The Cowboy's Shadow Part 6

Whitaker.

"I'm helping Whit find where Rod Harris caught hantavirus," she said. "He's afraid if we don't look, someone else will die, an att.i.tude that I consider admirable. Other men just sit back and let -- " But Mark had returned to the television.

"Dr. Joan Littleton," Glenda said softly, and Kyla thought, a little sadly.

"Whit's mother. I hope...I hope..." Concern and doubt compacted Glenda's face and spread wrinkles from her eyes and the corners of her mouth. "Kyla, Whit's a very handsome man, but he's -- " she hesitated "-- he's moody and eccentric."

Neither moody nor eccentric were words with professional meaning. Glenda had chosen them intentionally, to separate her opinion of Whit from the clinical diagnosis of the psychologist.

"He owns the loveliest house in Argentia," Glenda continued, "and it's completely empty, he's never seen with a woman -- "

"Glenda, I'm not your baby sister anymore. Please don't warn me against men in that patronizing way. Whit and I have a common goal: Find where his friend -- and maybe Carl -- were infected."

"You know Mom always hoped...the Walkers are a nice family, and good friends, and Neil -- "

"We're not going to repeat the conversation about Neil Walker and his millions, I hope," Kyla said in what she hoped was a tone of resigned sarcasm.

Glenda gave her a long, hard look before she left to rejoin her husband and the television How much did Glenda know? Or guess? Had she deciphered the meaning of the sharp contours of her purse? Did Glenda have some way of reading deeper intentions, unspoken plans? Heart's desire?

Whit saw Kyla the moment he rounded the corner, waiting at the end of the driveway, a capacious totebag dangling from her shoulder. She wore shorts that reached almost to her knees, and a demure s.h.i.+rt with white b.u.t.tons down the front. Low boots. Wide hat. Sensible.

The shorts pulled up as she made the high step into the truck, revealing a muscular thigh above her sculpted knee. Very few women had beautiful knees. Whit wondered if a man could die of sensual overload. Hold on, he told himself. It will get worse.

He had waited too long before he managed to separate s.e.x from abiding love, and was h.o.r.n.y as a buck in autumn. Now that he had found Kyla, he wanted her immediately, and that did not work with a woman's expectations. Lots of waiting ahead, he told himself. She must have stuck her little purse in the tote bag. No way for him to spy and see if the corners of the box still pushed out points of white leather.

"Hantavirus," he said aloud, to drop out of his fantasies, back to the day's goal. "Good morning."

"I'm still asleep," she said. "I didn't get to bed until midnight because Trace wanted to talk."

"Did you find out where the boys had been since school let out?"

"No. Trace wants to meet Rod's sister."

"What?" He slammed on the brakes at the corner. Too hard.

"Trace and I had a theological discussion, nothing about mine shafts or old cabins, unfortunately. He knows Rod's sister has a house in Reno -- "

"Judith. Saying she has a house sounds very...suggestive."

"Judith. Trace has heard that she helps people who need medical care, and he thinks Judith's house would be a suitable place for a memorial. It seems Carl was a rather serious child. Glenda says that's to be expected of a kid who's been sick a lot."

"Glenda's very wise," Whit said.

"Glenda's a psychologist," Kyla said. "Anyway, Carl talked about becoming a doctor, so Trace has concluded that helping Judith's house would be right."

Whit experienced a major sinking feeling, thinking of Trace Fetterman tagging along on the trip to Reno. His presence would end any possibility of the right moment just happening to happen. And he and Judith had bad things to talk about, Kyla too, and a twelve-year-old -- "However, I don't think tomorrow's exactly the time for Trace to meet Judith,"

Kyla said. Whit wanted to throw his arms about her, but he dare not take even one hand off the steering wheel, as he simultaneously confronted a sharp corner, a deep ditch to the right, and a rather sizeable pothole on the left.

"Later would be better," he agreed. "I'll ask Judith to visit me soon."

Kyla nodded. "Anyway, the kids raised more than three hundred dollars at the bake sale and car wash. You can mention that to Judith."

"Young entrepreneur," Whit said. Kid's were good at business. They had no preconceptions, and often saw alternatives that adults missed. This summer he would take Trace and his buddies up the mountain, show them how he allocated the cattle on the leased pastures, spend a night or two...No. He dare not take anyone near the range cabin until they had identified the source of the hantavirus infection.

"Are you sure we shouldn't investigate the range cabin?" he asked.

"But you spent the night there. Helped clean it. And your cowboys -- "

"Jim and Vince. They've been in and out of the cabin for the last month."

"We'll say it's okay.

The road dipped into a dry gully. According to the map, the tracks leading to the Dingo Ranch cut off somewhere nearby. A white square, a realtor's sign, simplified his search. He turned into the ruts, and stopped immediately when he spotted the dried mud flat.

"There's no ranch here," Kyla said.

"The mud. Water pools here, and Rod may have come down this road soon after the snowfall."

In two minutes the scenario came clear. Rod had arrived when the ground was still sodden. He had swung completely off the road to avoid the puddle, and his rear wheel had left deep imprints.

"It works," Kyla said, holding the paper close to the track, comparing them. "I never would have thought to try it."

"We'll drive in. There's a little house about a mile from here, and it's close enough to town that the boys might have ridden out on their bicycles."

"Any bicycle tracks?" Kyla asked.

"Can't see any, but kids on fat-tired bikes would have splashed right through the puddle, and the next vehicle on the road wiped out their prints. Anyway, it came to me last night, this house would be a prime place for mice. The original settlers lived in a cave dug into the bank of the gully. They built their house in front of the dugout, and kept right on using the underground part as a back room. When I was a kid I liked to visit the folks who lived here, because that room was always cool in the summer."

"And twelve-year-old boys do the same things, generation after generation," Kyla said wryly.

The gully narrowed, the road climbed to the rim for half a mile, then tipped over the edge once more, a steep descent into a little valley. No shack with its tail poking into the hill. Nothing but a disorganized heap of gray, weathered wood, and s.h.i.+ngles strewn for hundreds of yards.

"Might as well take a look," Kyla said, but she was obviously disappointed.

The only prints they found were made by wild creatures. Tracks showed that Rod had not even driven into the valley, but turned around after seeing the collapsed house. From all appearances he had not even bothered to get out of his truck.

"Now where?" Kyla asked.

"On down this valley, and we find a back road that heads to Penny Springs. It's forty miles shorter than if we backtrack to the highway."

Kyla produced a plastic bottle, the outside glistening with condensate.

"Lemonade. We'd better drink it now, before all the chill is gone. You want me to pour it in a cup?"

"Not unless you have qualms about drinking after me." She shook her head and handed him the bottle.

"What's at Penny Springs?" she asked. The lurching of the truck created uneven patches in her voice.

"A full scale ranch. House, bunkhouse, corral, barns. There're people living there, but they're not ranchers, only rent the house. The owners leased the grazing land for the winter, but it's empty now, all the cattle driven to higher pastures."

"If someone's living in the house, there'll be no mice," Kyla said.

"The outbuildings haven't been touched for at least two years." Kyla nodded, staring straight ahead, watching for a smooth stretch, then she gulped a fast swig of lemonade so it did not get into her nose. "The springs flow on the side of a hill, a big stream, and below them water oozes for a quarter mile. The valley's a marsh of willows and cat tails."

"If you know who leased the pasture for the winter," Kyla said, "we could ask if any of his cowboys have been sick."

"I leased the land. But Rod wouldn't have had any business around the house and barns. Look in the glove compartment. You'll find a brown envelope."

Kyla nearly hit her head on the visor when the truck bounced, but she came up with the envelope.

"Inside are the two pages from the land catalog. On the second sheet Rod wrote "Penny Springs" across the top and underlined it." Kyla studied the papers in fits and starts, as the road allowed.

"I can't find anything that says Penny Springs Ranch is for sale," she said.

"No, but Rod probably thought it might be on the market soon. The owner died two years ago, and from what I hear the heirs pitched into each other, all claiming a bigger share. This spring, whoever's handling the estate rented the house to a flock of kids. They don't have any visible means of support, but have money to spend at Whiskey Dan's on Sat.u.r.day night."

"They're not kids if they can drink legally," Kyla said.

"You know what I mean. Young guys who think they're living some TV version of the Wild West. Watched too many reruns of Bonanza and Gunsmoke. It's a good thing the sheriff's stingy with gun permits, or they'd carry six-shooters on their hips. Dan shudders every time they walk through the door, because they boil over if someone looks at them crosswise. They're always just two steps away from picking a fight."

"We're visiting the place where this gang lives?" Kyla asked. Whit risked a quick glance, saw astonishment, but no fear.

"Got any ideas on how to approach them?" he asked. Kyla said nothing while the truck ground up the hill to the junction of the road that led to Penny Springs.

"I figure to tell the truth, that you're a doctor from a research center working on hantavirus, and that -- "

"I'm not a doctor from a research center."

"Close enough. From the top of this hill you'll see the big green patch below the spring." Kyla twisted under the restraint of the seat belt to peer out the back window. He dare not look, for deep holes pitted the road. Almost like someone had dug them.

"Something s.h.i.+ny," she said. "A big patch, glistening here and there. Do kids playing cowboys and Indians plant gardens?" He heard her wariness of the Penny Springs crew in the question. "I'd think they'd be more likely to keep horses."

Whit let the truck roll to a stop at the crest, he reached behind the seat, feeling for his binoculars. Kyla dug in her tote bag and came up with a pair.

Brown netting hung from a framework covering two or three acres. Where the netting sagged from the supporting poles, morning sun reflected off plastic.

Leaves and branches covered about half the netting, and as they watched a truck backed up to the netting, two men climbed out and began shoveling something from the bed.

Whit dropped the binoculars, s.h.i.+fted into neutral, and let the truck roll backwards, down the hill. Only a hundred feet or so and they could not see the ranch. And men at the ranch could not see them.

"Marijuana?" Kyla asked.

"We are batting precisely zero this morning," Whit said, angry that he had not foreseen this eventuality. If he had not stopped to let the engine cool a bit, if Kyla's eyes had been a trifle less sharp, he would have taken her straight into a dicey situation. "I think we'd better let the sheriff make the next visit to Penny Springs. We'll stroll along the road, anyway, and look for Rod's tracks."

It was Kyla who found where Rod had swung wide to avoid a series of potholes. He had taken the same route going and coming. The potholes looked like nothing Whit had ever seen before on a back road. Almost artificial, intentional...Dug by the pot growers to discourage traffic into their valley.

"What's that?" Kyla asked.

"What's what?"

"I heard a whine? Like a hurt animal."

Whit grabbed her arm and pulled her close to him. He had never heard of an injured coyote attacking a human being, but...He scanned the hillside, searching for movement. Nothing very large could hide in the low, scattered brush. A four-footed animal appeared on the crest, making no effort at concealment. It walked, but with an unnatural bounce.

"A dog," Kyla said.

The dog limped toward the truck, as rapidly as it could on three legs. It paid no attention to the human beings, but went directly to the back of the truck, and on the third try managed to scramble onto the wide b.u.mper, then over the tailgate in a noisy, awkward huddle. It yelped when it landed in the bed.

Kyla started running, Whit plunged after her, grabbed the sleeve of her blouse just as she reached for the dog. "Poor thing!" she said.

"Don't touch it!" He yanked; she fell against him. "You don'tever touch a stray dog in this country, particularly when it's hurt."

She looked a bit embarra.s.sed. "Of course. Mom and Dad told us that over and over again, but I guess I never had a chance to put the admonition into practice."

"You can today." He used the threat as an excuse to wrap his arm about her waist. Her curves fell against his hollows, a perfect match. Turn her, every so slightly. Her head came up, eyes closed, and he knew she felt the stirring, too.

Ready to be kissed. His lips met hers easily, a natural force, like wind and sun. He had waited six miserable years, had given up on ever again feeling the flicker of desire. No need to draw her against him. She stood on tiptoe, leaned into him, wriggled a little. He pulled her head against his neck.

"You don't think this is love?" he whispered. Her head moved, yes or no, he couldn't tell which. Her hips stopped wiggling; she pulled back a trifle and lifted against the pressure of his hand. She might be blus.h.i.+ng. Then again the color on her cheeks might come from the wind or sunburn.

"Not love, but the next best thing," she said. "I can't say all these sensations are entirely new, but...well, mountains compared to hills. I'm not the woman you're looking for, Whit."

"What am I looking for?"

"A wife. You're too moral, too honorable to be satisfied with a summer romance."

"Want me to go down on my knees?"

"Whit -- we met Monday, this is Thursday. Besides, I can't possibly marry anyone. You especially."

"What's wrong with me?"

"Three hundred and fifty miles between San Francisco and Argentia, that what's wrong."

"I've heard of couples, one lives on the West Coast and one on the East Coast, and they meet every weekend."

"Weekends I study. No time for meeting in the middle."

"Kyla, for the past six years I haven't even looked at a woman. Now there's you.

I'm not talking about marriage. My mind hasn't opened that far yet."

She turned around, and from the angle of her shoulders he judged she was still trying to make up her mind. He did not want to pressure her into s.e.x. He had pressured Jenny, and the first time had been a disaster. Besides, he wasn't going to make love to Kyla in the bed of the truck, particularly when a strange dog had just claimed it as his domain. In the cab? It was far too narrow for him to stretch out, and the steering wheel got in the way.

They could drive north, to Highway 6, and find a motel. But too many of the places had resident women, and bedding Kyla there seemed to equate her with the wh.o.r.es. Not the ranch. Jim and Vince might take it into their heads to come down the mountain, instead of bunking at the cabin. They'd be only too happy to spread the news of their boss' lady friend.