Stony River (31 page)

Fenn gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “If you’re so concerned about her, why don’t you take her home and look after her yourself?”

“Don’t tempt me,” snapped Joel. “I don’t think you know how lucky you are to have a sister like her.”

“Sure I do.” Fenn swayed a little as he took a step closer to him. They stood shoulder to shoulder, neither having the advantage. “About as lucky as I am to have a neighbor like you.”

Sevana stepped between them. “I’ll go with you to the barn,” she said to Joel, afraid Fenn might take a swing at him in his inebriated state.

“No, you won’t,” Joel replied. “I want you out of those wet clothes
right now
.”

At his stern tone, Sevana turned her back on both of them and went upstairs. She heard the door close as Joel left.

When she came down in dry clothes, Fenn had already extinguished the lantern and gone to his room. She stood at the kitchen window with an anxious eye on the stars, afraid that another storm would come to put them out. But when sufficient time had elapsed for Joel to get home and none had, she fixed a cup of cocoa with an easier mind, working by starlight to avoid dealing with the lantern.

She sat at the table with hot drink in hand, her thoughts still following Joel up on the mountain. This was the night he was going to tell Chantal they had to break it off. But would he be able to do it, with those impossibly alluring eyes drawing him into their spell, and the two of them alone behind the cloaking spruce boughs with the rest of the world far away?

She realized the cup was burning her fingers and set it down. Out the window a golden glow had appeared behind the ridgeline, silhouetting the sawtooth edge of distant forest. It was funny to be living in a place where the mountains were so tall the moon couldn’t even shine, she mused. And yet, even though she had only been there from one full moon to the next, it was already hard to remember life any other way.

She looked around the kitchen, seeing more from memory than vision its crude axe-nicked logs and splintery boards. The cookstove was lost in shadow—only the silver wire handle gleamed, and a tiny gap in the stovepipe seam glowed orange. The warm, smoky smell of the room was somehow comforting and peaceful to her, and she thought she would always remember what it was like to live there. Yes, it was funny how that life on a rough homestead in a little-known river valley had become so familiar, it was starting to feel as if it was
her
life.

A residual shiver sent a tremor through her body, and she stepped to the stove. She was getting bewitched, she told herself. She had become mesmerized with that slow, single-focus existence—just as anyone who stares at something long enough without interruption becomes enthralled. She was even beginning to act like a local—building that fire for Chantal a little smugly, as though she hadn’t had her own struggles with it just a month ago. Then, too, there was her subconscious reaction to Joel’s strong arms around her, a security she admittedly desired for herself…exactly as if she wasn’t a short-term guest there, and Chantal didn’t hold his heart, and he wasn’t about to leave the neighborhood for the rest of the summer. It would do her good to get back to the outside world and her true course in life. It wouldn’t be long.

After she went to bed, she was being lulled to sleep by the river’s refrain through the open window—more muted than when she’d first come, as if over the weeks the watery orchestra had been instructed to fade to
sotto voce
—when she heard the front door shut and footsteps crossing the floor. Distinctly awake now, she sat up uncertainly. Was someone in the house? Should she call Fenn?

There were footfalls on the stairs. It was the sound of Fenn’s heavy boots. “Fenn, is that you?” she called as they reached the landing.

“Who else?” he shot back, and slammed his door.

She lay down again. All the time she had thought Fenn was in his room, he had been outside. Why had he been out in the night for the past hour—when he had to get up so early for work next day? She felt the old fear resurfacing. She desperately wanted to believe in his innocence; but she couldn’t keep from wondering all over again if the person Randall Radnor was looking for so diligently and methodically, was no further away than the step across the landing.

CHAPTER 20

Sevana stirred the steaming wheat cereal around in her bowl. “You startled me when you came in so late last night.”

“Hmm.” Fenn’s face never had a healthy color after a night of drinking.

“I thought you had gone to bed.”

“I was just making sure Joel didn’t help himself to anything but his precious sheep,” he said deprecatingly.

“You can’t be serious,” she flared, stunned by the audacity of his insult. “Joel is one of the finest, most honest men on the face of the earth, and you would accuse him of
stealing your horse
?”

Fenn didn’t answer. She looked at him and saw he probably hadn’t meant the outrageous thing he’d said—had only said it because he wasn’t about to tell her what he’d really been doing. But that only made it worse. She set down her piece of stovetop toast which tasted even drier than before in her mouth.

Fenn was still eating when Mr. Sutter came, so Sevana invited him in and poured him a cup of coffee. She found him good-natured and talkative—quite different from Fenn’s oppressive morning silences. Nor did he demonstrate the thickheadedness Fenn was so swift to accuse him of. She didn’t see how Fenn could have such a hard time getting along with such an easygoing person. He even complimented Fenn by saying he wouldn’t want to look at a sale without him, since he was so good at seeing all the factors involved and so sharp on contracts. She wished that Fenn would return the effort to be friendly, and his eyes wouldn’t be so cold when he looked at him.

As they were going out the door, Mr. Sutter apologized to Sevana for taking her brother away, and promised to bring him back next afternoon. And he gave one more helpless look back, as if there was something else he’d say to her if he had the opportunity. Fenn went out after him, swinging in aloof strides to the blue-and-white truck with the air of a man free and answerable to no one. No, Sevana thought, Fenn was not the kind of man to work for anybody but himself.

As soon as they had driven away, Sevana went out to Fenn’s truck. There was something she had to prove to herself. She climbed in back and flung open the lid of his metal tool chest. Wrenches and sockets and metal files stared back at her. Like one possessed she dug into its depths, leaving nothing in its place. Not one furry pelt lay within, not one trap, not a single gunnysack. Sevana closed the lid in triumph. She’d like to invite Mr. Radnor to have a look in
that
toolbox! She kept hunting. She looked under the chains and cables. She looked under the spare tire. Then she looked up front under the seat. She pulled the seat forward and looked behind it. And there, resting between an empty canteen and a pair of pitch-covered work gloves, was a small brown fur.

Sevana’s knees went weak. She reached out a hand and withdrew the pelt in horror. It couldn’t be true, but there it was. Randall had been right in his insinuations. Fenn was smuggling furs for the poacher. She stood dazed, clutching the pathetic little fur with both hands—and might have remained there a long time, too heartbroken to move, except for someone driving into the yard just then. Her first thought was that Mr. Radnor had caught her red-handed with the evidence. She shoved the fur under the seat and slammed the door, whirled white-faced to see Joel walking to her from his truck.

“Hi there, Sevana,” he began, until he saw her look. “Wait a minute, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Fenn. He’s—” She had to stop. She would cry right in front of him if she said the words.

At the sight of her stubbornly clamped mouth and the silent misery of her eyes, Joel took her by the shoulders kindly but firmly. “What is it? Tell me!”

“He’s in trouble,” she got out, forcing control. “Mr. Radnor thinks he’s been smuggling furs—and I found one in his truck.”

Joel frowned. “Fenn smuggling furs? You must be mistaken.”

“No, it’s true,” she gulped. “He’s having a hard time paying off the place. He needs the money.” She swallowed again, her whole body trembling with the repressed anguish.

“Sevana, show me this fur,” Joel said decisively.

She brought out the silky-soft brown pelt.

Joel gave it no more than a glance before he said, “Sevana, this isn’t otter, it’s marten.”

“Fenn’s smuggling
marten
?”

“No, no, he’s not smuggling anything. This is a marten pelt he trapped last winter; you can tell by its thick fur. I don’t know why it’s in his truck—maybe it fell behind the seat when he was taking his furs in to sell—but I assure you it’s nothing illegal.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Sevana said it both to Joel and all the powers above. “Oh, Joel, I’ve been so afraid—and he was out again last night…” She stopped, aware he had more on his mind than her own small affairs. “Are you off to get your permit?” she asked in a different voice. He looked better dressed than usual, in a coarse light shirt that darkened his weather-tanned skin, and trousers not faded or patched.

“Yes. I left the sheep and Flint in the corral. If you want to go up, you can let them graze in front of the cabin until you’re tired of it, then lock them in the barn. Be sure you allow yourself plenty of time to get home while there’s still daylight. I won’t be home until late.”

For the first time Sevana noticed Chantal’s platinum coupe waiting on the road. She took a deliberate step back from Joel. “I’ll watch them,” she promised. “And I’ll try to be as good a sheepherder as you.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” His eyes rested on hers in his warm way. “Thanks, Sevana. I’ll try to think of some way to repay the favor.” He returned to his truck.

Chantal had gotten out of the car. Wearing an ice-white top and designer jeans, she picked her way over the ground in spike heels without looking the least bit awkward. Sevana watched her meet Joel and say something. From her distance, Sevana tried to guess just by seeing them together what they had decided—but her overruling thought after all, was to wonder how Chantal had made it down the trail in those shoes. She must have changed at the car—unless Joel had volunteered to carry her down the mountain. Chantal smiled and waved to Sevana, the picture of well-mannered friendliness, and returned to her car to follow Joel down the road.

Sevana set up the hill, still speculating on the decision they had reached. She hoped Joel had stayed resolute to what he knew he had to do—until she thought how hurt he would be, and wavered in her opinion. Sometimes, despite everything, she just wanted to have this dream he wanted so much, come true for him.

She let the flock out to feed, and after horsing around with rambunctious Hawthorn and Blazingstar for a while, sat on the cabin porch to sketch the sheep as they grazed. She had drawn them several times now for practice, and it was beginning to pay off in more realistic copies. They were fully recognizable as sheep, although their faces wore expressions not typically seen in real life—some looking as if they had eaten too many sour sorrel leaves, some giddy beyond any bliss a sheep could naturally expect, and some downright wild-eyed, as though alarmed at the prospect of being so immortalized. She decided she would leave it on Joel’s desk for a laugh.

She ate her sack lunch and then made a few changes to the paper, re-drawing Glacier’s eyes so he less resembled a mad bull. The sun had grown hot and the sheep were finding shady places to graze when she noticed Goldthread was not eating with the others, but lying in a little heap in the grass. Something in the way he lay told her he was not resting, but was sick or hurt. Her heart gave a lurch, and she felt dizzy with fear as she cast aside her tablet and hastened to his side. “Oh, little Goldthread,” she crooned, “what’s wrong?”

He didn’t raise his head at her touch. His eyes fringed by dark lashes were closed. His little black nose was hot and dry.

For a minute she stared down at him in full uncertainty of what to do. To leave him alone while she went to get help was unimaginable—but she had no idea what to do for him herself. And he was Joel’s favorite.

Finally she did the only thing she could think of: she carried him out of the sun into the barn and laid him in one of the lambing pens. She brought a bowl of water, and was overjoyed when he roused to feebly lift his head and drink a few laps. Then she ran to the house and hunted through the books on his desk for a manual on sheep care, thinking he might have eaten some lupine and maybe there was an antidote.

She didn’t find anything among the books, so she leafed through the notebooks. One was Joel’s journal. She saw the entries he’d made by date as she skimmed the pages—mostly short notations of temperature, rainfall, time of sunrise, stage of moon. Her eye lingered on a few longer entries detailing scenes that had caught his interest: moonlight reflecting off ice crystals in the snow, looking exactly as if a handful of stars had fallen from the sky and lay burning on the frozen path of the river…Old Stormy at sunset, half-lit with a threatening alpenfire under low, black, bloodshot clouds. And it gripped her—strangely, it almost hurt her—because his love of beauty was so like her own. She remembered him saying he wanted to write about that land someday. She had no doubt he could do it, just as well as he did everything else. Giving up the search, she returned to the barn empty-handed.