by Lyssa Layne
The horses drew her and she walked that way.
As she approached, Nobody spotted her and brayed. The little guy tugged at her heart. One of the homeliest animals she’d ever seen, he was an unremarkable dusty brown with a darker, coffee-colored cross over his withers. His big, deep eyes, rimmed with black, were kind and his lips were cotton candy soft when they touched her palm searching for a treat. She couldn’t help but like him. She reached through the bars and scratched his forehead. “Hi, little guy. I wish you could tell me about my dad.”
The burro closed his eyes and sighed. If he knew any secrets, he wasn’t spilling them. Mallory smiled at him and rubbed her blunt nails over his poll a few more minutes. Her arm grew heavy and she dropped it. Nobody opened one eye, then closed it.
A horse came to the fence to see what was going on. Mallory liked him instantly. The fat black-and-white pinto had a face marking that looked like a raccoon’s mask. He tipped his head sideways and stuck his nose through the rails. She touched his velvety nose. “Hi, buddy. What’s your name?”
Mike said she could ride. Should she? Why not? Surely there wasn’t any harm if she stayed on the ranch, and not public land. A barn stood nearby and she went inside and found a bridle. Letting herself into the corral, she caught the gelding and led him to the hitching post and tied him. She groomed him with a brush she found inside, loving his silky hair under her hands. Dozens of saddles sat on racks. Choosing a likely looking one, she placed it on the pinto’s back and cinched him up.
Deciding it might be wise to tell someone where she was going, she ran back to the lodge. Shelby had disappeared from the kitchen and was nowhere in sight. Mallory grabbed a coke and an apple out of the fridge and stuck them in her coat pocket, then checked the rest of the building. There wasn’t a soul in sight. She scribbled a quick note on a piece of paper and propped it against Mike’s door, then hurried back to the barn.
Sticking two fingers between the horse and the cinch, she checked to make sure the saddle was tight, then untied the gelding and mounted. He turned willingly and she headed him down the road. As the horse stepped along in a smooth, easy gait, she surveyed her surroundings. She’d come in this way on the way in, and then again when she and Mike had gone to explore the Apache Trail.
Passing under the wooden arch that had The Jumping Cholla burned into it, she frowned at the ugly, hand-painted signs stuck in the ground. The SRPL sounded like a bunch of radicals who didn’t want anyone on the desert. In this day and age, that simply wasn’t possible. There were too many people, and too little resources.
Mallory knew that everyone could enjoy the lands set aside for the public, if all would join together and form a plan. Had Mike been given the chance to work with the environmentalists, or had he just been slammed with no choice? From what she knew, it had been the latter. One of the things she tried to impress upon her students was tolerance. Violence and seeing only one side got you nowhere.
About halfway to the highway, a road intersected with the one on which she rode. She knew the one she was on connected with Bush Highway. Riding alongside a busy highway held no appeal, so she reined the pinto the other way. The dirt track quickly turned to sand. It posed no problem for the horse and he walked along, his ears up and alert and his gait steady. The sides of the lane were lined by Cholla, saguaros, yucca and Palo Verdes. Keeping far out of reach of any of their angry thorns, Mallory guided her borrowed horse down the middle of the road. A bright red cardinal flew out of a bush and she watched his scarlet body drift into the horizon. The sun warmed her, and she lifted her face to its rays. If she allowed herself, she could almost forget what brought her here.
A long straight stretch beckoned and she touched the gelding with her heels. Obediently, he broke into a lope. Like a luxury sedan, he moved in a smooth fluid motion that was a joy to ride. The gentle breeze kissed her cheeks and lifted her hair off her shoulders. She could have gone forever, but the horse could not, and she reined him in to catch his breath. His sides heaved under her legs and his neck was damp beneath her palm. He had to be cooled down.
“I wish I knew your name, boy, because you’re much too special to be called just horse.” She patted him again and urged him forward.
The road wound around and came out behind the ranch on a rocky overlook. She was higher than she realized and could see for miles. To her right, Mesa and Phoenix were covered in a brown haze. But to her left all she could see was miles of sandy, cactus-covered hills against a bright blue horizon. Directly in front of her jagged red cliffs called the Bulldogs rose to the sky and the Salt River ambled below them. Further, she located the city of Apache Junction and the Superstitions. At this time of day, the mountains had a purple tinge.
To get a better look, she dismounted and held the leather reins in her hands. The ranch was directly below her. The green lawn and aqua pool stood out like precious gems worn with a plain gray dress. Two figures moved across the parking lot, but she couldn’t tell who they were for sure. Maybe Brent and Dianna. They walked side by side and stopped by the ranch vehicles. One of them got into one and drove away. Mallory watched as it sped up the road and turned toward Mesa. When she looked back, the other person had gone out of sight.
She half-turned to her left and studied the area a little more closely. Now that she paid more attention, she noticed the stable Shelby had mentioned. From the barn, trails went in every direction. From this height they looked like a spider’s web. Along the river she recognized three different rafting outfitters. Even from here they looked deserted and sad.
The gelding nudged her elbow and she turned to him. “Are you trying to tell me something? Ready to go?” Digging the apple out of her pocket, she offered it to him. He took it from her flat palm with one bite and crunched. She chuckled. “Greedy.”
She mounted and reined the pinto back the way she’d come. As he spun around, she noticed something red among a stand of Palo Verdes. She hadn’t seen it from where she’d stood because an outcropping of rock blocked her view until she moved. For a moment she thought it was another cardinal. But when she took a closer look she realized it was a car—a Jeep, to be exact.
If she were careful, she could pick her way through the prickly jungle and go down there. Nudging the gelding with her heels, she asked him to move forward. He obeyed, weaving through the cactus. Mallory watched like a hawk to make sure he didn’t bump into any of the deadly sharp spines.
Upon approaching the Jeep, Mallory slowed. No one was in sight. Her skin prickled and the horse danced a little. On first glance, the Jeep looked like any other. But something seemed off. Mallory dismounted, and holding the reins with a tight grip, moved closer. Unsure what made her uneasy, she studied the car.
Then it struck her.
Instead of a parked vehicle that someone would soon return to, it had an abandoned air about it. A jacket and a pair of work boots waited in the back seat and the driver’s door hung ajar. A water bottle had spilled across the floor. There weren’t any tracks in the sand. The rain from the night before had washed them away.
She sniffed, half expecting to smell that awful, sweet-sour of something dead. But nothing rode the air but the familiar clean odor of the desert. That didn’t mean anything. The dry air could dry out something dead, turning it into a piece of leather faster than colder climates.
A chill crawled up her neck and tightened her scalp. Quickly, she turned and mounted the restless horse. He, too, seemed ill at ease, fighting the bit. Holding him still, she paused long enough for a last look. A few feet from the Jeep, at the foot of a huge saguaro, a shovel lay in the sand. It looked rusty, unused.
The whole scene gave her the willie-nillies.
Arizona was a lot different from Nevada. At least the Nevada she knew. She’d never been through so many strange sensations there. Although she felt a little silly, she gave the horse his head and didn’t protest when he leaped into a gallop and sped down an arroyo, sand flying behind his hooves. She held on to the saddlehor
n with a death grip and let him carry her far from the spooky scene.
~*~
Mike couldn’t quit feeling guilty. He’d waited until Mallory wasn’t paying attention and he’d slipped the half of the map Skeeter had in his pants back in her purse. He’d done something rotten and it had been for nothing. Served him right. He holed up in his suite for the afternoon, hoping to come to terms with himself. He wasn’t used to feeling like a heel, and he didn’t like it. His growling stomach drove him out around 5:00 p.m.
A piece of paper fell across his feet when he opened the door. He stooped and picked it up. Mallory had gone riding. She promised to stay off the desert and wouldn’t be gone long. There was no way to know how long it had been there. Hours or minutes? He didn’t care if she rode the horses, they could use the exercise, but for her own safety he wished she wouldn’t have gone alone. No matter how well someone rode, accidents could happen.
Maybe someone had seen her leave. He checked the lodge, but nobody was around. He walked outside and half-jogged toward the stables. At the fence, he did a quick head count. Zorro was missing. At least she’d picked a reliable mount. All the horses were good, but some were more trustworthy than others. As he debated whether to try and follow her or not, Dianna walked up.
“Going riding?”
“I’m not sure. Mallory went for a ride by herself. I should go after her.”
Dianna’s mouth twisted. “Who’s she on?”
“Zorro.”
“She’ll be fine. He’s safe.”
Although she repeated what he thought, he wasn’t convinced. If she stayed on the road, there shouldn’t be any problem, but if she strayed off into the unmarked desert she could easily lose her way.
“Where are the others?” he asked.
“Brent took the dented Durango to Mesa to the body shop. I assume Alan and Shelby are in their cabin.” She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her khaki pants and hunched her shoulders. “I’m going to leave in a few minutes to pick him up. Why do you need the others?”
“I just wondered if anyone saw where Mallory went. I don’t like her being out alone.” He scanned the horizon.
“I don’t know, but I wish she’d leave for good.” Dianna’s thick brows pulled together. “She’s a hindrance. And worse, she could be a real problem. If she finds out what we did, she could ruin everything.”
She was right, but her implied threat irritated him. He could imagine how angry and hurt Mallory would be if she found out he’d had anything to do with her Cholla incident. “A couple more days and she’ll go home. Just let it be.”
She shot him a wounded look he hated. “I’m just looking out for you. Just like I always have.”
“I know.” He squeezed the back of his neck. Tension settled there and he couldn’t seem to shake it.
“Let me.” Before he could say no, she moved behind him and began to massage his knotted muscle. Dianna had been Elisha’s friend in college, not his. He’d never liked her as much as she liked him. When his affair with Elisha ended, he’d expected Dianna to leave with her, but she’d chosen to stay at the ranch. He knew she wanted to pick up where Elisha left off, but he had no interest.
He tolerated her touch long enough to make her think she’d helped, then moved. “I think I’ll go hunt for Mallory. I don’t like her being out alone.”
“Happy hunting,” Dianna said. “I have to go. Brent will be waiting.”
“Go then,” he said a bit impatiently.
“Don’t forget who your friends are,” she warned. “We’ve all got a lot at stake. Not just you. Don’t let another pretty face deter you from what you have to do.” She whirled away from him and stomped to her car. Jumping in, she revved the motor and threw gravel as she tore out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
If he didn’t owe her so much, Mike would tell Dianna to hit the road. However, she’d taken not only a pay cut—more than half—but she’d stood by him when the ranch closed. Her possessiveness was wearing on him, but he didn’t want to hurt her either. He would have to set her straight, but right now he had another woman to worry about—Mallory. She was probably fine, but he needed to find out for his own peace of mind.
He caught and saddled a brown gelding with white splashes across his rump.
After mounting, he guided the gelding up the road. Zorro’s tracks were plain as day in the sand. The sun drifted toward the horizon. Only a couple more hours until sunset. As usual, when he rode by the signs the SRPL had strewn about, his chest felt like it was going to explode. He resisted the urge to ride over to them and kick them down with his boots.
For anyone to suggest he would harm the desert he loved so much was ludicrous. Every day hundreds of acres of desert were churned up for more houses. Why didn’t someone stop that?
His head pounded and he made an effort to breathe more slowly. He reached the road Mallory had followed, and he tracked her. He knew it well. At the top there was a nice overlook and if you knew where to look, petroglyphs scratched into a boulder. He often brought guests up here to admire the centuries old art. But he hadn’t been this way since the ranch closed.
Off to his left, he heard the echo of hoofbeats coming from the sandy canyon below. Under him, Geronimo neighed, and the other horse answered. How had Mallory gotten down there? He turned the Appaloosa that direction. There was no trail, but it was easy enough to angle down the hill. Taking care to skirt the all-too-ready-to-attack Cholla, he moved his horse at a quick pace.
He came out in a flat, six-foot wash. He waited a minute to see which way his spotted gelding would look. The horse would tell him which way Zorro was. Sure enough, the gelding’s ears perked forward and he lifted his head, looking up the canyon.
A bend in the ravine prohibited him from seeing very far, but he knew Geronimo wouldn’t mislead him. Tapping the horse with his heels, he trotted toward the other horse. As he rounded the bend, Zorro nearly ran them down, but swerved and stopped. The black-and-white pinto, nearly white with foaming sweat, had no rider and no saddle. His eyes were wide and his nostrils were flared and rose red, indicating he’d run a far distance. What had happened? Why were his rider and saddle missing?
Mike rose in his stirrups and shouted. “Mallory?”
Zorro’s labored breathing bounced off the sandy walls, but nothing else.
“Come on, boy. We’ve got to find her.” Dragging Zorro behind him, he loped up the wash.
~*~
Mallory lay still for a few seconds before she moved her arms, legs, neck, and head. Nothing was broken, but the fingers on her left hand hurt quite a bit. She’d broken her fall with her hands and the left one had taken the brunt of her weight. At least it hadn’t been her head. She couldn’t draw enough air; the wind had been knocked out of her. Lying still, she concentrated on breathing until her lungs filled and emptied normally.
She spit out sand and rolled to her back. What had upset Zorro? He’d been galloping away from the spooky Jeep, and out of the blue, he’d begun to buck. A fair rider, she’d stuck with him on the first couple of jumps, but the third had sent her flying like a Frisbee. He’d seemed to get madder and leaped harder as he went, but maybe that had been her imagination. Either way, the result was the same—she’d landed face first in the sand.
She felt around for her glasses, and located them in the sand a few inches away. When she could see again she felt a little better.
Coming to her feet, legs wobbling, she didn’t bother to look for Zorro. He’d dumped her faster than a blind date and run for home like Seabiscuit on the home stretch. She did want to see if she could find what scared him though, and she began to retrace her steps. Just a few feet from where she’d landed, she found the saddle and blanket. That was odd. She came off because she wasn’t used to riding in the rodeo, but there was no reason for the saddle to come loose. She’d tightened it herself, and double checked it before she got on.
She bent and picked up the saddle blanket. Thick wool with a Navajo pattern acro
ss it, the blanket’s texture was a little rough. But as her fingers curled around the edge, she noticed something else. She knew the sensation oh-too-well. Flipping the blanket over, she found it—a piece of cactus nearly buried in the wool. Located right under the pommel, it wouldn’t touch a horse until it worked all the way through and poked him in the withers. Mallory stared at the offensive plant. How had it gotten there? She’d taken great pains to avoid the plants when she’d cut off the road. Besides, the location of the cactus made it obvious she hadn’t picked it up herself. Placed right in front of the saddle horn, at the end of Zorro’s mane, there was no way it could have gotten there without her seeing it, and getting it in her as well.
She supposed it might have been picked up by another horse on another ride.
Just as quickly as she thought of that, she discarded it. Not only had the blanket been lying face up on top of the pile, she’d picked the blanket up herself and her hand had rested exactly where the cactus lay. With one hand at each end of the pad, she’d lifted it and tossed it over Zorro’s back.
The cactus hadn’t been there.
Someone had done it deliberately to make him buck.
But when? Mallory held the thick wool pad in numb hands and retraced her steps from when she saddled the horse. She’d run into the lodge to get a coke and write a note. If someone was quick, they could’ve taken that opportunity to sabotage her.
This was too much. She could’ve been hurt badly or even killed. Sand might look soft, but it was a whole lot harder to land in than she ever imagined. Her fingers ached and she was pretty sure she’d jammed at least two of them. If she would’ve gotten hung up in the saddle, she could’ve been dragged to death. Her legs went shaky and she plopped to her behind right in the middle of the wash, still holding the evidence.
She was still sitting there a few minutes later when Mike rode into sight, leading Zorro. He reined in and jumped off, dropping both horses’ reins. They dropped their heads to look for a snack. He ran toward her and skidded to a stop, dropping to his knees at her side.