Damn her!
Erik pivoted on a heel and aimed the camera out across the meadow. He'd already gotten all the photos he needed, but at least the viewfinder gave him somewhere to look. His fingers were tight on the camera, as he wanted them to be on her lovely white throat.
No, he wanted them on her body, seeking out its secrets.
He knew she wanted him. He'd seen the desire lurking in her eyes at the courthouse, when he'd caught her watching as he explained the National Wetlands Trust to the commissioners. He'd felt her hunger for him that evening, as they spoke of trivialities on the way to her house. And he'd read it in her face a few minutes ago.
Just as he wanted her. He still felt the same inexplicable pull he'd felt the first time he'd seen her. The strong sense of inevitability he remembered from that other time was even stronger now. As if their lives were fated to be tangled together.
And it scared him. He didn't dare allow himself to get involved with her again, no matter how his body lusted mindlessly for her.
Madeline Pierson belonged here, in Idaho, where her roots were deeply dug in. Eric Solomon belonged...nowhere.
A dark shape swooped across his peripheral vision, not quite so much seen as sensed. He turned to look and saw wide wings just disappearing into an untidy mass of sticks atop a dead tree. Letting the camera swing from its strap, he raised his binoculars.
A nest? Patiently he waited, until finally he was rewarded by motion. A head. No, two. Three? He couldn't be sure. But it was a nest, and there were young in it.
"Madeline," he called, softly, even though he knew a human voice wouldn't disturb the birds at this distance. "Look."
There was no answer. Erik lowered the binocs and turned around. She was nowhere in sight. He shrugged, and returned to watching the nest. After a long interval of bobbing heads and indefinable motions barely visible over the irregular rim of the nest, the parent bird flew.
"Osprey," he identified, not surprised. The large raptor, once called a fish hawk because of its hunting and feeding habits, was a common habitant of wetlands, although it was not nearly so often seen as it had been a century ago.
A second adult bird landed on the nest, before the first was out of sight. It held something in its talons, possibly a fish. Again he saw the bobbing heads. Dinnertime for the kids.
Reluctantly he lowered the binoculars. He could stand here all day and watch the osprey, but he had work to do. He pulled his field notebook from his hip pocket and made notes of the approximate location of the nest and the fact that it seemed to contain three healthy chicks. The first thing he'd do, once NWT assumed title to Wounded Bear Meadow, was have large-scale aerial photos flown. Then he'd put his summer interns to work mapping all nests and perches, as well as the beaver dams and game trails. Satisfied he'd seen all there was to see from here, he returned his camera and binoculars to his knapsack.
"Madeline." This time he called loudly, hoping she hadn't wandered off. She was little more familiar with the meadow than he was, and he didn't want to have to search for her. He still wanted to see if he could cross the main stem of the creek. It had looked like there was some higher ground over there, near the nest tree.
"I'm here," she said, coming from behind a screen of elderberry bushes. "I had to...ah, I went...."
He grinned. "No problem. Are you ready to go?"
"Anytime." Her voice was still tinged with frost. Well, hell! She'd been living in another dimension if she really expected him to hang around Garnet Falls, Idaho, any longer than he had to.
His next task was to convince his body that sexual frustration was good for it.
He pointed out the route he wanted to follow. "Can you manage that?" She was tired, he could tell, and had been having trouble keeping up, just before lunch. He often forgot how difficult many people found the going in a typical wetland.
"You lead, I'll follow," she said, her chin set stubbornly.
By the time they reached the creek, Erik wasn't sure it was worth their while to go any farther. The ground was barely supporting their weight. He'd gone in almost to the top of his boots more than once. Thankfully the mud wasn't the heavy, clayey kind--the slow mud he'd kidded Madeline about. So far.
There was a log wedged across the creek, the remnants of its root ball rammed into the near bank by a spring flood. Water poured under it, barely wetting it. Years of pounding by spring floods and scorching by summer suns had eaten away the bark and left a shiny, silvery surface, probably slippery under the thick rubber soles of his boots. "You'd better stay here," he told Madeline, testing the footing. The trunk was only about a foot in diameter. He was used to walking logs like this--or even narrower. She probably wasn't.
"I can make it," she said, and he heard the unspoken challenge: Anywhere you can walk, I can follow.
"At least wait until I get to the other side."
She looked mulish.
"Look, Madeline, if I fall in, I want you ready to pull me out, not standing on the log, ready to fall yourself. Okay."
She glared. "Okay."
His first few steps were easy. Along about the middle, he hit a patch of rotted wood that crumbled under his feet, but he was ready and managed to get past with no trouble. "Watch your step here," he called back. "It gets a little dicey."
On the other side, he waited as Madeline inched her way across. "Don't watch me," she said, windmilling her arms and carefully putting one foot in front of the other. "I'll fall if you do."
He obeyed, knowing exactly what she meant. Balancing on a log was bad enough, but having someone watch while you exhibited your innate clumsiness was another thing entirely. He waited until she was on solid ground, then struck off across the patch of sedge between the creek and the next tree.
Ten steps and he was in up to his right hip. The other leg was only buried to the knee. Immediately he flopped forward and grabbed handfuls of the tough-rooted sedges. Working his left leg free was easy, but the right one seemed solidly enmired. He rolled onto his back and began working his leg back and forth, using all his strength to lift it out of the sucking mud.
Water seeped around him, wetting his butt. With a curse, he wriggled out of the knapsack, not wanting its contents to be ruined. As he was doing so, he heard a squeal, then another one.
"Madeline!" With renewed effort, he struggled to release his right leg.
"I'm all right." Her voice faded as she went on speaking, until it was only a faint sound without comprehensible words.
He continued to struggle, but felt no give to the mud. Whenever he tried to use his left foot or his hands to gain leverage, they too began to sink. The only way he was going to get out was to lift the right leg while he was lying flat on his back. Even sitting made him sink.
Finally he gritted his teeth and reached for the knife sheathed at his belt. He'd heard of trapped beaver biting off their legs to escape, but this was ridiculous. He plunged his hand into the mud beside his leg, holding the knife blade up, parallel to his wrist. The mud resisted, but little more than thick soup or heavy pancake batter would have. Eventually he found the knotted ties of his boot and slid the sharp blade along them. He felt the prick of the blade against his arch and carefully withdrew his arm, laying the knife at the limit of his reach. He didn't want to lose it. His grandfather had carried that knife in World War II.
"Erik! Where are you?"
"Stop!" He put command into his voice. "Don't take another step." She was somewhere between him and the creek.
"What on earth?"
He took a deep breath, then gave a mighty pull. His foot slipped free of his boot and slid through the clinging mud. Once it was at the surface, he rolled to his belly and carefully crept backwards, imitating an inchworm. A few feet and he felt the ground grow firm.
Pulling his knapsack to safety, Erik just lay there, breathing deeply and wondering how the hell he was going to get back to the pickup point with one bare foot.
He looked down. One bare and bleeding foot. The knife had done more than prick his arch.
"Is that slow mud?" He opened his eyes. She was standing over him, dripping.
She looked like the proverbial drowned rat. Erik wondered how she'd managed to fall in after she'd crossed safely. All he could think of to say was, "Did the maps get wet, too?"
Madeline sank to the ground, more miserable than she had ever been in her entire life. It wasn't exactly cold, but clouds had drifted in, concealing the sun. A fitful breeze stole her warmth as it evaporated the water dripping from her clothing.
"I could have drowned," she said, as she wrapped her arms around her quickly chilling body, "and you're worrying about maps?"
Erik rolled over and raised himself to a crouch. He was covered in mud to his waist and seemed to be missing a boot. She couldn't be sure, for the mud was so thick and so black that it made his legs appear knobby and misshapen.
"So could I," he said, his voice shaking. "I was stuck in the mud--slow mud." He gestured at a patch of crushed and mud-smeared weeds about ten feet away. His hands became as muddy as his legs when he began scraping his legs and feet clean.
Yes, he was missing a boot. "What happened?"
He explained, and she was instantly contrite. "You weren't kidding--I thought you were pulling my leg." His tall tale of slow mud had sounded so farfetched she hadn't really believed him.
"I was. You looked so gullible." Pulling his knapsack to him, he began rooting inside. "I made it up--slow mud, I mean. But I just discovered it's for real." He pulled his binoculars and camera out and examined them, "Ah, good. They didn't get wet. How about the maps?"
Madeline muttered to herself as she shed her own knapsack. While she hadn't really been in any danger when the bank had crumbled under her feet--the creek hadn't been over three feet deep--she'd have appreciated a little concern. But she apparently wasn't anywhere nearly as vital to Erik Solomon as his precious maps were.
She pulled them out, knowing as soon as she touched the roll that they had gotten as wet as the rest of her. The paper disintegrated under her touch and blue drips ran from it. The maps she'd brought had been diazo copies--blueprints--of enlarged topographic maps. While new copies would be easy enough to obtain, these had been annotated by Erik at each of their stops, including in the copse where they'd eaten lunch.
Unrolling them was impossible. The paper stuck to itself and tore when she tried to separate it. Erik, watching, cursed under his breath. She recognized the cadence, if not the syllables.
"I'm sorry," she said, wondering if he really would hold her responsible.
"Don't sweat it," he said. He took the roll from her. "I'll take 'em back to my room and see if I can get them dry before they mildew. I should have insisted you stay on the other side."
Madeline admitted, just to herself, that she'd have crossed the creek, come hell or high water, no matter how strongly he'd insisted she not follow him. She watched as he stood and took a couple of testing steps back the way she'd come. She noticed he only put his weight on tussocks of the harsh, grass-like stuff that grew everywhere on this side of the creek.
"What's the matter?"
"I'm checking to see if it's stable. I don't want to fall in again."
"I didn't have any trouble. It didn't even feel wet."
"You lead then. Any route's better than the one I took." He stood aside and let her lead him back to the creek.
Madeline didn't even bother trying the log. She had always had a problem keeping her balance on things like logs and railroad tracks. She would rather get wet by choice than make a fool of herself falling off again. Get wetter, that was. She waded through the creek, splashing great sheets of the icy water on either side of her. Perhaps if she moved energetically, she'd be warmer. Right now she felt like a refugee from an ice cream factory.
She was warmer by the time they reached the spot where the helicopter was to pick them up, but at the cost of every bit of stamina she had. Erik had walked in a straight line between the scene of their wetting and the landing area and let nothing stop him. He didn't slow down once, despite the rough walking, the numerous creeklets they had to jump, or the nettle patch they traversed, bare hands held high to protect them. He didn't even limp or otherwise favor his bare foot. Right then, she hated him.
The sky was completely overcast and the wind had quickened. Erik slipped out of his knapsack and began picking up branches and twigs.
"What are you doing?" The words came out almost unintelligible. Her teeth were chattering and shudders shook her frame.
"Help me," he commanded. "We've got to get warm. No telling how soon the helicopter will get here."
She picked up a few twigs, but her hands seemed incapable of grasping. Most of them slipped through icy cold, nerveless fingers. She finally sat on a rotting log, too cold and too defeated to keep trying.
"Get up!" Erik was on his knees, blowing on a pile of tinder in the midst of a pitifully small collection of wood. "Keep moving."
"I-I-I c-c-c-can't-t-t-t." The shudders wracked her with greater force and her teeth clacked together until they hurt.
Wisps of smoke rose from the wood. Erik kept blowing, until at last he was rewarded with a few tongues of flame. When it seemed as if the fire would maintain itself, he came to her and pulled her roughly to her feet.
His arms went around her and his hands moved hard and fast up and down her back. The friction and the pressure seemed to help, but her body still shivered uncontrollably. Finally he pulled her to her knees and held her, back to his chest, close to the fire. Its warmth soothed her icy cheeks, but barely penetrated her sodden sweatshirt and clammy blue jeans.
Madeline was beyond caring. She grabbed the bottom of the sweatshirt and pulled it--or tried to--over her head. "Help m-m-me," she whimpered when its wet folds wrapped around her head and shoulders.
Her shirt was just as cold, just as clammy. She tried to unbutton it, but her fingers refused to manipulate the tiny buttons. Again Erik helped her, until, with relief, she felt the wind, warm by comparison, on her bare skin. "My jeans," she gasped, warmer now the shirts no longer robbed her upper body of precious heat, but still shivering and fighting an urge to just quit, wrap her arms around herself, and give in to the cold.
Erik wrapped his wool shirt around her, scratchy against her bare shoulders and through the lace of her bra. Then he attacked her boots.
Even her socks were wet. No wonder she'd squished when she walked. With relief she rolled from side to side as Erik peeled her tight jeans down, thinking how much warmer the grass in the clearing felt than she did. Perhaps she could just lie here and....
"Turn your back on the fire," Erik said. Madeline was amazed to see that the twigs and branches were being consumed by leaping flames. "You'll be able to sit closer."
She obeyed and immediately felt wonderful warmth on her back. Gradually the shivers lessened, until they occurred as occasional spasms, rather than constantly shaking her body. She pulled her legs up and clasped them, resting her chin on her knees. Eyes closed, she tried to relax as her body slowly regained the heat it had lost.
"Turn around now," Erik said, some long time later. Madeline opened her eyes. He was standing before her, clad in nothing but very scanty, very red briefs.
A new warmth began in her lower belly and flowed through her. She knew that body, knew its pulse points and its erogenous zones. She had buried her face in the springy pelt on his chest and nipped at the dark, almost concealed nipples. She had dipped her tongue into the deep indentation of his navel, tasting his musky, male scent.
Some of her feelings must have showed in her eyes, for he kneeled before her, one hand reaching out to touch her cheek. "Madeline?" His voice was husky, little more than a whisper.
She found no words. All she could do was look at him, still wanting him and still certain that they had made a mistake.
Her certainty could no more resist her body's need than a drifting feather could resist the wind. She fought to keep from leaning into his touch, resisted the urge to find his fingertips with her lips. She told her eyes to close, rather than drowning in his fiery gaze.
When his breath blew hot on her mouth, she silently screamed at her lips to close, her jaw to set. And when his lips brushed hers, with a touch as delicate as a spider's silk, she was still telling herself not to welcome him back into her life.
"Madeline." Her name was almost a prayer on his lips.
Pull back, her mind screamed. Don't let him.
Just this once, her body argued. Just this one time more, for the memory.
His lips found hers and were hot. Oh, so hot. Demanding. Pleading. Promising.
His arms were strong around her. Protective. Cherishing.
Madeline had forgotten how good being held in a lover's embrace could feel. No one had held her since Jesse....No, since Erik.
"Ah, Madeline. You smell so good, taste so good." His tongue toyed with her lips, begging entrance.
She welcomed him, telling herself that she would allow only this pale imitation of what they both wanted. Soon she would stop him, tell him they'd gone far enough. Soon.
Her heart pounded in her ears, growing louder as Erik explored her mouth, as his hands stroked along her spine and framed her waist, shaped her buttocks, relearned the lines of her thighs.
Louder and louder, until Erik ended the kiss with a soft curse. "It's the helicopter," he said, framing her face with hands that almost seemed to tremble. "It'll be here any minute. Get dressed."
Quickly he rose to his feet and reached for their clothing, draped on branches and shrubs all around them. For a moment Madeline sat, stupidly staring, still hearing the pounding of her heart.
"Madeline! Get dressed. Hurry." Her jeans, still almost dripping, hit her in the face.
The shock was enough to bring her back to reality. The helicopter. Of course. She forced her feet into the clinging denim, shivering again as it robbed her legs of their little warmth. Her shirt was somewhat drier, but still damp enough that the wind made it feel even colder and clammier.
"Keep my shirt," Erik said, taking the sodden sweatshirt from her. He twisted it until trickles of water ran out.
"And what'll you wear?" She'd give anything for the warmth of the wool, but having him cover his broad chest and wide shoulders was more important. Now that she was shocked back into common sense, she didn't want anything to distract her from her resolution. "I'm fine," she insisted. "Once we get into the helicopter, I'll be warm as toast."
He didn't argue, and was decently covered and kicking dirt over their fire when the 'copter finally set down in the meadow.
* * * *
Madeline heard that he'd left town early the morning after their adventure and hadn't come back for a week. In the interim, she'd refused to allow herself to think about him and had almost convinced herself that her lack of willpower had been due to incipient hypothermia.
The Garnet Falls grapevine, that since his return he'd been holed up in his apartment, making long distance calls and pacing the floor. At the Grade School Spring Program on Wednesday, Sandy Oliverio mentioned that he had a fancy laptop hooked to a printer/scanner/fax combination, and papers were scattered everywhere. "He told me not to touch anything," Sandy complained. "How does he expect me to clean the room when I can't ever dust or make the bed? It even had papers piled on it."
Since he hadn't come in to her office, or called her at work or at home, Madeline figured he was as embarrassed as she at what had almost happened at Wounded Bear Meadow. She hoped so, because she didn't want to have to keep pushing him away all the time he was in town. Sooner or later, she was afraid, she'd forget to push.
Erik's voice from her door called her away from her computer screen Friday afternoon about three. "Do you ever do anything but work?"
For an instant, before she resolutely told it to behave, her heart leaped in excitement. She kept her smile impersonal. "All the time. My children and I spend every weekend playing."
"Your children?" His eyes flicked to her left hand, still poised over the keyboard.
"My children. I have twins, Kyle and Virginia. They're in first grade." As always, when she spoke of the children, she let more than a little joy creep into her voice. They might not be Jesse's biological children, but they were the son and daughter of his heart.
They were all she had left of him.
His mouth was grim. "What about their father?"
"He's dead. A long time ago." Strange how it didn't hurt any more to say that.
"I see." He stepped into her office and set a file folder on her desk. "Here's a memo to your commissioners stating my preliminary conclusions. It looks like Wounded Bear Meadow is a candidate for purchase by NWT, but I want some more information before I make a definite recommendation to the Board. I'll send a final report and our decisions as soon as they're compiled."
The shift from friendly bantering to business caught Madeline by surprise, but she ignored it. She preferred the business. It didn't threaten her equanimity or test her resolve.
"I'm sure the commissioners will be pleased you've finished so quickly." She fiddled with her pens, straightened the papers in the folder beside the computer. "You're leaving, then?"
"For now. I'll be back if we decide to make Zenger an offer, but I'm not usually involved in the in-depth studies." His tone said, Thank God. She suspected he was far too important to waste his time on checking out insignificant little marshes out in the wilderness.
She couldn't understand why she felt so...so let down. She'd known all along he'd be leaving as soon as he did what he'd come to do. That was why she'd held him at a safe emotional distance. Or tried to.
"I hope you'll cooperate with whoever we send to continue the studies as fully as you have with me."
Frowning at the lined-up pens, she pushed a memo pad beside them. "Of course. Anything I can do to help...." Well, not quite anything. I won't fall in love with your replacement.
Where had that come from? She hadn't...she wouldn't fall in love with Erik Solomon, or anyone else. Her life was fine just the way it was. She was glad he was going away. Glad!
"Assuming you don't change your mind and your Board accepts your recommendation, what will be the next step?" She wasn't really trying to postpone his departure. She just wanted to know what to expect.
"Getting funding for the purchase. Usually we have more time than Zenger gave us and can plan ahead. This time we'll have to get pledges for the entire amount over and above our annual acquisitions budget."
Madeline sensed rather than saw him checking his watch.
"Look, I've got to go. Take care of yourself, okay?"
Finally she allowed herself to look up. She wanted one last mental image, one last memory of him. "I will," she managed to say, just above a whisper. "You too." Her throat closed and no more words could escape past the threatening sobs.
He reached, then pulled his hand back before his fingers could touch her cheek. The lines next to his mouth deepened.
He spun on his heel and was gone.
"Goodbye," she said to the empty space he left behind. "Goodbye, Erik."
* * * *
"I'm not surprised," Emaline said. "I've always thought those conservation organizations were a lot of hot air." The County Treasurer wasn't much of an environmentalist. Not only did her husband work at the sawmill, but their oldest son was a logger.
"I expect they have to rely on contributions for their funding," Madeline said, noncommittally. She was disappointed, and knew Jethro would be too. Last time she'd taken the children out to the Z-Bar-Z, he had told her how much he'd liked that young fella from the National Wetlands Trust. Would he wait, or would he sell Wounded Bear Meadow along with the rest of the ranch? She was almost afraid to ask him.
"I think it's a damned shame," Eddie said, setting his Pepsi on Madeline's desk. "It seems like there's always money to build fancy houses and buy big new cars, but nobody's willing to spare a few dollars to save the nation's resources."
"Oh, come on, Eddie, don't make me vomit." Emaline cupped a hand over her mouth. "One little swamp isn't anywhere near 'the nation's resources.'"
"If everybody thought that, pretty soon we wouldn't have any wetlands or forests or anything left." The young planning intern's voice rose and his ears grew red. "Erik said...."
"Stop it, both of you. I've got a headache." Madeline found she tightened up inside every time Eddie went into his Erik says routine.
That was the problem with being young and idealistic. Your heroes were perfect.
Then you got older and more worldly wise, and discovered your heroes were nothing more than ordinary human beings.
She had to admit she was as upset as Eddie was that NWT wasn't able to fund the purchase of Wounded Bear Meadow right now. Erik's letter had arrived yesterday by courier and as soon as the commissioners were all notified, they'd converged on the courthouse. Soon its contents were common knowledge, as was the news that Erik Solomon would be returning to attempt to put together some sort of alternative deal with Jethro.
That was, she realized, when her headache began.
Eventually she managed to push both Emaline and Eddie from her office so she could get some work done. Not much though, for it seemed like everyone in the Courthouse dropped by to comment on Erik's report.
"I've been up there," one of the fellows from County Roads said, as he leaned against her doorframe about two, "and I don't see what makes it so special. Not even a road in."
The mayor's secretary stopped by shortly after. "My husband's going to be really disappointed. He loves to camp up there come elk season. I'll bet whoever buys the place from Jethro won't be so hospitable."
"I doubt NWT would welcome hunters either," Madeline said. "Erik said they operate their preserves like wildlife refuges." Good God! She was doing the "Erik says" thing too.
There was another letter from Erik waiting when she got home. It was totally impersonal, entirely concerned with the meadow. "...understand you've been his friend for a long time. I was hoping you could convince Mr. Zenger to postpone a decision on Wounded Bear Meadow for a reasonable time--perhaps until September--so we can explore some other avenues of funding."
He hadn't even signed his letter. She knew his indecipherable scrawl from a short note requesting some information while he'd been in town. This neat, almost childlike signature was almost certainly his secretary.
* * * *
"How come you're so set on me keeping the meadow with the rest of the ranch?" Jethro Zenger leaned back in his easy chair and fiddled with his pipe. He hadn't lit it for nigh on to twenty years, but it made a good gadget to hide behind when you were tryin' to think what to say.
"Well, Jethro, it seems to me that anybody wanting the ranch would want all of it." Charlie Bittenbusch smiled, showing every single one of his teeth.
Jethro wondered if the teeth were false. They were just too perfect. He never had trusted a man with straight, white teeth like Charlie's. "Anybody wantin' my ranch is gonna take what I'm willin' to sell." He wished Charlie would make his pitch and get it over with.
"Don't be too sure of that. I know some fellows who want it all." With slimy pride, Charlie leaned back in his chair and beamed some more. "They particularly want the meadow."
"Ranchers?" Jethro knew the chances of Charlie knowing any honest-to-God ranchers was pretty slim.
"Well, as a matter of fact, they aren't." He fidgeted. "You know that Sunriver place over in Oregon?"
"Yeah?" Jethro laid the pipe aside. He didn't need the distraction.
"Well, these fellows are looking to do something like that. A planned community, sort of, for people who want a summer home with all the amenities."
"What kind of amenities?"
"Well, a village with gift shops and clothing stores, maybe a bakery and one of them fancy espresso bars. You know. Kinda like McCall, only smaller and upscale."
"Upscale! Shoot fire, Charlie, what kinda word's that?"
"It means fancy, Jethro. Expensive. My cli...uh, my friends want to appeal to people with more than average money to spend." He rose to his feet and began pacing. Shortly he had outlined his plans to Jethro, plans that would, he claimed, bring a lot of outside money into Sunset County. Considering the state of the cattle and timber businesses, that wasn't all bad, Jethro had to admit.
"And what would happen to my meadow?"
"Well, they'd probably make it the center of their development," Charlie said, not meeting Jethro's eyes. "There was some talk of putting in boardwalks and maybe damming one arm of the creek, so they could have a small marina." He paused and seemed to take alarm at Jethro's frown. "For rowboats and canoes. No motor boats," he said, backing off and making pacifying motions with his fat hands.
Jethro pushed himself out of his chair. "Now you listen to me, Charlie Bittenbusch. Ain't nobody gonna turn my ranch into an amusement park." He aimed a forefinger as Charlie backed away. "We Zengers have held this land for more than a hundred years and we've used it in the way the Lord intended."
Charlie was backing toward the door as Jethro advanced. "Not an amusement park," he protested. " A planned community, with houses and condominiums...."
"And streets and sidewalks and tennis courts," Jethro continued as he followed Charlie out onto the porch. "Well, it may come to that for the rest of the land," he admitted, "but the only way they're gonna put a dam in Wounded Bear Meadow is over my dead body, Charlie." He stood on his porch as Charlie scurried toward his big, fancy Cadillac. "And I plan on bein' around a good while yet."
Watching the plume of dust rise behind Charlie's car, Jethro hoped he wasn't lying. It wasn't that he had to sell the Z-Bar-Z, but if he and the wife was to ever get to Mexico and Hawaii, like she'd always wanted to do, he had to get rid of the ranch.
And he was tired. Dang tired. Man and boy he'd worked this land, and now it was time to rest.
If only Jesse had lived, he'd have someone to pass the Zenger heritage on to, but the boy was buried up there on the hill, alongside his great-great grandpa, who'd first claimed this land back in 1874.
And the others didn't care. Of his four children, only Jesse had the love of the land that could make ranching in this high and lonely land worthwhile. If he were to ask his other children's advice, they'd tell him to take what he could get for the ranch and stop being a sentimental old man.
Dang it all! He'd just have to convince his wife that Solomon fella had a good chance of comin' up with the money by September.