by Laura Crum
“This is great!” he tells me again.
I can see the hill coming up where we will slow, but in this moment we are perfect, free and happy in the wind of our passing, moving through the streaking landscape.
“Thank you,” I whisper. To the horses, the land, the trees, the whole green world.
Now the trail curves into the “cold valley,” a steep, shady ravine on a north slope. We fall back to a walk. The temperature drops ten degrees, and I shiver. We can hear frogs peeping in a small mud puddle of a pond, off to the right. Willows line the trail and interweave overhead, turning our passage into a green tunnel.
The trail leaves the bottom of the gully and starts up the hillside. We are passing through a redwood grove, ascending through dark red-brown pillars in deep shade, the blue-green needles forming a dense canopy overhead. I smell the rich, loamy smell of the redwood duff underfoot.
The trail grows steeper. Sunny is digging hard as he marches up the hill; I can feel him working; can see the sweat on his neck. He breaks into a trot, Henry following suit, the two horses huffing a little and using their momentum to defeat the climb.
The trail levels out in a tangle of pale pink wild currant blooms and the white flowers of blackberry vines; for a moment we are surrounded by blossoms and dappled light. Bright blue houndstongue, a giant forget-me-not, lines the trail. I look up and see the antler-like crown of the landmark tree high overhead as we ride past it. We are deep in the green world now.
Looking down, I see the hoofprints of deer and horses; that’s it. Not a human footprint to be seen. These wild trails aren’t used much, though I have occasionally seen riders from a local boarding stable.
On we go, up and up, the horses working hard, until we reach another level spot. The trail forks here; the right-hand turn leads back down the ridge toward home. The horses are puffing and sweating, and we stop for a while to let them rest and breathe. We call this spot the “three-way trail crossing.” I stare at the huge oak tree, multi-trunked and branching, that dominates the flat. Bright green moss coats its silver-gray curving lines; warm afternoon sunlight slants through the branches in patches and flashes of gold on green. The horses puff, their flanks moving in and out.
Mac smiles at me. “I’m glad Henry is doing the work and not me. Or else I’d be tired now.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I say.
When Sunny and Henry have aired up and aren’t puffing any more, we head down the trail that goes to the left, farther into the woods. The next hill is steep and the horses grunt and scramble a little as they trudge upward.
“Not too far now,” I say out loud, and Mac smiles. He knows where we’re headed.
Upward, ever upward, between oaks and redwoods and madrones, with big vistas opening up on all sides. We can see the distant slopes and the faraway blue crest of the coastal mountains.
Now we’re on the last steep climb, passing through a group of ancient madrones, their rust red trunks curving in graceful arabesques toward the sky, their big, sparse, shiny green leaves reflecting the sun. We are high on the ridgeline now; through the trees I see hills rolling all around and below us, a tossed and tumbled carpet of misty blue velvet. Ahead of us is openness and light.
At last we top the hill and emerge between the twisting shapes of the madrones into a small meadow at the crest of the ridge. The short grass in this clearing is bleached gold, covered with the deep-blue violet flowers of sky lupine, so aptly named. The trail leads through ground as blue as the sky. The air has a spicy scent. The blue is beneath us, above us, and before us. We ride across the meadow to a steep bluff that faces out to sea.
“We’re here,” I say to Mac, and he smiles again.
We’re at the Lookout.
Chapter 18
The Lookout sits high in the hills, with a big view out to the west. We can see Monterey Bay in its blue entirety; we can see Pigeon Point to the north and Point Lobos to the south. Every promontory sharp and clear this bright spring day. We look out to the west where the sky meets the curving horizon of sea and know that if we could look far enough we would see Japan. We are on the very edge of our continent.
We sit there and stare, Mac and I, lost in this view of the Pacific rim, the rolling hills of Santa Cruz County, the open blue sky, the flying breeze. The horses puff, content to rest and catch their wind. We are all silent. There is nothing to say, nothing to want.
“Look, Mama,” Mac says at last. “There’s the four flagpoles.”
“Yes,” I say, seeing the tall white spikes in the middle distance.
Months ago Mac had pointed out these flagpoles to me as we drove along the freeway in Aptos. “Those are the four poles we see from the Lookout,” he said. And they were.
And here we were. For just this moment, in a perfect world. I stared down at the sunlight gleaming on Sunny’s silvery-gold neck and glanced at Mac’s happy, open face. I let my eyes drift around the wide spaces that surrounded us, a tapestry of hills and sea and sky.
For a second my heart clutched. I want to hold us in this moment forever. Free and happy and whole, on our horses, on the roof of our world. But moments can’t be held.
Gradually Sunny’s breathing returned to normal. Mac shifted in his saddle. “Where shall we ride to?” he asked.
I got off and tightened both horses’ cinches. Climbing back on, I said, “I’d like to ride to Tucker Pond.”
“Can we go through Moon Valley and the old orchard, and then back by the swingset trail?”
“Well, that’s going the long way, but okay, if you want to.”
Mac was instantly eager, and we set off down the trail that dropped steeply from the Lookout to Moon Valley. I rode quietly, my mind on what Donna Wells had told me. Cole Richardson’s house was at the end of Richardson Ridge. I knew exactly where Richardson Ridge ended—at the old orchard. I’d ridden to that spot before, many times. From Donna’s description, I thought I knew where Cole’s house was. Right above Tucker Pond. I thought we could ride there. I had a notion to see Cole’s house. Where the mysterious black file cabinet resided.
Down the ridge we went, through another eucalyptus grove, following the trail.
“Look,” Mac said. “There’s our house.”
We both looked out to the north. From the ridgeline we were on, we could see the tiny, green-roofed, triangular shape of our own house, perched near the top of the opposite ridge.
“Papa’s in the vegetable garden,” Mac said wistfully, staring in that direction.
We both smiled at the thought. I wondered why I stared longingly from my porch at the landmark tree on this ridge and equally longingly from here back at my own front porch. The much-loved places seemed most dear when one was removed from them. Perhaps it was a basic human thread. The landmark tree was below me now. I could feel the same wistfulness in my heart that I heard in Mac’s voice. Whatever it was, it was an emotion I recognized.
We rode on until we dropped down into Moon Valley and followed the creek through scattered groves of willows that changed to oaks as we headed back up into the hills. The trail led on through shadow and sunshine, underneath a huge old cedar tree, through tangled vines and green grass and big clumps of wild iris. I admired the varying shades of each new stand of flowers, ranging from almost pure white through bright violet to deep purple. Mac pointed out a swath of pale blue forget-me-nots lit up with sunlight, backed by the velvet brown darkness of a big redwood grove.
Our voices hushed as the trail led into the grove. No matter how many times I rode this way I never got used to it. The redwoods stood on the valley floor, their trunks huge pillars reaching up into the green gloom overhead. The shade beneath them was absolute. The eerie stillness was uncanny. As if one had suddenly stepped into an empty cathedral. The horses paced on, tiny travelers amongst the giants. I was reminded of the roots of the word “awful.”
Once out of the big redwood grove, the trail led up the valley, though small meadows and tunnels of green brush, under the arching
madrones and between the twisting liveoaks. On and on we rode, passing a trail fork that led to the right. I knew that trail. Many years ago I’d met a cougar there, on a solo ride with Plumber. I shivered and glanced reflexively over my shoulder. But no predator awaited. Just sunshine and my child’s happy face.
Still, we were in the land of the wild things now, which I knew very well. Cougars did roam these hills, along with coyotes and bobcats. The latter two were no threat to us, but cougars had been known to jump horses. Ranches very close to where we were had pastured horses that bore the scars of the big cats. I believed that as two mounted horsemen we were in no danger, but that quick glance over my shoulder happened more and more often, the further we rode into the hills.
The trail twined through another tangle of oaks. The light ahead told me that we were getting near the orchard.
Mac and I were both grinning as we emerged from the oaks into the sunshine and blowing grass of the meadow. Scattered and gnarled, a few ancient apple trees bore rose-tinted white flowers with that faint and indescribable scent of apple blossom, the essence of spring. Sun and breeze swirled around us. Like the Lookout, the old orchard had a big view out to the west, over Monterey Bay. A windy verge of meadow grass ended in a bluff that overhung the dark, winding, tree-filled corridor of Moon Valley below us, leading off into the distance towards the sea. Mac and I pulled the horses up.
“Look,” said Mac, “that’s where we were.” And he pointed to the tall spires of the redwood grove in the middle of the valley.
“Yep,” I said.
Turning my head, I looked to the east. There at the high edge of the meadow I could see the scattering of big houses that marked Richardson Ridge, an upscale subdivision. Donna had said that Cole’s house was farther on, at the end of the gravel road. Well, I knew where the gravel road was.
Mac and I rode across the orchard until we struck the road, which led down the hill and through a sun-splashed grove of oaks. In another quarter mile or so we reached Tucker Pond. Fringed with reeds and screened by a clump of willows, it sat in a natural hollow in the hills, backed by a small redwood grove. Frogs peeped, redwing blackbirds shrilled. The water was an opaque mud brown, full of spring runoff. Mac and I turned curious eyes on the pond, as we always did. It, like the landmark tree and the Lookout, was one of the main features of our rides.
My eyes swung to the right, following the gravel road. On all previous rides we had turned left on the trail that continued past the pond to an abandoned swingset in the woods and thus to home. We called this the “swingset trail.”
The gravel road ran up the hill to an unseen house. A house I now knew to be Cole Richardson’s coastal residence. What had Donna said? The caretakers came for an hour in the morning and evening. It was currently midafternoon. Unlikely that anyone would be around.
“Let’s ride up the hill,” I told Mac. “I want to see what’s up there.”
“Okay, Mama.”
Sunny would have preferred to take the homeward direction, but obediently swerved to climb the graveled driveway, Henry behind him. We hadn’t gone past a few bends in the road when we heard a neigh ahead of us.
“There’re horses up here,” Mac said.
Sunny and Henry pricked their ears. Another bend in the road showed a small corral and barn in a level space carved out of the hill. Two dark horses stood in the corral. Both wore halters. Both nickered at the sight of us.
I looked around apprehensively, but no dog barked, no human emerged from the barn. Donna had said that the caretaker fed the horses morning and evening.
“Come on,” I said to Mac. “Let’s see what this house looks like.”
We rode on up the hill, leaving the horses behind. The road curved, the trees made a screen, but I had the sense that the house was there, above us, waiting. It was bothering me. I had no reason to think there would be a problem; the house ought to be empty. And I was only going for a ride in the woods, for heaven’s sake. But I couldn’t shake the gathering anxiety that seemed to emanate from this place.
I glanced back at Mac. His face was very still, and for the first time on this ride, he no longer looked animated and happy. Sunny and Henry had their ears straight forward, peering ahead. I could feel the tension in Sunny’s body as we rounded the next curve in the road.
And there it was.
Chapter 19
Cole Richardson’s house sat above us, broad and square and gray and implacable, surrounded by a virtual fortress of decking, sprawling over what seemed like several acres of the wild woods, which it dominated with ease. The whole place looked oddly gray, as if a cloud had passed over the sun; all the brightness that had filled the old orchard was gone. Despite the fact that the house was in the open it seemed dimmed and somehow darkened.
I stared. Mac stared. Sunny and Henry stared. The house looked absurdly out of place, a monstrous, giant, rectangular growth defiling the woods. Even though I knew these hills held many huge houses of this sort, the residences of rich men who affected a country lifestyle, I was still shocked when I saw the actual ten-thousand-square-foot examples. And this house was worse.
Why, I didn’t know. Something in its silent, square, gray blankness had a brooding, heartless quality. Don’t be fanciful, Gail, I chided myself. But I shivered, and glanced back at Mac.
My son’s face remained still and somewhat tense, his eyes fixed on the house. He caught my glance and whispered, “Mama, let’s go. I don’t like it here.”
I had to agree. I didn’t like it here, either. I took another look, trying to figure out what it was that was bothering all of us. It wasn’t obvious. Just another large, boring, generic mansion, this one gray, with a flat roof and lots of deck around it. No garden to speak of. A paved apron of drive, empty of vehicles, before a closed garage door. No one around, which I had expected. But the house didn’t look empty or abandoned. Windows were open. I squinted. It even looked like one of the sliding glass doors was half open, with the screen pulled across. As if someone were there, inside, waiting.
No one’s there, I reminded myself sharply. What is there is that black file cabinet. The one Bret believes holds the secret behind Cole’s murder. That’s what’s there.
A finger of breeze brushed my face; sudden motion from a window made me jump. Sunny flinched. A white thing billowed from the window. Shit.
I stared. Sunny stared, both of us frozen in place. I took a deep breath. It’s a curtain, Gail, for heaven’s sake. A curtain blowing in the breeze. Not a big deal.
And suddenly I’d had enough.
“Let’s go,” I told Mac.
And we turned the horses and started back down the hill. Both the geldings jigged a little, unusual for Henry, and unlike Sunny, as far as I knew. I couldn’t tell if it was eagerness to get home or distaste for the silent house behind them that was causing their agitation. I didn’t really care. I felt the same way. I wanted out of here, away from Cole Richardson’s house; I wanted to go home.
But home was still a long ways away. Mac and I rode our restless, prancing horses past the lonely barn in the woods. The two dark horses in the corrals nickered plaintively at us. The small barn had a stout hitching rail out front. It looked as though the tack room door was padlocked shut. Two lead ropes hung from a hook by the gate. We rode on. Finally we were at the bottom of the hill. I turned right on the trail that led past Tucker Pond. In another moment we were in the woods, trooping through a long tunnel of green shrubbery.
“There’s the old car,” Mac said cheerfully.
We both looked to our left, where the rusting body of an ancient car lay abandoned in the brush. Not too far ahead were the remains of a house and barn that I assumed had housed the owner of the car. The ground beneath the oak trees was carpeted with the shiny green leaves and purple star-shaped flowers of vinca, run amok from that long-ago garden. No doubt an ecological disaster, but very pretty to ride through, all the same. It wasn’t until we passed the old swingset, standing forlornly at the fork i
n the trail that led to home, that it hit me.
“The Richardson Ranch,” I said out loud, as we took the right-hand fork.
“What, Mama?”
“Oh, nothing. I just wondered who lived in the old house and played on the swingset,” I said.
But inwardly I thought I knew. Donna had said that Cole had kept the family homesite and built his house on that piece. Surely our familiar swingset and the house that went with it were the old Richardson home. This was where Cole’s father had been raised. What was his name, Ron? Looking back over my shoulder at the swingset, solitary in its clearing in the woods, I could almost see the ghost of a little black-haired boy, swinging high amongst the oak trees. Quickly I put my eyes back on the trail ahead.
Too many ghosts. Ghosts in the big gray house on the hill. Ghosts in the crumbling old ruins in the woods. Ghosts everywhere.
Mac and I rode in silence. Up the hill, down the ridge, through the wide, windy meadow filled with rustling clumps of pampas grass, back to the trail we’d started out on. We stepped quietly through the dark woods that grew on the sidehill. Everything was dimmer and shadier now as the sun was waning. Long bolts of golden light came shooting through gaps in the trees to light up the gloom.
Neither of us said a word as the horses picked their way across the ravines and wound between the twisted tree trunks. We ducked automatically for the overhanging limb, and leaned back as the geldings half slid down the steep bank. Our silence wasn’t unusual; we were frequently quiet as we rode through the woods. This time, though, I sensed that we were both busy with our thoughts, rather than contemplating the green world. And those thoughts concerned that house behind us.
Cole Richardson’s house. With ghost-like blowing curtains. With a file cabinet that might hold a secret that would save Lonny.
We were crossing the small meadow near the road now. I pulled Sunny up, and Mac stopped Henry. Clipping the lead rope back on Henry’s halter, I led him through the oak grove to the shoulder of the road, and stood there, craning to see. In the late afternoon light the cars were harder to discern clearly. A gray car coming around the far bend looked all too much like a patch of pavement. I stared and stared, waiting patiently to be sure. There was no tolerance for mistakes. Mistakes here could be lethal.