Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (9 page)

And he looked way too damn hot for his own good...

Sonny pressed his foot on the accelerator and took off after the ranger’s vehicle, leaving Warden Michael Brooks eating dust. After a sweeping right hand turn, the bulldozed road ran relatively straight across a meadow with Sand Lake to the southwest and a warren of sandy tracks angling off in all directions. The road eventually petered out at a chained gate that the ranger was opening.

Ranger George sauntered back to their rig, looked inside the cab and asked, “You forget something?”

Ignoring the barb, Sonny said, “How about showing me where you want us to park. I got us some unhappy critters back there. Sooner we offload them, get them moving around, the better.”

The ranger pointed to an open area by the north shore of the lake. “Pull in there, make yourselves at home. There’s grazing and access to the lake. There’s some fire pits still functional, should do you for now.” He turned to go, then paused and said, “He ain’t gonna be happy.”

“I know.”

“Your funeral, son.” Before Sonny could come back with a snarky retort, George said, “Lemme talk to him.”

“Why, is he going to shoot me?” He barked a laugh. “Besides, it’s only a half mile, for Christ’s sake.”

“You got any idea our altitude here?” Sonny shook his head no. “It’s ten thousand one hundred and fifty six feet. You go walk a half mile on that sand and then you tell me.” He left to meet up with Michael at the entrance gate.

Sonny carefully eased into a level spot under the shade of a stand of pine. After taking a quick survey to make sure they had enough standing timber to hang a highline, he pulled the rope and fittings out of the tack box and set it aside.

The more he tried concentrating on setting up camp, the more worried he became he might have gone a hair too far in the payback is a bitch department. Sonny’s stomach flipped as Michael jerked to a halt by the other ranger and exchanged a few words with the man. Together they walked back toward the rig, George’s voice carrying in the thin mountain air. “Don’t mind admitting it surprised all of us when we heard you was coming up here. Thought... well, we figured after what happened, you’d be pushing paper for most of the summer.”

“So did I. Paul had a change of heart. Decided I was too valuable to put out to pasture.”

George chuckled. “He couldn’t find another patsy, you mean.” The older man reached out, squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, none of us think you were wrong.”

Michael shrugged. “Yeah, well, maybe I need to work harder on my aim.” That comment had George laughing out loud.

Sonny cautiously joined the two men, his curiosity fired up at the strange conversation. He didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but he wasn’t about to ask for clarification and make himself feel even more foolish than he already did.

George looked Sonny’s way and asked, “Does he know?”

“Drop it, George. I’m paying my dues. That should be good enough for now.” As an afterthought, Michael said. “This here is Dr. Seamus Rydell. He’s the one looking to expand SNOTEL’s reach.”

The ranger and Sonny shook hands. George asked, “You ever been to the lodge?”

Michael interrupted, “I have. Why don’t you take Dr. Rydell, show him around. I’ll unload the stock and get them settled on a tie line, if that’s okay with you.”

Sonny wanted to protest that he should help unload the horses and his ornery mule, but George took him by the elbow and muttered under his breath, “Right this way, Doctor. Leave him be for a few.”

Sand Lake lay in a bowl, the head wider than the base and surrounded by low hills just a few hundred feet higher than the lake itself. A herd of elk, Sonny counted at least twenty, grazed on the southwestern slopes.

George pointed to a spot where a narrow track truncated at a cement foundation. “That’s all that’s left of the main lodge. You can still find fifteen or so cabins scattered around, some in better shape than others.”

“How old is this place?”

Scratching his temple, the ranger said, “No one seems to know for sure when it was set up. Sometime in the twenties. The University has survey maps from the late teens and the lodge isn’t shown. But ten years later, it’s clearly marked on the maps.” He walked toward a small grouping of one-room cabins. “You can still find some furniture, a wagon frame, that sort of thing.”

Sonny entered the cabin closest to a stand of trees. The construction was lodge pole pine chinked with narrow wood slats. Inside he found an ancient ceramic cook stove similar to some antiques he’d seen from the thirties and forties. Following George, he ducked into another cabin, mindful of the clearance and marveled at the iron bed frame and old shelving gathering dust.

Anticipating Sonny’s next question, George said, “Nobody’s used this facility since the eighties. What with the winters and lack of maintenance it’s a miracle stuff’s held up well as it has.”

They poked their heads into a solitary unit nearest the lake. It seemed surprisingly free of dust, the odd bits of broken furniture moved to the side, leaving an open space in the center.

Sonny asked, “Do people stay in these cabins? Hikers, maybe?”

“I imagine they do. Roofs leak like a sieve though, so it’s not the best of shelter.” He looked around curiously. “Somebody’s been using this one. Recently too.” The ranger got a strange look on his face.

“Is that a problem, sir?”

“Probably not.” He exited the building. “Come on, it’s getting late. Don’t want to hold you up from making camp.”

They exchanged a few comments, Sonny explaining where they planned on going and what he hoped to accomplish. When the ranger asked if they had everything they needed, Sonny assured him Michael had done all the packing.

“You’ll be fine then. There’s nobody tougher and more trail savvy than Brooks. He’ll make sure you come back alive.”

Grinning, Sonny said, “That’s a relief.”

The man chuckled. “Mind you, Dr. Rydell, I didn’t say in one piece.” His expression turned serious. “Listen to Brooks, do what he tells you. Don’t argue, don’t ask questions. And don’t piss him off.”

Sonny sighed. “Too late.”

“Too late for what?” Michael came around the rear end of the stock trailer with buckets in hand. Sonny nearly jumped out of his skin. Searching for Ranger George to bail him out, he saw the man looking in the back of the truck.

George asked Michael, “Where’s your hunting rifle, son?”

“Impounded. I didn’t have time to shop for another one.” He slapped at the weapon in a low-slung holster at his hip. “Won’t bring down an elephant, but it’ll sure annoy most critters we’re likely to run across.”

“Go get mine out of the truck. It needs sighting in, but it’ll do you well enough. Spare ammo’s on the floor in a box.”

Sonny felt his nerves ratcheting to high alert. What the heck had he gotten himself into? On a clear day he might be able to see the interstate from one of the higher peaks. Why were the ranger and Michael acting like they were pioneering into uncharted wilderness?

George walked with Michael to the truck. Sonny followed, drawn into a conversation he barely understood.

“One of the cabins looks to be in use.”

“It’s almost summer, George. Not too surprising.”

“Been reports of vandalism south of here, down around the walk-in campsites. Stuff stolen. Tents ripped, that kind of crap.” George handed Michael the rifle. Sonny nearly messed his shorts. It looked like a sniper rifle, all lean and modular, with a scope that would work nicely if you were looking at the rings of Saturn.

Michael glanced back at the horse trailer. “You don’t think it’s safe to leave it here?”

“Might be fine, might not. That there truck of yours is a powerful incentive to misbehave.”

“Can’t do anything about it now, George.”

The ranger paced in a small circle, thinking. “How about I bring my brother up tomorrow. He can take the rig down to his place. It’ll be safe enough there.”

“I don’t like to put anyone out.”

Sonny agreed, nodding his head vigorously, because the thought of not having the rig to return to on a moment’s notice wasn’t high on his list of favorite things. He liked his life neat and orderly, with all his ducks in a row, data dutifully recorded in columns. He was comfortable with metrics, with measuring his world and lining up the numbers so they made sense.

When Michael said, “You might be right, let’s do that,” Sonny wanted to curl into a ball, suck his thumb, and stop being an adult for ten minutes.

As they watched the ranger drive off, Michael snorted, “Well, that’s fucking great,” and grabbed the buckets of water, disappearing around the stock trailer.

Sonny crouched on his heels, wondering what he was missing. He recalled his snide question to the ranger...
Will he shoot me?

Apparently the answer was yes.

Crater Lake

––––––––

S
onny tightened the rigging on the mule. He had designed a BioThane breeching system to hold the saddle in place on steep downhill grades. Experience had taught him that the simple crupper with the loop going around the base of the tail and attaching to the cantle wasn’t nearly good enough. He’d yet to find a saddle that wouldn’t slide forward onto the mule’s ears when the going got dicey, so stabilizing the rigging meant safety for him and comfort for old what’s-his-name.

Michael sneered at Sonny’s colorful tack. “You got something against leather?” The man squinted, clearly taking umbrage with the BioThane tack in eye-watering dayglo orange.

Sonny shrugged, not sure why his guide cared one way or another. “It’s easy to clean. Just toss it in a dishwasher.”

“Dishwasher. Yeah, I can see how that’s handy, considering how many we got out here.”

Maybe that wasn’t the best selling point. Sonny tried again, though he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to belabor the point. “It’s stronger than leather. It won’t break and leave you dangling.”
Strong
. Good word. Score.

“Seen horses with broken necks getting hung up with those damn plastic halters. Sometimes you need for it to break.” Michael made a snapping motion with his hands.

Sonny’s mental basketball rimmed and popped out. He needed a save. “It enhances visibility, even at night. Makes you and your mount easier to spot.” He held his breath.

Michael considered and dismissed the effort. “You got a sixteen hand and change mule that looks like a Dalmatian. Ain’t nobody ever gonna miss seeing him.” Tilting his head, he assessed the mule. “Whaddya call him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

Sonny shrugged. “On whether or not he’s bitten me, stomped on my foot, or dumped me.”

“So?”

“I quote scripture.” His mom called it blaspheming. His sisters called it lame and taught him how to be more creative. It didn’t keep the mule from doing a number on him whenever it suited, but it usually made
him
feel better while he contemplated his next move. The saying,
get right back on the horse
, didn’t mention mules specifically. Sonny figured there was a good reason for that. It was also a good excuse not to carry a firearm when he was out messing around on a recreational trail ride.

“Spot.”

Sonny stared at Michael. “Say what?”

“Spot. That’s his name.” He grinned. Sonny cringed. “Short. To the point. Sounds like STOP you yell it loud enough.”

“He doesn’t speaka da English.”

“He will if you mean it.” Michael patted the mule on the nose and wandered off to recheck the panniers on Sonny’s little mare and a mousy brown Mustang gelding.

After more fussing, Michael finally seemed satisfied with the distribution of weight on the canvas bags hanging either side of a pack saddle where he’d stored the two-man tent on the gelding and Sonny’s instruments on the mare. Sonny would have much preferred the security of a hard-sided case but Michael knew the terrain better so, like Ranger George had suggested, he was content to leave the details to the surly warden.

Handing the lead lines to Sonny, Michael said, “I’ll go open the gate. George and his brother are coming.”

Greetings and the transfer of keys, along with instructions on how to contact someone when they were ready to head back, took only a few minutes.

Sonny watched the rig and the ranger’s truck exiting the old lodge area, kicking up sand and dust. Idly he mulled over the fact they needed rain. Of course, he knew better than to ask for it. Sometimes you got more than you bargained for. In the meantime, he had a couple bandannas he could use to cover his nose and mouth until they hit the shelter of the forest.

Michael vaulted into the saddle. No stirrup, no mounting block. He simply bent at the knees, then he was straddling the chestnut tank with the ease of a man born to ride. With his heart in his throat, and a gauntlet clearly thrown down, Sonny stared at his mule. Assessing the demon-named-Spot, he wondered if today was the day the SOB took off with him having a left foot in the stirrup and an ass-downward center of gravity. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Patiently Michael waited, the lead lines for the pack animals grasped in his left hand. If he was going for casual, it was an epic fail. Smoky blue eyes shot through with devilment and anticipation belied the nonchalant set to his shoulders. That he was also positioned to body block a loose mule running amok, and loaded down with their tranquilizer gun and fishing tackle, was a clue that Brooks had expectations.

Dithering, Sonny did the crow hop in preparation. Spot’s ears twitched. That wasn’t a good sign.

Michael asked, “Want me to hold him?” The tone of voice was carefully neutral.

Sonny barked, “I’m fine,” but thought,
I’m not. I’m going to die, maybe not for real. Nobody ever died of embarrassment, did they?

“We could walk a ways, maybe find a boulder for you to stand on.”

Maybe he could climb a tree and drop down on Spot. Yeah, that would work. Except... he’d likely land on the horn—change to a tenor instead of his baritone. That would sure cut this trip short.

At over sixteen hands, not even his six-two and change was going overcome his lack of athletic ability.
I’m a thinker, not a doer.
Barking, “Stand,” he took advantage of the mule’s temporary distraction and swung into the saddle, his knee grazing the rolled up blanket and raingear tied behind the cantle.