Knifepoint

by Alex van Tol

  Waited until I could trust my voice to be steady.

  “Fine,” I said. My voice shook anyway, and I hated myself for it. “I’ll take this ride out. Not because you told me to, but because there are good people out there who are waiting to explore the wild Rocky Mountains on horseback. That’s what they pay money to do here, at your ranch, James.”

  I turned on my heel and stormed out of the tack room.

  Outside on the steps, I stopped to swipe my arm across my eyes.

  Then I rounded the corner to greet my guests.

  Chapter Three

  Thinking about yesterday’s fight with James makes my pulse quicken. I’m still so angry with him. I’m angry with myself for backing down too. I’m sure, when he finally catches up with me, he’ll have a lot to say. I might even lose my job. But I guess I’m okay with that.

  At this point, I think I’d be fine with moving back to the city and actually making some money. I’ve had my nature fix. Maybe I’ll start looking on Craigslist tonight. See what’s out there.

  Immersed in my thoughts, I don’t notice Darren’s return. “Ready for that adventure ride?” He’s leaning on the corral fence again. Smiling at me.

  My stomach does a slow dip ’n’ dive, settling low within my body. I close my eyes in a final pointless prayer that one of the other wranglers will magically appear—maybe even the ranch heir himself? But no one comes. It’s all up to me. This is my day to show my cojones, it seems. I sigh inwardly.

  I work up a friendly smile and turn to Darren. This might be my last day here.

  Might as well make it an adventure.

  “You bet,” I say. “I am so ready.”

  His grin widens, and my stomach tilts sideways a bit. Oh, is he ever nice to look at. I guess this might work out to be kind of fun after all. Maybe. As long as I can manage to stay on top of Whiskey.

  Can you hold your Whiskey? my brain bleats, and I utter a thin little laugh.

  I take a few steps toward him with my hand outstretched. “I’m Jill,” I offer.

  His hand, warm and strong, takes mine. “Pleased to meet you, Jill,” he says.

  The second he touches me, I blush from my toes to the roots of my hair. I want to drop through the ground. Is anybody else witnessing my complete and utter loserdom? My eyes dart around. All is still. The flag ripples high on the pole, but otherwise there’s no movement anywhere that I can see. The ranch is still dozing.

  I look back at Darren. His eyes take me in, roving over my body. Not in a sicko way. Just enough to make me feel suddenly shy. I drop his hand and wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans. He smiles warmly again.

  I try to get a grip on my fluttering insides. What’s my deal today? This guy makes me feel like I’ve never flirted before in my life.

  Taking a deep breath, I size Mr. Bar G up. Darren. I scan his long, lean body with the same degree of interest that he gave to mine moments ago. I decide to pair him with Springsteen, who’s big and fast. And sure-footed. The last thing I need is a dude horse that loses track of its hooves on rough ground.

  I slip a bridle over Springsteen’s head and he takes the bit willingly.

  Loves to run, the hairy bugger. I tighten his saddle and stroke his neck a bit, inhaling his gorgeous hay-dirt-and-poo smell. I hand the reins to Darren.

  “This is Springsteen,” I say. “Climb on up. I’m going to grab my saddlebags from inside, and then we’ll get moving.”

  I head into the barn.

  My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimness inside. I fumble around in my saddlebags, feeling for my sunscreen, lip balm and water bottle. All there. Good. I take my phone out of my chest pocket and slip it into one of the soft leather bags.

  I search around on the desk for a pen so I can write a note for the other wranglers to let them know what time I left.

  No pen. What a surprise. I find a pencil, but its lead is broken. I toss it. Whatever.

  I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Those lazy hungover asses will probably still be asleep by the time I get back.

  My coffee has gone cold, but I take one last sip and set the mug down on the desk. I’m as ready for this as I’ll ever be.

  I step into the corral and slip the saddlebags up behind Whiskey’s saddle. I tie the leather straps to secure it, then swing up onto her back. Okay, swing is a bit poetic. There’s nothing graceful about mounting a horse, I’m afraid. Not for me, at least. It’s just a grab-and-scramble kind of thing. Once I’m up, though, I’m good to go.

  I decide to skip the usual safety and skills talk. This guy’s a wrangler. He looks like he knows his stuff. Doing a bit of comparison shopping at another ranch is what I figure. Seeing what kind of value we offer our guests. Taking that information back to Bar G.

  Fair enough.

  I decide right then and there to show him a good time.

  I ease the main corral gate open, careful to close it behind me so the other horses can’t get out. You only make that mistake once. It’s still pretty quiet around here. I spot a couple of guests drifting back to their cabin from brunch in the main lodge. Not much else is moving. Must’ve been a heavy night of partying for the ranch staff.

  I catch a glimpse of Jeremy through the restaurant window. He’s wearing his white shirt and black tie, perfectly turned out for his shift despite probably still being hammered. We practically had to pour his ass into the car last night when we left the Ram and Raven. He waves as we pass the window, then turns his attention back to his customers. My head gives a tiny throb of sympathy for how the poor guy must be suffering. At least I was the DD last night. If I’d been drinking too, there’s no way Darren would’ve gotten his adventure ride this morning.

  Ah, yes. An adventure ride. That’s what this guy’s paying for, after all. So be it then. I step it up a notch, booting Whiskey into a brisk trot. We ease into a slow canter, leaving the ranch behind and entering the provincial park that borders it. Hundreds of acres of trails, river and mountains await our exploration. Never mind that the wranglers usually stick to the same four or five well-worn trails— it’s the thought of all that unexplored territory that makes me feel so free.

  I guess I’ll miss this part of the job.

  We’re pretty far from the ranch when it hits me: Darren never gave me a ticket stub for his ride. I have no way of knowing whether he signed the waiver form. The one that says you might die from tripping, falling, drowning, being eaten by a bear, burning in a forest fire, plunging off a cliff or otherwise meeting your untimely end in a horse’s company, so sign here on the dotted line. In fact, I don’t know if he even paid for this ride.

  Damn. That’s a pretty big oversight.

  I start to turn around in my saddle to ask Darren whether he did, in fact, sign the waiver in the main office. Maybe he just forgot to give me his stub.

  But in the next moment an evil little thought starts to curl around the edges of my mind. So what if he didn’t sign it? He knows how to ride. I highly doubt he’ll break his neck and sue. I’m probably going to get my butt fired as soon as I see James anyway. And even if I don’t, I think I’m moving on, so…wouldn’t it be fun for me to just… take this mystery cowboy out on a free ride? It’ll be my last little screw you to James.

  I’m so chuffed by my naughty plan that I turn around and flash Darren a full-on grin. Surprised, he grins back.

  Ooh, those butterflies again. With a whoop and a kick, I spur Whiskey into a hard gallop. We fly through the forest, laughing, as the morning sunshine streams through the pines.

  Chapter Four

  Okay, I fly through the forest, laughing in the sunshine. It takes a moment for me to realize I don’t hear Springsteen’s footfalls behind me anymore. When did I lose Darren? I slow Whiskey to a walk, and then I stop. I turn around in the saddle to look behind us. There’s Darren— waaaaaay far back at the trail junction. Jesus, is he getting back on his horse?

  When—and how—did he come off?

  I pull a U-turn and canter back.
r />   Springsteen stands patiently, waiting for his rider to get it together and climb back on.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He laughs nervously. “A little dusty.

  But I’m all right.”

  I slide off Whiskey and hold Springsteen while Darren climbs back on. “You’re, uh…You’re not a wrangler, are you, Darren Parker?”

  Darren shakes his head. I expect to find embarrassment in his face, but he’s got that cheerful smile pasted on.

  “Nope,” he grins. “I’m a bartender.”

  I nod. I feel a bit relieved that I don’t have to endure two hours of fearful risk-taking in the saddle. But part of me is disappointed all the same.

  “So we’ll, uh, maybe we’ll take it a little bit slower?” I ask. “I mean, we’ll still go on an adventure ride, just…just not a really fast one.”

  He grins. “Sure. A slow adventure ride sounds great.”

  Suddenly I have a brilliant idea.

  “Maybe I’ll take you to the old mill site,” I say. “It’s totally hidden away up on a mountainside.” I haven’t been there in years.

  “That sounds perfect,” he says. I can tell by his face that he likes the idea. We ride side by side for a while, hemmed in by trees on one side and the river on the other. He tells me that he’s from down east, here for his last “fun” summer job before he finishes his mba in January.

  That he’s wanted to see the Rockies his whole life, and now he’s finally here.

  For his adventure.

  I wave to a group of white-water rafters drifting by.

  “Who are they?” Darren asks.

  “Local rafting outfit,” I answer. “I worked for them as a river guide last summer. The Sawtooth is a popular river for white-water kayakers and rafters.

  Lots of good rapids.” The rafters drift around a bend and out of sight. “You should try it sometime,” I say. “It goes with your whole adventure theme.”

  “Mmm, nah,” he says. “I’m not much of a swimmer. Why’d you quit rafting?”

  I shrug. “It wasn’t as fun as it looked.

  Heavy rafts, dumb tourists who don’t listen. Lots of hard work.”

  “But you work hard at the ranch, don’t you?” he asks. “I watched you bringing in the horses this morning. Didn’t look like a cakewalk to me.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, but at least I’m an okay rider,” I say. “I sucked at steering a thousand-pound raft through a whitewater pinball machine.”

  This makes him laugh. We turn off the main trail and onto a side path.

  We’re headed toward the old mill.

  Chapter Five

  There’s nobody around as we meander through a residential camp at the base of Mount Whiteridge. That’s because it’s Saturday afternoon. Transition day. One tired group of campers has returned home, and the next won’t arrive until tomorrow. As we walk, I tell Darren about my memories of being a camper here. Living in a teepee. Canoe trips. Midnight kitchen raids. Getting lost in the dark. Falling in love.

  I keep an eye out for the wooden arrow that points the way up the hillside, toward the mill site. I remember my first visit. Our counselor took our group when I was about twelve. We spent a long time looking at the remnants of the millkeeper’s home up on the mountainside. It was eerie. Almost like his spirit was still up there somewhere. Watching.

  Before long I spot the faded sign. I turn Whiskey’s head uphill. As I lead Darren up to the site, I wonder how much has changed in the years since I last visited. Is the old cabin still standing? Has the rusted car become overgrown by bushes?

  A few minutes later, we arrive. The wooden wreckage spreads out around us. Half an acre of thin boards are piled in a huge heap, like a giant spilled a big box of matches. They’re a lonely reminder of an old-timer’s attempt to make a living. I always wonder why he picked a mountainside to set up the mill.

  Small saplings have started to grow up along the edge of the decomposing wood. It’s quiet here, and I feel myself relax. Darren’s mellow too. We’re pretty far from the camp below—half a mile or so. Maybe a couple of miles from the ranch. I can’t hear anything but the aspen leaves whispering in the breeze.

  That’s why they call them “trembling aspens”—because they’ll shiver in the slightest wind. It’s a sound I love.

  I dismount and loosen off Whiskey’s saddle. I tie her to a tree so her head can reach the sweet grasses around the base. I tie Springsteen the same way.

  I unbuckle my saddlebag and grab my water bottle.

  “Come on,” I say. I’m excited to show Darren around. He seems just as stoked as I am to check out this creepy place.

  I show him the mossy old cabin and its built-in wooden bed. The mattress is gone now. Who lived here? What was his life like? The table’s still there, next to the four-pane window. Did I just imagine it, or did there used to be old cans and utensils too? I show Darren the rusted-out car beside the cabin. It’s a two-door, smaller than I had remembered.

  “How’d he get the car up here, I wonder,” Darren says.

  I glance behind us to where the path we took meets up with another one.

  “Look there,” I say, pointing. “You can see where the road used to lie. Right across the side of the mountain.” I look back to the car, imagining the people it once carried. “I wonder why they didn’t just build their house in the valley below.

  Why would they bother to set this all up on the side of a mountain?”

  “They?” asks Darren. He’s standing close to me now. Really close. He smells good. Like soap and sunshine. “I thought this was just one crazy mountain man’s place,” he says.

  “Well, maybe,” I say. “But I think it was a ‘they.’ Because look at this.” I put my hand on his elbow and pull him farther down the narrow trail to where a rusted-out baby carriage rests on its side in the grass. A chill creeps up my back as I look at it. I wonder what happened to that baby.

  I shiver. Darren puts his arm around my shoulders. My heart does a giddy little double-skip and I blush a bit, but I don’t move under the weight of his arm. I like that he wants to touch me. I want to touch him too, but I don’t. Instead I just smile. He smiles back and gives my shoulders a little squeeze.

  “Let me show you one more thing,” I say. I turn and lead him toward the old well.

  The well is covered—at least it used to be. I mean, I sure as hell hope it still is. The grass is pretty long around here. It could easily conceal a well opening. I don’t remember exactly where it was, but I seem to recall it was a bit uphill. Just through these bushes. Wasn’t it?

  I’m bent over and rustling through the greenery, trying to part the thick undergrowth with my hands. There it is. It’s still got its cover. I push the grass to the side, exposing a mossy wooden disc.

  I don’t hear Darren come up behind me. But I feel him. Without warning, he grabs my hips and presses his pelvis against me. Against my butt.

  Being this close to him doesn’t feel so nice this time.

  “Hey!” I shout. I kind of laugh. But it’s one of those uncomfortable laughs.

  You know the ones. Like when you’re not sure what’s really going on. “What the hell?” I try to stand up. I don’t like this. I want to shake him off.

  But Darren’s hands grip the sides of my hips, an iron vise. He holds me there.

  Hard. I can’t move away. My laughter dies in my throat.

  “Darren!” I shout. “Let me go!” I’m pissed now. My voice cracks. I taste fear. I lunge forward but I can’t slip his grasp. He laughs.

  My mouth suddenly feels like it’s full of cotton. I try to stand, but my hands can’t push me up off the ground. He’s too strong. I don’t want to drop to the ground either. I need my legs under me.

  I need to run.

  Chapter Six

  My heart is smashing against my ribcage. I’m tingling everywhere. In the space of a minute this whole situation just went from feeling pretty good to feeling really wrong.

  In front
of me, my fingers try to grab something—anything—to pull me away from Darren. But there’s nothing to pull on. Just grass. I snatch at it. He’s laughing. He slaps the side of my butt. “Giddyup, gurl,” he drawls.

  Suddenly, rage and fear coil my guts into a tight spring. Something inside me snaps.

  With a sudden lunge and twist, I break free of Darren’s grasp. I fall back into the bushes. My hand hits something hard. The wooden well cover. I’d have preferred to fall down the shaft, considering how my morning is going.

  I scramble to my feet, ready to rip this guy a new asshole. Who does he think he is? Darren’s chuckling, his head thrown back, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. His neat teeth gleam white against the green of the trees.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout.

  Darren stops laughing. “Aw, Jill,” he says. He spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I was just goofing around. Can’t you take a joke?” He looks at me. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

  I brush my backside off, wanting to wipe off his touch. I feel dirty. Cheap. Like I’ve done something wrong.

  “You’ve got a pretty crappy idea of what makes a joke,” I seethe. “Don’t you touch me again.” Something in his eyes changes. He likes to see me getting angry I realize. I feel sick.

  He’s not normal.

  Suddenly my outrage dissolves, replaced by cold fear. It sticks in my throat. Darren takes a step toward me.

  I jump back, but he grabs my wrist and yanks me around, twisting my arm behind my back.

  Pain explodes in a series of flashing white and red lights. My body locks up with agony as my shoulder rotates toward the outer edge of its range of motion.

  I scream. What the hell is going on?

  How can this be happening to me?

  I’ve never heard myself scream before. Not like this. It’s a scream of fear and pain and complete helplessness.

  He’s going to kill me. The words flash in my head, like neon letters against a dark building. On. Off. On. Off.