Hold of the Bone (16 page)

Frank pulls the reins. Buttons takes a step or two forward, but Frank pulls again. The horse stops. She whinnies for Dune and he answers. Frank eases her grip, expecting Buttons to follow sedately, but the old horse takes off at a trot. Frank has to grab the pommel to keep from falling. She remembers Gail telling her to stand in the stirrups to get her balance. Just as she does, Buttons catches up to Dune. The horse jerks to a stop and Frank almost flies over her head.

Sal graciously allows, “She's not the smoothest ride.”

“She just tried to throw me.”

“Buttons hasn't thrown anyone in twenty years. Probably couldn't even if she wanted to. If it's any comfort, all my grandchildren learned to ride on Buttons.”

“How many do you have?”

“Three.”

Frank repeats what Gomez told her, that Sal had a daughter down south.

“That's right. Cassie's in LA.”

“You named her after your sister?”

Sal nods.

Frank adjusts to Buttons' wide-bodied stride. The rhythm is awkward but not uncomfortable. “Where are we going?”

“Just to the cabin.”

“Why didn't we take the quad?”

“Pete's got it.”

A cool wind brushes past and Frank glances at the sky. “Jesus. Where'd that come from?” She's been so busy staying in the saddle she hadn't noticed the clouds surging from the north.

“It's early for rain, but I saw a couple tarantulas last week.”

“Tarantulas?” Frank involuntarily scans the ground. “What have they got to do with rain?”

“It usually rains a couple weeks after you see the first tarantulas of the year.”

“Great.”

Frank looks up from the trail long enough to admire Sal's loose-boned fit in the saddle, and when Buttons snorts and bobs her head, Sal leans easily to tug at her forelock, teasing, “Old barn-sour girl.”

Buttons gives a louder snort and Dune answers. The horses quicken their pace toward the line of trees guarding the creek. Buttons starts to trot, but Frank reins her to a walk, more leery of the trees than getting thrown. The scabrous sycamores bend and sway, dancing to the most ancient of songs. The wind, the clouds and trees, the grasses bowing at the storm's approach, all seem uncannily alive, and Frank's breath halts between wonder and fear.

Buttons whinnies, tamps a hoof and pulls against her rein. Frank finds Sal twisted in the saddle, watching her. For a second, she is unsure who is interviewing whom. She loosens her grip on the reins and squeezes Buttons with her knees. The mare trots to catch up, slowing only after her nose is in Dune's tail. The horses cross single file over the dark-running creek, hoof steps muted under the keening wind. Frank follows Sal into the corral, where she slides gracefully to the ground, but Frank stays mounted.

“You can get off now.”

“I know.” Frank holds out the reins. “Can you hold her?”

Sal takes the offered straps, but still Frank sits. She doesn't trust her legs to hold her once she falls. A cold drop of rain anoints her face, then another. She pulls her feet from the stirrups and swings a leg over Buttons' rump. The saddle grabs her shirt on the way down and she lands as awkwardly as she feared she would. She steadies herself against the horse, grateful for Buttons' unflinching patience. Rain splats her arms and hair, the exposed skin where her shirt rode up.

She tugs her shirt down, takes back the reins, and copying Sal, pulls the saddle off. But she doesn't grab the pad beneath and it falls at Buttons' feet. The mare jumps and Frank does too. Heart racing, she grabs the pad as the rain begins in earnest. The horses move willingly into the barn, where Sal hands her a curry comb. Water pours from the roof. It splats loudly on the ground as if shocked it's become mud. The wind shrieks at cracks in the barn. Speech is impossible without shouting, so the women work quietly. When the horses gleam, Sal
climbs to the loft and throws down flakes of hay. Frank looks around, making note of a shotgun hanging in a case by the door.

“Well?” Sal shouts, eyeing the watery curtain. “Ready?”

Clutching her plastic bags, Sal dashes from the barn with Frank only a step behind. They sprint to the cabin and Sal throws the door open. “I'll be right back,” she says, dropping the bags.

Frank watches her run to a pen and free the dogs. They race to the cabin with much jumping, barking and tail wagging. Sal bursts in and the dogs shake water everywhere. Without a trace of self-consciousness, Sal peels off her shirt and tosses it in the sink. Disappearing through the only other door in the room, she calls, “I'll get you some clothes.”

Frank starts to protest but sees she is dripping all over the floor. Bone wags his stump and gives her hand a lick. She wipes the kiss off on her leg but cautiously pats his head.

“Good boy. You wouldn't bite old Frank, would you?”

The stump wiggles in reply. Cicero noses between them, begging his share of attention. Frank scratches his flank like Gomez did. That appeases him and she looks around. The cabin is primitive, comprised of a rough kitchen along one wall and a massive stone hearth catty-corner. Where there aren't windows, the walls with the doors are crammed floor to ceiling with books.

Sal comes through the inner door in dry jeans and a sweater. She hands Frank a mismatched sweat suit. “You're a little bigger than I am, but they should fit.”

“Do you have a bathroom?”

“Through the door, to the right.”

Frank steps over a tall threshold into a skinny hall facing two doors. One is open, supplying a feeble gray light to the hall. She steps into the bathroom, feeling for a switch. Her head grazes a chain. She yanks and a bulb comes on. The bathroom is rough, clearly added after the rest of the cabin was built, but Frank is relieved to see a toilet, and surprisingly enough, a deep, claw-footed tub. She drapes her wet clothes on the porcelain edge and takes advantage of the john, trying to imagine the chore it must have been getting the tub to the cabin. She squeezes into the sweats. The legs come to her shins and the top is snug. She returns to Sal, who feeds sticks into a growing fire.

“Are you hungry?” Sal asks without turning

“I am, actually. I'm famished.”

“Let's see what the ladies gave us.” Sal swipes her hands against her legs and peers into the plastic bags on the table. “Tortillas. Corn and flour.” Pulling out ziplock bags, she opens them and sniffs. “Ah. Marta's menudo. Oh, and look at this.” She unwraps a foil bundle. “Chiles rellenos.”

Sal puts the food on the stove and adds an old-fashioned percolator. Frank's chill recedes before the fire. Rain slashes the windows. The scent of chili and warm oil wafts from the stove and Frank's stomach responds loudly. She studies books packed into shelves. They appear to be mostly nonfiction organized by subject. There are thousands of titles, but the subjects seem limited to hard science, philosophy and religion. The light is poor and Frank squints. A whole shelf is devoted to tarot books.

“Could you throw another log on?”

“Huh?” Frank jumps. “Oh. Sure.”

She places a log in the fire and stands at the head-high mantle. It is bare but for dusty candles, an oil lamp, and an open box of shells. She takes due note of a shotgun mounted on the chimney and the rifle above it—both oiled and gleaming. She glances at a pair of old wing chairs flanking the hearth, the matching couch with its soft, cracked leather. Library books are stacked on an end table. Frank bends to the book splayed open on top of them.

“
War and Peace
. That's some heavy reading.”

“Hm.”

“Any good?”

“Actually, yes.”

Frank shrugs. “I guess I just want to be distracted. Give me a mindless mystery any day.”

Sal turns from the stove. “Do you solve them before you're finished?”

Frank grins. “Always.”

Reminded why she is here, she asks, “How'd you get to school when you were a kid?”

“Our father drove us to the store and we'd catch the bus from there. When we got older we drove ourselves.”

“I bet you started driving young out here.”

“As soon as we could see over the dashboard.”

Sal sets steaming bowls on the table and pours coffee without asking. “Black, right?”

“Yeah.” The coffee is good. She holds it between her hands a moment, enjoying its smell mingling with the spicy menudo.

“Did you ever live in town?”

“For a while.” Sal digs into her soup. “When I was married.”

Frank nods. “To Mike Thompson. What happened there, if you don't mind my asking?”

“It wasn't Mike's fault. It just didn't work. He couldn't live here and I couldn't leave. I should have known better. He's a wonderful man. We're good friends. He made all those shelves.” She gestures around the room.

“How long were you married?”

“Five years. Almost six.”

“And you raised your daughter here?”

“No.” Sal looks into her bowl. “I wanted to, but it wouldn't have been fair. I had my sister, so I was never lonely, but Cassie would have had nobody.”

“So Mike raised her?”

Sal nods. “I had her on weekends until she turned into a teenager and refused to come up anymore.”

“How come?”

“She hated it. Said I was boring.”

Frank spoons the soup. It is hot and rich and good.

Sal asks, “How about you? Any children?”

It isn't professional to entertain personal questions during an investigation, but if Frank had been conducting the Saladino case professionally she wouldn't have gotten a reading from Sal, gone horseback riding with her, or be eating her dinner. Or wearing her clothes, Frank reminds herself, almost dripping menudo on the sweatshirt. Having so far abandoned protocol, she continues. “A daughter.” Working their bond, she adds, “Her father raises her.”

Sal rolls a tortilla and dips it in her bowl. “How old is she?”

“Three.”

Catching the startled blue glance, Frank grins. “It's a long story.”

They eat to the symphony of the rain. Frank knows there are questions she must ask but is loath to disrupt the companionable silence. When they finish, Sal piles their dishes in the sink and pours more coffee. She takes her cup to the couch and Kook curls on her lap. Frank settles into a wing chair. Bone and Cicero sprawl contentedly by the fire. It snaps and darts in cheerful contrast to the rain outside.

Frank looks to the darkening windows. It's almost dusk and she's barely asked Sal a damned thing. She puts her empty cup down and stands. “I should be heading back. Can we can talk tomorrow?”

“If you can find your way back here by yourself.”

Frank considers her old car and nods. “I can get to the ranch. How do I get to the cabin?”

Over the rim of her cup, Sal says, “You could walk, or saddle up Buttons. Just leave her in the corral tonight when you're done. Make sure you brush her down.”

“Wait a minute. You expect me to ride back alone?”

“Sure. Buttons could get to the ranch blindfolded.”

Frank makes an incredulous snort. “I'm not going out in that alone.”

“I'm not going out in that at all.” As if to underscore Sal's point, the rain hurls itself at the windows.

“You're the one that dragged me out here.”

“I didn't drag you anywhere. You came of your own volition.”

“Yeah, but I didn't
get
here of my own volition. I had a little help. And I'm gonna need that to get home.”

Sal flaps a dismissive hand. “You'll be fine. The keys are in the truck. Just leave it inside the gate.”

Frank reaches back to squeeze her neck. “I don't believe this.”

Sal sips her coffee. “I'll be glad to take you in the morning, but I'm not going out tonight.”

“I can't stay. It's just not done.” Frank is already on the verge of compromising the case. Spending the night with a potential suspect would destroy it.

“There's the door. I'll saddle Buttons if you want.”

Frank can't imagine staying but has more trouble imagining a
horseback ride in the dark, in the rain, and alone. Not to mention the muddy drive downhill to Celadores. “Look.” She tries again in her most reasonable voice. “It would be completely against protocol for me to spend the night here. There's no way I could ride out alone, and even if I did, I'm not sure I could figure out how to get back to the main gate.”

“I told you—Buttons knows the way. You'll just have to be firm with her. She won't want to leave Dune. And I'll give you directions to the gate. There's just a couple places where the road's steep and you don't have much shoulder, so you have to be careful you don't let the truck slide. The four-wheel drive doesn't work, but you should be alright in first gear.”