Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (18 page)

That didn't mean they didn't want to bed them. Guys like this seemed to regard women as prey, scoring them off as notches on the belt.

I stared at Steve's belt, adorned with a holster. This guy was carrying a pistol. I glanced around the camp. No other guns in evidence. Neither Dan nor Jim, who was bent over nailing the shoe on my horse, was wearing a holster.

I looked back at Dan curiously. If I were him, I wouldn't want any help as surly and insolent as Steve carrying a gun.

Dan met my eyes easily. He'd watched my brief interchange with Steve, and he'd seen me notice the gun. None of it seemed to bother him in the slightest.

The man intrigued me. "I ran into Blue Winter," I said.

"Is that right?" Dan appeared mildly interested.

I waited.

Dan smiled. "Don't tell me. He told you all about the dun horse and how he didn't really steal him."

"That's right."

Dan said nothing.

After a minute, I asked him, "Do you think he owes you money?"

Dan Jacobi had a poker player's face. Or, for that matter, a horse trader's face. Nothing flickered, nothing changed. "You only know what Blue told you," he said.

I took that in. It was true enough.

"I wouldn't listen to Blue Winter, if I were you," he went on. "I'd be real careful about that guy. He tells you what he wants you to hear."

I stared at him. Two days of struggling through the mountains had pretty much driven everything else out of my mind. In a rush, I remembered all my speculations about Bill Evans.

"Are you telling me you think Blue Winter is dangerous?" I asked Dan.

He shrugged one shoulder. "I'm telling you I don't trust him."

The words had a note of finality. Dan Jacobi turned away from me and went over to inspect the job that Jim was doing on Plumber. This left me face to face with Steve.

Before I could move or flinch, Steve stepped forward until his face was two feet from mine. Reaching a hand out, he dragged a finger across my chin.

I leaped backward and Steve grinned. Holding his hand up so I could see it, he drawled, "Just wiping off a little mud."

Shit. This guy was really a loose cannon. I turned away without a word. I did not want to provoke Steve, not out here in the middle of nowhere.

Plumber's shoe was nailed back on, nice and neat. I thanked Jim and then thanked Dan as I untied my horses and mounted Gunner.

"So where are you off to?" Dan asked me.

"Oh, Buck Lakes, I guess." This was an outright lie. I'd never intended to go to Buck Lakes, and was even less inclined to do so now that I'd heard Ted was there. Some miles past Wood Lake, the trail forked. Here I planned to take the trail to Benson Lake. But I saw no reason to tell Dan that.

He smiled at me. "Good luck, then."

"Thanks. And you, too."

I clucked to my horses and rode off, thinking with relief that the whole thing had not gone too badly. Steve was downright scary, but Plumber was shod again and I hadn't told anyone where I was headed.

Trouble was, I'd meant to camp at Wood Lake, but I did not want another visit from Dan Jacobi, or more particularly, from Steve. As soon as I was out of sight of their camp, I dug my map out of the saddlebag and looked at it.

As I'd remembered, Wood Lake was a very long, narrow lake-almost a mile long. It had two small, round bulbs at either end with a channel connecting them. Dan and crew were camped at one of the bulbs. If I rode all the way down to the other, I ought to be far enough away that they'd neither see nor hear me.

I rode. The trail followed the side of the lake. I could look down into the clear water and see big brookies swimming along.

Wood Lake was well named. It was in the woods, all right. Aside from the small meadow where Dan Jacobi had been camped the trees came right down to the lakeshore everywhere. I crossed my fingers that there would be a decent campsite down at the other end.

And there was. The far end of the lake, when I finally reached it, formed another circular bowl. The forest sloped down to it for about half its circumference; the other half was rocks and a brief spit of meadow. There was a fire ring in a flat area amongst the rocks and enough feed for one evening anyway. I tied my horses up and started making camp.

Owing to my leisurely morning, assorted wrecks, and bout of horseshoeing, it was now late afternoon. The clouds had disappeared and the sun poured into the far end of Wood Lake with a low golden slant; pine trees and cedars on the ridge stood erect, blue-green shoulders stiff and military, each needle outlined with light. Light sparks glittered on the water of the lake, and all in the world I wanted to do was peel my clothes off and go for a swim.

But camp needed to be built. Dutifully, I unsaddled the horses, put Gunner on a picket line and turned Plumber loose to graze, and began setting up my tent. One by one, I did the familiar chores. By the time 1'd finished gathering firewood, building a fire, and pumping water, the sun was behind the ridge and the lake didn't look so inviting. What I needed, I decided, was a drink.

I made myself one and sat down in my chair to enjoy it. Putting my feet up on a rock, I sighed. The last two days had been difficult, to say the least. But we were in one piece, and it felt good to be in camp this evening. All in all, I wouldn't complain.

I made and drank another drink, then heated a can of chili for dinner. Two more logs on the fire, and I leaned back in my chair, alternately watching the flames and reading Thoreau. Slowly the light died out of the sky. I could barely see the print on the page.

Setting a manzanita root on the campfire, I stretched and sighed. Mosquitoes hummed fiercely around me as dark drew in. So far on this trip they hadn't been much of a problem, but the low, boggy country around Wood Lake appeared to be an ideal breeding ground.

1'd smeared mosquito repellent on my face, neck, and hands earlier; now I pulled the hood on my sweatshirt up over my head and tied it under my chin. I wasn't getting bitten much-the repellent kept the little buggers at bay-but the noise was starting to drive me crazy.

A high-pitched whine like an engine gone berserk, or a swarm of angry bees, the mosquito hum seemed to fill the evening. It was a nervous sort of sound and always made me antsy. The sweatshirt hood blocked a lot of it.

I stared out at the glossy, darkening lake, then back at the bright flames of my fire. Sweet manzanita smoke, like incense, filled the air. It was a warm night. Suddenly the water looked inviting again.

Why not? It was too dark for anybody-Steve, Dan, or whoever-to be stumbling around the mountains. I could count on being private here. I walked down to the lakeshore. Roey followed me.

Peeling off my boots, jeans, sweatshirt, tank top, and underwear, I waded in. The dog whined anxiously on the shore behind me.

Wood Lake was a warm lake, and the water seemed to be the same temperature as the night air. When I was waist-deep, I made a short, shallow dive and started swimming.

The water felt wonderful against my skin. Cool black silk, soft and shiny and unbelievably sensuous. I floated on my back for a moment, seeing the dark pine tree tops sketched against the deep midnight-blue of the sky-and one star. The evening star. Venus herself.

Mosquitoes buzzed around my ears and I rolled and dove, blocking out the world with cool water. After a few more leisurely strokes, I swam back to shore to pacify the dog, who was most unhappy. Roey swam when she thought it appropriate; apparently swimming in this lake at night didn't seem right to her.

Patting her head, I dripped my way back to camp and stood by the fire. As I dried myself gradually in its heat, swatting at mosquitoes meanwhile, a nearly full moon rose above the ridge, with a few pine boughs traced against it. Smoke curled up from my campfire and drifted across the moon. A witch's night.

I toweled the rest of the dampness off my body, checked the horses, and crawled into my sleeping bag. Looking at my fire and the moon over the lake, I felt content. It was the last peaceful night I would spend in the mountains.

SEVENTEEN

I left Wood Lake early the next morning, determined to put some distance between myself and Dan Jacobi's crew. If I never ran into Steve again, it would be just fine with me.

Cinching the pack rig down with numb hands, I swore under my breath. Leisurely mornings in camp were more my speed; I was no big fan of this move-out-early stuff. Still, I swung stiffly aboard Gunner and pointed my entourage down the trail just as the first pale gleams of sunlight filtered over the ridge.

Today, I thought, I'll make it to Benson. I'd heard about Benson Lake for years-the Riviera of the Sierras, one guidebook called it. It featured a long white sand beach, unusual for a High Sierra lake. I had every intention of taking a sunbath on that beach.

Dan Jacobi thought I was headed for Buck Lakes. Ted was at Buck Lakes. If I wanted to avoid company, I would just avoid Buck Lakes.

The trail to Benson was also the route to Upper and Lower Buck Lakes, for the first seven miles, anyway. However, whichever direction they were headed, I strongly suspected Dan Jacobi and his boys would not get an early start.

They were probably warm right now, though. I pulled some light polypropylene gloves out of the pocket of my jacket and worked my numb hands into them. The sun's coming up, I encouraged myself. In an hour or so, you'll take your jacket off.

I rode down the trail, letting my mind drift. According to the elevation lines on my map, this trail wound through relatively level forest land for several miles. Should be easy riding. Good for a pilot who was still half-asleep.

The banality of my thoughts always surprised me. Alone in the mountains, with the new sunlight poking encouragingly through the branches of the pines and cedars, my mind kept turning incessantly to my hair. Should I cut it? Would I look more attractive with some short, sleek style? I'd worn my hair long, mostly in a ponytail or braid, for years. Maybe I needed a change.

Don't be ridiculous, I chastised myself; think about Thoreau, for God's sake. Think about solitude. Don't think about your hair. Was I about to become one of those sad, desperate middle-aged women who persistently wear too much makeup and too-tight clothes and routinely change their hairstyle in order to appear sexually attractive to men? God, I hoped not.

So why, then, did my mind constantly want to dwell on whether I should try to lose ten pounds? What was going on somewhere deep in my psyche that these odd insecurities popped into my head whenever I wasn't actively engaged in thinking about something else?

Maybe the prospect of breaking up with Lonny. Once again I was surprised. Was I really thinking of breaking up with Lonny? I'd never allowed myself to voice those words before.

Was all this mental nattering about whether I was attractive to do with the fact that I wanted a new sexual partner?

The woods slipped by me unseen, as I tried to decide if this was true. Lonny was part of my life and I loved him, but I was aware that my frustration with him was growing.

I rode. Little puffs of dust rose under Gunner's feet; the air grew drier and warmer. I unzipped my coat and peeled the gloves back off and stuffed them in my pocket. We still had quite a ways to go before we hit the cutoff trail to Benson.

The forest was peaceful in the sunshine, the sturdy pillars of trees thick around us, the warming air filled with the sharp, resinous smell of pines softened by trail dust. Lulled by the stillness and my thoughts, I paid no attention to the warning.

Bees buzzing. I heard it, but it didn't register. In some far-away corner of my mind I filed the sound under honeybees-in-the-garden, a pleasant, innocuous noise. Forgetting that I was in the middle of a pine forest, not the ideal habitat for honeybees.

Suddenly Gunner jumped. I grabbed the saddle horn and looked quickly to see if the rope was under his tail. No. But there were a couple of bees buzzing around him.

Plumber snorted and lunged forward and the buzzing sound intensified. Bees everywhere. Shit. Yellow jackets, not honey-bees, and I must have disturbed a nest.

"Damn!" A red-hot stab in the neck as a wasp stung me. Clinging to the horn as Gunner plunged forward, I clucked to him and kicked his ribs, my one thought to get out of there.

We hit the high lope, Plumber in tow, buzzing yellow jackets swirling around us. I yelped as another sting nailed my wrist, and Gunner crow-hopped in the middle of a stride, pissed as hell.

Clinging to the horn, I thumped on his ribs with my heels. "Don't buck, run," I urged him.

He lunged forward again, just as a wasp stung my forearm. I let go of Plumber's lead rope. The forest was thick around us, no possible escape route but the trail. A big tree leaned across it just ahead. There was room to pass underneath, barely.

Another wasp stung me and I kicked Gunner fiercely, ducking my head as we scrambled under the tree, pushing through branches.

Whump-everything moved, earth shook-a branch cracked across my face like a whip. Dust rose in a cloud.

Disoriented by noise and violent motion, I pulled Gunner up sharply. The tree had dropped like a sledgehammer just behind us, missing Gunner and me by a foot, no more. My God, my God. Where was Plumber? Where was Roey?