Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (5 page)

"I know." The log cabin, one of the many cabins scattered around the pack station grounds, was the oldest structure. The story ran that it had been built by one Justin Roberts, who lived in it while he built the lodge. The log cabin was just that-a genuine log cabin, with all the logs neatly notched and fitted, big squared beams for a floor, and no milled wood anywhere.

"So, anyway," Lonny said, "I went out there and banged on the door, and when he didn't answer I went in. And there he was, in his chair, with a hole in his head. He left me a note. 'Doctor says I have cancer.' That was it."

I leaned my shoulder into his. "That must have been really hard for you."

"It was. I kept wondering what I'd done wrong. How I'd failed him."

"Maybe he just didn't want to go through it all."

Lonny was about to answer when we both heard feet clomping on the creaky stairs. The deputies were returning.

They stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked at us. The male deputy was about the same height as his partner, a thick, square fireplug of a man. He looked strong as hell, with a heavy neck and a quietly pugnacious face. I revised my opinion that she was the dominant one of the pair.

"Did you find anything?" Lonny asked them.

"Not really." She spoke; he watched us. "Some paperwork that suggests he was doing some work for," she looked down at her notepad, "Dan Jacobi."

"That's right," Lonny said affirmatively. "Bill did a lot of work for Dan Jacobi."

"Do you know him?" she asked.

"Sure. He's a horse trader. A big one. He's got a ranch in Oakdale. I'd guess he buys and sells more horses than anyone in California. Bill was his vet. Dan comes up here a fair amount," Lonny added. "Ted buys quite a few horses from him."

The deputy nodded. I nodded. Her partner watched.

I'd heard of Dan Jacobi. He was well known as a supplier of horses, particularly western-style horses. Lonny's two older team roping horses, Burt and Pistol, had come from him.

We all waited. I watched the male deputy study Lonny and me in turn. He didn't seem inclined to speak.

The woman said, "Well, we're headed back down the hill. We'll be in touch if there's a problem."

She nodded at us both; the two of them tramped across the floor and dragged the heavy wooden door open and shut behind them.

I looked over at Lonny. He was staring down again; it struck me that he was genuinely distressed. This silent contemplation of his feet was his way of saying that he hurt.

Snuggling my body closer to his, I asked him gently, "Does Bill Evans's shooting himself remind you of your dad?"

"Yeah, it does. I didn't know my dad was thinking of killing himself. I didn't know he had cancer. I thought he was doing all right. But I never asked him. And it turned out he wasn't.

"Same with Bill. I've known him for years. He was a friend, in the way people you've known for a dog's age become friends.

"I would have helped him if I'd known he needed help. But just like my dad, I didn't know. I watched him get drunk last night, watched Ted throw him out of the bar, and I never said a word. I thought he was a silly ass."

I sighed. Wondered what to say.

"It bothers me," Lonny went on, "how completely ignorant I was of what those people were feeling."

Here it was, the perfect opening. I could say, once again, that maybe Lonny needed to try and be more aware of other people, more responsive to their needs. That if he weren't so wrapped up in getting done what he wanted to get done, he might notice how someone else felt. Like me, I added to myself.

But I didn't say it. Instead I said, "No one can do everything right." Trite and not very helpful, I guess. I put my hand in his. "What do you say we go to bed?"

Lonny stood up. "Let's go," he said.

FIVE

I awoke the next morning to the familiar sound of Lonny snoring. Lying on my side, head propped on my hand, I watched him sleep. He'd made love to me last night with enthusiasm, and I'd responded with pleasure; we'd fallen asleep relaxed and sated. Still, this morning, studying his face, vulnerable with unknowing, I felt not only tender and protective but also stymied.

Lonny snored on, oblivious. What is it about snoring that causes a person to look so pathetically ridiculous? Suddenly I wanted to get up, get out, be on my own.

I dressed quickly-jeans, a tank top, another denim shirt-and pulled my boots on, all without waking Lonny. Then I was out the door, stepping quietly on the creaky floor as I headed down the hall.

The second floor of the lodge was arranged along the lines of old-fashioned hotels-long, narrow halls with small rooms on either side, and a couple of communal bathrooms near the stairway. Stopping at one of these, I performed brief morning ablutions and then creaked on down the stairs and out the back door of the lobby.

The mountain air met me, cold and fresh, tingling in my nose like the icy water of a high lake. Everything sparkled. I shut my eyes for a moment, dazzled by the brilliance of the sunlight. The whole world-pine trees, meadow, granite ridges-was sharp and clear and pure. So different from the soft atmosphere of the coastal hills I called home.

I walked out into the morning, half-startled, as I always was, by the intensity of these mountains. Yips greeted me as I approached my pickup. Roey leaped out when I opened the tail-gate, bounding around me with shrill, excited squeaks.

"Don't bark," I admonished her firmly.

Grabbing her tail in her mouth, she spun in frantic circles, her usual response to this command. I had the notion she felt she needed something in her mouth to stop herself from talking.

Exuberance overcame caution and she leapt around me, barking happily. "Knock it off," I warned, about as amused as I was deafened.

In this noisy fashion we approached the corrals. Plumber and Gunner neighed at me, their "Hey, where's breakfast?" neigh. I broke a couple of flakes of alfalfa hay off the bale I had brought and threw them into the corral. Both horses turned to eagerly.

I was watching them eat, making sure they both looked healthy and unscathed, when more excited yips from Roey got my attention. I looked in her direction; she was sniffing noses with a dog.

I laughed out loud. This had to be the funniest-looking dog I'd ever seen. About Roey's size, it had short white fur extravagantly speckled and blotched with red-brown spots, a long whiskery muzzle, perky ears, and blue eyes, with a big blotch over one of them. It wagged its tail furiously as it nuzzled Roey, who was wagging hers equally furiously back.

In a second the two dogs were leaping and running happily together in a game of chase. The stranger dog looked to me to be female and still a pup.

I was watching them play with a grin on my face when a voice said, "Hello, Stormy."

I turned around. A man on a dun horse, leading a pack horse. Tall man, with red hair and a gray fedora-style hat. Blue Winter.

"Stormy?" I said.

He smiled at me. "I spent a few years in Australia. Every woman named Gail gets nicknamed Stormy in those parts. I thought you might have heard it."

I shook my head, smiling.

"That's where they started calling me Blue. All redheads get that. Blue or Bluey." He smiled again. "Nobody thought about how it would sound with my last name."

I smiled back at him, thinking that he seemed much friendlier out here on horseback than he had in the bar last night.

"I had a dog named Blue once," I said.

He laughed. "Don't tell me, he was a blue heeler."

"That's right."

"Is she yours?" He gestured toward Roey, who was racing madly after her new playmate.

"Yeah," I agreed.

"The other's mine."

"You're kidding," I said.

He laughed again. "Why would you say that?"

I smiled at him. "I don't know. You don't seem the type to have such a, let's see, different-looking dog."

"You mean funny-looking. She's half Australian shepherd, half Jack Russell terrier. She's just a pup." He snapped his fingers. "Come here, Freckles."

The spotted dog raised her ears in his direction and veered away from Roey. Still going full blast, she dashed up to the big dun horse and stopped by his left foreleg, waving her tail at her owner.

The dun horse didn't flinch. Blue Winter said, "Good dog."

I studied his horses. The saddle horse was a gelding and had to be sixteen hands tall. Big-boned and heavy-muscled, he looked like a Quarter Horse type. He was a medium dun, a soft dusty gold all over, with a white blaze and a faint dorsal stripe down his back. An easy horse to pick out of a crowd.

The pack horse was less conspicuous. A small sorrel mare with a little white on her face and a couple of socks, she had no obvious distinguishing characteristics.

"Are you on your way in?" I asked him.

"Yeah, we're headed to Snow Lake tonight."

I looked at him curiously; Snow Lake was my chosen destination for my first day's ride in. "Staying there long?"

He shrugged. Once again his face seemed withdrawn.

Whatever. I waved a dismissive hand. "Well, have a good trip."

"I hope to. You, too."

"Thanks.”

He clucked to his horses, said, "Come on" to the dog, and the small entourage moved off, the pack horse dragging a little on the lead rope. I smiled. Plumber had a tendency to do that, too.

I watched them head down the main trail, small puffs of dust rising around the horses' feet, the dog running in a big curving circle through the meadow. Ahead of them Relief Peak glowed in the early sunlight. Snow Lake was quite a ways on the other side of that mountain, over Brown Bear Pass. A twenty-plus-mile ride.

Blue Winter and his horses were a small vignette now. A cowboy riding down the trail. I couldn't see the dog.

Turning, I headed toward the pack station barn. The crew was busily saddling horses and loading packs; it looked as though they had several parties getting ready to go out. Ted stood by the loading dock, talking to a strongly built man with a white straw cowboy hat.

Both men turned to look at me as I approached; the stranger had a square bulldog jaw and high cheekbones and seemed vaguely familiar. He said something affirmative to Ted and turned away, nodding civilly in my direction. Now where do I know him from, I wondered.

His back gave no clue; a long-sleeved blue shirt, pressed Wrangler jeans, and dusty boots were so typical as to be almost a uniform. But I'd seen him before, somewhere.

"Morning, Gail," Ted said.

"Hi, Ted. Did you call the hospital?"

"Not yet." His blue eyes looked candidly into mine. "I'll do it when I go in for breakfast." The eyes traveled over me a little, then moved back to my face. "I saw you down there talking to old Blue Winter."

I smiled. "I'm sure you did."

Crazy Horse Creek Pack Station was familiarly known as Peyton Pines by everyone who visited it often. New romances, one-night stands, illicit affairs ... the place was known for these, and the whole crew, Ted in particular, loved to gossip.

"So, do you know Blue?" Ted prodded. "He comes from your part of the country."

"That's what he said. No, I never met him until yesterday in the bar. Do you guys know him?"

"Sure. He comes up here every year. Brings his horses, stays a few days, and rides in on a trip. Lonny knows him." Ted laid a little extra emphasis on Lonny's name.

"Is that right?" For some reason this conversation was annoying me. "Who was that guy you were talking to?" I asked. "I'm sure I know him from somewhere."

"Dan Jacobi."

“
The horse trader.”

“
That’s him.”

“
He was here last night?” I asked curiously.

“
Nah. He drove up this morning from Oakdale. He comes up here a lot. Takes a pack trip every summer. He was pretty shook up when he heard about old Bill.

“
I’ll bet.”

Ted and I stared at each other a moment. The same thought must have been chasing through both our minds, because he dropped his eyes and said, “I’d better go call. Find out how he is.”

“
Yeah,” I said. “Let me know.”

“
Okay.”

Ted headed for the lodge; I called Roey and wandered around the meadow for awhile, letting the dog run. Eventually I felt a cup of coffee calling me.

Going into the lobby, I walked past the small café, where paying customers could get meals, and through the kitchen door. Here, amongst an odd old-fashioned collection of stoves, refrigerators, cupboards, counters, sinks, and shelves, Harvey the cook had his domain.

A big, stout barrel of a man, as befit a cook, Harvey was autocratic in tone and mercurial in temperament, in the time-honored tradition of camp cooks. He grunted at me as I poured myself a cup of coffee. Apparently Harvey was not in a talking mood this morning.

Carrying my coffee, I walked through the open doorway that led to the cowboy room, a large dining room with one big table in the middle where the crew and friends ate. Lonny was seated alone near the end of the table, working his way through a plate of pancakes, sausage, and fried eggs. I sat down next to him and sipped my coffee.