Cowboy Pi. Jean Barrett
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of gunfire. “Could you tell whether the rock was scored? You know, as if bullets had left channels in it?”
“The marks weren’t clear. Maybe you’ll be able to tell something. I took a bunch of photographs. As soon as they’re developed, I’ll e-mail them for you to study. They should be waiting for you at your first stop.”
“That’s fine.” Roark would examine those photographs, but he doubted they would give him anything useful. But Wendell, being Wendell, was so eager to succeed that, again, Roark didn’t want to discourage the overly zealous trainee.
“Tomorrow I’ll tackle the monastery and the Western Museum,” Wendell continued, referring to the institutions that would receive Joe Walker’s estate if Samantha failed to meet the terms of her grandfather’s will. “I’ll let you know what I learn.”
Cautioning him to be careful about how he handled those interviews, Roark promised to keep in touch and ended the call. He hoped he would be able to maintain regular contact with Wendell. He’d had no problem tonight, but a cell phone might not be dependable in a remote mountain area like this. There was also the matter of power, though Ramona Chacon had told him he could keep the instrument recharged using the lighter in her truck.
Roark went on sitting there for a moment on the edge of the bed, listening. Although it wasn’t all that late, a silence had settled over the house. The members of the outfit, knowing that the drive would be underway at first light, had retired early. Which, Roark told himself, was what he needed to do.
Shedding his clothes, he blew out the lamp and crawled under the covers. His phone call to Wendell hadn’t produced anything worthwhile. Not that he had expected it to, but a PI overlooked nothing. It was a beginning, and on the drive he would seize every opportunity to advance his investigation.
His last thoughts before he drifted off were for Samantha next door. He hoped she was sleeping peacefully, not worrying about tomorrow. He also wished he could think of her as nothing but a client who needed his protection instead of a woman he wanted beside him in this bed. Damn.
SAMANTHA DIDN’T BOTHER switching on the flashlight on her bedside table to check her watch, but she knew it was late. Probably close to midnight, if not after.
She had managed to drowse for a couple of hours, though fitfully, but now she was wide-awake. The moon had risen, its light streaming through the uncurtained windows. She might have blamed its brightness for her sleeplessness, except that wouldn’t be true.
Nor could she blame the cattle in the valley below, at least not entirely. Although if their occasional bawling was any indication, they continued to be as restless as she was, reminding her of what tomorrow would demand of her. And tonight?
She had to face it. The fundamental reason for her waking was a physical one—she needed a bathroom. In any other circumstances, this wouldn’t have been a problem. In this place it was. The ranch house had neither bathrooms nor electricity and only rudimentary plumbing in the kitchen. Relieving herself meant a trip to an old-fashioned privy out back. Not something she wanted to risk in the middle of the night.
You can wait until morning.
That’s what she told herself, and she believed it. For a while. But the more she tried not to think about it, the more she wanted that privy. When her need became urgent, she gave in.
This is ridiculous. You have to go, so go.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she shoved her feet into her slippers, scooped up the flashlight and, after putting a coat on over her pajamas, headed for the door.
The lock was as outdated as the rest of the house, the kind that came equipped with a key. It had to be persuaded before it would turn and let Samantha out into the passage.
There were doors along both sides of the corridor, all of them closed, the rooms behind them silent. She looked at the door next to hers, knowing she had to rouse Roark and ask him to accompany her. He would have her head if she didn’t. She had raised her hand to knock when the door directly across the hall opened. Ramona emerged, surprised to find her there.
“I need a trip out to the privy,” Samantha whispered.
“Me, too,” Ramona whispered back, securing the sash on her bathrobe. “I’d welcome the company. I wasn’t looking forward to going out there alone.”
Samantha decided that as long as Ramona was with her she needn’t disturb Roark. She didn’t know Ramona well, but she knew enough to trust her.
The gleam of the flashlight led them into Morning Star’s living room where Samantha could make out the shapes of a stone fireplace, Navajo rugs on the floor, heavy pottery and dark oil paintings on the walls, the kind of Western scenes her grandfather had favored. In fact, the whole place reminded her of the Walking W’s ranch house, and she found that depressing. Still, it would be a shame when all this was pulled down and replaced with a ski lodge and condos, which was scheduled to happen when the new road was finished.
Crossing the room, they let themselves out of the house through a French door, which they left ajar for their return. A gibbous moon swam in the night sky, casting a glow strong enough to permit Samantha to make out the forms of the longhorns in the valley below. They were hushed now, as if waiting for something.
For a quick moment she experienced a sense of uneasiness. It was her imagination. She was letting her imagination get the best of her, seeing an enemy lurking in the thick shadows under the trees where there was none. Besides, Ramona was close at her side.
Samantha remembered the way from an earlier daylight visit. With the flashlight to guide them, they went around the house and along the path. Samantha was thankful for the coat over her pajamas. The day had been almost balmy, but a sharp chill had set in after twilight. It was the autumn weather that made her shiver. Or nerves. Whatever the explanation, she was relieved when they reached the facility at the end of the path.
“You go first,” Samantha instructed her companion, handing her the flashlight.
Ramona disappeared inside the privy. Samantha waited outside, wishing she would hurry. When the woman finally reappeared, she returned the flashlight with a warning.
“The batteries must be weakening. I’m afraid it’s getting kind of dim.”
So dim, Samantha discovered, that managing the privy was a challenge once she was inside and with the door closed. After making use of the facility, she was able to wash her hands using the basin and a can of water one of the staff had provided on a shelf.
By this time the flashlight was worthless. She switched it off and tucked it into a pocket of her coat. They didn’t really need it, anyway. The glow from the moon would be more than adequate enough to light their way back to the house.
That’s what she thought until she stepped out of the privy and found Ramona nowhere in sight. What had become of her? Had she returned to the house without her?
“Ramona,” she called softly, “are you there?”
There was no answer. And Samantha suddenly missed the reassuring beam of the flashlight. She also decided that the night seemed much too quiet, so quiet that she could hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like how heavy the shadows were in that grove of trees off to her right, shadows that could conceal a menace lurking in their depths.
She was being silly again. But she couldn’t shake her sense of uneasiness, the eerie feeling that she was being watched, that she was no longer alone out here. The feeling became a certainty when one of those dark shadows moved, detaching itself from the others.
Samantha didn’t pause to learn the identity of that furtive shadow or why Ramona hadn’t waited for her. Swinging around, she fled up the path as if every nightmare from her childhood were at her heels. She was so fearful of the thing behind her that she didn’t concern herself with what might be in front of her. Until she flew around the corner of the house and smacked into a wall that hadn’t been there before. A towering wall of living, breathing flesh.