Wild Penance (10 page)

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I told her as I worked the strap of my canteen out from under where my rifle was holstered beside the saddle. My butt felt like it had been pounded flat and put in a freezer. I walked around a little, leaving Redhead’s reins wrapped around the saddle horn. She followed me like a dog.

“Oh, you can move now, can you?” I challenged, spinning around to confront her.

She turned her head away but her eyes watched me. I pulled off my glove and held my hand out low, palm up. She pressed her warm muzzle into it and felt with her lips for a treat. “Oh, all right.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a carrot, broke it in half, and offered it to her. She took it, and as she chewed it, I stroked her cheek, then her neck. She pushed at me with her nose, almost knocking me over, her way of showing affection.

My joints were stiff, my muscles nearly asleep from the cold. I drank a little water, my lips freeze-burning as they touched the steel mouth of my canteen.

After a few minutes, the chill was unbearable. “Do you think we might get on with it now, Your Highness?” I tied my canteen back on the saddle strap, then tightened her girth strap.

Redhead nosed the ground, threw her head back, and whinnied.

I climbed aboard. “Well, let’s go then.” She broke into an easy trot.

As morning drew near, I had to cross a narrow, steep-sided stream. I eased Redhead down the bank into a cold cloud of mist and through the ice along the edge, and then the fetlock-deep water. As we crossed, the fog grew thicker and rose to encompass and obscure the horse’s legs, as if her massive torso were floating on a thick pool of steam. I felt her feet striking ground but I could see nothing beneath the tops of my boots. I saw the opposite bank rising sharply ahead of us and thought we had made it across without incident. But as we started back up the slope on the other side, a figure suddenly loomed up like a ghost out of the mist right in front of us, a dark cape or blanket obscuring both face and form. A man’s voice cried out in a horrible scream, “Aaaaaaghhh!” Redhead reared and bolted before I knew what was happening, and she threw me flailing into the fog as she charged up the slope. I landed hard, a stone smacking so violently against my right buttock that I could hear the jarring impact ringing in my ears along with the thud of Redhead’s hooves and the sound of someone scrambling up the slope in the opposite direction on foot and then running away. I was stunned for a moment, and when I tried to get up, I felt like I might faint. I sat groaning and rolled my weight off of my right side. The smarting emanated from a strong, tight epicenter out in recurring, circular, throbbing waves—growing more diffuse as they got farther away from the point of impact. I gave myself a minute or two before I tried to get up again, muttering under my breath, “Great, Jamaica. That’s twice you’ve landed on your backside in just two days!”

I listened for any sign of the specter. He was long gone by now. I limped around on the icy bank of the stream a bit, testing my weight on my right side. It hurt when I walked, but I was pretty sure it would be better if I kept moving. Redhead whistled from above me and shook her head as if to say, “Let’s go!”

“You did this!” I griped at her. “Don’t tell me to hurry up!” I groped around among the thin willow reeds looking for a limb to use for a cane. The bank was too steep for me to climb without support.

I whistled. “Come here, Redhead.”

She pawed at the ground and snorted. She didn’t like the slope any better than I did.

I whistled again. She looked at me. I made a gesture, waving her toward me. “Come on, Redhead! Come here!” I was calling her like a dog trainer, in that fake-happy voice, trying to make my tone pleasant while my buttock ached unbearably.

Redhead wasn’t buying it. She lowered her head and looked at me. She reached down and pulled with her lips at the vegetation on the ground, feigning interest.

There was a stand of cottonwoods downstream a bit, so I staggered along the frozen water’s edge, wincing as my butt throbbed with each step. I almost stumbled over some whitened, weathered limbs lying at the edge of the water. I picked one of the limbs up and tried it—it would do in a pinch.

I noticed a ring of stones demarking a campfire site. I pulled a small flashlight out of my coat pocket and examined the area. The mysterious stranger had evidently camped under these cottonwoods; the ashes looked fresh but no longer warm, no more than a day old. There was no sign of litter or debris, and it was a poor choice for a camp as there was no dry, flat ground for a sleeping bag. The site of the fire was the only dry spot. A downed tree trunk probably served as a seat near the fire, but other than that, the steep ascent up the bank and the close proximity of the water to that slope ruled out camping. So, why would anyone build a fire where they couldn’t camp? Especially back here where the nearest dirt track was still miles off, and the only way in was to hike or ride.

Sweeping the area with my penlight, I spotted a canvas backpack. I picked it up and straightened, looking around, wishing I could see farther in the dark. My rifle was in the scabbard on Redhead’s saddle. I had no idea where the pack’s owner had gone, nor if he might have doubled back and was now watching me. I pressed the button, switching off the flashlight, and stood quietly for almost a minute, listening and looking for any sign of the illegal camper. I put an arm through one of the backpack straps and, using the limb for support, scrambled up the slope to my horse.

An hour later, as I listed to my left in the saddle, I tried not to grimace when I rode up to the Forest Service truck at the rendezvous point. The ranger was leaning against the hood of the truck watching me approach. His narrow hips were pressed against the front quarter panel and one long leg was crossed at the ankle over the other. He wore a uniform coat, his hands thrust casually in the pockets. Beneath his ranger hat I saw a shadow of stubble on his handsome face. Rosa had been right!

I leaned over Redhead’s neck and whispered in her ear as I drew her to a halt. “You be sweet and hold real still, okay, girl?” I had lashed my cottonwood “cane” behind my saddle, and I untied this and used the staff to support myself as I gingerly stepped off the left stirrup and onto the soft ground. I could not suppress the contortion of my face as I felt the anguish that came with standing upright.

The forester came toward me in long strides. He wore a worried expression. “What happened?” he asked, arms reaching to help, moving as if to gather me up.

“Crossing that little stream back in the valley, my horse threw me,” I said, embarrassed to admit it.

He took charge, extending his right arm around my waist and holding my left forearm with the other. We walked toward his truck, almost as if we were promenading in a square dance, two by two, except that I limped on the offbeat. Redhead followed us, a few paces behind. At the truck, he opened the door and then watched as I awkwardly tried to turn around. He startled me when he reached out with both hands and lifted me by the waist. Our eyes met as he gently eased me into the seat. “I’m sorry,” he said, his face full of concern. “I probably shouldn’t have . . .” His eyes were a warm green-flecked brown color, with small crinkly lines at the corners.

“It’s okay, “I said. “But my horse—”

“I’ll get her in the trailer with mine. You just make yourself comfortable.”

I felt my poor backside throbbing and I was cold and tired. It had been a wretched night. I was too numb and sore to protest, so I just watched with pleasant surprise as he took a blanket from behind the seat and began tucking it in around me. Redhead looked at me over the ranger’s back as he bent over. She was flicking her ears, which usually meant she was excited. That made me grin.

The man had a healthy look about him. His face was roughened a little by wind and sun, and his prominent brow was dressed with thick eyebrows that almost met over the bridge of his slender nose. His eyes were deep-set beneath that brow, and his long, thin face was set off by a strong jaw. There was a small white scar on his chin, and another narrow one under the outer corner of his right eye, adding some masculine character to what otherwise might have been called a pretty face. He was too good-looking for me not to notice, no matter how much my bottom hurt.

“You sure there’s nothing I can do?” he asked. “Maybe you’d let me take you someplace warm where we could get some breakfast while we exchange reports.”

“Okay,” I said, “I could use a decent meal and something hot to drink.”

“Let me just see to your horse,” he said, “and we’ll get on the road.” He grabbed Redhead’s reins.

She followed him like a slave.

I sent her a telepathic postcard:
Be nice.

She nickered softly.

I could hear the ranger talking to her in a low, quiet voice. “Yeah, you’re cold and tired, too, aren’t you, girl? Yes, you are. We’ll get you some hay up at the ranger station, how would that be?”

We had to crawl back to the Forest Service road in his truck, easing over one bump at a time, and the riding was rougher than in the saddle. Redhead and the ranger’s horse had to be working hard not to get slammed around in the trailer behind the truck. I kept looking back to make sure they were all right.

“Your horse is going to be just fine,” the ranger said. “Peter—he’s a guy that works up at the ranger station—he’s excited about having horses there this week. They normally don’t have horses in their stables there except in the summer. So both these guys will get lots of attention.” He had brought a big red travel mug full of coffee, and he wiped the cap off with his glove and handed it to me. I sipped a little of it, but after the second time I sloshed it all over myself, I gave up and just held it to warm my hands. I was wrapped up to my chin in the blanket and I felt like my nose was about to thaw out, but my feet still ached from the cold.

“So you’re Jamaica Wild.” He looked at me and smiled.

“And you’re Kerry Reed.” When I returned the smile, my face felt like it would crack, it was so dry from the cold.

“Where’d you get that handle of yours?” He reached across me to take a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment.

I could smell his scent as he leaned near, his head over my lap, his smooth, tan neck right below my left shoulder, a perfect line where his hair had been recently trimmed. I could almost feel the warmth of his skin, right through the blanket.

He straightened up in the seat, put the glasses on, and turned to look at me, waiting for an answer.

I stared at him blankly for a moment. “Oh, my name!” I recovered. “Well, same as most people, I guess. My father gave me the second one, and my mother gave me the first.” I looked out the window, hoping to change the subject. Everyone asked me about my name. I got tired of trying to come up with a glib rejoinder.

“So, was your mother from Jamaica, or were you born there, or what?”

“No, I was born in Kansas, but I don’t think my mother liked it there very much. Maybe Jamaica sounded better to her somehow.” I fidgeted in the seat. I always felt uncomfortable when the subject of my mother came up.

He seemed to sense my mood and let it go. After a few minutes, he tried a different approach: “Did you see anything out there last night?”

“Only one thing, I don’t know what it means. It’s the reason Redhead threw me. Some guy had built a campfire in the draw of the stream—an impossible place to camp. Who builds a campfire where there’s no dry ground to sleep? Anyway, I would guess that he’d been dozing, maybe sitting on a downed tree. He was wrapped up in a blanket and it was dark—I didn’t get a look at him. We must have startled him and almost ran him over because I didn’t see him there. He screamed, Redhead bucked, and I landed on my behind. The guy ran off. I tried to track him after I got back up but the ground up top was frozen, no tracks. He didn’t have any gear there except a flimsy canvas backpack. I didn’t get to look through it yet. The ashes from his fire looked to be a day old. Besides having an illegal campfire, something must have been up for him to run off like that.”

“Huh,” he uttered. It was the kind of sound you make when you notice something curious and you can’t quite figure it out.

“What?”

“Oh, probably nothing.” He shifted into low. “Someone has definitely been going back in there for some reason. Last night, I saw Santiago Suazo’s pickup pulled over on the four-wheel track north of there in the national forest. The truck was down that track about two clicks. The road is impassable, so he must have gone in farther on foot. There was no one around, and I didn’t see anything in his truck I could hold against him, but of course I couldn’t get inside it to look around. It looked like there were several sets of ruts there that were fresh. Maybe someone with a good four-wheel drive met up with him, and they managed to get down that road. When I went back around dawn to check on it, Suazo’s truck was gone, and then it was time for me to come meet you. I don’t know what he’s up to this time. He can’t lift much firewood when the roads aren’t passable, but he could have been scoping out a site to cut from later, or he could even have been poaching. He’s been known to take elk out of season. You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”