He grinned at her. “Why don’t you come help me unsaddle these animals and tell me how you know so much about guns?”
“I guess I don’t know enough, because I almost shot that cowboy’s foot off.”
Walking, Sandy didn’t look back at her, but he could hear the remorse in her voice, and he heard the way she referred to Kane as “that cowboy.” “Did you tell Kane you were sorry?”
“Ha! I’d die first.”
When Sandy gave her a surreptitious glance from under his hat brim, she was looking at the mountains, her hands clenched into fists, her mouth set into a hard little line. “Are you the hair lady or the widow or the one with the funny shop?” Before she could answer, his eyes began to sparkle. “You write the murder mysteries.”
“Yes,” she said, still angry, but then she looked at him and smiled. “My next book is going to be called Death of a Cowboy. What sort of death do you think would be appropriate? Caught in his own lariat and hanged? Maybe a rattlesnake in his bedroll.” Her grin broadened. “Maybe blood poisoning from a dirty bullet that shot all his toes off.”
Chuckling, Sandy opened the barn door for her. “Come in here and tell me the rest of this story. I like a good story.”
“Then you’re going to like me,” she said happily, “because I can tell lots of good stories.” Then, frowning, she muttered, “It’ll be good to have somebody around here like me.”
Chapter Five
Contrary to the way it looked, I didn’t really want Cowboy Taggert to hate me. I’ve always had fantasies about being likable. I’d like to walk into a room and have people sigh and say, “Cale’s here. Now the party can begin.” Of course that’s never happened. Bookish people don’t get invited to parties that often, and when they do, they tend to sit in the corner and watch.
As I helped that dear, sweet old man, Sandy, in the barn, I pretended nothing was bothering me, and I vowed to behave myself for as long as I was on this trip. Ten years from now the cowboy would look back and say, “That little mystery writer was actually a good egg.”
I did well for a whole twenty-four hours. At dinner all of us sat at one round table—and I didn’t say a word. I didn’t say anything when the cowboy reached across Ruth for the hundredth time to refill her wineglass. I didn’t say anything when the skinny groupie started talking about her channelers. I didn’t even laugh when the fat groupie spilled wine in the cowboy’s lap, then tried to rub away the red stain on his crotch. I bade everyone a polite good-night and went to my room, planning to work on an outline for my next book.
But my strongest and best character trait is the ability to concentrate, which is also known as the ability to obsess, and that’s what I did that night.
Why is it that men can’t see through women like Ruth? Why are men so dumb when it comes to women? Long legs, a cantilevered chest, acres of hair, and a woman can get any man she wants.
It bothered me that I was attracted—seriously attracted—to some big dumb cowboy while he looked at me as though he wanted to feed me rat poison.
I behaved myself all through breakfast while Ruth and the jock made goo-goo eyes at each other, seeming to read meaning into comments like “Pass me the honey.” Nothing in life is more boring than being near self-absorbed lovers. They find amusement in every word; every gesture from one is a thing of beauty to the other. They have no interest in anything outside themselves.
I bit into a piece of toast and watched the way the cowboy looked at Ruth: he was gone. As for Ruth, her heart wasn’t in her eyes. Now and then she’d look at the Maggie-Winnie duet with a glance of triumph, as though to say, Look what I can do. She was probably looking forward to the great, drippy final scene when she’d bid him a tearful farewell. But poor dumb Taggert looked as if he wanted to tie an apron around Ruthie’s perfectly maintained waist and put her behind a stove. For a moment I got a great deal of pleasure from imagining Ruth in a kitchen: worn linoleum floor, gingham curtains, the smell of onions frying, hot enough to fry beef on the tabletop, three whining kids hanging on to her swollen, red, unshaven legs.
When I looked up, Sandy was smiling at me as though he knew exactly what I was thinking, so I winked and gave him a mock salute with my orange juice.
By the time afternoon rolled around, I’d behaved myself so well that I guess I was feeling a little smug, because I blew it.
We’d all mounted horses and started riding up a trail into the woods. I’d been on a horse only a couple of times in my life before, but when you get down to it, riding a horse doesn’t take all that much brainpower. I’m not talking about dressage or show jumping, which require years of practice and training, but sitting on some well-fed, complacent animal that already knows the trail takes no skill.
But that’s not how Ruth and the duet viewed it. Given Ruth’s background, I would have thought she’d be a great horsewoman, but the truth was, she was terrified of the animal. Terrified and appalled at its big, wide nostrils, its hairy mouth, as well as the back end of it. When she climbed on that horse, her eyes wide with fear, I came close to liking her. She must really want to keep her job if she was willing to climb on an animal that terrified her as much as this one did.
It was late afternoon when I did it again. We all dismounted, sore, tired, and for the most part not speaking. Ruth had ridden behind Taggert and what conversation there was on the trail had been between them. The skinny one of the duet had tried to talk to me about a vegetarian diet, but when I told her I ate nothing but meat and lots of it, she clammed up and wouldn’t speak to me. The silence of the woods, with Sandy riding behind me, had been bliss.
But after we’d dismounted and most of the group had wandered into the woods to make use of the facilities, I glanced at Ruth and saw that she had an odd look in her eye. She had her hand on her lower back, and I knew that if she was half as sore as I was, she was in pain. I don’t know what she was thinking, but then again, she probably wasn’t thinking at all. She was in pain and the cause of her pain was the placidly munching horse in front of her.
With hands shaking from exhaustion, she lit a cigarette. Then, with the look of a malicious child, she crushed out the cigarette in the soft neck of the unsuspecting horse.
Everything happened at once then. The horse cried out, sidestepped into Ruth, knocked her down, and started to walk on her. I didn’t think. I just ran, trying to place myself between Ruth and the horse, but the horse was angry and in pain; some of the hair on its neck had caught fire and was smoldering. As best I could, I held on to the bridle with my left hand and slapped my right hand over the burn as I tried to tell the horse that it was safe and no one was going to harm it again. Somewhere during the turmoil, Ruth had slithered away like the snake she was and left me alone with the horse.
Thrashing through the woods like the Abominable Snowman was the big cowboy, and when I glanced up, I saw that he was heading straight for me—and his face was contorted with rage. What now? I thought. What in the world was he angry at me about this time?
Ruth, true to form, threw herself into the cowboy’s strong, protective arms, weeping copiously, but without mussing her eye makeup, and begging him to save her. Taggert held her, but it was me he was glaring at as I stood there petting that poor burned horse. I wondered what Ruth would say if I told that I’d seen what she’d done.
“You should have called me,” Taggert said, his teeth locked together.
About a thousand sentences went through my head at once. I could have told him the truth about his beloved; I could have pointed out that if I’d called him, then waited for him to arrive, Ruthie’s lovely face might now have a horseshoe print in the middle of it. In the end I didn’t defend myself. I just said, “You’re a real jerk, you know that? A plain ol’ everyday jerk,” then dropped the bridle and walked away into the woods.
Is there any anger in the world more cold, more deep within you than the anger that comes from being falsely accused? I felt like a coal left over from an all-day fire. With the least bit of encouragement I
could have erupted into a full-fledged forest fire. I stood there in the woods, not seeing anything, my fists clenched, feeling like a martyr. It wasn’t fair! It really, truly wasn’t fair.
My anger never lasted long, and this time was no exception. Within minutes I had turned it inward and burst my own bubble. I stood still, trembling with emotion and exhaustion, and to my disgust, tears stung my eyes.
When I heard someone behind me, I rubbed at my eyes with the back of my hand and looked up to see Sandy, his face a mask of concern.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with Kane,” he said. “Usually he’s not like this. Usually he’s—”
Rule number one in my father’s house: Never let ’em know you’re in pain. If they know you’re hurt, they can hurt you more.
I did my best to smile and sound lighthearted. “It’s me. I always rub men the wrong way. If I’d screamed in fear and covered my face with my hands in terror he’d probably be feeding me brandy and pâté now.”
Sandy chuckled. “Probably.” He paused a moment, then said, “What’s Ruth like?”
I could do nothing but roll my eyes. Should I tell him about the cigarette burn?
“Kane…” Sandy said hesitantly. “I think he wants a wife.”
My earlier vision of Ruth in a kitchen came back to me and did a great deal to cheer me up. But I wasn’t going to lie to this man; he’d been too nice to me, and he didn’t deserve lies in return. “And he thinks to get a wife out of Ruth? Ruth likes the conquest, but once she’s won, she’s on to new goals.” I thought of the cowboy bawling me out for saving Ruth not once but twice. “I think they deserve each other. I hopes she breaks his heart.”
Sandy was silent. “So,” he said after a while, “are you married?”
I knew he was thinking about Kane, who was like a son to him. Why is it that some people receive love no matter what they do and some people don’t? I purposely misunderstood Sandy. “Is this an offer?”
When Sandy spoke, he was utterly serious. “If I were ten years younger I’d pursue you so hard that you’d end up marrying me just to get me to leave you alone.”
My laugh was a little forced, but I couldn’t deny that I was flattered. “You wouldn’t want to marry me,” I said honestly. “I’m too competent to marry. Men like women who are helpless or at least know how to pretend to be like Ruth can, but me, I’m ridiculously capable, and I always forget to hide it.” I turned away to leave. I didn’t want to talk to anyone else. In the mood I was in, there was no telling what I’d say next.
“Hurry back,” Sandy called after me. “We’re having buffalo tongue for dinner.”
“Mmmm, my favorite,” I said and kept going.
Chapter Six
Cale stretched out on the grass in that favorite posture of writers, where the body is completely supported, thus leaving the mind free to think and create. She was thinking of a story in which the killer was a cowboy who was so handsome that no one suspected him, when she heard people approach.
Now what? she thought, not wanting to move, not wanting to cease the fantasies playing about in her head. There are people who hate to write, hate to have to come up with ideas, and people who will go to any length to be allowed to continue to create. Now, hearing footsteps, Cale thought that if she stayed very quiet, whoever it was might go away and leave her in peace.
But Cale looked up to see Kane take Ruth in his arms and kiss her incredibly gently, as though she were fragile and precious. Cale knew she should leave, and she moved to do so, but then Kane pulled away from Ruth.
“You’re all right?” he asked. “You weren’t hurt by the horse?”
With great interest, Cale propped her head on her hand and listened for Ruth’s answer. She thought of it as not so much eavesdropping as research.
“I’m fine. Kane,” Ruth said with a gentle flutter of her eyelashes. “You don’t know how I worried about coming on this trip. I was so frightened—frightened of the great outdoors, afraid of the animals, afraid of the people running the trip. I thought you’d be aggressive.” She laughed seductively. “I was concerned that you’d want us to…to shoe horses or something like that.”
So she wasn’t going to tell him about burning the horse. Not that Cale had thought she would. If anything terrified this woman it was the possibility that men wouldn’t adore her. Philosophical question to ponder, Cale thought: Does Ruth Edwards exist if no one is looking at her?
“Out here in the West we’re just the same as any men. We want the same things as other men,” Kane said in a deep voice.
Yeah, Cale thought. They want Ruth.
Ruth ran her hand up his arm. “I wouldn’t say you’re the same as any other man.”
Even this guy couldn’t possibly fall for that line. Could he? It would be the equivalent of a guy coming up to you in a bar and saying, “What’s a nice girl like you,” et cetera. Women were past that, but was any man past Ruth’s tired line?
“I’d like to think I’m not like other men,” he answered as he touched her arm.
Once again Cale had overestimated the male animal. Question, she thought, What’s the difference between a rutting stag and a man on the make? Answer: nothing. They are both blind, deaf, and very dumb.
When they started kissing, Cale gave a loud “ahem.” Eavesdropping was one thing, but voyeurism was something else.
Kane’s face changed when he saw Cale, but for one second she saw what Ruth had seen: a man with lust on his face, as well as desire, passion, and perhaps even greed. Even more interesting was the look Ruth was wearing. Unless Cale missed her guess, ol’ predatory Ruth was afraid of Cowboy Taggert. The minute Ruth saw him turn away, she turned tail and headed back to camp.
“I guess I can add spying to your list of accomplishments,” he said through a jaw clenched tight in rage.
“I was here first,” Cale began, starting to defend herself, but the look on his face made her stop. “What’s the use talking to you? You’ve made up your mind about me.” She stood up and started to leave, but he reached for her. “Don’t touch me,” she answered, pulling back from him.
His look was almost a sneer. “Right. Being touched is one of your phobias.”
“Contrary to your opinion of me…Oh, who cares?” she said at last, and headed back to camp.
At the camp, Sandy had prepared a meal of beans and hot dogs, which the skinny one of the duet poked about on her tin plate, muttering about what nasty things hot dogs were, while the fat one brushed Ruth’s hair to the obvious delight of Kane. After dinner the skinny one began talking about crystals and pyramids, telling in burdensome detail how pyramids were supposed to improve one’s sex life, then slyly suggesting that Ruth hang one from a tree branch over her sleeping bag. In disgust, Cale walked away from the fire, heading toward the horses.
“You want to remove your shirt and let me have a look at that shoulder?”
Cale tried not to let her surprise show at Sandy’s words, but she turned a radiant smile toward him. The moment she saw him the smile disappeared because hovering behind him was Kane.
“What’s wrong with her shoulder?” Kane asked.
Sandy whipped around and snapped at the younger man. “If your brain was somewhere besides in your pants you’d see that she hurt herself when she saved Ruth’s neck for the second time.”
Ah, sweet justice, Cale thought. My own darling knight come to my rescue. She wondered if Sandy would like to move to New York and live with her in her penthouse?
Kane’s face turned red and he muttered something about looking at Cale’s shoulder himself, but she put her chin up, pulled her shoulders back, and walked confidently back to the campsite, feeling the best she’d felt since coming to Colorado.
Chapter Seven
Kane was restless in his sleeping bag, punching at the thing that was supposed to be a pillow, turning frequently so the nylon made enough noise to scare the owls, and cursing at every opportunity. He knew he should have been thinking about Ruth. So far a
s he could tell, she was perfect. Under her beautiful façade was a sweet, gentle personality. He could almost see her with his sons; he could imagine her eight months pregnant with their child.
But try as he might, Kane couldn’t seem to think of Ruth. Instead, he could only see and hear that bratty little writer. She was like a splinter that couldn’t be dug out and was now festering. When he saw her leap over Ruth to grab the bridle of that horse, he’d been terrified. One misstep and she would have been down and under the hooves. He knew it was dumb of him to have told her to wait for him, and he knew she had done what had to be done, but she still rankled him.
He wasn’t sure what it was about her that bothered him so much. Maybe it was her smiles and her wisecracks. Maybe it was the way she looked at Ruth, as though Ruth had climbed out from under a rock. Or maybe it was the way her backside curved into her jeans.
Why had he been so angry at her when she saved Ruth? If it had been any other woman, he would have been proud of her for her fast thinking and faster action, but something about the blonde always enraged him. Yet even as he had stood there glaring at her, he’d had an urge to pull her into his arms and protect her.
Protect her? That was like saying you wanted to protect a porcupine. And a porcupine was just what she was: small, prickly, and dangerous.
Sometime around three in the morning he got out of his sleeping bag and stepped into the woods, walking down a path he knew well, to look over the ridge to the trail below. Tomorrow evening they’d be in the ghost town of Eternity and his father’s truck would be there to take the writer away. After that he’d have long days to spend with Ruth. He’d have time to get to know her, time to allow her to know him. He’d have time to—
He broke off his thoughts as below him he saw the flash of headlights. Someone was driving down the old road to Eternity. But who and why at this time of the morning? As soon as the questions occurred to him, he thought of an answer: something was wrong.