Resonable Doubt

by Catherine Anderson

  "Well, it won't work," she vowed, shoving the bedroom curtain aside as she went to the kitchen.

  Coaly sat back on his haunches and uttered a sharp bark. She shot a glance outside. About twenty minutes of light remained. "No dinner yet, fella. First, we do some investi­gating."

  As she reached for her flashlight, Breanna noticed that her papers were scattered. A tense silence enveloped the room. Someone has been inside the cabin. Knowing her home had been violated disturbed her more than the inci­dent by the creek. How had someone come in without forc­ing the door? The key in her jeans, of course. She reached for the flashlight. "Come on, Coaly. Let's go see what we can see."

  With anger as turbofuel, Breanna returned to the bath­ing hole, armed with her flashlight. Coaly dived into the copse, sniffing the ground where she had seen the brush moving. More interested in where her prankster had gone than where he had been, Breanna made a wide circle around the undergrowth, fanning her light on the ground. What she didn't see made her uneasy. There were no footprints com­ing out of the foliage. She stooped to get a closer look, walking the perimeter three times. Nothing.

  Her throat tightened with irrational fear. For a man to enter and leave the brush, he would have to make tracks. The story of John Van Patten's ghost crept into her mind. I found the mine entrance today, she thought. He appears when someone gets close to his treasure. Breanna tightened her grip on the flashlight. She couldn't allow her imagina­tion to run wild. A ghost wouldn't leave footprints, though.

  Before searching further, she checked the horizon to be sure she had plenty of twilight left. No way was she getting caught out here after dark. Entering the brush, she trained her light where Coaly was sniffing. There, confined to a two-foot area, were some very real tracks. Boot tracks, similar to the ones she had seen before. Breanna knelt and touched her finger to a print. Definitely not Tyler's boots. His soles had slanted ridges in the rubber. These had a squared indentation, with the pattern angling triangularly outward from the center.

  So she had checked Tyler's boots without realizing it. Ah, yes, she remembered looking at his tracks the day he helped her plant fence posts. It disturbed her that she was subcon­sciously observing him as if he were her enemy. She passed a hand over her eyes, disgusted with herself. Then relief swept through her. Considering everything that had hap­pened, it was normal to be wary. At least these prints proved that Tyler wasn't her prankster.

  Coaly ran to a grassy bank inside the copse. Sniffing a tuft of grass, he snarled. His strange behavior piqued her curi­osity and she followed, picking up a trail of tracks that led to the slope and ended there. Coaly walked the bank, his nose skimming the ground in erratic patterns. Had her thief climbed up it? Breanna drew closer, leaning forward to shine her light. There were no footprints.

  "I wish you could talk," she muttered to Coaly. "He was in here, that much is obvious, but how did he get out with­out leaving tracks? Human beings don't evaporate into thin air."

  It was a question Breanna couldn't answer. As she left the copse, she trailed her light behind her. Sure enough, there were her own tracks, even in the grass. The ground was moist here, so close to the creek, and her weight left its im­print.

  Coaly ran ahead of her, then halted to bark. She slowed her pace. He was trying to tell her something. Did he know where the man had gone? "What is it, boy?"

  Coaly wagged his tail, then struck off for the barn at a dead run. Breanna followed him. When the dog reached the building, he stuck his nose to the ground, sniffing at the foundation.

  "Oh, for Pete's sake. I'm people hunting, you silly beast." Coaly responded with another round of wild bark­ing, running the length of the barn, then back again to do a full circle around her. "He isn't in there," she scolded.

  As she turned to walk away, Coaly startled her by lifting his nose to the sky and howling. It was such a mournful cry that she paused to look at him. A shiver of dread crept up her spine. She remembered the noises she had heard under the barn floor, recalled the cave-in at the entrance. No flesh and blood person could be in there. But Gramps had seen John Van Patten in the barn.

  Supposedly, she reminded herself. Gramps was an old man, Breanna. His eyes were bad. Get a hold of yourself, and stop this nonsense.

  Flipping off her light to save the batteries, she made a beeline for the cabin. She didn't believe in ghosts, but facts were facts. Someone had come to the creek, stolen her things slashed them and moved them to her porch, walking a hundred and fifty feet without leaving footprints in soft ground. Ghost or man?

  She wasn't sure anymore.

  Chapter Seven

  Breanna sat on the porch with one foot propped on her knee. In the bright morning sunlight, she had pulled out dozens of tiny stickers that had imbedded themselves in her soles as she ran barefoot in the brush. As she plucked the last of them from her skin, she thought of last night. If her wild musings about ghosts were any indication, it was time she took a break and got her mind off her troubles.

  "I thought I'd find you hard at work."

  She glanced up with a start to see Tyler climbing the steps. "Hi. You're bright and early."

  He carried his camera in one hand, strap dangling. "What d'ya have there? Slivers?"

  "I made the mistake of walking barefoot in the grass."

  Giving her foot a final inspection, she drew on her sock and shoe, deciding then and there to tell Tyler nothing more. She knew what he would say if he heard about her clothes being stolen and slashed. One word. Leave. Since she had no intention of doing that, another argument seemed sense­less. At the worst, it might be some misguided local with a grudge left over from the Reuben Creek fire. And besides, scare tactics had never hurt anyone.

  "You gonna be able to work? Or are your feet too sore?"

  She groaned. "It's almost too pretty to work. Today's a day to loaf, don't you think?"

  His steel-blue eyes rested on her face. "I agree. Too pretty to work."

  Heat sprang to Breanna's cheeks and she glanced away. It was the first time he had even hinted he was attracted to her, except with his jokes about lemonade and lunch, and she felt awkward, uncertain how to respond. "How about panning? Do you enjoy it?"

  "For gold? Never done it. Sounds fun, though."

  "Then let's do it."

  "I'm game."

  After Tyler had put his camera on the table and she had shut Coaly in the cabin, she led the way to the barn. She preceded him up the ramp and stepped into the dim corri­dor. "I spotted the gold pans in here the other day. We'll have to scrub them, but they looked usable."

  "Careful," he cautioned. "Walk close to the walls where the floors have more support." He paused with her to look inside a stall. "Wood stain," he commented wryly, step­ping into the room to check out the garbage pile. "Pop cans. Ah, here we go, Breanna. Someone dined on beer and Vi­enna sausage in here."

  "Probably a picnic in the hayloft. Kids from town, hid­ing out from their folks."

  He followed her into the next stall and plucked a pan off the shelf after she did, dusting it on his jeans. "Well, are you ready to teach me the ropes?"

  "Just don't get gold fever," she warned. "It happens, you know."

  "You sound like we might actually find something."

  "Sure we will. But it's called getting color."

  "Getting color. I'll remember. Won't do, me sounding like a greenhorn when I'm in the company of a pro."

  Laughing, she walked toward the door. "I'm no pro. Now, Gran, she was a miner. I swear, she could get color out of a kid's sandbox. It takes me a bit longer."

  "Well, I'm looking forward to learning. I've always wanted to pan, but I didn't know where to start."

  Turning at the bottom of the ramp, she said, "We start by finding a cache in bedrock. Or a turn in the stream is good, where the water hits the bank and eddies for a bit."

  "Why's that?"

  As they walked toward the house, she elaborated. "Gold usually washes downstream with erosion, then settle
s. You've seen hollowed places in bedrock that catch dirt? Well, that's a likely spot for gold. You put some soil in your pan, and slowly wash the dirt out over the edge. The color settles because it's heavier. It takes a knack, but you'll catch on."

  The day with Tyler went peacefully. They knelt to­gether on the rust-red bank, working their gold pans for hours, breaking only for a quick lunch at the house. They conversed infrequently. A companion who shared her love for tranquility was a new experience for Breanna. Most of her acquaintances either chatted constantly or brought along a transistor radio and drowned out the more beautiful sym­phonies of the forest.

  The lack of conversation between them troubled her, though. Again she was plagued with questions about Tyler, information most people volunteered. She suspected he was from Grants Pass, but he had not yet confirmed that. She knew his name, and that was all. And because he was so closemouthed, she felt reluctant to share information about herself. She had already told him far too much, her suspi­cions of Dane, her guilt about the fire. Tyler was a quiet man, but this went beyond that. She wondered if he was hiding something.

  It seemed a shame. She sensed something special be­tween them, a rare compatibility, but he held back from her, stifling its chance of growth with a curtain of silence.

  "This is therapeutic," he said, holding up his glass vial to examine the gold dust he had collected. "How much do these hold?"

  "An ounce. When they're filled, you can take them in and get cash." She gave her pan a final swish, then shook her hands, wiping her palms on her jeans. "It may be thera­peutic, but this water's so cold, I think it comes off snow."

  "Not snow, just good old mountain springs. No water on earth like it, is there?"

  "There's nothing on earth to compare to this place. Gran called it God's country and I think she was right. Now that I'm here, I don't know why I waited so long to come back."

  "Sometimes, things we run from get bigger and bigger. It's hard to turn back and face them."

  "Yes... hard." She looked over at him, and their eyes locked. Shadows lurked in his. Something troubled him; she knew it, felt it, heard it in his voice. "Tell me, do you speak from experience? Are you running too, Tyler?"

  He lifted an eyebrow. "What gave you that idea?"

  She gazed across the creek. "You never say anything about yourself. It's like—well, as if your life started here along the creek and you left everything else behind you."

  He laughed. "I don't have any secrets. What do you want to know? I'm thirty-six. My marriage ended in divorce. No kids. And I'm a photographer. I love chocolate, hate liver, and onions don't agree with me, but I eat them anyway be­cause I have very little willpower. Anything else you'd like to know?"

  "Where did you grow up?"

  "Right over the mountain. You guessed right, I was a Grants Pass kid, graduated from G.P.H.S., played foot­ball for the Cavemen. My folks still live there when they aren't vacationing. My dad's retired."

  "Well, I guess that's a pretty fair accounting of your­self." She looked into his eyes again. The shadows were still there. She realized he had told her everything—and noth­ing. "I grew up in Grants Pass, too. But for nine years, we might have gone to school together."

  "So you're twenty-seven?" He shook out his gold pan and set it on top of hers, smiling. "Married, divorced? You've never said."

  "I was engaged. It didn't work out. My work, you see. It's a little odd, a woman traipsing off into the hills for days on end."

  "Not odd, different. No harm in that." He rose and of­fered her a hand up. "As much as I hate to call it a day, it's about that time. I need to get my camera and do some traipsing of my own. Can't buy the bacon without working now and again."

  She tipped her head back. The expression on his face held her spellbound. He reached out and touched her hair, threading his fingers through it. The blue of his eyes clouded with sudden tenderness. Then his hand tightened. He pulled her slowly toward him, stepping to meet her. When his mouth touched hers, his lips feathered so softly they were like butterfly wings, gentle, questioning, experimenting. She felt breathless. There was a rightness between them she had never dreamed could exist.

  When he pulled away, Breanna felt a sense of loss she couldn't explain, a feeling of almost, as if he had abruptly put an end to something he felt he shouldn't have begun. A troubled frown drew his brows together.

  Bending to get the pans, he said, "I've enjoyed today. It's nice being with you."

  "Maybe we can do it again sometime."

  "I hope so." He smiled and placed his left hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze as they walked up the bank. "We'd better build fences first, though. I'll come back in the morning."

  "You don't have to, Tyler. I can get them done. I hate to interfere with your work schedule. I know what it's like, free-lancing."

  "I want to help. That is, if you don't mind the com­pany."

  "Not at all. I'll look forward to it."

  After he'd retrieved his camera from the cabin, Tyler struck off through the orchard. Breanna leaned against the retainer wall, watching until he disappeared. Tomorrow seemed an eternity away on the one hand, too soon on the other. Something special was happening between them. And that frightened her. She knew what her secrets were and why she couldn't share them. But what were Tyler's?

  Twilight found Breanna hunched over her typewriter, squinting to see in the dimness of the cabin. When she glanced up at the windows and saw how late it was, she pulled the dustcover over her machine. If she didn't take her walk now, she wouldn't get one before dark.

  As she descended the steps, she called Coaly, groaning when the dog appeared from behind the barn, his muzzle caked with red dirt. If he didn't stop his infernal digging under that foundation, he'd end up sprayed by a skunk or bitten by a snake. Breanna scolded him and headed toward the bathing hole, walking aimlessly until she passed the copse. Unable to resist, she made another circle, looking for tracks she might have missed last night.

  When nothing caught her eye, she headed downstream. It wasn't until she drew abreast of the orchard that she re­alized she was hoping she'd find Tyler working. She didn't, of course, but once the thought had entered her mind, she was curious to see his photo blind.

  Keeping to the creek bank where she could see, she watched for footprints. Not far from her starting point, she spied disturbed earth. Making a sharp right, she ran up the rocky bank and pushed through the brush. After several feet, she came to a small clearing that offered a perfect view of her upper orchard and barn. A smile settled on her mouth. It was an ideal place to sneak pictures of deer. She saw where Tyler's knees had pressed into the dirt. He had so frequently parted the brush that it was permanently sepa­rated. Imagining him here gave her a warm, comfortable feeling.

  Turning to leave, she spied a small, black object in the grass. Stooping, she picked it up. It was round and made of plastic with a mesh face, about the size of a quarter. She knew very little about audio equipment, but it looked like a tiny microphone of some kind. Did Tyler take videotapes, accompanied with sound? She slipped the disc into her pocket.

  The light was fading fast. She worked her way out of the blind and cut across the orchard. With every step she took, she had the sensation of being watched. She did a complete circle a couple of times to look around her. Dread filled her as she scanned the woods and brush. A film of cold perspi­ration broke out on her brow, and she quickened her pace.

  Halfway through the orchard, she turned toward the mountain where the deserted California Mine tunneled for miles into the earth. She could almost see the night sky as it had looked so many years ago, tinted rose red with fire. Her ears echoed with the shrill screams of horror that had haunted her dreams ever since. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the fire, Rob Thatcher's torturous death, her own frenzied attempts to save him. So long ago, but it seemed like yesterday.

  As she neared the barn, other memories pelted her, memories of her last day h
ere ten years ago when Chuck Morrow had cornered her in the loft. Waves of nausea rolled in her stomach. Images of him flashed before her. Her footsteps slowed. She turned haltingly, her eyes widening with alarm as she stared sightlessly at the barn. Sudden re­alization hit her. Chuck, with his cocky swagger—the prowler in the white shirt with the muscle-bound walk. Now she knew why she had felt so afraid when she had seen that man. It must have been Chuck Morrow, and on a subcon­scious level she had recognized him. Breanna broke into a run.

  By the time she let herself in the cabin door and shoved the dead bolt home, she had to find the lantern in the dark. Holding a lit match to the lantern's fragile mantle, she ad­justed the white glow, then hung the Coleman on a rafter hook.

  "There," she said aloud to her dog. "That's better." Coaly curled up on the braided rug before the hearth, watching her crouch beside him to light the small fire she had laid earlier in the day. It was a fairly warm evening, but the crackling of the cheerful flames might chase away the gloom that seemed to hover.

  She rubbed her forehead, staring at the multicolored twists in the rug beneath her. How like life those inter­twined strands were, all knotted and kinked so that nothing looked as though it could ever be put straight again. She hated remembering the fire and the events that followed, but it seemed the longer she stayed here, the more she thought of it. Ten years had brought her full circle.

  Stretching out beside Coaly, she reached up to the end table to turn on her transistor radio. Some music in the room might make her feel less alone. A throbbing drumbeat came over the air, sensual and intense. She closed her eyes and slowly relaxed, allowing thoughts of Tyler to slip into her mind.

  The radio station's disc jockey broke in on the music. "A quick news update, folks, and then back to the beat. The Josephine County sheriff's department made an official statement today, warning all local merchants to be on the lookout for counterfeit bills. And keep your eyes open. The woman who passed a fake bill yesterday still hasn't been apprehended."