Forrester Branch

Chapter 1

A lanky, chocolate-brown Labrador retriever lay stretched along the footpath, her eyes closed, her ears twitching. Dappled light played across her fur, and from time to time she lifted her head and listened to the sounds of the surrounding aspen grove.

She raised her head again as a stream of invective erupted from the open door of the rustic stone hut near which she lay. Then, as the cursing ceased, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back to the path.

The hut was the size of a large storage shed and backed up to a low limestone bluff. Its exterior stonework was covered by moss, and shadows from the neighboring trees flickered across its walls and roof. Micah Forrrester, the dog’s master, stood near a waist-high concrete reservoir inside the little building. Across from him a white plastic pipe protruded from the wall of the bluff, capturing the flow of a small spring and directing it down through the reservoir’s metal cover.

The sound of plunging water filled the room. But the hut reeked of burned electrical insulation.

Micah aimed his flashlight into the plastic switch box on the wall. Dammit! he exclaimed. Dammit, dammit, dammit!

The box housed an automatic pump relay. A hole had been chewed in one of its lower corners, its interior was littered with mouse feces, and every wire showed unmistakable signs of gnawing. The mice had caused a short circuit, which in turn had burned out the relay and switch, disabling the pump.

This was no small matter. The pump pushed water from the reservoir up to a holding tank on the slope above the pumphouse. A gravity-fed pipeline carried the water from there down to Micah’s cabin, roughly a football field’s distance down the valley. No pump meant no water in the holding tank, and no water in the tank meant no water in the cabin. So if Micah wanted to wash dishes or take a shower he’d have to hot-wire the pump and run it manually or install a new relay.

He leaned against the pumphouse door and stared out into the surrounding forest. The aspens had just leafed out, their young leaves trembling in the almost imperceptible breeze. Beneath the aspens the ground was still damp, and the ferns and wildflowers of spring were just beginning to emerge from winter’s crush.

An ornate bronze bracket extended from the hut’s downhill wall a couple of feet above ground level. It supported a copper pipe from which water splashed onto a flat rock, then into a small, stone-lined pool. The overflow from this catch basin entered a culvert, ran under the footpath, and chattered away through the aspens.

An enameled dipper hung from a bronze hook beside the bracket. Micah abandoned his comfortable lean, filled the dipper and drank from it, then hung it back on the hook.

He squatted in front of Sadie and scratched behind her ears. She lifted her head to his hand, tongue lolling out, eyes half-closed.

Well, girl, he said, the goddamn mice have fried the pump switch. So for the time being it looks like we’re back to the bucket brigade.

Sadie accepted the news with equanimity. Micah gave her one last scratch behind her ears, retrieved his toolbox and a plastic bucket from the pumphouse, and closed the door.

He rinsed the bucket and filled it with water from the pipe, then glanced over at Sadie.

Guess we have to go to town. Wanna come?

She leapt up, yipped, and galloped down the trail toward the cabin. Micah, smiling, followed along, toolbox in one hand, pail in the other.

* * *

An hour later he pulled out onto the county road, Sadie beside him in the front seat of the pickup. But within a half mile he put the truck in neutral and coasted to a stop.

To his right and across a broad meadow the tree-covered slope of Wishbone Ridge vaulted upward, rising almost two thousand feet above the graveled road. On the opposite side of the road Wishbone Basin opened out to the northeast. The basin, dissected by a fan-shaped network of canyons and forested ridges, was a good five miles wide and enclosed by a rampart of thirteen-thousand-foot peaks. Even now, in late May, the peaks were snow-covered and blinding in their whiteness.

It was awe-inspiring country. But Micah had known the views since childhood, and they were not what had drawn his attention.

A short way down the lane a hard-used Chevy Suburban, its paint faded to a floury beige, sat on the grass above the road’s west embankment. Several men were dismantling a section of the zig-zag wooden fence that ran along that side of the road. As they finished, one of them climbed into the Suburban, drove it through the gap, and parked just inside the fence.

Micah put his truck in gear and idled down to the spot. As he came to a stop the Suburban’s driver got out, grinned, and flashed him a quick wave.

Micah waved back and opened the pickup door. Sadie barreled out across his lap and raced up to the men gathered around the Suburban. Micah followed.

A faded logo featuring a stylized surveyor’s transit, and the words Dougherty Surveying adorned the Suburban’s front doors. The vehicle’s tailgate was open, revealing a collection of battered surveying equipment. Oblique morning sunlight struck across the scene, throwing long shadows onto the matted tan grass.

Four men, the oldest middle-aged and the others in their twenties, were inspecting a chart spread across the hood of the Suburban. The eldest, a lean, leathery man of perhaps fifty, looked up as Micah approached.

Howdy, he said.

And howdy right back at you, Frank, answered Micah. He nodded to the others. And to the rest of you outlaws, too.

They grinned at him from beneath well-loved cowboy hats and ball caps. Sadie circulated among them, wagging her tail, and for her efforts received - oh joy of joys! - a glazed donut.

Oh, come on now, guys! said Micah. "She’s gonna start thinkin’ that’s what I oughta feed her." They laughed, ignored him, and fed her another doughnut, this time in bite-sized chunks.

Micah turned to the older man. So Frank, what brings you to my neck of the woods? I thought you were workin’ for the valley irrigation district, tryin’ to sort out just where the hell all those old ditches actually run.

Finished, answered Frank. And thank God, too! Damn near got an ulcer out of that one!

More excitement than you wanted?

Don’t you know it! Some a’ those ol’ boys brought their .30-30s along to enliven the conversation. Almost needed a police escort just to get to the job site sometimes. Frank patted the chart on the hood of the Suburban. But we’re done with that. Picked up a few high-country jobs that’ll carry us through the summer. This one alone‘ll take us a good month.

Well, I’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re up to, but I’d kinda like to hear it from the horse’s mouth. You free to talk about it?

Dougherty shrugged. Sure. It’s all public record, anyway. He turned the chart so that Micah could see. It showed a planned community, including a substantial condominium village, intended for the meadow and surrounding area.

Frank tapped the chart with a forefinger. So your buddy Vossler seems to think the ski mountain expansion permit is a lead-pipe cinch. But as we all know, that’s just the bait. The real money’s in the development side. He figures to sell off Wishbone Ridge by the inch - at least the parts he already owns or can figure out how to steal. You know the game - trophy second homes, tourist joints, hotels, restaurants, other business properties . . . the whole ball of wax.

Frank gazed out into the meadow. You know, if there was ever a guy who’d dig for a nickel hidden under a manure pile, it’d be Willem Vossler.

Micah pulled off his sunglasses. Considerin’ the way he treated your old man I’m a little surprised, Frank. I always thought it was very civilized of you not to shoot the bastard out of hand.

The three younger men stood by, their faces carefully neutral. Frank, though, was philosophical. Just tryin’ to eke out a livin’, he answered. And yeah, I know where you’re comin’ from . . . I wouldn’t want that asshole and his tourist hordes for neighbors, either. But I have to take what jobs I can get. And the man’s gonna pay a stiff asshole premium for this work, whether he knows it or not.

Well, said Micah, I guess we’ve all seen it comin’, haven’t we? And I’m sorry I picked on you. But I have a favor to ask - don’t for God’s sake give him the benefit of the doubt on anything! If he’s hell-bent on fuckin’ up the neighborhood I’d appreciate it if he at least stayed on his own side of the property line.

A quick grin. Micah, you’ve known me since forever. I just do an honest, straightahead job of land surveyin’. No giveaways, no shortcuts, and with any luck no serious mistakes. Frank rotated the map, orienting it toward Micah. And I got no love for the man, either. This project is business. Nothing more, nothing less.

Micah put his sunglasses back on. Yeah, economic reality bears down on all of us, doesn’t it? He turned to go. If you have the time, stop by when you’re done today. I’ll furnish the beer if you bring the company.

Sounds like a plan, said Frank. But could you hold up just a sec? You have any idea if there’re any pins left from that survey I did for you a few years ago? It’d sure give us a head start if we knew what’s still up here. Should be a coupla brass caps up on Dutch’s Backbone, too. GPS’ll get us close, but who knows what Mother Nature has done to ‘em since they were planted up there.

Micah wedged his sunglasses on top of his ball cap and took a closer look at the chart. You got a pencil?

Right here.

Sadie stretched out in the shade of the Suburban as Micah bent over the map. Frank looked over at his crew. Well, what are you waitin’ for? he asked. Christmas? And at that they tossed down the last of their coffee and began to assemble their equipment.

Chapter 2

Micah stared out the truck window, ignoring Sadie’s whining. A silver BMW sport utility vehicle, covered in dust, sat under the trees on the far side of the clearing. And under any natural order of the universe it didn’t belong there.

Well, Sadie, he sighed, looks like the yupsters have discovered the trail into Wishbone Box.

But Sadie just wanted to get out and run. So he pulled forward, parked under a spruce tree, and let her out.

He climbed down from the pickup and strolled over to the SUV. It was closed and locked, its owner nowhere in sight.

Micah was astonished. The SUV had come in over a wickedly-rutted, unmarked jeep trail a half-mile long, littered with exposed roots, large rocks, and the occasional bathtub-sized hole. Not exactly the kind of road its German engineers had designed it for.

He got down on his hands and knees and looked underneath, half-expecting to see a pool of oil or hydraulic fluid, or at least a bent tie rod. But the oil pan wasn’t leaking and there were no obvious signs of any other mechanical bleeding. Aside from a few bright-metal scars on the undercarriage and differential the vehicle appeared to have survived the jeep trail pretty much intact.

He went around to the rear of the car and checked its license plate. New Jersey. Now just how the hell did they ever manage to find this place? he asked Sadie. That old stock driveway hasn’t been on the maps for years.

A chipmunk chirped nearby. Sadie abandoned Micah and chased it under a decaying stump, then started digging frantically. Leave him alone, Sadie! yelled Micah. Poor little bugger’s just tryin’ to earn a living! She looked up, her nose covered with dirt. With me! he called, and she reluctantly followed him back to the truck, where he began to assemble his gear.

* * *

Micah bent forward, his hands on his knees, inspecting a set of footprints. They were small and shallow, with an aggressive hiking tread, and their owner had walked down the trail earlier that morning, not long before Micah’s arrival.

So whattaya think? he asked Sadie. Most likely a woman, judgin’ from the size and weight. Pretty sure of herself, too, walking off into the dark timber like that on a trail that’s not even on the maps. He lifted his ball cap and scratched his head. But New Jersey . . . And that Beemer’s not exactly the car you’d expect a Colorado girl to fight down a jeep road. I’m guessin’ a tourist gal, looking’ for adventure out here in the Wild West.

Sadie whimpered and pointed her nose down the path.

I know, I know, said Micah. There’s a creek full of trout down in the canyon and whistle pigs to harass on the way. So I’ll stop playin’ detective. He readjusted the straps of his daypack and picked up his fly rod. Okay then. Let’s truck.

* * *

A mile or so later they left the main trail and took a cow path that slanted down through dark, old-growth forest. Within a few hundred yards the path left the evergreen woods and entered a gently sloping belt of aspen groves and grassy openings.

Winter-killed vegetation still covered the ground, but new growth was bursting through everywhere. Immature aspen leaves fluttered in the breeze and new shoots poked through the winter-flattened grass. Wild irises and daisies formed little gardens, the iris blooms deeply lavender, the white-and-yellow daisies swaying in the sunlight. Out in the meadows the cinquefoil bushes were loaded with blossoms, their small flowers buttery yellow against dark jade foliage.

They soon came to a gray limestone rim perhaps thirty feet high. Along the foot of the cliff a rubble of fallen boulders, some as big as trucks, formed a maze of alcoves and crannies.

The trail dropped through a wide fissure in the cliff, then wound through the scattered boulders at the bottom. Sadie stopped at the top to investigate a marmot hole, but Micah, in a lather to get to the stream, hastened down.

The fissure curved slightly to the right so that he couldn’t see very far, and in his hurry he wasn’t paying much attention, anyway. But as he emerged from the cleft he froze. A dozen paces away a dark-skinned woman, probably in her thirties, lay stretched out on a stadium blanket in an alcove between two boulders. A rolled-up fleece jacket cushioned her head and she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on.

Micah couldn’t drag his eyes away. The woman’s neatly folded clothes sat beside her, next to a mostly-empty daypack. Her skin was a dark, warm brown, and her face, relaxed and drowsy, had delicate African-American features. Her hair was close-cropped, black, and densely curly, and her legs were relaxed enough that he could just see her small triangle of pubic hair. Her belly and breasts were pressed flat by gravity, the aureoles of her breasts dark circles, the nipples slightly erect from the hint of moving air. Her toenails and fingernails were painted a bright vermilion.

For one terrible moment Micah thought he had stumbled upon a murder scene. But the woman’s chest rose and subsided as he watched. So she was alive, probably just napping in the narcotic warmth of the sun.

A fly buzzed near her face. Eyes closed, she languidly brushed it away.

Micah realized that he’d been holding his breath. He began a stealthy backwards retreat but had only gone a couple of steps when Sadie trotted down behind him, spotted the sunbathing woman, and bolted forward to lick her face.

My God! the woman shouted and leapt to her feet.

Sadie whirled, raced back past Micah, and cowered behind him.

That’s okay, girl, he said. I don’t think she’s comin’ after you.

The woman focused on Micah. She gasped and dove for her blanket, then wrapped it around her shoulders and spun to face him.

Don’t worry about the dog, smiled Micah. She’s not vicious - just a little too friendly sometimes.

Stay back! the woman warned. I have a gun!

Well then, grinned Micah, I’d sure like to see where you hid it. But don’t worry – I’m harmless. I’m just tryin’ to get down to the creek.

She clutched the blanket more tightly. Who are you, anyway? Did you follow me?

Well, I saw your tracks, but I figured you were just a hiker. If I’d known you were sunbathin’ down here I’d have had myself a good ogle, then gone another way. Didn’t mean to barge in on you like that. Sorry.

Sadie nudged his thigh and he scratched behind her ear. "I’m Micah and this is Sadie. And you do know that when you lie around naked on a hikin’ trail you’re just inviting peeping Toms, right?"

The woman assessed his appearance - fishing vest, rod, daypack, wading boots - and said, This trail’s not even on the map. And this is a weekday, too. Don’t you have a job?

Nope, answered Micah. I’m way too obstinate to be employable, so I get to go fishin’ while the rest of the world’s hard at work.

Look, he continued, I’ve been hiking this old cow path for over thirty years. And it’s kinda obvious that it still gets used, isn’t it? Otherwise it wouldn’t be here. And in this part of the world, just because a trail’s not on some government map doesn’t mean people don’t still use it.

She reached for her pack, and Micah retreated a couple more steps. And if you really have a pistol and take a potshot at me, he said, we’re both gonna be unhappy. ‘Cause if I survive, I’ll tell the sheriff on you. And if I don’t, you’ve gotta figure out how to dispose of my carcass without getting caught. Or explain the unjustified murder of a known coward.

He beamed at her. That would be me, of course.

She wasn’t mollified. Well, if you’re just trying to get to your fishing spot, why are you still here?

Because I’m too scared to move! All this talk about guns, and then you reachin’ into your pack . . . And besides, never in my life have I stumbled across a naked, gun-totin’ woman lyin’ out on a hiking trail. So I’m a little uncertain about the rules that apply.

This elicited only a sarcastic Hmmph!

By the way, he added, I’ve already told you who I am. And you are . . .?

She glared but didn’t answer.

Sadie whimpered and peeked around Micah’s legs. Well then, he said, it’s been real nice. But if you’ll give us the go-ahead, Sadie and I’ll just sidle on past and head for the creek. That work for you?

She reached into her daypack, yanked out a tiny semi-automatic pistol, and backed up against a boulder. Go on, she answered. But don’t try anything.

No way, said Micah. You and your little popgun scare the livin’ daylights out of me. Even if you are only five feet tall.

He began to edge past, staying as far from her as he could.

Five-three, the woman said. And that’s more than enough to take care of myself.

That I can believe, he answered. Sadie and I are petrified with fear.

After a few paces he stepped back onto the trail. As he started down the path, though, he was astonished to hear her say, Good luck with your fishing.

Micah halted, a grin spreading across his face. Ma’am, if I don’t catch even a single fish I guarantee this day will remain forever perfect in my memory. And I’m as grateful as I can be.

Her eyes narrowed.

And a word of advice, he continued. If you wanna catch a few rays, go for it. But you should do it at least a hundred or so yards off the trail. Unless, of course, you want to bless others as you have blessed me today.

I think it’s time for you to leave, she said.

That it is, he smiled. He touched the brim of his ball cap and, whistling cheerfully, struck off down the path. Sadie ran back to lick at the woman’s ankle, dodged the ensuing kick, and galumphed after him.

* * *

Sadie plodded along behind Micah, her tail hanging low. Micah was worn out, too. His stride had lost its spring and his face sagged with fatigue as he trudged up the path.

The forested bench along which the trail ran was already blanketed in shadow. To the east, and visible through the occasional gap in the trees, the western face of Painter Mountain glowed amber in the late afternoon light. In a few minutes the sun would sink below Wishbone Ridge and a deep, rose-colored alpenglow would wash across the mountain.

When Micah and Sadie emerged from the trees the silver SUV was still parked in the clearing. But in the failing light Micah could see nothing through its heavily tinted windows.

He slogged over to his pickup, dropped the tailgate, and tossed his rod, daypack and canvas creel onto the bed. Then he retrieved a small cooler from under the rear bumper, extracted a beer, and sat on the tailgate.

Sadie flopped down on the ground below him. Micah grabbed a couple of dog food patties from the cooler and dropped them between her front paws, then pulled a plastic zipper bag containing a foot-long trout from his creel. He put the bag in the cooler, swung his legs up onto the tailgate, and leaned back against the truck’s sidewall.

He was savoring his first long pull of beer when a female voice across the clearing shouted, Hey!

Sadie jumped to her feet and started barking. Micah flinched, sat upright, and stared at the SUV.

The woman they’d encountered on the trail that morning stuck her head out of the car’s open door, waved, and ducked back inside.

As Micah slid off the tailgate she slammed and locked the car door. And when he approached the window, she scuttled across to the passenger seat.

He motioned for her to roll the window down. She opened it, but only an inch or two.

I can’t get my car to start, she said. And I don’t seem to have cell coverage.

Not surprising, answered Micah. Cell phone’s aren’t not much use here - closest tower’s over the ridge, at the ski area.

He started around toward her side of the car.

Stop! she shouted. I wasn’t kidding this morning – I’ll defend myself.

Micah halted, backed up, and raised his hands to shoulder height. His beer dangled temptingly from his right hand, so he had another sip.

Lady, he said, if I had any evil intent I’d have acted on it this mornin’. And if you didn’t want me to come over, why’d you yell at me?

He attempted a disarming smile. Besides, around here if we’re really nervous about someone, we usually just shoot first and leave the threats for afterward.

She reached into the back seat and unzipped her daypack. Micah backed away another three steps. But I’m not suggesting that! he said. I’m not dangerous! Promise!

He sipped again from his beer bottle but kept his hands up. Now, if I put my hands down, you won’t shoot me, will you?

The woman pulled her pistol from the daypack and displayed it. Just keep your distance and we’ll get along fine. All I need is a tow truck.

Okay. I’ll call one for you when I get home. That’ll be about half an hour from now, and the truck’ll have to come up from Piedra Blanca – another hour or so. Micah slowly lowered his hands. But if you’ll let me give you a hand we might be able to get you back on the road without all that.

He paused briefly, then added, And if you don’t plug me.

She didn’t respond.

Can you tell me what happened when you tried to start your car? asked Micah.

Nothing, she answered.

Did it crank at all? Did it make any kind of noise?

It made a clicking sound.

Have you checked your switches - lights and so on?

Yes, but I didn’t notice anything. The lights turn themselves off automatically, anyway.

Well, why don’t you check ‘em again, just for giggles?

She crawled back into the driver’s seat and went through the switches, then lowered the driver’s-side window just enough to speak through it. They’re all turned off.

Well, if you’ll pop the hood I’ll take a look at your battery. Could just be gunked-up terminals.

The hood of the SUV clicked and jumped. Micah walked over and raised it, then inspected the battery and tried to wiggle the terminal leads.

Nothin’ obvious, he said, backing away. The terminals and leads look okay, and I don’t see much corrosion. But the date on that battery’s pretty old. Why don’t we see if we can jump-start you? If we can get the car to start you should be able to make it back to town.

He headed for his truck. I’ll get my jumper cables.

How long did you say it would take to get home and call a wrecker? she asked.

Micah halted. I live near the ski area, so about half an hour to get home. Then another hour, hour and a quarter for the tow truck. So with any luck, maybe an hour and a half or so. I’ll even guide the driver in to make sure he finds you. His name’s Ed, and he’s a good guy.

The woman looked up at the darkening sky, apparently weighing her options.

Micah’s exasperation got the better of him. Jesus Christ! You sure make it hard to do you a favor, lady.

He started again toward his pickup. I’ll just go on home and call Ed. Stay with your car and you’ll be fine.

Wait! she said.

Micah spun on his heel, his mouth tight.

Her smile was conciliatory. Guess I don’t have any great choices, do I? she said. So okay, then. Just don’t come close to my door unless I ask you to. Can you live with that?

Frankly, lady, I plan to stay as far from you as I can. Micah pointed to a spot in front of the SUV. I’ll pull my truck over there and leave the motor runnin’. Then I’ll hook up the jumper cables. When everything’s ready I’ll give you a thumbs up and you turn the key. Got it?

She nodded.

Micah had everything in place he stepped out to the side and held up a thumb. The car cranked briefly, then started, its engine settling into a smooth idle.

Micah disconnected his jumper cables and tossed them into his pickup’s cargo box. Then he closed the hood of the SUV and walked a careful arc out to a spot perhaps ten feet from its door.

The woman put her face up to the gap in the window. Thank you, she said. I was afraid I was going to have to spend the night.

No problem, answered Micah. Code of the West and all that.

He yawned. So here’s the plan. I’ll follow you out, and if you have any more problems just pull over and flag me down. And no, I’m not plannin’ to follow you home. I just want to make sure you get out okay.

He started for his truck.

Hold on! said the woman. She pushed a fifty-dollar bill, folded lengthwise, through the crack at the top of the car window. Here, take this. I insist.

Micah shook his head. Thanks for the offer, but keep your money. Around here it’s considered real bad form to leave someone stranded in the back country. So just pass the favor along when you get the chance.

He glanced at the gap, already darkening in the twilight, where the jeep trail left the clearing. Ma’am, you really need to get a move-on. Wait much longer and you won’t be able to see all those rocks you’re gonna have to dodge.

She pulled her hand back inside, yelled, Thanks again! and rolled up her window.

Any time, he muttered, and walked back to his pickup.

He followed the BMW out to the graveled Forest Service road and then let it pull away. The SUV’s taillights disappeared swiftly into the blue obscurity of the mountain dusk.

Micah’s headlights swept across a curve, and he smiled at a doe standing on the far side of the borrow ditch with a tiny new fawn. The first stars began to pop out in the sky, and Micah nursed his beer contentedly as he dawdled down the road, Sadie snoring on the seat beside him.

Chapter 3

The parking lot was full and the restaurant would be packed. But the irresistible perfume of cumin and chile and frying tortillas wafted from the exhaust fans, so Micah followed his nose inside.

The place was called La Cocina Villareal. As he entered, a burst of irritated Spanish, audible even over the clatter of pots and the roar of the kitchen blowers, issued from a set of swinging doors to his right. The crowd noise was oppressively loud, mariachi music blared from the PA system, and the air conditioning droned overhead. But the smells – tortillas, fresh chile, pinto beans and beer – were heavenly.

Micah took off his sunglasses, tucked them in a shirt pocket, and waited for his sunstruck eyes to adjust to the interior light. There was a slight movement at his side, then an arm snaked around his waist and a husky, assertive feminine voice said, Señor Hermit! So what brings you down off your mountain? Slumming with us peasants today?

His persecutor was in her thirties, tall and slender and Hispanic, with olive skin and midnight-black hair. And laughing brown eyes which had once possessed the power to deprive him utterly of the ability to speak.

Linda! he exclaimed. He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. No, not slumming - just lookin’ for the company of the most beautiful woman in Colorado.

Ahhh, Micah the flatterer, she purred. Then, briskly, But I’ve heard your BS before, and I’m not buying.

She elbowed him in the ribs. So . . . What did we do to make you mad? You haven’t been out to see us in what, four, five weeks?

Micah sighed. Oh, you know how it is . . . It’s an empty life up there on Wishbone Ridge, especially when the people I thought were my friends don’t even care enough to . . .

Ahhh, pobrecito. She clucked her tongue. "How you must suffer in your lonely little mansion up on that mountain. How ever do you manage?"

It’s just a cabin! And apparently it’s too far away for my friends to . . .

She elbowed him again, this time solidly. Hey, chico, you want friends, the road goes both ways. So don’t lay any guilt trips on me. I’m not buying.

He rubbed his side. Okay. I concede the point. But now that the snow’s finally off I’ve been workin’ non-stop on fix-up chores. And if you and that no-‘count husband’ll have me over, I promise I’ll stop by.

Micah surveyed the restaurant. "Come to think of it, where is Ben? You finally cook him up and feed him to your customers?"

No, I’m saving that for you, you moron! A couple of his floor staff quit, so he’s down at the gallery, selling pictures of pine trees to tourists. He’s actually having to work for a change! But I’ll tell him you stopped by.

Don’t bother. I’m gonna drop in after lunch – got some sketches he’ll probably want. Micah scanned the restaurant again. But I’m starvin’, and it doesn’t look like there’s a single open table.

Yeah, we’re rockin’ the tourists today, aren’t we? All I have right now are a couple of seats over at the townies’ table. But Lonnie’s here, so you’ll have at least one other lunatic to talk to. Assuming you two are still on talking terms.

A departing customer strolled up to the cash register, tab in hand, and Linda waved her hostess over to take care of him.

She turned back to Micah. And if you don’t want to put up with the townies, you can always eat in my office. Just don’t leave a mess.

You’ll join me?

Oh God, no. It’ll be at least an hour before I get to take a break.

Well, in that case I’ll take my chances at the big table. Who knows - maybe I can get Lonnie to set me up with one of those college girls that’re always following him around.

You’re too old for that, you pervert! But my cousin Hortencia over in Del Norte finally divorced that worthless drunk she was married to. She’s pretty, and a great cook, too. If you’re interested, I can . . .

Oh dear lord! Linda, the last thing I need is to marry one of your half-wild cousins. She’d axe-murder me inside a month.

Micah sighed again, with a deep and entirely fraudulent melancholy. I know I screwed up when I missed the chance to grab you. But after losin’ out on the cream of the crop, I just don’t see how I can accept second-best. He grinned. Besides - I’m lousy husband material. Just ask my ex.

A family of tourists crowded through the door, blinking and confused. Linda gave Micah a gentle shove toward the townies’ table. Go on over and sit down. I’ll get your order in. Same as always?

You bet, he answered. Carne asada burrito, refritos, rice, salad, and a Pacifico with a wedge of lime.

You got it, she said. She smiled at the family milling about in front of the reception lectern. Come with me, folks. We’ve got a table just opening up.

* * *

The townies’ table- actually five tables lined up next to one another - was a good fifteen feet long and gloriously egalitarian. A local bank president might find himself lunching with a couple of hungry carpenters; a rancher might eat with a professor from San Cristobal College; a diesel mechanic and a deputy prosecutor might find themselves swapping stories about their kids’ Little League games. But there was one unifying factor: all were worshipers at the shrine of Linda Villareal’s famous kitchen.

Lonnie Vandermark sat near the end of the table, gazing out toward the street, already halfway through a stacked enchilada with a couple of eggs on top. Micah patted him on the shoulder, plopped down in the empty chair next to him, and nodded hello to the rest of the group.

One local bank president, Brad Nelson, was indeed there, resplendent in gray pinstripes and sitting across from Lonnie. Lonnie, a horse wrangler, looked the part, a blue paisley bandanna at his neck and his battered Resistol hat hanging on the back of his chair. A chunky woman with salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a pant-suit sat next to Nelson. She was Melba O’Connor, a realtor.

The others at the table wore everything from blazers to sawdust-covered jeans, golf clothing and grease-stained coveralls. It was a cross-section of Piedra Blanca’s working community, assembled to pay homage to the culinary artistry of La Cocina Villareal.

So Lon, said Micah, haven’t heard from you for a week or two. How you holdin’ up?

Could be worse, Lonnie grunted. I ain’t been arrested, don’t have any parts broke, and I’ve already made my rent for the month. So I ain’t doin’ too bad.

He rapped the top of his head with a knuckle. Knock on wood.

Have you decided what you’re gonna do with that trailer up at Sunset Park?

Yeah, I’m gonna keep it for the time bein’. Accepted that job Bill Johnson offered me runnin’ his horse operation, so I’m bunkin’ out at the dude ranch now. But the trailer’s still a handy place to hole up when I come to town.

Micah snorted. Sometimes you astonish me, Lon. What the hell happened to your cowboy pride? Givin’ up honest ranch work to herd bored schoolteachers around on a bunch of lazy, dude-ranch plugs.

Empty bank account, pard. Unlike someone I could mention, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon. And Bill offered me twenty-five hundred a month plus room and board. And a pickup truck and all the diesel I can burn in it. Even health insurance! So herdin’ flatlanders around ain’t all that bad, considerin’ the rewards.

Lonnie grinned. Besides, you’d be surprised at the number ‘a lonesome females who wander through that place - a lot of ‘em just prayin’ for a romantic Western adventure with a real live cowboy.

Don’t suppose you bother to tell ‘em that you’ve got a university degree, do you? said Micah. Or that you could be working at something a lot more lucrative than babysittin’ Bill Johnson’s collection of nags.

Aw, c’mon. Wouldn’t want me to spoil their fantasies, would you? And besides, just look at some of the dopes we both know who have university degrees. A sheepskin don’t make a person educated.

"Point taken. But you be careful. Sooner or later one of those women is gonna stick around to improve you. And you’ll find her harder to shake than a coffin salesman at a rodeo.

Melba, sitting across from them, snickered. Lon studiously ignored her.

Micah’s beer arrived. Also, don’t ever forget that Johnson’s a big dog in that Mormon ward. So if he catches you pluckin’ the love blossoms of his female guests, I’m guessing he might not be too happy. You might want to exercise some discretion.

Well, as to your first point, I always leave the corral gate open, so I can make a break for it if I have to. And as to the second, Bill and I have an understanding. I stay away from girlfriends, wives, daughters, and any female who’s not of age. Only independent, grown-up women for me, and even then only if they make the first move. And you can bet I make a study of bein’ discreet. So Bill and I get on just fine.

He laid down his fork and cocked a sideways grin at Micah. But thanks for the warning, captain. You’d make one hell of a camp counselor.

Just tryin’ to save a friend from unnecessary suffering.

Appreciate it.

Lonnie shoveled another bite of enchilada into his mouth. So . . . we’ve just about beat that topic into submission. So what’s happenin’ up on your mountain? Streams clearin’ up?

Sure are. Checked out Wishbone Box on Tuesday. Still a little high, but it’s already fishable. Caught one cuttbow that ran fifteen inches.

Micah took a sip from his beer. So when’s your next day off? I’d like to have a look at lower Saddle Creek, maybe hit the San Cristobal, too. If you’d like to come along the elk steak, whiskey and cigars’re on me. And the guest room’s yours if you need a place to flop overnight, just like always.

Micah’s burrito arrived and he picked up his silverware. Something else. Ran into Frank Dougherty a coupla days ago. Vossler’s hired him for some survey work up in Slassen Meadows. The crooked bastard’s forgin’ ahead with his plan to expand the ski area and build a condo paradise up there. I didn’t realize he already had his ducks in a row for the project.

Lonnie’s face darkened. You know, Micah, that asshole won’t be happy ‘til he’s turned every square inch of this country into another fuckin’ Disneyland! It’d be a boon to us all if somebody was to dry-gulch him and dump his stinkin’ carcass down a mine shaft.

This drew the attention of the others at the table. They broke off their conversations and stared.

Well, said Micah, I wouldn’t mourn for a second if Vossler was to fall off the face of the earth. But I think murder’s probably takin’ it a little too far.

"Maybe so. But that asshole was takin’ it a little too far when he dried up Catamount Creek just so he could make fake snow for a bunch of empty-headed slat-rats. And it was more than a little too far when he and his buddies evicted that elk herd off their winter range at Parson Flats so they could put in that eyesore of a golf course. And it was a little too far when . . ."

Now, hold on! interjected Melba. There’re plenty of insignificant little creeks still running full around here, and lots of other places for the elk to go, and enough back country to satisfy anybody. And Willem Vossler is a good businessman and a genuine philanthropist. If he hadn’t built up Wishbone Mountain, Piedra Blanca would just be another sleepy little backwater with no growth, no industry to speak of, and . . .

And populated by a buncha drooling hayseeds like me, too stupid to appreciate fern bars and putting greens, right? Lonnie drew a deep breath. "Melba, you gotta understand something - a lot of us liked PB a whole lot better when it was a sleepy little backwater. Before you and the rest of your carpetbagger pals turned it into a cheesy, four-bit tourist dump."

"Piedra Blanca is not a cheesy, four-bit tourist dump! And if that’s what you think, then maybe you should find somewhere else to grace with your presence. Because progress is coming to this valley whether you want it or not, and it’s a lot better to ride the wave than to be drowned by it."

Exactly the kind of horseshit I’d expect from a money-grubbin’ dirt jerk! Lonnie’s voice had risen enough that diners at nearby tables were turning to look. I’ve known your kind since I was a kid - you’d sell the whole damned Rocky Mountains for a parkin’ lot if you thought you could get a twelve-buck commission outta the deal!

The banker, Brad Nelson, cleared his throat and leaned forward. Lonnie, you’re entitled to your opinions. But that was uncalled for, and you owe Melba an apology.

He paused, then continued. I’ll also have you understand that Willem Vossler has contributed more to the economy of this county than a thousand nay-sayers like you ever will. And he’s done it in the face of everything the environmentalists and the bureaucrats and you good ol’ boys could throw at him, and without . . .

Without givin’ a rat’s ass about what he’s done to everyone he’s screwed in his singleminded pursuit of the almighty dollar! Lonnie half-rose to his feet. And don’t try to snow me you’re your Chamber of Commerce bullshit, either! You and I both know that if Vossler ever defaulted on his notes, federal bank regulators would take one look at your books and then shut you right down. And that explains why you and your cronies grease up and bend over whenever the man snaps his fingers.

Another long breath. I may just be a dumb cowboy, but I’m not so dumb that I don’t understand who helps Vossler pull off his little conspiracies. Matter of fact, I’d bet next year’s salary that you’re on the string for the construction loans for that pile of shit he’s buildin’ up on the mountain. Aren’t you, you fat little . . .

He broke off, startled. Linda Villareal stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders, her fingernails digging into the tendons on either side of his neck.

Lonnie, she said quietly, it’s time to shut up. I won’t have you insulting my guests.

She gazed benignly down at Micah. Burrito okay?

Micah nodded and swallowed. Absolutely. Wonderful as always.

Good. She turned her attention back to Lonnie. "Lon, I don’t care if you are one of my favorites, you can’t ignore the rules. So here they are again . . . No name calling. No picking fights. Keep the cussing down. And keep all discussions on a polite and respectful level."

Lonnie winced as she squeezed more tightly.

And remember, cowboy, she said, if you can’t observe these simple rules, I will exile you. Understand?

The others at the table sought, most of them unsuccessfully, to smother their grins. Brad Nelson and Melba O’Connor were not smiling, though.

Lonnie set his fork on his plate. I surrender, he said. And I plead guilty, your honor - I picked an argument and I’m sorry. Even though Micah encouraged me. And I promise . . .

Now just a minute! sputtered Micah. I didn’t have a thing to do . . .

Calm down, sweetie, smiled Linda. She winked at the others, who were now laughing openly. He’s just trying to distract me. But I’m onto him.

She leaned over and spoke quietly into Lonnie’s ear. Lon, if you ever want to eat here again, you owe Melba and Brad an apology.

Lonnie harrumphed, then smiled humbly across the table. Okay, you win. Brad and Melba, you didn’t deserve all that. So I’m sorry, and I hope you’ll accept my apology.

They regarded him solemnly. Finally, Brad broke the silence. Apology accepted, he said. And I’d really like to continue the discussion, but it’ll have to be some other time - I’ve got a one-thirty meeting.