Smoketree (2 page)

“You’re somewhat prejudiced.”

“Sure I am. But I’m also honest.”

She was. The first thing I saw was an appropriately rustic sign bearing a mountain logo and the legend: SMOKETREE—
The Unique Western Experience
. That, together with Cass’s confidence, whetted my interest.

“Smoketree,” I said. “A pretty name—where did it come from?”

Cass grinned. “Do you want the truth, or the story we’ve made up for the guests?”

“Whichever one sounds better. ”

She laughed. “Actually, the truth isn’t half bad. There’s this huge old oak tree, you see, right by the Lodge. A long time ago it was a bee tree, and when the original settlers decided to build right there, they wanted the bees removed. They tried everything, I’m told, but the bees stayed put. Finally, in disgust, they gave up and tried to smoke the bees out. The tree caught fire and burned down the homestead.”

“Was anyone killed?”

“No. But the story got around that the bees got the upper hand, and pretty soon people talked about the smoking tree. When the family rebuilt, the name sort of stuck.”

“What about the bees?”

Cass flashed me a grin. “They moved.”

“What’s the other story you tell?”

“Indians,” she said in mock solemnity. “What else?”

The road was rough and unpaved, two deep ruts picturesquely framed by quaking aspens, birches and pine trees. The aspen leaves had turned a delicate green, fluttering against white trunks counterpointed by black striations. The narrow winding road dropped gently down as if in benediction, leading into a lush meadow hidden deep in the sloping shoulders of the San Francisco Peaks.

I said nothing, struck dumb by the vision unfolding before my eyes. It was so unexpected and so perfectly right, I felt a rush of warmth and goodwill, amused and gratified by the sight. The lone man on horseback, flanked by two dogs, coming across the meadow added the final touch. He was still too distant for sound to carry, but I could almost hear the hoof-beats and the swishing of the long grass against the horse’s legs. Add music, and you’d have a great commercial for some lucky product.

He lifted his arm in a signaling wave, standing in the stirrups. A hat shadowed his face, but I could see the rest of him was lean and athletic.

“Smoketree’s welcoming committee?” I was amused they would go to such lengths, but it was a perfect tableau.

Cass glanced into the meadow curiously, then stomped so hard on the brake I had to stiff-arm the dash to keep from sliding off my seat. “Harper!” she said.

“Your resident John Wayne?” I asked. “What does he do—ride out to meet each guest?”

She stared at me blankly, then laughed and shook her head. “Harper? No, of course not. We don’t do that kind of thing.” She glanced back at the approaching rider. “Harper’s head wrangler.”

As the wrangler halted his sorrel horse by the car I felt my time-sense slip a cog. After all the cowboy movies I’d seen, I couldn’t help but feel a curious sense of
deja vu
spread through me. It dissipated quickly enough, but the impression remained.

He was tanned from exposure and wore the Western clothing fashion only aped, and he did it with complete naturalness. A wide-brimmed gray hat was pulled over his lean face. He was about thirty, I thought; blue-eyed, dark-haired and moustachioed like a Hollywood villain.

He was also, I decided instantly, the perfect model for a romantic’s vision of the American Cowboy. Even to the leather chaps that fit him like a second skin and the coiled rope fastened to his saddle.

He dismounted and rested one arm on the roof of the car, leaning down to look inside. The blaze-faced sorrel horse put its head down and rubbed against the cowboy’s back. Absently he shoved the nose away, saving his balance with effort. I saw a crooked smile half-hidden in the dark moustache.

Cass came vibrantly alive beneath his clear blue gaze and it took no speculation on my part to see where her romantic inclinations lay.

“Is this a new duty?” She grinned at him. “Riding out to impress impressionable guests?”

If so, it certainly was impressive. He glanced at me a moment, then looked directly at Cass. “No, but I reckon you’d be happier if that’s what I was doing.”

Her brightness faded instantly. “Why? What’s happened?”

“Preacher’s out.”

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. Apprehension, frustration and anger vied for dominance in her voice. “Where is he? What happened? How—”

He interrupted gently. “You’d best check the chain on his pen.”

“Harper!”

He gestured across the meadow. “I found where he got through into Forest Service land. Fence has been cut. I’ll find him, Cassie. Don’t you worry.”

She ignored his soothing words. “What did you mean about the chain on his pen?”

He brushed his hand across his moustache, considering, then lifted his shoulders in a lazy half-shrug. “Looks like bolt-cutters to me. It appears someone wanted him out.”

Cass’s indrawn breath hissed between her teeth. “Damn it! Why do they keep—” She cut it off and glanced at me quickly, then looked away. But her hands were fisted against the steering wheel and her jaw was set tightly. “Wait for me, Harper. I’ll get a horse and come with you. ”

“See to your guest, Cassie.”

She opened her mouth to protest but said nothing, mute unwillingness written plainly on her face. Then the cowboy leaned down to look past her to me.

“Ma’am, it’s nothing to concern yourself with. Just a little ranch business. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“It’s all right.” I wondered, inanely, at being addressed as ma’am.

“Wait for me,” Cass repeated between her teeth.

“You have a guest.”

She flashed him a resentful glance, included me in it as an afterthought, then took her foot off the brake and sent the car forward.

I turned in my seat and glanced over my shoulder, watching the wrangler mount the horse. He wore no spurs, I saw, but the horse spun neatly and loped off across the meadow as if it needed no urging at all save a single word. The dogs streaked after him.

“He’s your wrangler?”

“
Head
wrangler.” Apparently it made a difference. Her smile was lopsided and fond. “Of course, that’s not all. Not by a long shot. Harper’s a little bit of everything. My Uncle Nathan is the owner and manager of this place, but Harper’s sort of the glue that holds it all together. ”

“And will he wait for you, as you asked?”

Her mouth tightened as she swung the car around a curve. “I doubt it. He’ll find that big baby of mine and bring him back, probably before I can throw a saddle on another horse. Oh well… so long’s I get him back. ” She sighed and I saw the lines of tension between her eyes. “Too much hangs on that animal…”

“On a horse?”

Cass glanced at me impatiently. “Preacher’s not just a horse. He’s
the
horse. ” She shook her head and smiled at my incomprehension. “Preacher’s the means to an end. He’ll get me out of here.” She shoved fingers through her long, dark-brown hair. “He and I are going to hit the professional rodeo circuit one of these days, when he’s ready, and we’re going to win a lot of money. ”

I thought about what the wrangler had said about the chain on the horse’s pen. Bolt-cutters. “Then someone could very well want to steal him, if he’s that valuable.”

She looked at me sharply. “
Steal
him!”

“Your wrangler said maybe someone wanted him out.” I looked at her still face. “I heard him.”

“
That
,” she said dismissively. “No, they wouldn’t steal him for the money. He’s not worth a whole lot without his registration papers, and I have those locked up in the ranch safe. No, they wouldn’t steal him for the money.” Her face was grim. “They’d steal him for the
aggravation
…”

I frowned. “Strange reason for stealing a horse.”

Cass looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, then affected a casual shrug. “Well… it’s sort of a strange situation. It’s just… ranch business.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Forget about it. Harper will catch him. ” A suddenly speculative glance slid my way and pinned me to the seat. “This wouldn’t make you want to leave, would it?”

I stared at her. “Why should it?”

She laughed, but it had an odd note in it. “No, it shouldn’t. Forget it. I just wondered.”

So did I.

Cass pulled up before a huge wooden building with a peaked, wood-shingled roof. In a scramble of long denim-clad legs and sunburned arms she unloaded my baggage and settled it in the dust by a short flight of wooden steps leading to the deep porch in front of the building. Then she dragged a hand through her long hair and sent me a wry smile.

“I hope you don’t mind being left to your own devices for a moment. It’s rude of me, I know—but I’d really like to go after my horse.”

I slid out of the station-wagon and closed the door. I had every intention of answering her, but Cass had already turned her back on me as if the matter were settled.

“Uncle Nathan!” she shouted toward the building, then spun on her boot heel and jogged off toward the huge rustic barn some one hundred yards away.

I turned resolutely toward the big house. It was built of massive round logs chinked together with rose-colored mortar, lending it a sort of pastel warmth. A wooden shingle sign labeled the house SMOKETREE. I approved of the properly rustic atmosphere and stark simplicity. It reminded me of an Andrew Wyeth painting crossed with an Ansel Adams photograph. The shell of a huge old oak stood close to the side of the porch. The famous smoking tree. No bees, though.

The heavy front door swung open on giant hinges and framed a man in the shadowed interior. His thick hair was iron-gray, lightening to the snowy thatch some men are fortunate to possess in later years. His weathered face was creased with living and character and inherent warmth. I liked him instantly.

He stepped off the porch and reached for my hand, enfolding it in calluses and strong fingers. His voice was thick as molasses, drawling a genuine welcome.

“Ma’am, I’m Nathan Reynolds. I must apologize for my niece. Ordinarily we welcome guests a little better than dumping them on the front doorstep.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Welcome to Smoketree anyway.”

I felt safe with my hand in his and regretted it when he released it. “Cass was worried about her horse.”

The creases deepened around his eyes. “How’d she find out about Preacher?”

“We met your wrangler on the way in. ”

“Ah.” Nathan nodded. “That horse’ll put her in a tizzy if he even gets a fly bite.” He smiled, easing the situation instantly. “Come along then, Miss Clayton, I expect you’re ready for a rest. New York City, isn’t it? Long way from home.” His question was obviously rhetorical as he gathered up my bags and headed toward a distant cabin. I kept up with him only by virtue of a pair of very long legs.

“I reckon you fashion ladies get to spots all over the world.” His smile was warm as good bourbon. “You must have seen a lot of things.”

I agreed automatically, wondering just how much Vanessa had told him when making my arrangements. Delivering me to a cabin almost hidden in a copse of pines, he set my bags down in the center of the front room and gestured. “Sitting room, bedroom and bath. Meals are served in the Lodge unless you wish private service here, or make other arrangements. Smoketree is particularly respectful of the privacy of its guests. There’s a brochure in your bedroom listing all the facts and points of interest. Just ask Cass or me if you have any questions.”

I dumped my shoulder bag onto the table and collapsed in a padded leather chair. Genuine leather. I wondered, fleetingly, if Nathan had raised the cows himself. “Only you and Cass?” I smiled at him. “What about the wrangler?”

“Harper?”

“Cass called him the glue for Smoketree.”

Nathan smiled in a mixture of amusement and paternal pride. “Harper’s a good boy. He practically grew up at Smoketree, when he wasn’t on the rodeo circuit. I reckon you
could
call him the glue for this place; he sure makes it easier for me.” He nodded. “Ask him anything at all, Miss Clayton. Harper Young knows absolutely everything that goes on around here. ”

I yawned, then clapped a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry—”

Nathan Reynolds laughed without offense. “You look tuckered out. Why don’t you get some rest? You’ve got time before supper.” He excused himself and went out, while I rubbed absently at my gritty eyes and hoped the time at Smoketree would be well spent.

I napped heavily and woke from the depths of a dream so real it made me physically ill. I sat upright in my bed and shivered, hugging myself against the images. And then I realized I was in Arizona, at Smoketree, not in a California hospital with glass in my head and arms.

“Damn!” I exclaimed. “I thought the dreams were supposed to stop—” But all the psychiatrist had ever said was that they would, not when.

I climbed out of bed stiffly, disoriented from the dream as well as jet-lag. And then I caught my reflection in the mirror above the vanity. A bleary-eyed, tousle-headed woman of twenty-eight, hardly ready to face a dude ranch full of strangers.

The nap had pressed my bangs away from my face, baring my forehead with its purple welt. On anyone else the scar, once healed, would be a thin pale line. On me, a keloid-prone Scandinavian blonde with very fair skin, the thing showed plainly. Makeup did cover some of its offensiveness, but I always knew it was there. A few of my fellow models had taken care to remind me.

I sighed and pushed the bangs back into place. Enough self-pity. I was hungry, and supper waited. I washed my face, pulled on a tweed jacket over my sweater and took myself up to the Lodge.

The big front door stood open under a yellowish porch light. I stepped into the roomy foyer. It was densely populated with an impressive collection of antlered trophy heads mounted on the wooden walls. Deer, elk, antelope and moose loomed at me out of the shadowed interior;
moose
, I wondered, in
Arizona
? Well, perhaps the hunter had brought the trophy back from another state. Then I came face to face with a bristly, snarling creature I’d never seen before; a printed card tacked beneath the beast labeled it “javelina.” I decided, after a brief study of its malevolently glassy eyes, I much preferred it on the wall than in its natural state.