The resort was cradled in an emerald-green alpine meadow surrounded by rugged mountains. The road from the outside world split the resort down the middle, ending in the distance at the barn, with attached corrals and a field of grazing horses. I crossed the road as I walked the short distance between my cabin and the lodge. Left of the sprawling building, a dense forest of fragrant cedars bordered a stream. Widely spaced trees with pine needle–covered paths gave the area a park-like feel.
I expected the dogs would settle down at the cabin and stay with their food dishes, but apparently they preferred staying with the source of the kibble. Both dogs trailed me.
Bram drove the wagon to the barn, disappearing inside. I would have rather gone to the barn and stayed with the horses. I was still far more comfortable around critters than people. Instead, I stuffed my hands into my pockets and continued to the lodge. When I told the dogs to stay outside, Holly lay down by the door and Maverick paced. Entering, I found myself in a generous room with the guests from Sam’s Mercantile talking and sipping drinks. Most had changed into what they considered casual attire, though Gucci polo shirts in the eight-hundred-dollar range seemed hardly typical of Idaho ranchers. Pools of golden light from oil lamps scattered around the room created an intimate feel in spite of the soaring ceiling. The river-stone fireplace on my left held a crackling fire ringed by a set of cowhide sofas. On one side of the room, french doors opened to a registration desk and gift shop. On the opposite side was a matching set of doors leading to a dining hall. A large map of the area hung on the wall.
The wrangler who’d picked up the guests—William? Waylon? No, Wyatt—held a tray of glasses and moved among the guests. Though looking as if he stepped out of a roughstock rodeo event—bronc or bull riding—he seemed equally at home serving drinks. He spotted me and immediately approached.
“See you made it, Miz Graham. Something to drink?” He held out his tray. On his right hand, tattooed between thumb and forefinger, was a series of five dots.
I knew that pattern. The four dots forming a square represented prison walls. The dot in the middle was the prisoner.
I had one myself, albeit tattooed on my heart.
When I looked up, Wyatt was staring at me. A vein throbbed in his temple.
I rested my hand lightly over his tattoo. “Thank you. Just water, if you don’t mind. No ice.”
His face relaxed. “Good choice. Alcohol, dehydration, and altitude don’t mix. Be right back.”
I tried to snake my way to a dark, unoccupied corner, but an elderly man with a crown of white cotton-candy hair snagged my arm.
“Darby Graham? I’m your host, Roy Zaring. Welcome to Mule Shoe.”
“Thank you, Mr. Zaring.”
“Call me Roy. How did you find your cabin?”
“Everything so far seems exquisite.”
Roy beamed. “If you need anything, my dear, just let my staff know.” His gaze drifted to my left leg. “And if you want or need help—”
“I’m fine.” I made an effort to relax my clenched hands. Obviously Roy was aware of my background.
“A package came for you from Scott Thomas at Clan Firinn. While you’re at dinner, I’ll have someone deliver it to your cabin.”
“You can just give it to me now.” I really didn’t want anyone sauntering into my cabin.
Roy looked around at the mingling guests. “It might be more discreet . . .”
Did it come in a Depends box? “Of course. You’re right. Is everyone here for the art class, or do you have other guests?”
“This week is the art class, though we specialize in team building. But not . . . it’s . . . well . . . you know . . . I heard you rescued Shadow Woman’s dogs.”
A you know and a change of subject. Interesting. “Considering you don’t have a phone, email, or internet, you seem remarkably well informed.” I smiled. “Maybe carrier pigeons?”
“Close.” He took a small black radio from his pocket. “Here on the ranch, we use walkie-talkies. For outside communication, we maintain a two-way radio for emergencies. At any rate, I liked the old woman and I’m just glad someone is taking care of her dogs.”
“So you knew her. What happened?”
“I don’t rightly know. About six months ago she came here for something. She seemed upset but left before anyone could figure out what she wanted. A month or so later, her mule wandered in. I contacted Sam at the store, figuring he would be the next to see her when she came in for supplies. I wanted him to let Shadow Woman know her mule was here and she could come and get him. Then I started to worry that something happened to her. I was about to call the sheriff for a welfare check when Liam told me she’d moved to Pocatello. Liam’s a gossip monger. The next time I went to town, Sam showed me her bad check. Everyone assumed she’d taken her dogs, so it was a shock when they showed up in town.”
“I see.”
“In retrospect, you know, when she came here, she may have been looking for someone to take her dogs. Like I said, she was upset. She was . . . odd, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt. It could be she placed them elsewhere and they ran away. And she could have just turned her mule loose.”
Was this why I was here? To look into an odd woman, a wandering mule, and a couple of stray dogs in the Idaho wilderness? If so, I’d certainly ace Clan Firinn’s graduation test. Probably would graduate magna cum laude in my class of one. “I see. Is there any way I can contact her? Tell her the dogs are safe?”
Roy rubbed his chin. “Not that I know of. I don’t even know her real name.”
“Would anybody know more about her?”
“You might ask Bram. If he doesn’t know, maybe he could find out. And if Sam still has the note and check, that might give you more information. Obviously she didn’t leave a forwarding address or Sam would have tracked her down for his money. He’s rich, but one of the stingiest men I’ve ever met.”
A tinkling chime sounded. “Ah, dinner. Allow me, my dear.” He put out his arm to escort me into the dining hall. The room had several square tables set for four. The two women I’d seen in Targhee Falls, Denim Shirt and her friend, were already seated. I’d barely taken my place when Bram joined us. He’d changed from his uniform into a sharply pressed western-cut shirt and jeans. He’d combed his hair, but an unruly lock tumbled to his forehead. He looked a little like the actor Matthew McConaughey. I tried not to stare. Or drool. Stop it! I had no place in my life for the complications of a relationship. Single, simple, sane. No saliva.
“Hello, I’m Dee Dee Harris.” She held out her hand to Bram. Dee Dee had long gray hair held back by a turquoise and silver clip, denim shirt over a white shell, ankle-length skirt, and enough Native American jewelry to open a store. A very expensive store in Carmel-by-the-Sea. “You’re the policeman from Targhee Falls.”
“Technically, sheriff’s deputy with Fremont County.” He shook her hand. “Abraham White. Call me Bram.”
“Hello, Bram.” The second woman with short gray hair and wide shoulders—bearing a striking resemblance to the character Dorothy Zbornak in the television show Golden Girls, snagged his attention. “I’m Grace Tabor.”
“Ma’am.”
Grace looked at Dee Dee. “Oh, men are so polite here.”
“I told you so,” Dee Dee said.
The two dogs outside started barking. Before I could get up to see what the problem was, the room gave a thump and a shake, sending the hanging oil lamps swaying. Conversation ceased. This earthquake was brief. Thankfully.
Dee Dee, aka Denim Shirt, asked Golden Girl Grace, “That’s two noticeable earthquakes in one day. Is that significant?” She turned to me. “Grace here was once a science teacher. She knows about earthquakes in general and Yellowstone in particular.”
Grace sat up a bit straighter. “Well now, the Mule Shoe is less than five miles from the Yellowstone caldera, the so-called Yellowstone supervolcano.”
Several young women in jeans and western-cut shirts started serving salads. Grace waited until everyone was served and she again had our attention. “A supervolcano, by definition, must eject at least 240 cubic miles of material and is capable of measuring a magnitude eight or more on the Volcanic Explosivity Index.”
I braced for a pop quiz.
She noted Bram’s furrowed brow. “The VEI is rather like the Richter scale for earthquakes. It’s logarithmic, with each level representing a tenfold increase. Compared to the Mount St. Helens eruption in 1980, Yellowstone’s would be two thousand times larger, and the worldwide devastation would be unimaginable.” She took a delicate bite of lettuce, chewed on it a moment, then said, “One possible sign that the volcano is waking up is an increase in seismic activity. More earthquakes.”
I put my fork down and shifted in my chair. The salad was unappealing juxtaposed against worldwide destruction. Whatever happened to less upsetting topics like politics or religion?
Dee Dee gave a forced chuckle. “I guess forewarned is forearmed. If we feel a big earthquake, it means the volcano is about to explode—”
Grace shook her head. “If the volcano explodes, we’ll all be wiped out immediately.”
All of us stared at her, then silently returned to our salads.
“Well now.” Dee Dee cleared her throat. “Volcanos seem to be a conversation killer. Bram, I know you’re a police officer—”
“Sheriff—”
“Right. What do you do, Darby?”
“You first, Dee Dee.” I smiled at her.
“I don’t do much of anything except spend my late husband’s money.” She returned the smile. “And indulge my love of art, classical music, and Native American jewelry. Back to you!”
Flapperdoodle. Maybe I could steer the conversation to dog literature.
Our waitress, a young woman whose name tag said Zofia, with Poland underneath, returned and cleared our plates, then brought the main course. Each plate had a rustic plate cover, which the waitresses removed with a flourish. “Elk steak medallions.” Zofia spoke with a thick accent. “With huckleberry red wine sauce, twice-baked Idaho potatoes, and roasted vegetable medley.”
I hoped everyone would dive into their dinner and forget Dee Dee’s question.
After taking a bite, closing her eyes, and moaning, Dee Dee repeated the question.
“I work for a company called Clan Firinn.”
“Clan Firinn?” Dee Dee asked.
“Scottish Gaelic for ‘Family of Truth.’” I felt Bram’s gaze on me. Looking down, I pleated my napkin.
“I’d bet your career has something to do with words,” Bram said.
I glanced at him quickly, then looked down again. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about me. “Something like that.”
An awkward silence followed before Dee Dee gave up and changed the subject. While Dee Dee and Grace chatted, I took the opportunity to speak quietly to Bram. “Roy told me you might know something more about Shadow Woman.”
“I’d never heard of her before I was given the order to shoot the dogs,” he said discreetly.
“Wasn’t she named in the court order? And maybe also her address?”
“You’re right, she was. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thank you.” I glanced at his tumble of hair. I wanted to brush it off his forehead.
He noted my glance and swiftly smoothed his hair.
The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, with Dee Dee and Grace expounding on art, Idaho, and the Mule Shoe. I could feel Bram’s gaze on me, but I concentrated on my meal, acknowledging the others with an occasional head bob and grunt.
After dinner, Roy stood. “Good evening and, once again, welcome to Mule Shoe. This particular parcel of land was originally owned by the railroad tycoon Edward H. Harriman of the Union Pacific Railroad. He and the Guggenheim family owned other lands in Idaho, but they always referred to this location as their ‘hidden gem.’ Early on, the Harrimans gave this ranch to my family as a thank-you for their dedication to conservation. John Muir, in fact, visited here in 1913 and convinced the Harrimans to make wilderness conservation a condition of ownership.”
Grace gave an approving nod and there was a smattering of applause.
“Now I’d like to introduce a few people. First of all, the woman responsible for the smooth day-to-day running of the resort. She started out as our cook and now is our general manager. I’m sure she has another name, but we all call her Cookie.”
Another round of polite applause greeted the broad-shouldered, rangy woman in western garb and an unbleached muslin apron. “Thank all of you and welcome! I know you’ll love Mule Shoe as much as I do. Please come to me if you need anything at all.” She gave a brief wave and returned to the kitchen.
“You’ve all met Wyatt,” Roy continued, “our wrangler.” Wyatt nodded from the side of the room where he was leaning against the wall. He glanced at me, then away.
“Our three female staff members are all from Poland. Meet Zofia, Maja, and Alicja.” The three women nodded or waved as they continued to clean up the dishes.
“Finally, Angie, do you want to stand and introduce yourself?”
A cheerful round woman in her forties with short, curly hair rose from her seat. “I’m Angie Burton, your watercolor instructor.” Her booming voice echoed around the room. “I invite you to take a peek at the art room before you head to your cabins. Just follow me down the short hall next to the gift shop.” She smiled and strolled from the room. The rest of the diners stood and started to make their way after her. I joined the throng, with Bram in front of me.
Roy approached and caught Bram’s arm. “Got a moment?” Roy asked quietly.
I wanted to pause and listen, but Dee Dee came up beside me. “Are you an artist? You’ll love Angie. She could teach a rock to paint.” She continued to prattle on as we walked.
* * *
Bram turned to Roy. “What’s happening?”
Roy waited until all the guests left the room. “The fire marshal called on the two-way. Said the arsonist burned a barn just outside of Targhee Falls on East Canyon Road. No one hurt, and they got the animals out in time, but he wants you to go there tomorrow and secure the place before returning to St. Anthony.”
“Did he mention anything about the sheriff?”
“He said he tried but couldn’t get through. The insurance company called him about the fire.”
“How about you? Have you had any more . . . incidents?”
“A broken pipe in one of the cabins. Those folks left early. A mix-up in registration made two couples cancel out.” Roy rubbed his jaw. “A few other things. Could be simply a run of bad luck. That’s why I decided . . . Well, anyway.” He shook his head, then took a deep breath. “We have a pretty full house this week. I keep hoping.” He turned to leave.
“What’s the story on Darby Graham?”
Roy paused. “What do you mean?”
“She mentioned at dinner that she works for a company, a Clan something—”
“Firinn.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Most of your guests are, quite frankly, stinking rich. Like they own companies like Amazon or Microsoft.”
“The Gateses enjoyed their stay.”
Bram smiled. “I’m sure. But Darby doesn’t seem to fit that mold.”
Roy slowly nodded. “Darby’s special. Her . . . employer is a friend of mine. He sends me, um, guests on occasion. Folks that really need to be here.” His eyes had become unfocused as he spoke. Now he sharpened his gaze on Bram. “This time I asked for a bit of help. Do me a favor. Keep what I just told you under your hat.”
Now it was Bram’s turn to slowly nod. “One last question. What does she do at Clan Firinn?”
“From what I’ve been told, she has something to do with words. Deception through language. Things like that.”
* * *
The art room was as spacious as the rest of the lodge, with long tables covered in white paper, a single chair at each table, and a stack of art supplies. A smaller table with an angled mirror overhead for demonstrations took up one end of the room, with a set of chairs in front for the students.
Against one wall was a line of wooden lockers with our names neatly printed and placed into a holder. Each locker had a coat hook, a set of shelves, and an empty Mule Shoe backpack.
After everyone checked out their locker, selected a seat, and properly admired the new art toys, Angie again got our attention. “Class starts at nine thirty, right after breakfast. See you all in the morning.”
Still shuffling along with the throng, I left the room and headed outside, then stopped. Since I’d been at dinner, the sun had set. It was dark.
I hated the dark.
As I turned to the lodge, Bram appeared beside me with a flashlight and held out his arm. “May I see you to your cabin, madam?” he asked in a bad British accent.
Flashlights were narrow beacons of light in the vast darkness. “Um . . .”
Wyatt appeared at my other side, also with a flashlight. “Looks like you have a full entourage escorting you.”
My hands were already shaking and I knew my face would be drained of color. Darkness was one of my triggers. Come on, Darby. It’s been five years. Get over it. “Um . . .”
A screen door slammed somewhere nearby and Cookie rounded the corner of the lodge carrying a lantern. She strolled to a bear-proof bin and tossed a paper bag inside, then turned to us. “Evening, Wyatt, Bram, Miss Graham.” She peered closer at me. “Wyatt, why don’t you take my lantern and let me have the flashlight. You can see a whole lot better.” She grinned. “And I know you two good-looking fellers want to keep an eye on each other while escorting Miss Graham to her cabin.”
My face grew warm.
Cookie and Wyatt exchanged lights, then the three of us moved toward my cabin. The dogs followed, Maverick at a wary distance. The silence made me feel awkward. The two men acted like I was some kind of prize. Like I was still desirable.
I wanted to tell them about the last five years, what I had done, why I was here.
Words abandoned me.
The very things that had once defined my life were gone.
The cabin was a warm haven after the evening chill. Someone had lit several lanterns, stoked the lively fire in the fireplace, and turned down the bed. Both men paused at the door, sending irritated glances at each other.
“Thank you both.”
Slowly I closed the door. I listened for their retreating footsteps across the small porch. In a few moments the click, click, click of dog toenails was followed by a low whine. I opened the door to Holly and Maverick. Holly found a spot on the braided rug in front of the fireplace. Maverick tucked himself into a corner where he could observe the room.
I was suddenly too tired to unpack but still had my exercises to do. While both dogs watched, I pulled my exercise mat from my suitcase, grabbed a pillow off the bed and a towel from the bathroom, then slipped off my slacks and shirt. I found my tattered FBI T-shirt and baggy shorts and pulled them on. Removing my heavy glasses, I placed them on the bedside table.
Sitting on the bed, I tugged off my prosthetic left leg, attached below my knee, and propped it beside me.