Marty didn’t see any harm in letting Ryan take Dixie for a short ride before the estate festivities officially commenced. The boy had already demonstrated his ability to stay securely in the saddle which, when straddling the Welsh pony, took about as much talent as climbing up on a wooden rocking horse. Dixie’s calm and predictable temperament was custom designed for children. Besides, Norah had already granted permission for her son to ride as long as he didn’t ride alone, he wore a riding helmet, and he kept the stable fence in sight.
“Fasten the chin strap,” Marty instructed.
Ryan nodded and secured the head gear with a short tap.
Just to cover his butt, though, the dwarf had asked Richard Phelps if it would be okay if his grandson took Mishima on a little horseback riding tour. Busy entertaining Iwamato and the other guests that had begun to arrive, Phelps had curtly assented, basically insinuating to do whatever it took to make Iwamato’s young wife happy. Mishima wanted to play equestrian, then Mishima got to go on a horseback ride. And since Marty hated sitting on any animal in which his boots didn’t touch the ground, by default Ryan became the tour guide.
Marty watched as the pair giddy-upped the two horses out of the barn. He had to admit the Asian woman, with her straight back and shapely thighs, looked blue ribbon caliber straddling the big palomino, almost as sexy as Norah atop the Appaloosa. He would not have complained one iota to be where Mishima’s leather saddle was right about now.
Ryan turned and waved and the dwarf waved back.
The caterers were busy arranging a sumptuous banquet of appetizing pastries, barbequed chicken wings, and a wide assortment of fruit bowls and condiments as Marty strolled back past the Hole. In front of an elevated dais, the wood dance floor smelled of fresh sawdust and the mere thought of music made Marty wonder if Arianna was going to perform a number with the outdoor band. Phelps had privately divulged singing was another one of her varied talents. He nodded to an electrician who’d just begun another check-through on the emergency generators. Everything was set.
Marty approached the estate mansion’s spacious veranda, where a small crowd of well-to-doers—some parvenu was even wearing a blue tux—was oohing and aahing over a miniature scale model of the future development project. He watched Sheriff Buckley serving up some punch to a fine-looking woman and smiled to himself. The dwarf had to admit his boss sure knew how to lure in the investors. The big topics of interest—exotic game hunting permits, trout fishing, and the thirty-six-hole Big Country golf course—were all being marketed to the max. Hansen, his shoulders appearing as wide as a damn gridiron, was looking as debonair as Marty had ever seen him, decked out in his jeans, bolo tie, and black Stetson replete with rattlesnake hat band.
Only two things could cast a pall over the evening’s festivities. Marty hoped the shot he’d heard echo just at daybreak had taken care of one. Wouldn’t that be the icing on the Big Country cake? Having Gunther Cunningham casually stroll in with his two canine beasts from hell dragging the Clarksdale cat behind him by the fucking tail.
The other—the weather. If this was supposed to be the second weekend of spring, someone sure as hell fucked up somewhere. Marty didn’t relish facing Richard Phelps’ ire if the weather conditions deteriorated further and everybody had to be ushered inside.
Libby, Bart’s wife, was at the Lodgepole, late getting out to Jason’s place because of a rush liquor order she had to prepare for the estate celebration. She had to make sure all the cases of whiskey, rum, and tequila safely left the inn parking lot before driving out to check on Max. Jason had indicated to her he might be gone two or three days and since he hadn’t called, she assumed he hadn’t returned. Max would no doubt be disappointed.
There was no word on the cat either.
The saber-tooth story was on all the news channels. Bree Lancaster and Lance McGovern were interviewing anyone who would talk, which was most of the town. Regarding the hunting issue, Libby found herself siding with Norah Phelps, that the cat should be taken alive. Sure it was a man-eater but according to what she’d heard on television, the saber-tooths had resided in this area long before humans. That awarded them certain rights so to speak...right?
She was still self-debating when she pulled into Jason’s gravel drive. A light mist was rising from the creek behind the house and the high ridges east of Grave’s Peak were already buried in a thick veil of gray—so much for Sweeney’s aggressive air search.
Libby climbed out of her truck and called, “Max!”
She immediately became alarmed when the dog didn’t bark in return. The Lab had been full of pep yesterday evening.
“Max boy,” she tried again, yanking on the front door. She walked through every room of the house, calling his name. Her alarm turned to near panic when she found the back door to the porch pushed partway open.
Max was missing!