I crouched beside the rear bumper of the truck, my heart hammering in my ears. Churning blackness swirled on the other side of the vehicle. I had to kill this bleak presence of evil, but I was unarmed.
It’s a dream. Wake up!
Wait. I had a pistol. But something was terribly wrong. I looked around, but only tall grasses surrounded me. Wake up!
He yelled my name.
I turned and ran. His voice retreated in the distance. Coward! The earth rushed up to meet me. The raw smell of dirt filled my nose. Reaching forward, I dug my nails into the ground and pulled. I gained a few inches. Again I clawed forward. I tried to go faster, but something held my leg. Twisting around, I looked behind me.
The swirling blackness crept up my leg. I screamed.
Something wet touched my face, shoved against me. I pushed it away. It came again, more insistently. The scene faded, but the solid feel of the creature continued.
Opening my mouth to scream, I felt something wet slap against my teeth. I jerked upright, gasping.
Holly was on the bed, licking my face and nudging me awake.
The nightmare clung to my brain like pine pitch, reluctant to let go. I pushed Holly away from her frantic concern and sat up. My T-shirt was soaked. The sheets wrapped around my right ankle. The lamps I’d left flickering sent eerie shadows dancing around the cabin.
I needed to clear my head. A shot of whiskey would hit the spot, but I’d been on the wagon for three years now. And the easy fix of popping pills was no longer an option. I wasn’t going back there.
I left my oversized glasses beside the bed. I didn’t need them to see. They were only a prop I allowed myself to discourage unwanted attention.
Getting around in the middle of the night was a challenge for any leg amputee. The options were hopping, crawling, or crutches. Putting on and taking off the prosthesis was very involved for a simple trip to the bathroom. My solution was an iWALK, an exoskeletal temporary lower-leg prosthetic. The device was a crutch-like lower leg with a curved top where I put my knee. It was held in place by Velcro straps that went up my thigh and around my residual limb. From the front, I looked like I had a crutch from the knee down. From the side, my residual limb stuck out behind. Not very attractive, but very useful. The dogs watched with interest as I strapped on this mobility device.
I moved to the kitchen area. A pot of tea might calm me. The kitchen was fortunately stocked with both Yorkshire Gold and Taylors Organic Chamomile.
Confronting Sam about shooting the dogs, or maybe simply being somewhere new, had triggered my PTSD dreams. I hoped this episode would be short-lived.
While the water heated on the small gas stove, I found the package from Clan Firinn and placed it beside one of the chairs. I started unpacking my suitcase and hanging up my clothes. A large duffel bag, in addition to my suitcase, held my work materials and iWALK. With all my luggage, I always looked like I was moving in for a month.
The teapot sputtered and started to whistle. I dropped a tea bag into a cup, added the hot water, then brought it to the overstuffed chair by the fireplace. The fire had dropped to just glowing embers. After I added a small log and stirred the coals, the log caught fire.
Something moaned behind me.
I turned.
Holly had snagged the pillow, somehow crawled under the blanket, and was stretched out on my bed. Maverick, on the other hand, lay on the hard floor, pressed against the door like a giant draft stopper.
“The original odd couple,” I said to both dogs. “A hedonist and an ascetic. An extrovert and an introvert.” Curling up in the chair with my tea, I watched the dogs until the nightmare completely dissipated.
I set my tea aside and opened the package. On top was a cover letter.
Darby,
Roy Zaring has been a longtime patron and supporter of the work we do here at Clan Firinn. He’s invited a number of our people to stay at the resort in the past. He’s getting up to retirement age and is thinking about selling the ranch but is concerned about some random events that could become a problem. His letter is enclosed.
We thought this small assignment would be an easy way for you to reenter your field, and Mule Shoe is always a great experience. Study the papers, talk to a few people, then give us a report. We’ll follow up with Roy.
Scott
I set Scott’s note aside and pulled out Roy’s letter.
Dear Scott,
I hope this letter finds you well. As I told you the last time we talked, I’m thinking of selling the family ranch. I do so reluctantly as it’s been in my family for generations. Over the past few months, however, a series of “accidents” has made me wonder if someone is trying to thwart my plans. It started small—a burst pipe, a mix-up in reservations—but now I have some major concerns. Our primary focus, and income source, is our team-building program. With the death of two patrons, and several other incidents, I have lost liability coverage and am on notice of losing all my insurance. This all may be a run of very bad luck as I can’t put my finger on any particular pattern, but I could use another set of eyes. Please be discreet.
Roy
Insurance statements, letters from guests, a timeline of events, employee information, and reservations for the resort rounded out the packet. I could probably knock this out in a few hours, do some casual interviews, then grab the next horse and wagon back to town. Yee-haw.
My irritation with Scott dissolved. I might even enjoy this.
Under all the paperwork was some bubble wrap enclosing a plastic sandwich bag with three small rocks inside and a note. I unfolded the note.
Darby,
I wanted to give this to you in person before you left but was called away. As per our tradition with all residents of Clan Firinn when they leave for the first time, I’m giving you two Bible verses and a small gift. The first verse is for the challenges of the present. It’s from Joshua 1:9. “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.” The second you will need to look up—Jeremiah 29:11. This will help with your future. The gift is in the plastic bag. Memorize the verses and reflect on them. Carry the gift with you. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with both.
Scott Thomas
I hadn’t packed the Bible they gave me when I arrived at Clan Firinn. Although daily chapel was a part of the Clan Firinn program, I’d left my faith five years ago.
Maverick stood, then walked over and sat in front of me, but well out of reach.
“What?”
He blinked.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
He cocked his head but remained seated. He was so large, even seated, that his head was higher than mine.
“Need to go to the bathroom? Eat a treat? Discuss whether you cried more over Marley and Me or Old Yeller?”
His gaze went to the note still in my hand.
“Do you want to know what it said?” I read it to him, then held up the rocks. “Got any ideas for these?” I’m talking to a dog.
He yawned.
“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly a sparkling conversationalist yourself. Come to think of it, your previous owner was Shadow Woman. Probably not much for rousing debate. Am I a step up or a step down?” Not only am I talking to the dog, I’m waiting for an answer.
The chamomile tea didn’t make me sleepy. Or maybe the thought of another visit from my nightmare kept me on edge. Whatever the case, I was restlessly awake.
What now? Art class wouldn’t start for several more hours. Darkness lurked outside. No internet to surf or television to watch. But I was alone . . . wasn’t that something I sought?
I casually looked at the paperwork Roy had sent to Clan Firinn, focusing on the employee information. As I’d already figured out, Wyatt had been in prison on an assault charge, but that was when he was much younger. Cookie’s real name was Irma Dankworth. No wonder she didn’t mind Cookie.
I checked out several magazines on the end table. Outdoor Idaho had an interesting story on livestock guardian dogs. Pictured were Great Pyrenees, Akbash, and an Anatolian Shepherd. I folded a corner down and left the magazine on the top of the stack. I didn’t feel like reading.
The fire was burning down. I pulled out another small log and added it, stirring the coals to freshen the blaze. A small door behind the stacked logs allowed someone to restock the fuel from outside without hauling the logs through the cabin. They’d thought of every detail.
I slipped out of my iWALK, curled up, and watched the fire.
Barking jerked me awake. Maverick was on his feet and Holly had leaped off the bed. I didn’t have to wait long for the earthquake. This one was short, almost an earth shiver.
What had Grace, the retired teacher, said about the number of earthquakes? One possible sign that the volcano is waking up is an increase in seismic activity. More earthquakes.
After tugging on my iWALK, I slowly stood. Was God really going to take me out with a supervolcano? He could have simply let me die.
But I didn’t believe in God.
“Stop it!” I said out loud. Both dogs gave me a questioning look. The light seeping in around the curtains told me it was daybreak. Finally. I opened the door and let the dogs out for their run.
As always, the night before I’d rolled down the outer sleeve of my prosthetic leg, removed the liner, washed it, and hung it up to dry. I’d washed my residual limb, then put on a compression sock for the night, which helped reduce phantom pain. In the morning I reversed these steps, took a shower, and downed several cups of coffee.
I got as far as the door before returning to put on my glasses, then dropped the three rocks into my back pocket. They tugged my pants down. I shifted them to a front pocket where they did the same. What was Scott thinking? He could have given me three hankies. Three dollars. Three platinum credit cards. Now we’re talking. I finally put one rock per pocket. If I was going to have floppy pants and lumpy hips and rear, at least I’d have a fairly even sag.
A high-pitched buzzing and rank odor greeted me outside. I followed the sound and smell to the next cabin. Both dogs were fixated on something above them.
A very dead raccoon was wedged between the end logs of the cabin.
My stomach tightened, a jolt of acid burned the back of my throat, and my neck itched as if a thousand mosquitos had bitten me.
There was no way that critter could have ended up there on its own.
And if it hadn’t crawled up between the logs, then someone put it there.
Maybe. Raccoons were notoriously inquisitive creatures. And they were known for being host to many diseases, such as rabies and distemper.
My neck continued to itch.
* * *
Bram spent the night on the top bunk in the seasonal staff building. His roomies were a maintenance man from West Yellowstone, a dishwasher from St. Anthony, and an assistant horse wrangler from Cheyenne. The only name he could remember belonged to the dishwasher, whom they called Spuds. St. Anthony was in the middle of potato country.
The building had a shared living area in the middle, with the women’s quarters on the other side. Wyatt, Angela, and Cookie had their own private quarters in a separate building. Roy lived above the lodge.
Bram woke with Darby on his mind. What was it about her that stayed in his thoughts? Maybe because she’s the first attractive and interesting woman I’ve met in a long while. After finishing high school and graduating from the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina, he’d done a stint in the navy, then sought out and been hired by the Fremont County Sheriff’s Department. Unfortunately, the number of available females in the county was limited. Extremely limited.
And his time was equally limited.
He’d finally looked into internet dating services and met Rachel. Perfect in almost every way—beautiful, slender, intelligent—but with the morals of an alley cat. The divorce came six months after the wedding when he found her in bed with his best friend.
Once bitten, twice shy, as his grandmother used to say.
Sitting up, he swung his legs over the bed and jumped down. The other male staff members had already left to start their chores. The sheriff would expect him to head back at daybreak, and he’d slept in.
He rolled up his jeans and shirt as well as yesterday’s uniform shirt and placed them into a laundry bag. He’d arranged some months ago for one of the staff to wash and iron his clothes and have them ready whenever he was here. He hated the smell, and feel, of stale clothing. After a long shower, and longer battle with his hair, he dressed in a fresh uniform shirt and headed to the kitchen for a cup or two of coffee before harnessing the horse for the trip to town.
* * *
The dogs trailed me to the lodge and selected a patch of grass on the right of the building to observe any activity.
An early morning jogger passed through the trees in the distance. I admired the discipline it took to run daily when no one was chasing you.
A fire blazed in the oversized fireplace, but none of the guests had arrived at the lobby. The sign outside the dining room stated breakfast would be ready in a half hour, and the building was filled with the mouthwatering aromas of bacon, cinnamon, and baking bread.
Next to the map of Mule Shoe on the wall hung a photograph that looked like it was taken for a Christmas card. Snow blanketed the ground, with cobalt-blue shadows under the trees. Sam’s big Belgium, covered with bells, was hitched to his wagon that had been decked out in red bows and pine boughs. Sam and Cookie were on the spring seat, waving at the photographer. In the back, Wyatt, Roy, and the rest of the staff, all wearing red Santa hats and ugly sweaters, were laughing. Underneath, written in ink, was Have a Merry Christmas, from our family to yours.
I turned away quickly. The nearest thing to a family I had now were two dogs, one of which wouldn’t even come near me. “Next thing I’ll need is pâté and crackers with my whine,” I whispered.
The gift shop, on the opposite side, was open, although no one was staffing it at the moment. I sorted through racks of expensive western wear and read the back-cover copy on a few books before moving to the jewelry case. Mounted gemstone earrings and necklaces were arranged by color in their black-velvet cases.
Without thinking, I rubbed the ring finger of my left hand, then quickly turned away, crashing into Roy.
“Looking for someone to show you some jewelry?”
“I—”
“Idaho’s nickname is the Gem State.” He moved to the opposite side of the display and opened it with a key.
“Really? I need to tell you—”
“This dark red stone is a star garnet.” He pulled out a pendant and held it under a light to show a six-rayed star. “Northern Idaho is the only place you can find it in the United States.” He touched the next piece. “This rare pink opal is also from Idaho, as well as this amethyst and topaz.”
“Interesting. But I want to—”
“Only a few gemstones aren’t found here. Diamonds, of course. Rubies. And emeralds.”
Emeralds. I broke out in a sweat and touched my ring finger. Great. Was jewelry joining darkness and guns as PTSD triggers?
Roy didn’t seem to notice. He placed a pair of rich, cornflower-blue faceted stone earrings on the counter. “And these beauties are Yogo sapphires from Montana.”
“And they have my name on them.” An immaculately dressed woman with a soft southern drawl appeared beside me. “Sorry, my dear, but I’ve no willpower when it comes to cut stones.”
She wasn’t kidding. She positively glittered, from her diamond studs to the rock on her finger. Quite the art class—Golden Girl Grace and Dee Dee Denim was joined by Madam Sparkles. With my lumpy rocks in my pockets, that would make me Dumpy Darby.
My moment to talk to Roy about the dead raccoon had passed. “The sapphires are all yours.”
“Done.” Roy beamed at Madam Sparkles as he slid the earrings across the counter to her.
I’d had a chance to see the price tag. The earrings cost more than my car. I wanted to mentally tut-tut her spending habits, but having just invested in an almost eight-hundred-dollar bag of dog food and two stray dogs, I was hardly a model of frugality.
Roy pulled out a small book and turned it so I could see. “This is from the International Gem Society and tells you about colored gemstones as well as their value. You’ll learn to appreciate the rare Yogo. You can borrow it. Now, over there”—he pointed with pride to a wall display behind me—“is my collection of raw minerals, and—”
“Breakfast is served.” Wyatt had entered. While I’d been in the gift shop, the lobby had filled with guests who were now filing into the dining area.
Roy grinned at me. “I do get carried away. Come, my dear, let me see you to your table.”
Taking the book, I followed everyone toward the dining room. On the way, I was finally able to tell Roy about the raccoon.
“Oh dear. I hope you didn’t touch it. Raccoons are notorious for carrying rabies.”
“No, I didn’t touch it, but you need to look at it. I’m wondering if the raccoon was, maybe, placed there.”
“That seems far-fetched.” We’d reached the table and Roy patted me on the hand. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered.
This time I was seated with the couple and their teenage son. The young man stared at the table as if he could make a cell phone appear by sheer will. I was surprised his fingers didn’t automatically scroll down his napkin.
The father looked like he worked out daily. His neck was as wide as his face and his shoulder muscles strained at his shirt. His olive complexion was a richer brown from a deep tan.
On impulse I asked him, “Were you out jogging earlier?”
He nodded at me. “I was. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Teodoro Rinaldi. This is my wife, Nona, and my son, Riccardo.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Rinaldi. I’m Darby Graham.”
“Please, call me Teddy.” He had a slight accent.
The waitress brought around coffee and small menus with several breakfast choices. After we’d chosen our meals, Teddy turned to his son and whispered, “Sei ancora punito per essere sgattaiolato fuori la scorsa notte. Rimarrai in la stanza fino al termine della lezione. Ora siediti e smetti di mettermi in imbarazzo.”
He’d just said to his son, You are still being punished for sneaking out last night. You will remain in the cabin until we finish class. Now sit up and stop embarrassing me.
An awkward silence followed. My neck tingled with an uneasy itch. I really wanted to ask what on earth the young man hoped to find at night in the middle of an Idaho wilderness. Instead, I concentrated on stirring cream into my coffee so he wouldn’t realize I understood Italian. And I could take this opportunity to start interviewing people.
“Teddy, is this your first visit to Mule Shoe?”
“Yes, but I’d heard about it, of course . . .” Now it was his turn to stir his coffee.
Of course? Perhaps something there. He’d abruptly stopped speaking. Interesting.
“Have you been studying watercolor painting for long?” Nona asked me after first shooting a deadly glance at both her husband and son.
“First time.” Breakfast came and ended further conversation.
Halfway through the meal I caught a glimpse of Bram heading down the road driving the wagon. My quick inhale of air made Teddy look up. I made a point of staring out into the lobby.
Angie, the art instructor, was crossing the lobby heading toward the dining room. I was about to look away but noticed her lips were pressed tightly together and her hands balled into fists. I surreptitiously watched her as I sipped my coffee. No one else seemed aware of her presence. She arrived at the door, looked around the room, then caught Roy’s attention. He stood and moved toward her. She didn’t wait for him but spun and stalked away.
“Excuse me.” I placed my napkin on the table, picked up the book, and stood. “I need to use the powder room.”
Teddy politely rose slightly in his chair, and Nona gave me a half smile. “See you in class.”
I slipped from the room. Neither Roy nor Angie were in the lobby, but I could hear voices coming from the art room. I quietly followed the sound.
“Who would do such a thing?” Angie’s high-pitched voice conveyed outrage. “I can’t start class. I don’t even know where to start!”
The art room door stood open. From my position in the hall, I could easily see the upended tables, overturned easels, paper-strewn floor, and tubes of paint and brushes strewn across the front table.