Stone Dreaming Woman (8 page)

“I think she understands it already.”

“Do you, Fleur? Do you know your name already? Huh, sweetheart?” Jenny held out her hand and Fleur lipped it gently, taking in Jenny’s scent. Then Jenny cupped the mare’s nose in her palms and exhaled into the soft, gold-rimmed nostrils. In response, Fleur blew hay-scented horse breath across Jenny’s face. Shane had seen that done before; it was the way horses greeted each other. Fleur had just accepted Jenny into her herd.

“There’s a saddle in the barn. If it fits her, would you like to ride with me a while? I’ll take you up to the top of the ridge north of here; there’s an exceptional view. Or if you’d prefer to try her alone, that’s fine with me, but please stay on the North Village Road. It’s easy to get lost around here until you know the area.” Shane’s invitation was shyly given, as if he expected a smart rejection.

“I do need a guide, except…” She gestured to her skirt. “You wouldn’t mind if I wear jodhpurs?”

“What’s the matter with jodhpurs? I’m wearing them myself.”

“My jodhpurs are the kind meant to go with Pinks. However, my Pinks were fitted to me when I was fifteen and the jacket is too short now, so I didn’t bother to bring it.”

“Miss Weston, I couldn’t care any less what you wear,” he said, perhaps a little too abruptly. “We probably won’t see anyone else. I’ll check the saddle fit.” She left him to it and returned to the house. Upstairs in her room, she dug around until she found her black jodhpurs. When she put them on, they felt a bit snug—and a bit daring, which suited her just fine, thank you. She tucked the tail of her plain white shirtwaist down into the waistband and sucked in her stomach to do up the last button. Then she dropped a black cardigan over the blouse and took up her tweed jacket. On the way out she snagged Richard’s black watch cap from the pegs by the front door. Knowing that the outfit made her look like a tomboyish gamine, she plastered a satisfied grin on her face and closed the front door behind her.

Shane led Fleur out of the barn just as Jenny came skipping down the steps. “I’m ready. And thank you for responding to Uncle Richard’s request so quickly. Now I can go into town without having to use that awful buckboard and those poor tired old mares.”

“I’m glad to be of service,” he responded stiffly, obviously wary of her.

Toby crouched to give her a leg up. She settled into the saddle and sat the mare easily, even though Fleur was perhaps a little larger than was ideal for her. When she was comfortable, she kicked her feet back out of the stirrups so Toby could correct the length of the leathers. Shane mounted a moment later. He heeled Midnight and turned him down the lane toward the road.

By the time they were at the end of the lane, she could tell her demonstration of horsemanship had left him more than a little impressed. She took extra pains to move properly with the horse, keeping her posture correct in every line. She knew she had good hands, and by the time they turned left onto the North Village Road, she read Fleur with precision.

“You really do know how to ride,” he ventured at length. She felt a rush of smug satisfaction, having wrung even grudging praise from the aloof Mountie.

“Thank you. Maybe all those years of dressage lessons with Aunt Eleanor actually paid off.” He asked Midnight for a trot and Fleur matched it, with Jenny posting with unconscious grace.

“I’m taking you up past the trailhead to North Village. It’s maybe half an hour up to a view point where we can see way out across the valley. You’ll be able to look down and see Richard’s farm. Want to canter? That mare is as smooth as silk.” Though it was proper to demand a canter from either a walk or a trot, Jenny had been taught that it was more formal to slow the horse first. She twitched the reins and Fleur dropped to a walk, then a mere brush of her heels brought the mare into a canter that was as fluid as the surface of a summer lake. She stubbornly set the pace for both of them. Though Fleur stood perhaps a scant half-hand shorter than Midnight, the strength of an intact mare might easily give a gelding a run for his money. After a reasonable time Shane reined Midnight in, and he dropped reluctantly to a walk.

“That’s enough for now. Midnight seems to be going well, but I don’t want to press him.”

“That’s wise. After all, you still have to ride back to town. But then, if he does show any lameness we can trade horses and Midnight can rest up in Uncle Richard’s barn for a few days. Fleur is a big horse, and I’m certain she’s more than strong enough to carry you.” Jenny did not know whether the few exchanges that passed between them were getting less strained or more uncomfortable.

Then Shane guided them off on a side trail. She watched as he leaned down to make sure his powerful rifle was clear in its scabbard. It was a huge Model 1895 .303 Winchester Center Fire, similar to Teddy Roosevelt’s favorite “Big Medicine.” To Jenny it looked as huge as a field artillery piece.

“Do you always ride around armed like you’re expecting war to break out at any moment?” she asked.

“What? This?” He gestured to the rifle.

“Yes. That and the huge revolver, both.”

“The revolver is part of the uniform. It’s fine for sobering up rowdy drunks and stopping fights, but you always carry a rifle in the woods. You never know when you’re going to encounter one of Mother Nature’s less friendly critters, and personally if I do I’d much rather have that rifle on my side. It’s much more powerful and accurate than a pistol. Bears don’t hibernate continuously, as you found out yesterday. They get up now and then, and they’re always out of sorts when they do. And though it’s not the season for it right now, we’ve all shot mad wolves from time to time.” Her idea of wolves came from the Brothers Grimm, and the mere mention of rabies gave her chills. It was the only communicable disease known to man that was one hundred percent fatal.

They came to a place where the trail had washed out down to exposed rocks. Fleur lowered her head and picked her way through, scarcely slowing. Thomas Wise Hand must have spent years training her to render her such a good hill horse.

After a long climb they broke out onto the top of a ridge. For a while they had to ride single file, and then they came to a bare peak. The whole valley back toward Elk Gap was spread out before them like a snowy cloak, and on the other side, a whitewater river tumbled down a canyon. To the north, the horizon was hemmed in by high hills. Jenny had never seen anything like that panorama before.

“Oh, my,” she breathed. “And you’re right. I can see Uncle Richard’s house, and there’s the barn.”

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this. Is that the Elk River?”

“No. It’s a tributary called the White Fork. It empties into the Elk River down by the railroad bridge.” She tore her eyes from the incredible scenery to look at him. She had never seen hair so black on a Caucasian before. Black European hair was always some shade of very dark brown, but his was Oriental black, the highlights glassy and colorless as obsidian. She also noted that his beard was spare and fine and his sideburns ended of their own accord without the clear delineation of a razor. It all pointed to Indian blood. Mixed-blood people were often handsome in the extreme, she knew; the observation certainly fit him. His face seemed a study in contrasts: square-jawed, heavy cheekbones that lent a slight concavity to his cheeks, and a very straight and vaguely Irish nose; yet it was saved from harshness by large eyes, slightly full lips, and the long, doubly thick lashes of a child. She turned her gaze back to the panorama before he realized she was staring.

It was not long before the cold wind on the ridge forced them to start back. He led down the narrow part until they could double up along the trail.

“I think Fleur passed the test,” he said at length.

“Test?”

“I was watching how she acted during the rough parts of that trail. I didn’t want you on a horse that could panic and strand you way out in the back woods. I know you’re an excellent horsewoman, but out here in this rough country you need a mount that will take care of you as well as Midnight takes care of me.”

“I only intend to ride her around Elk Gap.”

He shrugged. “One never knows,” he said remotely.

They had another brief canter on the way back, and then he rode with her to the barn. Toby turned to them, ready to take their horses.

“Well, did you find the mare satisfactory?” Shane asked.

“Quite satisfactory. Thank you very much.”

“Then I’ll take my leave.
Au’voir
, Miss Weston.” He touched his hat brim and turned Midnight back down the lane. This was the fourth or fifth time she had been subjected to his abrupt leave-taking and had been forced to say some sort of goodbye to his back. This time she did not bother. Instead, as soon as he was past the first curve in the road back to Elk Gap, she heeled Fleur and went for a joyous canter in the opposite direction.

Chapter Six

By Tuesday the respite in the weather ended decisively in a blustery arctic cold front. Shane, who had postponed his visit to North Village as long as he could, started out Wednesday morning in the tail end of a storm that had dumped more than two feet of new snow over Elk Gap and dropped the temperature at least twenty degrees. Fortunately someone with a wagon and a team had driven through around dawn, so Midnight did not have a struggle until they started up the North Village trail. With equanimity he stepped into the unbroken drifts under the winter-bare trees, picking up his hooves as they climbed. Shane’s stomach tightened as he approached the first ford that crossed the creek, doubly treacherous now that the trail was obscured. But he knew he would never look at that crossing the same way again if he lived to be a hundred, because only a short while ago in that selfsame spot he had come perilously close to dying. He stopped Midnight at the bank and scanned the trees for danger, real or imaginary, then touched the horse’s flanks again and let him pick his own way between the stones that lined the creek bed.

The next stretch of trail was the worst. The creek went through a series of riffles that narrowed into a steep-banked waterfall, so for perhaps a quarter mile the path veered eastward onto smoother terrain. It picked up the creek upslope, crossed one more ford, and eventually culminated at North Village. They had almost made it back to the creek when Midnight’s ears flicked as though he heard something that did not belong to the familiar woods. Reflexively Shane reached for his rifle and had it half way out of the scabbard when an overpowering weight abruptly slammed into him from behind. A choking arm snaked around his neck and he saw the flash of a huge Bowie knife. He kicked his feet from his stirrups and threw himself backward against his assailant. Then Midnight, who did not like carrying double under the best of circumstances, rebelled against the burden. He reared straight up, and the weight of two large, struggling men on his back, as he stood on the layer of ice under the new snow, pulled him over backward. Shane twisted as they fell, driving his elbow into his adversary’s gut. The horse’s weight landed across his left leg as the combined force knocked the wind out of his assailant. Midnight rolled away and leaped to his feet. Shane only had time to turn over and face the knife wielder before he gathered himself and slashed at Shane’s face, missing only as the latter ducked backward.

“Bart Hankins!” he exclaimed, trying to put enough distance between them to fish his pistol out from beneath his bear parka. He knew instinctively that in his present weakened condition he did not have the stamina to go one on one with a powerful, rugged woodsman like Bart. He had to stop this quickly or it would not end well for him.

“You dirty injun bastard! I’m going to kill you, just like you killed my brother!” Bart hissed. “You gut-shot him, and he screamed for a week before he died!” He made it to his knees and lunged forward. Shane dug up a handful of snow and flung it at Bart’s eyes. It blinded him for only an instant, but it was time enough for Shane to roll onto his back and lash out at Bart’s chest with both heels. He connected soundly and felt the shock up to his hips as he threw Bart backward. At the same time he found his pistol lanyard, gave it a yank, and the big Colt slid into his hand. As Bart shook off the vicious kick and flung himself forward again, Shane cocked the hammer of his revolver and pulled the trigger. He did not bother to aim. Not only did he not have time, but at such a point-blank distance he could not miss. The report resounded through the trees with an echo like thunder, the recoil slammed the pistol grip into his hand and the side of Bart’s head exploded in a cloud of blood and brain matter. Shane rolled out of the way of the convulsing body that fell toward him and slumped backward in the snow, his heart trying to claw its way out of his chest. His half-healed shoulder throbbed with liquid agony, and he realized that the cushion of snow was all that had saved his left knee.

It was Midnight that finally brought Shane back to the present. He was not used to seeing his master lying on the ground. His equine curiosity took over, and he reached down and nosed at Shane’s cheek, inhaled deeply, and huffed out a steamy cloud of warm breath. Shaking in the aftermath of adrenaline overload, Shane pushed ineffectually at the gelding’s nose and levered himself up into a sitting position. Then, after several minutes, he was able to grab a stirrup and haul himself to his feet.

He finally dared a look at his enemy. Bart lay perhaps a foot from the creek, his blood soaking into the snow. As Shane stood above the body, his breathing slowed and he was able to make sense of Bart’s words. They took him back to the ambush he’d survived three weeks ago. After he was shot, he had emptied his revolver in the general direction of the sniper, not knowing whether he had hit anything. Bart’s brother Red had retreated through the trees, giving Shane only enough of a glimpse to recognize him. After that he had no energy to waste on pursuing his assailant. The situation degenerated into a tooth-and-nail fight to stay mounted and make it back to Elk Gap without losing consciousness.