the nail she had chewed ragged. “Oh—you know. Family responsibilities. Uncle Nathan can’t really afford to let me go just yet, not until things are a little better. We’ve laid off so much of the help.” The lenses were pointed in my direction. “I’d like to hit the road tomorrow, but I guess it’ll be a year or so before I can load him up and go. And Uncle Nathan wants me to go to school.”

“And you don’t want to go to college.”

“I
do
want to go,” she said briefly. “Vet school, so I can work on horses on the inside as well as the outside. But it takes a lot of money, and it’s hard work… and right now—” She stopped short and shrugged, as if she were unwilling to say more. “Someday.”

I knew better than to comment. Instead I put my hand through the bars and touched Preacher’s nose, liking the velvety texture of the skin. He wrinkled his lip and grasped at my fingers as if I held a treat. “He’s gorgeous.”

“He’s a big baby,” Cass said fondly, “but he works hard. And one of these days he’ll earn back what I spent to buy him.”

I looked at the saddle, a Western saddle so small and rounded it resembled the English style. “Did you lose anything in the fire?”

“No. We only keep—kept—the tack for the guests in the barn. All of my stuff—and Harper’s and Uncle Nathan’s—is locked up in the tack room.” She waved an arm. “That little building on the far side of the pens, up closer to the Lodge.”

“Lucky,” I commented. “How much
did
you lose?”

Cass shifted in the saddle and dipped her head enough to peer at me over the rims of her sunglasses. She studied me a moment, then sighed. “We saved enough of the tack to keep the riding program alive, thank God, since that’s what most people come here for. If this were the old days we’d be hurting, because we couldn’t tack out very many horses all at once… but now it doesn’t matter much.”

“Old days?”

The head raised defensively, I thought, and the glasses once again hid her eyes. “The old days,” she said lightly. “Back when I was just a kid and Smoketree was probably the most popular dude ranch in the country. But that’s been a while. ” She picked up the reins. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t let him stand too long after a workout. Sorry.”

I put out a delaying hand. “Before you go—could you point me in the direction of a nice trail through the trees? I’d like to take a long walk.”

Cass held the horse back a moment, gesturing. “Go straight up behind the Lodge. You’ll meet up with a trail about a hundred yards from the back door. It’s a good one for riding or walking.”

I thanked her and pushed off the rails. Cass clucked to Preacher and set the horse to circling the arena again, head bobbing on his powerful neck and his black tail swishing as he walked.

The trail wound its way up the mountain subtly, seducing me higher and higher as it curled around trees and through huge tumbled piles of boulders. Unlike the forests of upstate New York, the woods of the San Francisco Peaks were primarily pine. The trees were well spaced, unlike the overgrown woods I was more accustomed to. And yet I found it just as attractive, particularly on a day just warm enough to make me drowsy and more content with my lot than I had been in some time.

I followed the trail as it curved sharply to the left and came to a four-strand wire fence. The path continued, paralleling the fence for some distance before it turned back upon itself and headed downward again. I paused and read the small metal sign hung upon the top strand: PROPERTY OF U.S. FOREST SERVICE.

I wondered suddenly how much of the ranch adjoined government land and how near it was to the ski resort Cass had mentioned. Whatever the arrangement, the land would seem awfully attractive to a condominium developer. Smoketree could probably be sold for a terrific amount of money. I also wondered why I was wondering about any of this, as it was none of my business. I had just concluded that anything was a welcome relief from the usual twin miseries of the wreck and my highly problematic future when a jingling sound startled me out of my reverie. I spun around to see Nathan Reynolds, mounted on a big roan, approaching through the woods.