Murdered In Conard County. Rachel Lee
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now, taken by the flu of all things, and his sister who had followed him into the Army had been brought home in a box from Iraq.
Given his feelings about the darkness, it struck him as weird that the song and the attendant memories had popped up. But he ought to know by now how oddly the brain could work.
Scrappy’s hooves were nearly silent on the pine needles that coated the trail. The duff under the trees was deep in these parts, and he’d suggested to HQ that they might need to clean up some of it. Fire hazard, and it hadn’t rained in a while, although they were due for some soon to judge by the forecast. Good. They needed it.
The slow ride through the night woods was nearly magical. The creak of leather and the jingle of the rings on the bridle were quiet, but part of the feeling of the night. When he’d been in Germany he’d learned the story of the Christmas tree. The idea had begun with early and long winter nights, as travelers between villages had needed illumination to see their way. At some point people had started putting candles on tree branches.
Damn, he’d moved from Thanksgiving to Christmas in a matter of minutes and it was July. What the hell was going on inside his mind?
He shook his head a bit, then noticed that Scrappy was starting to get edgy himself. He was tossing his head an awful lot. What had he sensed on the night breeze? Some odor that bothered him. That could be almost anything out of the ordinary.
But the horse’s reaction put him on high alert, too. Something was wrong with the woods tonight. Scrappy felt it and he wasn’t one to question an animal’s instincts and senses.
Worry began to niggle at him. They were getting ever closer to Blaire Afton’s cabin. Could she be sick or in trouble?
Maybe it was an annoying guy thing, but he often didn’t like the idea that she was alone there at night. In the national forest there were people around whom he could radio if he needed to, who’d be there soon if he wanted them. Blaire had no such thing going for her. Her employees were all on daylight hours, gone in the evening, not returning until morning. Budget, he supposed. Money was tight for damn near everything now.
Blaire would probably laugh in his face if she ever guessed he sometimes worried about her being alone out here. She had some of the best training in the world. If asked he’d say that he felt sorry for anyone who tangled with her.
But she was still alone there in that cabin, and worse, she was alone with her nightmares. Like him. He knew all about that.
Scrappy tossed his head more emphatically and Gus loosened the reins. “Okay, man, do your thing.”
Scrappy needed no other encouragement. His pace quickened dramatically.
Well, maybe Blaire would be restless tonight, too, and they could share morning coffee and conversation. It was gradually becoming his favorite way to start a day.
Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, ringing through the forest. At a distance, but he still shouldn’t be hearing it. Not at this time of year. Not in the dark.
“Scrappy, let’s go.” He touched the horse lightly with his heels, not wanting him to break into a gallop that could bring him to harm, but just to hurry a bit.
Scrappy needed no further urging.
* * *
“WE THINK SOMEONE’S been shot.”
The words that had come across the telephone seemed to shriek in Blaire’s ears as she hurried to grab a light jacket and her pistol belt as well as a shotgun out of the locked cabinet. On the way out the door she grabbed the first-aid kit. The sheriff would be sending a car or two, but she had the edge in time and distance. She would definitely arrive first.
The call had come from the most remote campground, and she’d be able to get only partway there in the truck. The last mile or so would have to be covered on the all-terrain side-by-side lashed to the bed of the truck.
If someone was injured, why had it had to happen at the most out-of-the-way campground? A campground limited to people who seriously wanted to rough it, who didn’t mind carrying in supplies and tents. After the road ended up there, at the place she’d leave her truck, no vehicles of any kind were allowed. She was the only one permitted to head in there on any motorized vehicle. She had one equipped for emergency transport.
She was just loading the last items into her vehicle when Gus appeared, astride Scrappy, a welcome sight.
“I heard the shot. What happened?”
“Up at the Twin Rocks Campground. I just got a call. They think someone’s been shot.”
“Think?”
“That’s the word. You want to follow me on horseback, or ride with me?” It never once entered her head that he wouldn’t want to come along to help.
* * *
IT NEVER ENTERED his head, either. “I’m not armed,” he warned her as he slipped off the saddle.
“We can share.”
He loosely draped Scrappy’s reins around the porch railing in front of the cabin, knowing they wouldn’t hold him. He didn’t want them to. It was a signal to Scrappy to hang around, not remain frozen in place. A few seconds later, he climbed into the pickup with Blaire and they started up the less-than-ideal road. He was glad his teeth weren’t loose because Blaire wasted no time avoiding the ruts.
He spoke, raising his voice a bit to be heard over the roaring engine. “Have you thought yet about what you’re doing for Christmas and Thanksgiving?”
She didn’t answer for a moment as she shifted into a lower gear for the steepening road. “It’s July. What brought that on?”
“Danged if I know,” he admitted. “I was riding Scrappy in your direction because I’m restless tonight and it all started with a line from ‘Over the River’ popping into my head. Then as I was coming down the path I remembered how in the Middle Ages people put candles on tree branches on long winter nights so the pathways would be lit for travelers. Which led to...”
“Christmas,” she said. “Got it. Still weird.”
He laughed. “That’s what I thought, too. My head apparently plays by its own rules.”
It was her turn to laugh, a short mirthless sound. “No kidding. I don’t have to tell you about mine.”
No, she didn’t, and he was damned sorry that she carried those burdens, too. “So, holidays,” he repeated. No point in thinking about what lay ahead of them. If someone had been shot, they both knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. And both of them had seen it before.
“I’ll probably stay right here,” she answered. “I love it when the forest is buried in snow, and someone has to be around if the snowshoe hikers and the cross-country skiers get into trouble.”
“Always,” he agreed. “And doesn’t someone always get into trouble?”
“From what I understand, it hasn’t failed yet.”
He drummed his fingers on his thigh, then asked, “You called the sheriff?”
“Yeah, but discharge of a weapon is in my bailiwick. They have a couple of cars heading this way. If I find out someone has been shot, I’ll warn them. Otherwise I’ll tell them to stand down.”
Made sense. This wasn’t a war zone after all. Most likely someone had brought a gun along for protection and had fired it into the night for no good reason. Scared? A big shadow hovering in the trees?
And in the dead of night, wakened from a sound sleep by a gunshot, a camper could be forgiven for calling to say that someone had been shot even without seeing it. The more isolated a person felt, the more he or she was apt to expect the worst. Those guys up there at Twin Rocks were about as isolated as anyone could get without hiking off alone.
He hoped that was all it was. An accident that