Lover in the Rough

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “We’re stopping traffic,” Chance murmured as he nipped delicately at her ear, enjoying the shiver of her response.

  “They’re just waiting for the director to yell ‘Cut!’ and demand a retake,” she said a bit breathlessly.

  “I’d hate to disappoint them,” he said, taking her lips again, exploring her mouth with slow movements of his tongue. After a time he lifted his head and smiled into her flushed face. “I never knew being an actor was so much fun.”

  Shaking her head, she looked at him with a mixture of humor and seriousness. “What am I going to do with you? You’re definitely not . . . not . . .”

  “Housebroken?” he suggested with a rakish smile.

  Reba shook her head again, laughing softly.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her, setting off for a nearby parking lot, “you won’t notice it as much when we’re camping.”

  Chance set Reba down next to a Toyota Land Cruiser. The dusty blue vehicle had a winch on the front, spare gas and water cans bolted to the back and camping gear behind the front seat. A tough, flexible net held the cargo firmly in place.

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather take my car?” asked Reba, looking doubtfully at the Toyota’s spartan interior and unforgiving suspension. “It would be more comfortable.”

  “On the freeway, yes,” said Chance, unlocking the door for her. “On the mine road your car would be a disaster. Rocks, ruts, washouts and slides.”

  “How do you know?” she said, exasperated by his casual dismissal of her car.

  Chance froze for a split instant, then smoothly continued handing Reba into the car. “Logic. Abandoned mine, abandoned road. If you like, though, you can follow me down in your BMW. I’ll be able to pull you out of any trouble you can drive that low-slung car into.”

  “No thanks,” Reba said, shuddering as she thought of the damage that could be done to her car by rocks tearing through the undercarriage. “I’ll take your word for it. You’re the rough-country expert.”

  Chance took her chin in his hand, holding her still for a moment. “Remember that. If I tell you to do something, don’t argue. Just do it. There isn’t always time to explain.”

  His eyes were pale green, intent, measuring her reaction to his words. He waited without impatience, knowing that she was not accustomed to taking orders.

  “You know something that I don’t,” she said finally.

  Chance’s eyes narrowed until they were almost closed. The fingers on her chin tightened painfully, then relaxed. “What do you mean?” he asked in a flat voice.

  “There’s something that you aren’t telling me. You’re so sure that the mine or something about it is dangerous.”

  Chance was very still for a long moment. “Abandoned mines are always dangerous.”

  Reba said nothing, waiting for him to continue, waiting as he had waited. He shut her door, walked around the Toyota, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “I never go into things blind,” Chance said after a moment. “I’ve been to the China Queen. The road is bloody awful but I expected that. What I didn’t expect was to find groups of men moving through the back country. A few hours spent in the local bars listening to gossip told me why. A lot of marijuana is either grown or shipped through the back country. The men doing it aren’t happy to be seen.

  “Then,” continued Chance, “there are the illegal aliens up from Mexico. They’re working the fields and avocado groves, when there’s work. When there isn’t, they go into the rough country and camp because they don’t have much money and they’re afraid to be seen by anyone. They’re young and bored. They spend a lot of time drinking, and when they fight they use knives. Some of the local residents have taken to carrying guns whenever they go out to their groves.” Chance gave Reba a long look. “You really didn’t know any of this, did you?”

  Wordlessly, she shook her head.

  “A lot of the world is like that,” he said. “If it doesn’t happen in a city, it just doesn’t happen so far as most people are concerned. Well, we’re going out of the city, Reba. If you still want to.”

  “Is it dangerous? I mean, really dangerous?”

  Chance smiled slightly. “No, just unpredictable enough to be interesting. I wouldn’t take you into a situation I thought was really dangerous. It won’t be as safe and civilized as taking a walk down Rodeo Drive, though.”

  “Ha! I’ll match you drug dealer for drug dealer, Mr. Walker.”

  He laughed. “City wise and country foolish, is that it?”

  “Definitely. I gave up believing in the tooth fairy long ago,” she added, smiling and quite serious. “I trust your judgment, Chance. If you think it’s safe, I’ll go.”

  “There’s no such thing as one hundred percent safe, not even locked in your own home.”

  “Are you saying that you don’t want me to go?” she asked.

  “No. I’m saying that the chance of having a smash-up on these madhouse freeways is always there, but you drive on them anyway.”

  Reba frowned. “Of course. You do everything you can to reduce the risks, then you just keep going. There’s not much else you can do. Besides, the odds of something going wrong just aren’t that high.”

  “It’s the same way in rough country. You need experience to assess the odds, though.”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  “Right.”

  “And?”

  “I’d rather camp in rough country than drive on a freeway at rush hour,” said Chance wryly.

  “Then let’s go camping.”

  The two-lane highway wound beyond Fallbrook’s elegant country club homes and remodeled turn-of-the-century cottages. Golf courses and horse corrals gave way to steep granite hills covered with thick chaparral. Wild grass heavy with seeds swayed in the April wind. In a few more weeks the land would be a tawny brown, cured by the hot southern California sun. Then would come a time of stillness and heat reflecting off granite hillsides, a time when only chaparral survived, whispering its brittle secrets into the searing afternoons.

  But this day was sweet and warm, the green-and-granite springtime that was unique to the Pala country. Avocado trees grew on either side of the road, groves cut into the rocky hillsides with terraces so narrow and steep it seemed impossible that anything but weeds could grow there. Yet avocado trees loved the stony adversity of the land. In harvest season, the weight of the deep green fruit bent branches to the ground.

  Chance’s eyes ceaselessly measured the land, noting small movements and changing shadows. He pointed them out to Reba: the hawks poised hungrily on a fencepost or riding the wind; the ground squirrels darting across open ground, then freezing to conceal themselves from predators that depended on movement to reveal their prey; vultures high up, floating on transparent winds, waiting for time and circumstance to furnish a meal; and a doe with two fawns, watching quietly from the cover of chaparral at the side of the road.

  Reba’s pleasure in the trip diminished considerably as soon as Chance turned off the highway onto the dirt road that went to the mine. The hills were steeper and higher here, blending imperceptibly into true mountains. The road itself was little more than parallel goat tracks winding and doubling back, struggling over granite ridges and then plunging into canyons thick with boulders and brush. Washouts, rocks, holes, and landslides were the rule rather than the exception. If it hadn’t been for occasional glimpses of ruts twisting over the land ahead of them, Reba would have sworn that there was no way for a vehicle to get through.

  And even with the ruts as proof, she had her doubts.

  Chance drove the appalling nonroad with the same ease and confidence she had displayed on the crowded freeway. After a time, Reba unclenched her hands and relaxed, trusting his skill as he had trusted hers. She found she enjoyed watching him, his concentration and quick reflexes, the strength of muscles moving smoothly beneath his tanned skin as he held the laboring Toyota on the rough track.

  “There’s a tricky
patch around the bend,” said Chance without looking up from the road. “Want to walk it?”

  “Are you going to?”

  His lips curved beneath his moustache. “Some bloody fool has to drive.”

  “If you’re a bloody fool, I’m a candy-striped snake,” she said tartly. “I’ll ride, thanks. I’m in no hurry to break in the shoes you bought for me.”

  She looked down at the boots Chance had given her. At his urging, she had changed into her camping outfit when they stopped for lunch. Privately, she thought the boots looked dreadful. Clunky, graceless and dirt brown. They were supple, however, and they gripped the ground securely. The jeans he had bought her weren’t of the designer variety but they fit very well. The blouse followed the line of her body as though made exclusively for her. It was a soft cotton knit, the same dark blue as her jeans, with countless tiny buttons and loops fastening in a line down her left breast to her waist. The label of a very expensive house was sewn discreetly into the high collar.

  When she had come back to the table wearing her camp clothes, Chance had given her a look of approval that made her feel very female. She had mentioned that, while gorgeous, her blouse could hardly be classified as rough clothing. He had simply smiled and pointed out that the blouse was dark enough not to show dirt and washable in the bargain. What more could anyone ask of rough clothes? Besides, he added, she could always hide the blouse under the windbreaker he had bought for her.

  The Toyota lurched and swung to the side. Reba looked up from her boots, jolted out of her reverie. When she saw where the vehicle was—and where Chance was going to take it—she clenched her teeth against a scream. There was no road, nothing but a chaos of dirt and rock spilling down the steep mountainside to the black ravine far below.

  Bucking, roaring, wheels spinning and spewing loose dirt before biting down to bedrock, the Toyota clawed its way over the landslide. The vehicle hung perilously onto the shifting surface of the land. At times they slanted so steeply on the downhill side that Reba was sure they were only seconds away from flipping over. Each time the Toyota seemed to be losing its battle against going end over end, Reba’s nails dug deeper into her palms. Each fishtailing skid and swooping recovery made her teeth clench until the tendons in her neck ached.

  At some point she realized that while the Toyota’s movements were unpredictable and frightening to her, they weren’t to Chance. He knew where the wheels were likely to skid on loose rock. He knew just how steep an angle the vehicle could hold without turning turtle. He knew how to keep the power steady and how to ease back smoothly, when to coax and when to command. He reminded Reba of a diamond cutter she had seen in Holland; each movement quick, clean, no hesitations, no jerky motions, total concentration and incredible skill combined.

  Even so, Reba was glad to get to the other side. She sighed and sensed Chance looking at her.

  “Want to get out next time?” he asked.

  “Are there many more like that?”

  “One or two.”

  She grimaced. “It will almost be worth it.”

  “Worth what?”

  “Being scared to death just so I can appreciate you. You’re one hell of a good driver, Mr. Walker.”

  “You’re one hell of a good passenger. Frankly, I was expecting you to scream.”

  “I was afraid it would distract you,” she admitted.

  “Smart as well as beautiful,” Chance said approvingly. He took her hands and kissed the red marks her nails had left on her palms. “I should have made you wear the gloves I got for you.”

  “Gloves? It’s not cold.”

  “Leather is tougher than fingernails,” he said, turning his attention back to the road. “So is rock. You’ll need gloves in the China Queen, unless you want hands as ugly as mine.”

  “Your hands aren’t ugly,” protested Reba, remembering how gentle his hands were when they touched her. “They’re like all of you, strong and sensitive and hard. But not ugly. Never that.”

  The Toyota stopped suddenly. Chance unfastened his seatbelt, leaned over and kissed Reba until she was breathless. Before she could recover he had fastened himself back in and was concentrating again on the brutal road. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for the “one or two” rough patches ahead.

  Chance helped to distract her by talking about the geology of the area. He told her about continental plates sliding past one another with ponderous grace and world-shaking results, the crust wrinkling, magma welling up and hardening into granite masses beneath the land, earthquakes and mountains rising, molten rock shifting beneath the surface of the earth like an immense dragon stirring in its sleep.

  It was still happening today, tiny adjustments of the earth’s crust that could only be felt by man’s most sensitive machines. Hundreds of temblors animated the land, subliminal twitches of the incandescent dragon sleeping deep beneath the surface. And every so often the dragon rolled over, shaking the land with casual strength and devastating results.

  Chance drove the Toyota over a patch of decomposed granite, rock whose chemical “glue” had come unstuck through exposure to sun and wind and rain. The rock was pale orange and crumbled easily, making it as slippery as mud to drive over.

  “I could learn to hate granite,” said Reba as Chance took the Toyota through a downhill curve in a controlled skid.

  “What about pegmatite?”

  “What’s that?”

  He gave her a sideways smile. “Oh, it’s kind of like granite. It comes in dikes and intrusions—veins, to the prospector. There’s another thing about pegmatite,” he added. “Without it, there’s no tourmaline.”

  “I’m beginning to love pegmatite.”

  “Thought you would.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The pegmatite.”

  “We’re probably driving over masses of the stuff right now.”

  Reba looked out the window at the countryside dropping away steeply. “Looks like dirt to me.”

  “Underneath the dirt.”

  “But where?”

  Chance laughed. “If I knew that, I’d stake out a claim myself. All I know is that the Pala area of San Diego County”—he waved a hand to indicate the surrounding land—“is riddled with pegmatite, and that in some of those crumbling dikes and sills are crystals of rubellite—tourmaline to you—that have an absolutely unique color. There is nothing like Pala’s pink tourmaline anywhere else on earth.”

  “You know a lot about it,” she said, remembering his accurate assessment of the Chinese tear bottle. “Its history, geology, value. Everything.”

  For an instant Chance looked as hard as the land. Then he said casually, “Pala’s tourmaline is world famous. Any gem gouger worth the name knows about it.”

  Before Reba could say anything else, the Toyota came around the shoulder of a hill. Ahead of them lay the rough turnaround someone had bulldozed out at the road’s end just in front of the mine. The China Queen’s entrance was little more than a ragged hole at the base of a steep ridge. But it wasn’t the mine that caught Reba’s attention, it was the battered pickup truck parked in the turnaround.

  Someone was already inside the China Queen.

  Five

  Chance sent the Toyota into a skidding turn that didn’t end until they were facing back the way they had come. He set the brake but kept the engine on. With one hand he yanked free the cargo net that had kept everything in place while the vehicle jolted over the rough terrain. He opened a large, heavy tool chest and pulled out a pump shotgun. The barrel was long enough to be legal but too short for hunting game. Chance handled the weapon as easily as he had handled the Toyota. He flipped off the shotgun’s safety and pumped a shell into the firing chamber. The sound was metallic, chilling.

  “You know how to use this, don’t you?” he asked calmly, holding out the shotgun to her.

  Reba shook her head, drawing back. “No.”

  “Damn. City wise and country inn
ocent.” He checked the China Queen’s entrance quickly in the rearview mirror. There was no one in sight around the mine. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes—or if you see something coming out of the mine that you don’t like—drive as far as you can and then hike out to the highway. There’s a small ranch about a mile east of the mine turnoff. You can call Tim from there.”

  “Can’t we just call the sheriff?”

  “The sheriff doesn’t own the China Queen.”

  Chance was out of the Toyota before Reba could argue. He took the shotgun with him. The pickup was only a few steps from the Toyota’s rear bumper, and the mine entrance only a few feet beyond the truck. Chance reached through the truck’s open window, pulled out the keys that had been left in the ignition and stuffed them in his pocket. If Reba had to drive out, no one would be able to follow her but Chance.

  She checked her watch, then checked it again. It hadn’t stopped, it just was keeping time in slow motion while her heart raced.

  She looked in the rearview mirror. Chance had vanished into the black mouth of the China Queen. The Toyota vibrated slightly beneath her feet, idling easily. She unfastened her seatbelt and moved over to the driver’s seat. She glanced at her watch again. One minute and thirty-seven seconds. With a small sound of impatience and protest, she watched the second hand creep around toward the two-minute mark. She could have sworn that the hand was moving backwards. At this rate she’d be toothless and grey before fifteen minutes were up.

  She didn’t think of what might be happening in the mine. If she thought about it, she’d come unstuck and that wouldn’t do any good at all. It was rather like being on the balance beam. If you thought about the worst that could happen, it did. So you thought about it before you got on the beam. Once on the beam you thought only about the instant you were balanced in and the next instant to come. To think any further than that was an invitation to disaster.