Smoketree

CHAPTER Four



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.

“Didn’t mean to startle you none,” he said in his warm, slow voice.

I waved a hand. “No, no… I was just lost in thought.” I smiled at him. “Smoketree is so lovely—are there other ranches and houses up here?”

The big man eased his seat in the saddle. His hands braced the weight of his shoulders against the saddle horn, clasping the reins, and I heard the leather creak as the horse stomped a hoof. “No. Smoketree is the lone entry up here. The Forest Service holds the rest of it, but this ranch has been in the family for a long time. There’ve been Reynolds’s up here in the Peaks since the turn of the century. So you could say I’m mighty lucky to have a piece of all this beauty, Miss Clayton, even if it is only borrowed.”

“Borrowed?”

He smiled. “No man fully owns the land. He just takes out a mortgage and works it for a while, sort of a tenant for Him.” An upward nod left no room for doubt as to whom he meant. “We’ve been lucky enough to be sitting on one of the prettiest places in the country, but it isn’t really ours.”

I gestured toward the sign on the fence. “The government land…”

He frowned a little. “Yes, we’re surrounded by it.”

“Don’t you feel a little like the small fish in a pond of larger ones?”

He smiled. “So long as I’ve got a good horse under me and a roof over my head, I’m content. I don’t need to lay claim to section upon section of land.”

“Smoketree must be worth a lot of money,” I said quietly, knowing I treaded a narrow path. “And if you lose much more than a barn—”

“The barn is paid for,” he said calmly. “I have insurance, Miss Clayton.”

I opened my mouth to tell him Harper had said exactly the opposite, then closed it. It wasn’t my affair. I was only a guest, and he would not appreciate my prying.

I smiled lamely. “Good. But it will be difficult to build a barn that looks just like the first one.”

He nodded, his blue eyes saddened, and yet he smiled. But it did little more than stretch his mouth. “Can’t be helped,” he said briefly.

I put out a restraining hand as the horse’s blowing muzzle approached my face. “Nathan—” I stopped. I liked the man immensely and I respected his integrity as well as his pride and privacy… but I was also concerned. “Is there something wrong?”

He smiled. “Not at all. ”

That, I knew, was that. So I asked him about the destination of the trail we shared.

He gestured, shifting in the saddle. “It winds all along through there, edging the Forest Service land. You can’t get lost if you keep to it. The horses have beaten it smooth, so you’ll have no trouble in those shoes.”

I looked down at my thin leather flats. Perhaps they weren't the best thing for hiking.

Nathan grinned as he caught my rueful expression. “Just don’t stay out too long, or I’ll have to send someone to fetch you back. Maria’s got a barbecue planned for tonight’s supper, and we’ve got more guests coming in.”

Like Harper, he tipped his hat and went on.

I walked a while longer, in no hurry, just wandering along the trail. I felt luxuriously lazy, unpressured and unfettered, reveling in the sense of freedom. At last I spied a formation of tumbled boulders—granite, I thought—and went over to perch myself upon one. My seat was hard stone, but it felt good nonetheless.

I heard birdsong and the breath of wind through the needles and boughs. The breeze touched my face gently, like a lover; for a moment I thought of Tucker. I shied away from the imagery, then let it come, for had I not come to Smoketree to face up to my loss?

I sat very still upon the rock. I heard the whirring of a bird’s wings as it took flight; the rattle of a beetle in the dead needles on the ground; the staccato chattering of a nearby squirrel or chipmunk. And then I heard something more. The beat of horse hooves against a trail.

This time it was the wrangler. He rode the sorrel horse again, and I admired the smooth precision in the way the animal moved. He was nothing like the tall, fragile-legged thoroughbreds; he was nothing like Preacher, whose long legs and longer body spoke of gene manipulation in his distant past. This one was a heavier, stockier animal with fine, intelligent eyes, alert ears and a heavy jaw. The cowboy rode him easily and came down through the trees, forsaking the trail entirely. Pine cones and needles snapped beneath the iron-shod hooves.

He halted the sorrel next to my perch. “You lost?”

“No. Are you?”

Shadows stretched across his face and the brim of his hat hid much of his eyes. “No.”

I waited for further conversation. When it appeared there was none forthcoming, I decided to fish for it. “It’s too early for the barbecue, isn’t it? So Nathan couldn’t have sent you after me. What are you doing?”

“Riding.” He frowned minutely. “Nathan was here?”

“Briefly. He rode on about fifteen minutes ago.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Then I can catch up to him later. And no, he didn’t send me. I just came up to clear the smoke out of my lungs.”

His tone was level but I saw the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I wish we could have been more help last night. ”

“Nothing more to be done.” He shook his head slightly. “It was a goner the moment it was set.”

“Then you are certain it was deliberate?”

He cast me a sidelong glance of solemn evaluation. “I’ve known all along it was deliberate.”

I straightened on my rock. “What will you do?”

He rolled his shoulders briefly. “Build another barn.”

I sighed. “Not about that. About whoever it was who set the fire.”

“Not much I can do.” He shifted a little in the saddle, then cocked one leg up around the saddle horn. The sorrel nuzzled the ground for something to eat; Harper seemed oblivious to the horse, merely adjusting his balance automatically. “You see, there’s land developers after the ranch. They’re a pretty determined bunch. I got a feeling they’ll go to almost any lengths to get their hands on Smoketree… even so far as to sabotage the place until Nathan sells out of desperation.”

I straightened. “Would he?”

“Never.” Harper smiled a little. “Take it from me—never. Not in a million years.”

I had heard Nathan’s voice when he had told me about the guardianship of the land. No, he wouldn’t sell. Not in a million years. “Would you?” I asked impulsively. “Would you sell if Smoketree were yours?”

Harper did not smile. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask me that.”

For a moment I stared at him blankly. “What do you mean?”

“You obviously know about the deal Nathan and I worked out.” He shook his head, mouth twisted grimly. “Should have known better than to think we could keep it secret. People have a way of finding out things. ”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

He was unsmiling. “How much are you going to offer me, Miss Clayton?”

“Offer you? I thought Nathan was the owner.”

“Still is. But only half. The other’s all mine.”

He seemed to be waiting for something. I had no idea what it was, and didn’t have the mental energy to wonder. I waved a hand at him. “If you came out to ride, ride. Don’t let me keep you.”

The sorrel pawed at the carpet of pine needles, snorting as dust rose. Harper tapped him with one heel and spoke a single word: “Quit.” The horse quit. After a moment Harper dropped off the animal and came to slouch against a boulder near mine. Like me, he looked across the meadow below; unlike me, he was perfectly at ease. I still had the feeling he was after something.

“Horse needs a rest,” he said quietly.

“He looks fit enough to me.”

He shot me a glance from under the brim of his gray hat. I saw a teasing glint in his eyes. “So you know horses, do you?”

I scowled back. “You wouldn’t be riding him if he weren’t. And yes, I know horses—sort of.” I tacked the last part on in case he tested my claim.

The animal in question snuffled against the ground, still seeking edibles. He was contentedly unconcerned with the odd tension between his rider and myself.

Harper slid down until he squatted on his boot heels, leaning back against the fall of boulders. He picked a long wheat-like plant from the ground, pruned it, then stuck it between his lips. He turned it idly, staring into the distance.

“I’m not trying to be intentionally rude,” he said around the stem, “but sometimes it helps to talk about it.”

“Maybe. ” I picked at a crust of greenish lichen.

“I take it he was a real s.o.b. about it.”

“What are you—oh.” I smiled. Then I laughed a little. “So, you still think I’m nursing hurt pride and a broken heart. Well, I’m not.” The sluggish pain rose up again, even as I spoke lightly. “He didn’t break off the affair, you see… he died. ”

Harper’s head came up. I saw the movement as a swing of the gray hat, and then he turned his head to look at me. I saw surprise in his eyes, and the faintest trace of bafflement. Bafflement? What had he expected to hear? But I also saw a bit of suspicion. Did he think I lied?

“I’m sorry.” His tone was noncommittally proper. “Is that what you’re running from?”

“Partly,” I admitted. That was all I intended to say, since my guilt was my own.

Harper sighed. His face was turned away from me so that I could see no expression, but I thought I had somehow surprised him. It was odd. What was he thinking? And why did I want to know?

“It won’t work,” he told me.

Escape hardly ever did. “Probably not,” I agreed.

“Then you might as well leave.”

I looked at him sharply. “But I just got here!”

“I told you it won’t work.”

“I’d at least like to give it a try,” I said, a little indignant. “How do you know it won’t work?”

“It won’t.” He stood up and pulled a gold pocket-watch from his jeans, flipped open the cover to read the time, then closed it and returned it to the pocket. “Nearly time for supper, Miss Clayton.”

“A little early yet, for me. I’ll be down later.”

“You don’t want to miss a meal. ”

“I won’t.”

One hand indicated the horse. “Care for a lift?”

I looked past him to the horse and considered the broad, smooth rump and my own inexperience. “Thanks just the same, but I think I’ll walk.”

He turned and swung up on the horse, then kicked a foot free of the stirrup. “Come on up. Sunny doesn’t bite, and neither do I.” He smiled. “I can’t just leave you here. My mother taught me better manners. And if you refuse, we’ll both be late for supper.”

I gave up. I stuck my foot in the stirrup and grabbed at the saddle. My scramble was awkward because Harper took up most of the room, but he grabbed my wrist and slung me toward the back of the saddle. The sorrel’s firm rump muscles bunched and shifted beneath my weight, nearly upsetting me, and I found myself clutching the wrangler’s lean waist for support.

He lifted the reins and clucked to the horse, who moved out with alacrity. Instinctively my arms tightened around the cowboy.

“Better,” he commented.

I sighed. “Let’s just go to the barbeque, Mr. Young.”

“Under the circumstances, Miss Clayton… you’d better call me Harper.”

I couldn’t help the smile. “Kelly.”