“It’s nearly morning.”
No light had appeared yet, but there was enough moonlight to throw a shadow—the shadow of a riderless horse.
Chapter 29
Instinctively, Betsy stepped closer to Joel, easing behind him just a tad. The muscles of his arm jolted beneath her hand, but he stayed planted.
“Hello?” he called.
The horse stepped forward. Moonlight falling through bare branches showed that its saddle was empty. Its reins dangled as it nickered softly.
“Is anybody here?” His voice echoed off some rocky bluff unseen in the night, but no one answered. “Do you recognize the horse?”
Betsy’s fingers tightened, putting a crease in his coat deep enough to feel the solid mass beneath. “It looks familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“Stay here.” He covered her hand with his own before removing it from his arm and taking up his pistol.
Stay behind? Was he crazy? Then, remembering the hour she’d spent bound, she decided to postpone that debate for the time being. She could stay put for a bit.
Slowly he approached the frightened horse. Even in the shadow of the trees, its eyes reflected how scared it was. “Shhh . . . there.” With an outstretched hand, he eased forward until he caught its bridle. Holstering his gun, Joel ran his hand down its wet neck. “This horse has been pushed,” he said. “Someone was in a hurry.”
Betsy couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder. If someone had wanted to get away, they could be here still—crouched behind any tree or hunkered down behind any rock. But as dangerous as it was, she’d rather be here than anywhere else.
Joel bent next to the horse and filled his nostrils with the same wet dirt smell that she was smelling. Or had he found something else? “Betsy,” he said, “get in my saddlebag and find the matches.”
Rushing through the buckles, Betsy dug her hand inside and fumbled past a bag of jerky, a compass, and a sheathed knife until she felt the waterproof canister of sulphur matches. Taking the knife out of the sheath, she quickly sawed a dead limb off a nearby evergreen tree. She kicked some pine needles together, and cupping her hand around the match, brought the flame to life. Gently she added pinecones, and once they were coaxed into fire, she held the dried branch to the young flames. Soon she had a torch twice as bright as Mrs. Rinehart’s candelabra.
Cautiously, she approached Joel. His figure appeared to shift in the darting light. He motioned her closer then caught hold of her arm and held it low.
In one area, wet leaves stuck to the rock surface beneath their feet, while all the other dead leaves blew loose and dry. “What is it?” she asked.
They squatted for a better look, and when Joel ran his finger over the rock and held it to the light, there was no mistaking the deep red color.
Her stomach knotted. Normally she’d tell Fowler about anything suspicious, but in this case everyone was a suspect, and that left only her and Joel to rely on each other.
“May I?” he asked.
She handed him the torch. After securing the horses’ reins in the crook of a bare crabapple tree, she followed Joel, careful not to step on anything that might be evidence. The clouds rolled in front of the moon again, and the darkness reclaimed every spot not touched by the torchlight.
Joel bent over and walked slowly, pausing every few feet to swing the torch in a wide arc just above the ground. Occasionally he stopped, squatted, and rubbed the ground. The piney smell revived her senses, but the brightness from the torch hurt her tired eyes. She looked away, but she continued to see the glare of the torch blinking through the darkness.
Having searched the clearing, Joel went to the edge of the bluff. There he knelt and brought the torch to the ground. His head bobbed gravely, as if answering a question she hadn’t voiced. Then he extended his arm over the void, throwing light on the rocks below.
Betsy’s curiosity could be denied no longer. She picked her way to him and stopped a good foot from the edge. Even if they didn’t have crumbling rocks in Texas, she was too familiar with the danger of putting your toes in the air.
“What do you see?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “There should be something there, but I don’t see anything.” Was it her imagination or did he sound disappointed? “I’m going down to get a better look.”
He tested the stability of the ledge with his boot heel, but a low groan from somewhere nearby had both him and Betsy stepping back into the shadows.
“It’s down the trail,” Betsy said. “Just a little farther.”
Forgetting the ravine, Joel moved silently ahead.
Another groan sounded, and Betsy stopped. This was one time she was content to wait behind. She’d let her Dashing Deputy handle this part alone.
No more leaves rustled. Only stillness. Should she call for Joel? Make sure he was all right? Before she could decide, he spoke.