Smoketree

by Jennifer Roberson

  I waited for the upside down sensation of sudden waking to subside. The clanging continued, punctuated by barking dogs. I seriously considered ignoring it all, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep again until I found out what was going on.

  But it was the panicked whinnying of a terrified horse that cut through my thoughts like a clarion.

  Fire. Again? I dressed hurriedly, jamming feet into bedroom slippers and yanking my jacket on over a sweater and jeans. As I closed my cabin door I fully expected to see leaping flames against the darkness, but there was nothing. Nothing save the continued ringing and the whinnying of a horse.

  Cass stood on the porch, white-faced and grim in the electric lighting as she banged on the triangle with a metal wand. I climbed the wide steps next to Elliot Fitch. The fringe of his hair stood up in spikes and his eyes were decidedly fuzzy behind his glasses. He wore a green terrycloth robe, tying and retying the belt as if it gave him something to concentrate on. Francesca came up behind him, clad in a creamy silk dressing-gown.

  “Can you stop the noise?” Francesca asked.

  “Once everyone is here,” Cass agreed. “Harper said to make certain everyone came.”

  Lenore Oliver mounted the steps with her husband and stood close to him, one hand set against her forehead to block the yellow light. She wore a heavy caftan, pale green and flowing. Oliver himself was still fully dressed and fully alert, but his eyes narrowed in reaction to the incessant clanging. “We’re all here now,” Lenore said pointedly.

  “No,” Cass said flatly. “Mr. Rafferty isn’t here.”

  “I’m here.” He melted out of the darkness. He wore brown trousers and a white pajama top, half-hidden beneath a loose burgundy robe. He had left off the horn-rims, and his dark eyes were keenly observant. Research, I thought.

  “What is all of this about?” Lenore demanded in the tone of a petulant child.

  “Brandon isn’t here yet,” I said suddenly.

  But he was. He joined the group a moment later, also fully clothed. He frowned as he moved next to me and rested one hand against my waist. “What’s up?”

  Cass turned and faced the small group. She was tight-lipped and pale, speaking in a flat, controlled voice. “The police have already been called, but Harper would like you to go to the pens. Now, please.”

  Lenore stiffened at the tone of command. Oliver frowned heavily. “Just what is the reason for this, Miss Reynolds? Why the police? And why drag all of us out in the middle of the night if it is a police matter?”

  Cass was not intimidated by John Oliver. “Harper told me to gather all of you together. I’ve done that much. Now you’re to go to the pens. He’s waiting there. I think you’d better go.”

  We went, in various stages of irritation and curiosity. Brandon made a few rhetorical comments; Lenore complained; Elliot, more awake now, stuck close to Francesca; John Oliver and Rafferty said absolutely nothing at all.

  I was as silent, but it wasn’t for lack of words. I had caught the note of tension in Cass’s voice, particularly when she had mentioned Harper’s name. I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt another “accident” had occurred.

  Harper stood in front of Preacher’s individual pipe-railed pen adjoining the others. He was fully clothed and rigidly alert, watching all of us with waiting eyes. He didn’t wear his hat, however, and he ignored my searching stare with diligence.

  The horse I had heard whinnying was Preacher. He was in his stall, but tied at the far end. He moved restlessly against the halter rope, pawing and tossing his head. I saw a thin line of sweat reaching from ears to shoulder, and more dotting his flanks.

  A large belted horse blanket was spread over a long object lying before Harper. A couple of smaller saddle blankets had been added for good measure, but they failed to hide the object completely. Something unmistakeable protruded from the blankets at one end.

  A man’s foot.

  Realization sank in by degrees. The hissing of indrawn breaths and stiffening of bodies ran through the little group like a plague. No one said a word.

  Oliver placed a firm hand on his wife as she took a wavering backward step. “My God—” she whispered.

  Francesca stared silently at the covered body, then at Harper, lastly at me. Rafferty clenched his hands into fists but said nothing. Elliot nervously cleaned his glasses on his robe as if the action could eradicate the sight altogether.

  Harper’s face, as he looked at us, was a mask. Nothing moved in that firm, browned flesh, not even the moustache. But his eyes, suddenly so eloquent as he looked at each of us, one at a time, had shed their opaque veil entirely. He was angry, very angry, as if he had never planned for his operation to end in death and was irritated someone had bungled it.

  “Why have you brought us out here?” Brandon asked.

  Harper looked at us, not at the body. “The police will want to talk to everyone. They’ll ask each of you if you knew this man. I thought it best to give you all the chance to see the body before they arrived.”

  Francesca looked thoughtful as well as curious. “What an interesting decision.”

  Elliot stirred next to her. “Well, it seems perfectly sensible to me. The police will probably thank him for it. Nobody likes dealing with hysterical women, the police probably less than others.”

  Francesca’s smile was faint. “But which of us is hysterical, Elliot? Lenore is upset, of course, but neither Kelly nor I are hysterical.”

  Harper was, I realized, conducting his own investigation. He wanted to see how we all reacted, as if he expected one of us to know the man.

  “Get it over with,” Oliver said grimly.

  Harper obliged, bending to flip back the saddle blanket from one end of the huddled form. The man’s face was unmarked, but there was a bloody depression at the back of his head behind the right ear.

  Ice water ran through me from head to toe. Instantly. Almost against my will my hand went out to Brandon next to me, and clutched at his shirt. Then I let go and took a stumbling step forward.

  “Oh God—” was all I could manage.

  “You know him?” It was Harper, his voice conspicuously neutral; odd, I thought, that he could be so controlled when I was not.

  “It’s Drew…” I mumbled it. My mouth wasn’t working very well.

  “Drew Stanford?” Brandon asked sharply. “What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Who is he?” Harper asked quietly, and yet I heard the first edges of the control break away. The anger was showing.

  “Drew?” I looked at Harper blankly a moment, but all I saw was the shape of a man. The body drew my eyes again.

  “Her manager,” Brandon said, when it appeared I could not answer.

  Awkwardly I went down on my knees, then sat heavily on my folded legs. Drew’s face was still bared. Still dead. “No,” I said.

  I saw Harper’s hand flip the blanket back again, covering Drew’s face. I nearly stopped him, but I let it go. Even covered, the body was still Drew’s.

  “Kelly.” It was Brandon’s voice. “Kelly, come with me. I’ll take you up to the Lodge.”

  I just stared at Drew’s body and shook my head.

  “Come on.” I felt Brandon’s hand on my shoulder. “You. don’t need to stay out here. The police will be here in a moment. Let’s get a drink in you.”

  “No.”

  “Kelly—”

  “She doesn’t need a drink,” Harper interrupted. “What she needs is to be left alone with him for a minute, so she can understand what’s happened.” Harper still squatted by the body, looking at me.

  “Go on,” I said numbly. “I’ll be up in a little while.”

  It was Rafferty who insisted when Brandon started to protest again. “Let’s go, Walkerton. The cowboy’s right. Leave her alone.”

  The others left; Brandon still lingered. Finally Harper rose and faced him squarely. Brandon was a little taller and a lot heavier, much harder-looking than the leaner Harper, but I h
ad no doubts as to who might win the confrontation. Harper was still too angry.

  “Go,” he said briefly. “She doesn’t need you right now.”

  “And you?” Brandon demanded, not bothering to hide his condescension.

  “I found the body,” Harper said quietly. “I imagine the police will want to see me first. I’ll bring her up when they’re done with us. ”

  “Brandon.” I was suddenly weary of it all. “Just go. Please!”

  He looked at me sharply. Something indefinable was in his face, some understanding of the moment that did not extend to me. I saw surprise and disbelief and the beginnings of hurt pride. I had, I realized, dismissed him too quickly. But I couldn’t explain. Not now. He went.

  “I don’t understand—” I broke off. Harper had no answers.

  “Come on.” He bent down and put a hand around my arm, pulling me to my feet.

  “Where are you taking me?” The hand was still on my arm as he escorted me toward the tack room.

  “Right here.” He unlocked the door on the small wooden building and pulled it open. He flipped the light switch and instantly illumination flooded the room.

  Saddles were stacked on the floor, standing upright on the horn and leather skirts so that the sheepskin underlining was visible. Blankets like layers of sandwiches were spread over the wall brackets. Other brackets held other saddles; pegs holding bridles tattooed the walls. It smelled of leather and horsehair.

  I looked at Harper. “Why did you bring me here? That’s Drew lying out there—”

  “I know.” He left the door open and moths began to cluster around the tack room light. I heard the small cacophony of tiny bodies beating themselves against the brilliance, but I could hardly make sense of the sound.

  “I don’t understand—” I began again.

  Harper faced me squarely. “I owe you an apology,” he said. Color rose up to stain his tanned skin darker. “Hell, I owe you more than that. I don’t think I’ve ever been more wrong in my life.”

  I looked at him. Without the shadowing brim of his hat I could see his eyes clearly, and for once he was not hiding a thing. “What are you trying to say?”

  He pushed a callused hand through his thick, dark hair. The boyish air crept back with the movement, but his face was too serious for boyishness. “All this time—” He broke off, swore again beneath his breath, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I thought you were mixed up in all of this.”

  “Drew’s death?” I stared at him.

  “No. No, not that. Look—” He shook his head. “I won’t go into it now. I had reasons for believing what I did. I think you’ll understand.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” I told him blankly. “My friend is dead—”

  He caught my hand and pulled me back as I turned to leave the tack room. “You don’t need to see him again. You know what’s out there.”

  I scrubbed at the cold, taut skin of my face with nerveless hands. “What happened? My God, how did you find him?” I saw again the blanketed body. “Why in the world is he here?”

  “I can’t answer that,” he said slowly. “I thought I knew, but obviously not. The dogs were acting funny, so I came outside to see what was up. I found Preacher loose—”

  “Loose?” I looked at him sharply.

  “Loose,” he repeated. “He was scared to death of something. Anyway, I caught him and took him back to his pen. Only I found the chain on it broken again, the gate standing wide open… and this time there was a man in the pen. ” He paused. “He was already dead. So I pulled him out, covered him up, and put Preacher inside. ”

  “Drew?” I said blankly. “What would he be doing at Preacher’s pen?”

  “My first thought was he’d come to steal the horse. Or set him loose again away from the ranch, like before. But now you say he’s your manager…”

  “He is.” I stared at him. “He was. My God, he’s not a thief!”

  Harper looked unhappy. “All right, then, he’s no thief. Which means something else entirely.”

  “What?” I demanded.

  He rubbed a hand across his face. “It means Preacher was set loose—by someone—and this friend of yours came across the horse. Preacher didn’t have a halter on—I put it on him when I tied him inside the pen. It would have been difficult for someone to put him where they wanted.”

  “I don’t understand.” I felt numb and confused, unable to comprehend the simplest thing.

  “It means,” Harper said quietly, “it’s possible that in trying to put the horse back in the pen, he might have antagonized him somehow.”

  I frowned at him. “Drew couldn’t have done that. He knew nothing about horses. Oh, I suppose he might have waved his hands at him or something, hoping he’d go back into the pen, but he wouldn’t have done much more. What are you trying to say?”

  Harper sighed. “This isn’t easy. But if he came along after someone had tried to steal the horse, it’s possible Preacher was scared enough to react badly.”

  He paused. “I found your friend inside the pen, Kelly. Preacher wasn’t.”

  It sank in slowly, by degrees. “Oh my God—are you telling me the horse—”

  “It has happened,” he said softly. “Not real often, but it does.”

  The image swam up before my eyes. I recalled the indentation behind Drew’s ear. It was the proper size for an iron-shod hoof descending from above.

  I took an unbalanced step back and felt the edge of a saddle press into my spine. The tack room was suddenly oppressive with the overwhelming smell of sweat and horsehair; my eyes were filling with tears. I leaned against the saddle on its bracket and put my face into my hands.

  “Not Drew,” I said. “Not Drew too—”

  I heard the thump of his boots against the wooden floor. Thump, thump, thump, beating in time with my heart. And then he touched my hands, encircling my wrists with his fingers, and he pulled my hands away from my face. In doing so he also pulled me against his chest, so that I could cry into his shoulder. Yet again.

  He smelled of tobacco, aftershave, liniment and leather. And horses. The pervasive smell of horses.

  I don’t know what he said. He just talked. It was nothing more than sound, a gentle, soothing sound. It took the sharp edges off the grief, an emery board filing away the pain, until it didn’t hurt quite so much. His moustache caught in my hair as he talked, and one hand smoothed the back of my head. Gentling me again.

  “Listen to me,” he said softly. “I know you’re upset, but you have to listen. It’s about time we set the record straight.” I heard the serious note in his voice, and suddenly I recalled all my suspicions about him. How my horse had been shot at, and how I might have been killed.

  His hands tightened on me as I started to move away. He held my wrists firmly, though he didn’t hurt me. “Listen,” he said again, “I’m not the one behind these accidents.”

  “I don’t want to think about that right now. My God, Drew is lying out there dead—”

  “I know that,” he said steadily. “But it’s time you heard me out—especially before the police get here.”

  “What are you afraid of?” I demanded, standing stiffly with his hands on my wrists.

  He smiled a little. “I’m not afraid of the police, if that’s what you mean. No. I just want you to believe me, for once, when I say I’m innocent. I thought it was you.”

  “Are you serious?” I gaped at him. “You said that earlier; did you mean it? You thought—”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “It’s been known to work before. I thought the developers had sent you in here to soften me up; to use your feminine wiles on me so I might be willing to sell. Looks like we were talking at cross-purposes most of the time—each time I told you flat out it wouldn’t work, that you might as well give it up, you thought I was talking about escaping your boyfriend’s death. Do you see? I’ve been rude because I thought you were trying to get under my skin.” He sighed. “It worked, too—which
only made me angrier. And I was angry with you as well.”

  “I have nothing to do with this!” I protested. “What do you think I am?”

  “Now?” He smiled. “Just a woman with a lot on her mind, not knowing quite who or where she is about now; I know what that’s like, I went through it myself. When Abby left—well… it wasn’t the same, and it isn’t now, but I know what it is to feel empty. Worthless. Unattached.” His fingers were looser on my wrists now, lacking the tension I’d felt earlier. Now he was just talking, and I listened. “Kelly—I am sorry. I can’t make up for what I said or thought, but I admit I was wrong. And now I want you to admit you were wrong. I’m not behind any of this. I know it sort of looks that way—you made that clear enough—but it’s not so. I’m trying to stop the problems, not add to them.”

  “What about Kerry?” I asked. “Will you deny that one of the reasons your ex-wife won’t let you see her very often has to do with money?”

  He released my wrists at once. “What do you know about that?”

  “Cass told me a little. And you must admit, it’s a good motive.” I sighed and leaned once more against the saddle. “Don’t you see?”

  “I see,” he said finally, “but you’re dead wrong. It’s true I don’t see as much of Kerry as I’d like, but I’d never stoop to sabotaging Smoketree for the money.” Weariness and an odd vulnerability set lines into his face. “Even if I got that kind of money, Abby would find another excuse. She just won’t let it rest. She just won’t let it lie.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “I’m not keeping any more secrets from you—you might think up another story that could land me in jail.”

  Color rose quickly. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “It was a joke, you know. Then. It was you who made it seem so real.” I sighed and rubbed hands through my hair, recalling again why we stood in the tack room. It wasn’t because of this conversation. It was Drew. Dead Drew. “Oh God—”

  He touched me again, pulling my hands away until it was his hands in my hair. “It’ll get better,” he said gently. “I promise.