Bram gazed down at the sprawling Mule Shoe. It had taken him several hours of walking to cover the ground his horse had so swiftly crossed. The pain in his shoulder had settled into a throbbing ache that flared into a branding iron whenever he stumbled.
He could see no sign of movement at the resort. His original plan didn’t include the disadvantage of a dislocated shoulder, so he needed a more passive approach now.
If Darby or Wyatt had reached their destination, help could arrive at any time. In the meantime, the barn held the most promise. The hayloft had a large door that opened toward the lodge and cabins. He could hunker down behind some hay bales and hope the killer didn’t have the same idea. He’d have to be careful.
The hillside to his left had the most cover. He crouched and moved from bush to tree to fallen log, pausing in the shade of each location to wait for the waves of pain to pass. In the sunlight, the heat pounded down on him. Sweat dampened his back and underarms.
He made it to the barn without raising any alarm. His runaway dun mare was just inside the door. “How nice of you to show up here,” he whispered. He looked inside the open saddlebag for his bottle of water and the GPS. Both missing. He should have looked around the ground after the mare fell to see if they had fallen out. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Using only his good arm, he unsaddled the horse and led her to the pasture door, where he removed her bridle and turned her loose. An astute killer might notice a horse suddenly appearing with sweat-outlined saddle marks, but hopefully the sheer number in the herd would prevent that.
He and Wyatt hadn’t moved the body from the last stall, and he hoped he wouldn’t be driven from his hiding place by the smell as the day’s heat did its work.
He eased over to the stall and looked.
The body had been moved.
* * *
I blinked. Mae’s house. It was as if I’d dropped into the Twilight Zone. Or starred in my own version of Groundhog Day. Was I doomed to circle endlessly? Or had I actually died in the cave? Was I in a special purgatory? I pinched myself. That hurt.
I was really here, still lost, still without a working GPS. And someone who had tried to kill me was probably wandering around.
I ducked back behind the boulder.
I had no doubt that the killer from Mule Shoe was the same one who hit me and dumped me into the mine. Probably the same one who killed Mae. He liked bashing people on the back of the head. I’d like to bash his head.
Before I could stop her, Holly pranced out to the front of the house.
Nothing happened. No shout of alarm, no slamming of a door. I ventured from my hiding place.
My horse was gone, as was Mae’s mule.
A sour taste rose in my mouth. My leg grew weak and I slumped to the ground. How am I going to get out of here now? I barely made it here from the mine. I would never be able to hop or crawl so far for help. Nor was there any way I could play hide-and-seek from a killer—a killer who would make sure I was dead the next time.
I should just give up. Get it over with.
The words drifted into my brain. This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the sky. “Well then, God, You’re gonna have to get me out of here, because I’m most definitely not strong and courageous right now.”
Holly came over and sniffed my hair, gave me a sloppy forehead kiss, then wandered away. Maverick lay down beside me.
God’s miracle didn’t happen. I wasn’t suddenly transported to my old room at Clan Firinn. I was still at Mae’s cabin, lost, missing a significant means of transportation, with a killer stalking me, surrounded by mountains and trees . . .
Tree.
I sat up and squinted. The burned-out snag I’d seen just before we found the hidden entrance to Mae’s place was visible from this side as well. Mae had sketched that snag in two of her drawings.
I mentally retraced the path we’d taken from the mine. We’d followed the stream heading east, according to the sun, then southeast. The snag was on the highest point west of here. I hadn’t seen it from the mine, but I hadn’t looked around once we started down the trail.
Was that important? Mae drew the things around her—the people she saw, the dogs by the stream, the landscape. The only unusual things were her portraits, revealing two sides of the face.
And the weird drawing of two men. Two men standing on what looked like a cloud with two lines at the bottom.
I frowned. An elusive idea lurked just out of reach.
The sun, which had been pleasantly warm, was now hot. The killer hadn’t returned . . . yet. I needed to move out of the center of Mae’s yard and then find a way out of here.
I’d searched Mae’s house once before, but I was looking for a battery. I’d try it again. Maybe this time some brilliant solution would come to me. I made my slow way over and entered the house.
If anything, it was sadder than the first time I’d looked. I left the door open to air out the smoky smell. Crossing to the built-in bed, I lifted and shook out the covers, raising only a cloud of dust. I felt grubby. Touching her things, with her body lying so close by, gave me the willies. I moved to the orange crate shelves, this time removing everything and placing the items on the table. Mae should have a knife, maybe even a pistol, somewhere.
I should have realized whoever murdered Mae and so carefully destroyed her art wouldn’t leave anything behind. Picking up her Bible, I turned it upside down and flipped through the pages. An old photograph fell out. The image was faded and grainy, but I recognized Mae from the self-portrait. She was much younger, standing under a maple tree. Standing in shadow. I put the photo in my pocket.
One last sweep of the room brought me to the cookstove. It had been warm when I opened it. Someone had a fire in there recently.
Maybe I needed to rethink the idea that the killer had followed me. Maybe he was already here when I arrived. Cleaning up loose ends? Burning art? Making sure that if someone found this place, there would be nothing useful?
But the killer couldn’t be two places at once. He shot out a window last night and opened fire on us as we fled this morning. Everyone had been accounted for in the lodge in both cases.
Except for the missing staffer. Or could two people have been on the helicopter? One stayed at Mule Shoe, one followed me to Mae’s? Or was my active imagination running loose? Maybe some passing hiker took refuge here for the night.
The house was a washout, but I hadn’t looked in the shed. I might find a weapon there, maybe a handy pair of crutches . . . oh, why not? Maybe she had a cell phone with the whole US Army on speed dial.
Maverick waited outside and helped me over to the shed door. Inside, a partial bale of hay and a full bale of straw were along one wall with a small pile of baling twine. A log on one side held a sawbuck pack saddle with double rigging, worn canvas panniers—bags used for carrying supplies—and a rope halter. No guns, knives, pitchforks, hay tongs, or computer with internet access.
The shed had a rectangular opening at about waist height, allowing Mae to place hay into the feeder without having to haul it outside.
The feeder gave me an idea. The mule had escaped from the resort and returned here. Someone could have driven him off, but if he was still loose, maybe I could hitch a ride on him. The lack of a saddle and bridle was a little concerning. All the tack suggested Mae used him to pack in food, not ride. For now, maybe the last of the hay would lure him here. I’d worry about catching and riding him later.
After dumping the hay into the feeder, I sat on the straw bale. From here I could see a hole in the bottom of the shed in the corner. I could slip through the hole and be very close to the mule should he show up. Good. I’d bet he’d spook should I come crawling or hopping around the corner leaning on the dog.
I could see the dogs in the yard, stretched out in the shade. They’d let me know if someone showed up. They’d barked at whoever hit me on the head . . . but hadn’t attacked. Now that I thought of it, that was strange. They’d taken on a grizzly bear when they thought I was in danger.
Two possibilities. The attacker had a gun and they knew what that meant. Or they knew the attacker.
Holly picked up a pinecone and tried to get Maverick to play. The big dog turned his back on her and lay down.
Mae had drawn some of the people she’d met, who by extension were probably the people the dogs knew. Roy. Sam. The sheriff. Since attaching to me, the dogs had a chance to be around all the staff and guests at Mule Shoe, plus Bram and Liam. Good. I’ve narrowed the possibilities to everyone I’ve met since being here. That didn’t seem to be a promising line of investigation.
I swatted an annoying fly and thought about Mae’s drawings, letting my mind whorl around. Drawing. Mae. Art. Angie. Angie’s words during lunch. Art is more than the subject, medium, or application of paint. The artist might be conveying a message . . .
Mae couldn’t speak, but she might have been trying to communicate through her drawings. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the sketches. Each one was signed and dated, although I didn’t remember the exact dates, only that they were close to the time I believed she died.
When I’d shown the drawings to Angie, she’d arranged them by date. The first had been the two dogs by the stream, then one landscape, the men in the cloud, Roy, the sheriff, the second landscape, Sam, and the self-portrait.
Think about them in order. Her dogs. Pets? Only friends in the world? Faithful. Loyal. If she drew her pets, her animals, why didn’t she draw the mule? So something about the dogs. I picked up a piece of straw and gnawed on it.
Maybe I needed to approach this from another angle. The first drawing in the series was the dogs. Her message started with that. The first thing she noticed was . . .
I threw away the straw, picked up some twine, and wound it around my hand. Forensic analysis of writing was so much easier. I knew words were an attempt to communicate thoughts. I didn’t know that Mae was saying anything in her art. She may have just been drawing for pleasure.
I tied the twine into a bow. I have nothing to lose by assuming a message.
Back to the dogs. They were by the stream. Was it important that the dogs be by water? Dogs playing in the water, drinking from the stream. . . . the stream that flowed past the mine. I’d followed it down to here.
But the miner had blown a hole in a vent, and now a geyser spewed boiling water and minerals into the creek.
The temperature and taste would have changed, and the dogs would have reacted.
A puzzle piece dropped into place. Either Mae noticed the dogs’ reaction to the change, or she saw it, tasted it as well.
“I did it,” I whispered. “I know what you wanted to say.”
The next drawing was the landscape with the snag. I couldn’t be positive on this, but I’d bet that snag was close to the mine. If so, the second piece of the puzzle was the location of the problem. She would have followed the stream to the mine.
I raised my arms in a Rocky Balboa moment while the opening music played in my brain. Da da-da da, da da DA da da!
I pictured the third drawing. It made sense.
My stomach lurched. Two men in a cloud with two lines below. Not a cloud, a geyser. Spraying boiling water over the two men. The lines would be the mine cart rails.
The miners hadn’t left because it was too dangerous. The two men were caught in the steam vent. In her searching for the change in the stream, she would have found them. Or maybe the dogs found them first. What would she have done? Buried them? Gone for help?
Something nudged my memory, but every time I focused on it, it would scurry away. Maybe if I moved on, it would come to me.
She’d drawn Roy next. If I guessed correctly that she went for help, then maybe she sought Roy and the Mule Shoe Ranch. Had she sketched the drawings for him? She wrote checks, so she was capable of writing, but based on her note, her skills were primitive. Wait. That note was written to throw off an investigation. She might have only been able to sign her name on a check. Could she communicate a more complex idea? Regardless, Roy said she left without anyone figuring out what she wanted to say. And that she’d been very upset.
Or maybe Roy was lying. He’d locked himself in his office and didn’t go looking for Cookie after she told him the staff was AWOL. Because of that, Cookie almost died.
Could Roy have sent for me to uncover any of this?
I was getting a headache and not moving any closer to answers.
Keep going to the next drawing. The sheriff. Had Mae gone to the sheriff with the sketches, and the sheriff didn’t understand? Understood but didn’t believe her? Could the sheriff be tied up in this somehow? After all, someone got off that helicopter. Another hole in the puzzle.
I sighed in frustration. I’d started off well but didn’t know enough to decipher the rest of the drawings, and I had more questions than before. There had to be more clues, more evidence, more angles that I hadn’t yet figured out. Those answers were at the Mule Shoe.
One thing I did know for sure: whatever Mae had been trying to convey, she’d been murdered for it.