“Get up,” the ringleader said, his voice coming back to her as he was walking away.
“Here.” The son put a hand under her armpit and lifted her back to her feet. Then he took her by the belt and pulled. She stumbled after him, pitching forward into Goldie’s side when the pressure stopped. A sharp buckle edge bit into her cheek, and unyielding leather jammed her nose. Her eyes watered.
The son moved her to the side by her shoulders. Another man took her by the upper arm as soon as the son released her. Leather creaked, a body plopped onto the seat of a saddle, and Goldie huffed.
“Ready,” the son said from Goldie’s back.
“Lift your left foot, blondie.” The voice belonged to the creepy guy, and it was in her ear again.
She lifted. She wanted to get away from him as fast as possible. He let go of her arm and grabbed her foot with his hand.
“You know how to get on with a leg up?”
“Yes. When I can use my hands.”
The son said, “I’ll help you.”
Trusting Creepy Voice not to launch her up and over Goldie’s back wasn’t easy. But Trish didn’t have a choice. She stepped down in his hand and jumped off the other foot. The son caught her around the waist. Awkwardly, she swung her leg over Goldie’s rump. The horse snorted and shifted. She’d never liked double riders. Trish leaned away from contact with the son.
The son unfastened the belt around Trish’s wrists. “Put your arms around my waist.”
“I can balance on my own.”
“Do what he tells you.” It was Scary Guy.
Trish nodded, then thought of her moose photo. She only had a split second to retrieve it from her pocket, moving fast while trying not to look like she was moving at all. She used the hand on the opposite side of her body from Scary Guy. Was he watching? Did he see what she’d done? She crushed the picture in her palm to hide it, and put her hands in front of the son, palm and picture down, still holding her body as far back and away from him as she could. The son looped the belt around her wrists again, but left the opening slack. Her wrists landed in a humiliating location on the son’s lap. She flopped and wriggled her arms to find a different resting spot, but it only made matters worse. The ringleader and Creepy Voice hooted.
Trish felt tears threatening. Heat flamed from her chest up to her forehead.
“Sorry,” the son whispered. “Hold on to my shirt.”
“I can’t. My wrists are turned wrong.”
“Can you reach the saddle horn, if you lean forward?”
Trish tried, and her body pressed into the son’s back. She flinched, wanting to jerk away, but her hands found the horn, and she decided that of two evils, this was the lesser one.
The son kicked Goldie’s sides. The mare ducked her rump and scooted forward.
Trish held on with her legs, careful not to dig into Goldie’s flanks. “She doesn’t need to be kicked. Just cluck to her. Or squeeze her a little.”
“Okay.”
The other horses surged ahead of them. Their hoofbeats were muffled by grass. The son turned Goldie uphill.
It was now or never. She wished she knew whether this was a decent spot to leave her clue, but what choice did she have? Trish relaxed her palm and the picture expanded. She maneuvered one of its edges between her fingers like a card trick, then flicked it away from herself, the son, and Goldie.
In her head, she sent up a silent message. I left you a clue, Dad. Please find it. Please hurry.
Chapter Twenty-seven: Spook
Red Grade Road, Two Miles South of Woodchuck Pass, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming
September 20, 1976, 9:00 p.m.
Patrick
Patrick slowed Reno to a walk to give both horses a breather. The slow trot he’d been asking of them is the most efficient gait for a horse, but they’d been working hard all day. The animals needed rest, food, and most of all, water—more water than the mouthfuls they were slurping out of puddles. His own stomach had gone past growling to roaring and now was silent, and his mouth was parched. But it was up to him to find Trish, and that desperate fact had been driving him onward.
He couldn’t believe the horses had been so willing, actually. After a full day, they had given him fifteen more miles by his reckoning, in less than three hours at an ever-increasing altitude. They were close to Woodchuck Pass, so he estimated they were at nine thousand feet. It was too much, and he had no idea how much more he would have to ask of them. But every moment that passed was one where his daughter was missing, and anything could be happening to her. Tired horses and people were the least of his problems.
He groaned aloud, and Reno’s ears turned toward the sound. Patrick was the one who had let Trish stay alone at the campsite. It didn’t matter that he had almost without fail found people in Wyoming to be kind and helpful. She was gone. His guilt was soul-crushing. Who was she with? And why take the horses, truck, and trailer, too? It was brazen. Taunting. Or just very foolish. And if it were foolish, that meant it could be the act of teenagers. He prayed that it was just Trish and Brandon. The crumpled-up note in his pocket gave him hope, even though it made his blood boil. I can’t wait to see you again. Next time alone. And soon. He’d ground her for the rest of her life if she’d run off with that kid, after he hugged her and kissed her and gave her a thorough injury check.
But what if she wasn’t with Brandon? He had to face facts. It was a really bad sign that their campsite had been trashed. Something had happened there. He just hoped it was unrelated to her whereabouts.
Hope. He couldn’t let go of hope. As long as he didn’t know otherwise, his daughter was alive and well, and he would be hopeful. Hopeful and determined. If someone had taken her and he found them, God help the bastard, because Patrick didn’t plan to hold back. There was no way he was leaving this mountain without her. No way he was telling his wife that Trish was gone.
He angled his head and scanned the road ahead of him. The tracks were still easy to follow. Owl eyes, he thought. That’s what the Indians had called the expanded periphery of night vision. As a doctor, he’d learned that the eyes primarily use cones in the light and rods in the dark, and that the difference changes not only how the world looks, but how the eyes are even used. Cones see straight ahead, in full color, and with detail. Rods are for peripheral vision, with no color or detail. The adjustment to darkness between the two takes about half an hour, so his eyes were now fully adapted and nearly a hundred thousand times more sensitive to light. Because of this, he moved his eyes slower than he would have in daylight, blinked to refocus frequently, and forced his eyes to view the world off-center. He couldn’t see as well as the horses, especially with them moving so quickly, but he could see well enough.
Perry mumbled in his sleep. Patrick looked back at him. His son listed in the saddle, head flopping down. Then he jerked upright. How was the kid still onboard? Luckily, Duke would follow Reno to the ends of the earth, so Perry’s dead weight and lack of direction didn’t slow them down. Patrick was keeping Duke on a loose pony line with his lead rope, just in case.
An owl hooted, and Patrick flinched. Branches snapped beyond the reach of his vision. The wind played tricks on his ears. Was that a growl or a gust? He was glad the boy was asleep. He needed rest. Plus, the night sounds in the dark were spooky enough that they even had Patrick on edge.
Perry’s head lolled forward, and the cycle of list and jerk started again.
Patrick wished he’d left him at Ranger Creek. But where, alone on the side of the road? Or with strangers? At the time, those options had seemed like bad ideas. If Susanne had come, he could have left him with her. Although knowing her, she’d have insisted on coming, too. Now, in the dark—facing unknown dangers—he worried that what they faced ahead would be worse. And when they found Trish, what would he do with Perry then? He’d be putting one kid at risk for the sake of another. The boy slowed him down, too, which left Trish out there longer. A Hobson’s choice. A nightmare for a parent.
>
He pulled his eyes away from his son to recheck the truck and trailer tracks in the mud. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, giving them a small break. Enough wet to be miserable, but not enough to wash away the tire marks. He nudged Reno with his heels, asking for a trot again. Reno complied a little more slowly after each break. Duke’s resistance was more active. Patrick wrapped the pony line around his saddle horn. He hated putting the burden on Reno, but Duke had to pick it up. Reno leaned into the drag without faltering. Duke’s head wagged and his front legs splayed, but it was useless. Reno outweighed him by nearly a thousand pounds. With a snort, Duke gave in, but without enthusiasm or a slack lead.
The jerky-gait transition wrested Perry from sleep. “What is it?” His voice sounded startled.
Patrick turned to check on him. He looked good enough. “It’s okay, son. We’re still riding after your sister.”
Before he could say anything further, Reno snorted and exploded sideways. Then he rolled back and bolted in the direction they’d come. For a moment, it was all Patrick could do to stay on his horse. Duke was a few beats slower, and the pony line wrapped around Patrick’s back.
“Hang on,” Patrick shouted to Perry, without turning around.
He didn’t dare compromise his balance while Reno was in a blind panic. Reno wasn’t speedy, but neither was he smooth. Riding him at a gallop across rough terrain was like riding a truck with no shocks across a boulder field. The pressure of the rope on Patrick’s back eased, then hit his saddle horn at full force. He had to release Duke. Perry’s horsemanship skills weren’t up for a midnight rodeo. Thank goodness Patrick had wrapped the line without tying it off. He shifted his reins to one hand and unwound the lead rope, then let it fly.
He turned his attention to his own horse, shifting his weight and pulling back on the reins. “Whoa, Reno. Whoa.”
The horse ignored the pressure on his bit. Whatever was behind them, Patrick had to get the horse under control and get back to his son. He slid his hand down one rein, gripped it, and pulled it straight back to his hip while pressing one heel into Reno’s side behind his back cinch. Reno stretched his neck out, resisting the one-handed stop maneuver. Patrick held firm and shifted his weight again, using his body to interrupt the horse’s forward propulsion. Reno’s gait became even choppier and harder to ride, but the big beast kept rocketing forward, his head and nose turned to face the opposite direction. But Patrick didn’t give in either.
After fifteen yards, Reno submitted to the turn, rearing a little with each step. Patrick circled him until it was too hard for the horse not to walk. Reno huffed and snorted.
“Perry?” Patrick shouted. “Are you okay?”
Duke trotted slowly up beside them. Perry was bouncing in the saddle like a dead fish, legs flapping. The boy could never quite get the hang of posting—standing in the stirrups in rhythm with a trotting horse. And with his sore ankle and blistered feet, he didn’t even seem to be trying anymore.
“I’m okay, Dad.”
“Did you get a look at what scared Reno?”
Perry grinned. “It was a moose. A big one, with a giant set of antlers.”
“Uh-oh.” Reno hated moose. His fear of them was irrational, since he was bigger than any he’d ever encountered. That fact didn’t compute in his brain, though. Like most horses, Reno thought of himself as a helpless kitten when confronted with a perceived threat. The curse of the prey animal.
“He charged you guys for a second, then he ran into the trees.” Perry pointed to their left, uphill.
“Did Duke do okay?”
“Duke acted like he didn’t even see him.” Perry patted Duke’s withers.
Duke is too wiped out to care. “All right—you’re sure the moose didn’t come back?”
“I’m sure.”
Patrick leaned over Reno’s neck. “Did you hear that, boy? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“You dropped a canteen.”
Patrick nodded. He clucked and squeezed Reno with his heels. The horse backed up instead of going forward. “Come on, Reno. Don’t be a baby. The big, bad moose is gone.”
He kicked Reno’s sides, wishing he had his spurs. He’d left them in a compartment in the horse trailer, since they weren’t a good match for elk hunting. Reno backed up faster. Patrick untied the lariat he always carried on the saddle. He waved it over Reno’s backsides. The horse stopped backing up but still refused to walk forward. Patrick smacked the saddle with the rope. It made a loud thwack. Reno shook his head up and down.
“You’ve left me no choice, bud.” Patrick thwomped the rope across the horse’s rump.
Reno did an Olympic-record-breaking standing long jump, tail swishing, then started walking, catfooted. Patrick knew they were still one moose breath away from another bolt. Duke brought up the rear.
“Did you see where the canteen fell?” Patrick asked.
“Uh, not really.”
Patrick felt stupid for asking. He knew exactly the type of answer he’d get from a kid Perry’s age. He started scanning the ground. When Reno wheeled, he’d taken Patrick off-road, so looking for a canteen in a camo-patterned burlap pouch in the dark should have been a challenge. But Reno made it easy. He snorted and sidestepped. Patrick looked down to see what his horse had shied away from this time, and there was the canteen.
“Whoa.” When Reno was almost stopped, Patrick hopped down.
The impact of feet to ground was painful after a day on horseback. He hobbled back to the canteen like a broken-down cowboy and grumbled as he leaned over to get it. Beside the canteen, he thought he saw a line of crushed grass. Tire tracks? He knelt, running his hand across the grass and tilting his head to the side. There were faint tire tracks across the virgin grass. There was no road here, but there were definitely multiple sets of recent heavy-vehicle tracks. Two, three, maybe four sets? He followed them back toward the main road, leading Reno by his reins. The tracks connected with yet another road, this one faint, but clearly an established thoroughfare. Tire tracks stretched out before him and met up with Red Grade, one hundred feet away. He walked the tracks all the way to the road, keeping Reno and himself in the grass, with Duke and Perry close behind them.
When they were near the edge of Red Grade, something beside the tracks caught his eye. It was light, and an odd shape. A piece of bone, maybe. Or granite. He’d passed it by when a thought struck him like a fist to the jaw.
He whirled and scooped the object off the ground. He squinted as he rotated it. Two balls with smiley faces on them, connected by a figure eight of elastic. A fastener, like girls used in their hair.
“Trish wears some like that,” Perry said.
Coincidence? The odds of another person dropping a hair fastener in the middle of the Bighorn National Forest near where Trish had disappeared were almost nil. And hope flamed, a red-hot poker to Patrick’s chest. “Come on.” He vaulted onto Reno and traced his steps back to where he’d found the canteen, then followed the faint tire tracks toward the forest.
“This is the direction the moose went,” Perry said.
Patrick choked up on the reins a little. Tough luck for Reno. Patrick was finally hot on the trail of his daughter.
Even as he was tracking and talking to his son, Patrick’s mind was racing, and not to good places. If Trish was traveling of her own free will, she’d have no reason to plant a hair tie along her path. It was unlikely she dropped it by accident. Not at the first turn the truck had made off Red Grade. His daughter was signaling him. She was helping him find her, because she needed him.
He had to face the most likely scenario. She’d been taken and finding her might be the easier part of his mission tonight.
Reno snorted, and Patrick realized he was urging the horse forward at the same time that he had pulled back too hard on the reins, confusing and frustrating the animal. He had to stay calm and focused. He tried to relax. They were so close to Trish now. Of course, that meant they were close to whoever had her, as well. A
nd that meant the danger to Perry was increasing. He had to find someplace safe for Perry to wait this out. Things were likely to go south in a hurry once they found Trish.
He pulled up at the edge of the trees. “Wait for me here.”
“Why?”
“I need you to be safe and out of my way, in case there’s trouble.”
“I can stay out of the way.” Perry’s voice was wheedling.
“Yes, you can. Right here.” Patrick looked at him sternly. “I mean it. It’s for Trish’s safety, and yours.”
“Dad, what if that moose comes back?”
“Duke’s not scared of any moose.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes. Count it out.”
“What if you’re not back by then?”
“I will be.”
“Okay.” Perry’s voice was lackluster.
He took off at a high trot on Reno, not giving Perry any more opportunities to argue. He pulled his revolver out of its holster and held it down at his side. He’d never fired from Reno’s back before, and he didn’t want tonight to be the first time. It was a long way to fall if Reno tossed him. But he’d rather get thrown than be taken by surprise. Or worse, miss his chance to get his Trish back.
The woods grew thicker. A branch came at his neck. He ducked just in time to keep from being clotheslined off Reno’s back. He pulled the big horse back to a slow walk and dodged branches. It was darker in the trees, but the tracks were still visible, just barely, thanks to all the rain. As they went deeper into the forest, the pine needles piled up on the ground, though, and the tracks started to disappear.
Patrick was afraid he’d lost their trail and was about to circle back when Reno let out a whinny that was almost a shriek. He’d never quite recovered his equilibrium from the moose encounter, and his fall back into panic wasn’t a long one. He started backpedaling, nearly falling as his rear end slid under him. Branches whipped Patrick in the back of the head and torso. Straining to see into the distance, Patrick caught a quick glimpse of two large mounds. He had the impression of a sorrel colored animal before he turned all his attention to Reno. He had to regain control of his horse before one or both of them was seriously hurt.
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