Hard Evidence (12 page)

“Exactly. The killer and victim were probably in the vicinity for other reasons. Hikers, maybe. A couple who’d come out to these abandoned buildings for a liaison, or a party that got out of hand. Could have been campers vacationing here or locals…but my money is still on the latter. Because someone around here is afraid and really doesn’t want you to turn up more evidence.”

I
an sat in the shadowed corner of the cabin’s porch, his feet propped on the porch railing and his chair tipped back.

At this altitude, the crisp early-morning air warmed rapidly beneath the fierce mid-June sun, and he’d already shucked his fleece pullover and jeans in favor of shorts and a ratty, cropped-off T-shirt. They were clothes he would never have worn at home, where someone might have seen his scars. But now Dad was at work, Janna would be off working in a cabin somewhere, and Rylie was mostly housebound with her broken ankle.

He idly probed at the gnarled scarring that twisted from just below his knee, up his thigh, then disappeared under the side hem of his shorts to end over his hip. Still an ugly dark pink, it contrasted sharply against his winter-pale skin.

He looked like Frankenstein, pieced together with puckers and ridges that were supposed to fade in time. It sure didn’t look possible. And he couldn’t even try to get a tan to help hide them, because the doctors had said his scars would look
worse
.

Scowling, he grabbed the paper bag at the side of his chair and held it in his lap, crumpling the stiff paper at the top. Rebellion and anger and fear warred inside him.
It hurt so much…so much…

But no one was here. No one could see him fail and offer all of those stupid clichés about other things he could do instead. Or about how he’d surely get better in time.

Reaching inside, he pulled out the leather-bound sketchbook and set of Sakura pens Dad had given him a few weeks ago. He closed his eyes at the feel of the smooth paper beneath his fingertips and the scent of fine Italian leather.

These were art supplies he’d never been able to afford with his part-time job after school, supplies that silently spoke to just how much Dad hoped he’d make an effort at something he could no longer do. The oppressive weight of failure and loss settled over him like a lead blanket.

After a moment he glanced around at the empty landscape, then tore open the package of pens with his teeth and curled his stiff fingers around the barrel of one of them. The pen wobbled in his grasp. Biting his lip, he glared at his hand, channeling his frustration into forcing those muscles to tighten.

Even though he almost never prayed anymore, he started praying now—an awkward, silent prayer. God probably wouldn’t bother to listen to someone who’d ignored Him for so long, but he was asking anyway.

Ian’s first try for a straight line on the paper skated off into the margin of the notebook. The second veered weakly off at an angle. Sweat trickled down his back as he forced himself to try again and again, his surgeon’s words marching through his thoughts.

Loss of fine-motor control…

Hard to say at this point if it will ever fully return.

I’m sorry…sorry…sorry…

Closing his eyes, Ian leaned his head against the back of his chair with a cry of frustration.

Seeing Rylie’s drawings had felt like a knife wound to his heart; they were a devastating reminder of all he’d lost. Mom had been so sure he’d end up the next Andrew Wyeth—the only artist she could remember by name.

Until now he’d let his grief and frustration build a stone wall that kept him from trying. Rylie’s drawings were childish, but with coaching she could get better. What if he worked at it? Tried every single day and just didn’t say anything? Could he bring back the ability he’d once had?

If he still failed, he’d be the only one who knew.

“Hey, what’s up?” a cheerful voice called out.

Startled, he rocked forward in his chair, the notebook and pens scattering on the floor.

The most awesomely beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life stood just a few feet from the porch with a bucket of cleaning supplies in her hand.
Smiling
at him.

Horror shot through him at her friendly expression, alive with curiosity. She had to have seen his bare arms and legs, and the totally gross scars that even he could barely stand to look at.

Her smile faltered. “Uh, sorry if I interrupted you.”

He stared speechlessly at her, his mind completely blank.

“I’m Lauren,” she added. “New employee. I was just, um, on my way to help Janna with a cabin. Guess I’ll see you around.” She raised a hand in a casual farewell, then turned and started up the hill.

She looked like the kind of girl who ran with the most popular kids. Ended up homecoming queen. Class president. Dated the coolest guy in school.

Even at his best, those girls never gave him a second look. Now this one had seen him at his worst—a scarred, misshapen ogre who couldn’t even manage to say hello. No surprise—she certainly hadn’t lingered very long, and had there been a hint of distaste in her eyes when she’d turned away. He was sure there was.

With that, he saw a glimpse of his future. Who would ever want him? He’d never be handsome. Never be the kind of guy who pretty girls would date. He’d be a curiosity and nothing more.

His humiliation was complete.

Janna rechecked Frosty’s girth, then flipped the stirrup down and stepped up into the saddle. A feeling of exhilaration swept through her as she neck reined the old mare toward the network of trails to the north.

Despite Michael’s warnings about going out alone, this was one thing she simply could not give up.

She’d found her old saddle in the tack room at the home place—a custom-made Balanced Ride given to her by Uncle Gray when she turned sixteen. Even after all these years, it was a perfect fit for her, and riding it brought back a flood of memories every time she started up the trail.

The old days, spent with her sisters moving cattle up to summer range. Doctoring calves. The long rides alone into the mountains, where the magnificent scenery and solitude provided balm for her soul after yet another difficult encounter with her mother.

The occasional summer horse shows, when she and Tessa had entered team pennings and had somehow managed to work so well together.

Those days were long past. Even maturity, the passage of years and all of the conference calls spent discussing Claire’s situation hadn’t brought back any of the camaraderie the sisters had once shared.

Tessa was in the high country on one trip after another these days. When she did stop by it was mostly to see Claire, and her visits were chilly at best. Leigh was swamped with the demands of veterinary school. She didn’t call anyone very often, and always seemed coolly indifferent. Would it ever be possible to regain what they had all lost?

Janna skirted the playground by the lodge and waved to Rylie, who stood forlornly by an open window. “You can ride when I get back,” Janna called out. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

Rylie nodded somberly, then Lauren appeared at her shoulder and they both waved before turning away.

Thanks to Lauren, Janna had been able to ride for the past four mornings, and the solitude had been sheer bliss. After each ride Janna lifted Rylie into the saddle and led the old mare and child around the resort grounds.

It helped Rylie get out of the house to enjoy the sunshine, though she longed for the chance to ride on her own. Yesterday, the doctor at the hospital up in Jackson had said it would be another four or five weeks before her cast could come off.

Janna eased Frosty in a slow, rocking lope across the grassy area by the lodge and up the mouth of the trail. Chipmunks scampered across the path, and irritable squirrels scolded from the branches high overhead as she passed.

She dropped the mare into a honey-smooth jog when the trail began winding through rocky outcroppings and dark, cool stands of pines. It grew steeper, littered with rocks and slippery pebbles, and now the mare automatically slowed to a walk and picked her way carefully along what had narrowed to little more than a deer trail.

At the top of the first rise the trail opened up into a small meadow bisected by an icy mountain stream. Janna had been coming up here every day, and each time she felt her heart fill with a sense of peace and wonder at God’s delicate and perfect design.

The meadow was just as it had been when she a girl. Pristine, with lush grass and a riot of early-summer wildflowers. Sunny glacier lilies. Flaming Indian paintbrush and cream colored globeflowers. Near the stream, where the earth was always damp in the spring, wild iris nodded gently in the breeze.

Frosty balked, then grudgingly waded into the knee-high stream, where Janna let her have a quick drink and watched silvery cutthroat trout dart through the water.

Rich vacationers populated the Hoback and Snake rivers using five-hundred-dollar reels and wearing fly fishing gear worth thousands of dollars, but as kids, she and her sisters had come to this secret place to fly fish in ragged shorts and sandals, using ancient equipment.

They’d prepared their catch over a fire, and nothing—not even in the finest restaurants—had ever tasted so incredibly good.

Smiling at the memory, Janna nudged Frosty with her calf and the mare splashed her way out of the stream and lunged up the opposite, rocky bank. “One more stop, old girl,” she murmured, reaching down to give her a pat on the neck.

The trail rose sharply now, winding through massive boulders and clouds of snow still hiding in the shady places, then narrowed to just a few feet wide as it crossed the face of a cliff. Pebbles bounced crazily down the sheer drop-off below as Frosty passed, while above, Janna could see nothing but rough gray granite.

It was not a spot for the faint of heart or a flatlands horse.

At the top, she felt a thrill of excitement rush through her even before traversing the last quarter mile through a thick stand of sub alpine fir and Engelmann spruce.

They made the final turn—and there it was.

A sweeping, breathtaking view of the Rockies filled the horizon. Massive gray bare granite, jagged snowy peaks rising defiantly against the sky like some prehistoric monster’s teeth.

Janna shook some slack in the reins and let Frosty graze on the sparse, wiry grass, then leaned back to prop a hand against the mare’s broad rump, her heart humbled and filled with wonder at the magnificence of God’s glory.

But now a dark, forbidding bank of clouds was edging over the peaks, bringing with it the threat of the swift, lightning-filled thunderstorms that frequented these upper ranges.

“Definitely time to head back, old girl,” she said, reining Frosty back down the trail.

The mare pivoted and picked up a faster pace, clearly eager for home and knowing exactly where to go. Chuckling, Janna gave her her head until they reached the cliff, where she dropped the mare into a slow walk.

“Easy, babe,” Janna murmured when they reached the most narrow stretch.

Frosty’s ears suddenly flicked back and forth. She moved into a nervous little jig for a few yards, her tail lashing.

Bear? Wolves? Janna craned her neck but could see nothing behind them, nothing above.

There was no room to turn around. Reverse gear wasn’t an option—the mare would likely back off the trail into the abyss below. Plus, it was far too narrow to dismount.

A silent prayer on her lips, Janna urged the mare forward one cautious step at a time, trying to avoid telegraphing her own fear to the jittery horse.

Fifty yards.

Forty.

Pebbles pinged down the wall of rock from above, bouncing crazily against the rough surface. Startled, Frosty broke into that nervous jig again. If she’d been on the flat, she’d be sidestepping, though at least she had the sense not to forget where she was.

The hair on Janna’s arms stood up.

Something rumbled, cracked, and a basketball-size rock flew past Frosty’s nose. The mare tried to scramble backward then more rocks fell, grazed the back of Janna’s shirt and hit the mare’s rump. Frosty humped her back and snorted, her feet splayed, then she lurched forward, no longer picking her careful way along the treacherous path.

The rocks kept coming—bigger and bigger, careering down the cliff with an ominous rumble, each with the velocity and mass for lethal force. Janna gripped the reins tighter, trying to hold the panicking mare back from headlong flight.

Then she looked up.

She could make out the top edge of the cliff face. A massive boulder hung over the lip. Then slowly, slowly it rotated forward, the earth giving way under its weight. A shower of pebbles and sand stung Janna’s face and arms, blinding her for a split second.

An avalanche roared down from above.

Lord, please help us
, she whispered frantically.

Her heart thundering in her ears, she gave Frosty her head and let the mare surge ahead, praying that the sure-footed old horse wouldn’t stumble. Praying they could reach the safety of the trees ahead.

The mare made a low, guttural sound of terror and bolted, her feet slipping and sliding on the narrow ledge. Then she leaped—an ungainly, desperate jump—over a cascade of rocks sliding over the trail.

Twenty yards.

Ten.

Then they were safe in the blessed, deep shadows of the trees.

But the roar of the avalanche behind them told her just how close death had been.

Though Janna had thanked Michael profusely for helping with Cabin One and had told him he’d done more than enough, she found that he’d moved on to Cabin Two after she put Frosty back in the corral.

Tall, dark and pensive, Ian stood next to him, a mirror image of his father as Michael surveyed the exterior of the cabin, looked down at a clipboard, then peered back at the eaves and frowned. They turned as one when she approached on foot.

“Good ride?” Michael asked.

“It was—interesting.”

His intent gaze scanned her from head to foot, then zeroed in on her right shoulder, where her T-shirt had ripped and a falling rock had scraped her skin. It had bled a little, welding her shirt to the wound.

“What on earth happened?”

“A little rock slide up the mountain. Caught me unaware.” She smiled ruefully. “Next time I’d better pay closer attention.”