Holmes obeyed and seconds later Jones tossed the device into a drawer to be recycled. “There ya go. Turn in your keys at the billeting office, and you’re good.”
“Thank you,” Holmes said, standing and shaking the colonel’s hand. “In that case, we shall take our leave and begin the moving process.”
“Very good,” Jones beamed. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Holmes. Good to see you again, Doctor, and my congratulations on your success.”
“Thank you, Colonel. C’mon, Holmes, let’s go get you packed,” Skye grinned.
* * *
Little Joe was starting his vehicle when his radio beeped. He raised it to his lips. “Little Joe.”
“Little Joe, Tracker. Abort mission. The GPS monitor has been removed. It’s been sitting still in Security on base for over an hour now.”
“Plan B?” Little Joe sighed.
“There’s always a Plan B, Little Joe.”
Little Joe put down the radio, sat behind the wheel, and pondered. Finally he reached a decision. “I think I’m still gonna head up there and drive around a little bit,” he declared into the air.
He put his car into gear and headed for Highway 24 and the top of Ute Pass.
* * *
It did, indeed, take Holmes less than ten minutes to pack, utilizing the military duffel General Morris sent along. He slung the bag across his back, following Skye out of the flat. They paused at the Housing Division office and dropped off their key-cards, and proceeded through the main gate with the attitude of birds freed of a cage. Holmes threw his bag into the back seat of the black Infiniti with satisfaction, climbed into the front passenger seat and buckled in. Skye clambered into the driver’s seat, started the ignition, and they were off.
* * *
It took Holmes longer to unpack than it had to pack, by an entire five minutes. He promptly changed from the military uniform he’d worn while on Schriever into something more casual: blue jeans and a t-shirt, adding athletic shoes to the mix. He had originally been uncomfortable with what he perceived as clothing so informal as to verge on vulgar. But Holmes had to admit, not only were jeans and t-shirts practical for ranch activities, they were also the most common clothing to be seen in and around Colorado Springs. So he adjusted his sensibilities and adapted, blending in. At least, he considered, it was legitimate clothing for his status, in contrast to the military uniforms. Although paradoxically, the military uniforms were cut much more like the clothing to which he was accustomed.
Once changed, he went in search of his liaison. He found her in the barn, using a shedding blade on her beloved horses. The weather had warmed as April progressed, and the horses’ thick fur was too heavy for the warmer days, although the evenings were still cool. So Skye was coaxing the fur to shed faster with the metal currying blade.
“If you have another blade available, I shall help,” Holmes offered.
“I do, but look at me,” Skye said, stepping around Iris so Holmes could see her body. Her navy shirt and jeans were almost white with fur. “I’m covered. I’m gonna have to curry myself to get all this off,” she laughed, then grimaced and spit out a horsehair. “Not to mention getting cleaned up before dinner. Are you sure you wanna get this all over you?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow, then commented with a grin, “One could almost make an entire new horse, just from the hair coating your clothing.”
“Ain’t it the truth. Seriously, you just got changed. Do you really want to do this?” Skye laughed again, and Iris rumbled cheerfully at the sound of her mistress’ mirth.
“If you had rather I dropped feed, I can do that instead. I am quite agreeable, either way.”
“That’s good. How are you feeling, altitude-wise?”
“Fairly well,” Holmes concluded after a moment’s assessment. “I believe I am becoming acclimated.”
“Okay, when you’ve dropped feed, go into the hayloft and drop hay, too. Two or three flakes per horse.”
“Ri’ away, madam,” Holmes dropped into the Cockney accent of a Victorian London cab driver as he turned for the feed room door. “Oi’ll ‘arve ‘is lot done afore ye c’n spit twicet, mah laidie.”
A peal of laughter floating behind him was his reward, and he grinned to himself. Yes, this may work, after all, Holmes decided.
* * *
After a delicious dinner and a quiet evening in front of the fireplace reading, and in Holmes’ case, smoking his pipe, they retired for the night. Holmes entered his bedroom and closed the door. There, he stripped down and put on the pyjama pants and burgundy dressing gown Skye kept for him there. He went into the bathroom and prepared for bed.
Then he returned to the bedroom, switching out the overhead light in favor of the softer bedside lamp. Once he had lit his evening pipe, he turned off even the lamp. Holmes moved silently to the bedroom window, which looked west toward the Mosquito Range, hidden in the deep darkness. He opened the window and stood for a long moment, staring out at the stars, inhaling deeply. The cool breeze through the window bore a tang of juniper and pine, and far off, a coyote called.
How different from my London. The nearest human, other than the lovely Skye, he paused and glanced up at the stars in amusement over the pun, is quite literally miles away. There is no press of humanity here. The air is so fresh and crisp it practically sears the lungs, and I never saw the stars from Baker Street. Can I thrive here? Can I even survive? Here, without the teeming millions of London’s milieu to provide fodder for my deductive reasoning, my investigative skills? I have the one case, true, but once it is completed, what then? Is there sufficient to keep me busy? Can I find a way to travel to London and set up once more? Or must I perforce retire here, and revert to that subject which has long provided interest in the back of my mind, beekeeping? And can I afford to do any of it, when all is said and done? I will not become Skye’s private mendicant.
A shooting star flew high overhead, blazing sparks trailing behind. The ever-observant grey eyes were drawn to it, and he watched as it dropped toward the western horizon, sputtered, and expired. I should prefer to be something more than THAT, he decided, considering the meteor. Well, we shall see. There is much yet to know of this world, and the general consensus is that I have an excellent teacher. And one decidedly given to helping.
Another thought occurred to Holmes. I wonder…Skye gives so much to so many. Has anyone ever given back? And how comes a woman of her age and obvious attributes to be alone anyway? She should have been married long ago. He shook his head, trying to adjust his outlook to a more “modern” viewpoint. At least according to my lights. I simply have a hard time understanding how she could be considered unattractive in this enlightened day, for having such a delightfully massive intellect.
In the distance, a car’s headlights could be seen traversing a dark road. Holmes’ eyes followed it until it vanished from sight. His thoughts drifted once again to the contrast between this, and the age in which he was born.
Perhaps it is not so difficult to understand after all. Were not the women of my own time constrained in their reach, their minds often suppressed by husbands and fathers who preferred more docile, more controllable, females? Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Skye, at least, determined to let no one hold her back, and that is to be admired. He discarded his pipe, long since extinguished.
Ah well, Sherlock. Enough introspection for one night. Go to bed, old chap, and get some rest. You are likely to need it. I’ve no doubt Skye has a full schedule planned for tomorrow.
But as Holmes crawled into bed, he found himself looking forward to it.
* * *
In fact, Skye’s plans for the day were fairly laid back. They slept in, got dressed in jeans and t-shirts and made breakfast. As they ate companionably at the kitchen table, Skye suggested, “Visit to the gold mine, horseback ride, or trip to see the petrified trees in the buggy?”
“Buggy,” Holmes responded immediately. “How far is it?”
“Oh, a few miles we
st. The Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument. You’ve heard of the giant redwoods in California?”
“Yes?”
“These were close relatives, maybe even the same species, but a huge volcanic eruption thousands of years ago dammed up the stream that flowed through the valley, and made a big swamp. All the redwoods died, then mineralized in the bog, which petrified ‘em. It’s neat. The trees were huge. I’m talking durn near room-size huge. I’d hoped,” she paused, shrugging, “I had plans to watch the eruption with the tesseract eventually. Oh well.”
* * *
“Intriguing,” Holmes decided, choosing to overlook her momentary melancholy. “Shall we go?”
“Yup, lemme put the dishes in the dishwasher. I’ll fix some sandwiches for a picnic lunch, and we can go.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were headed for the barn.
* * *
Skye removed the cover from her buggy, and together she and Holmes wheeled it out of its place in the corner of the barn, into the sunlight. Skye did a walk-around to ensure everything was in proper repair. She put two nosebags of grain and a small picnic basket into the boot. While she was doing that, Holmes brought out the Percherons and groomed them. Then they put them into the traces and hitched up.
Holmes’ fingers itched to hold the reins, but he refrained, intrigued by the prospect of watching Skye handle her team. So he offered her his hand instead, assisting her into the buggy while holding the reins. Once she was seated, he handed over the reins and watched as she skillfully sorted out the leathers in her fingers.
“Hop on up,” she smiled, and Holmes climbed into the seat beside her. “Okay kiddies, gi’yap,” she told the team.
Buddy and Peggy Sue responded willingly, leaning into the harness and easing the buggy forward. Soon they were on their way. The buggy was well-sprung, and the day was enjoyable. Peggy Sue and Buddy behaved well, Holmes noted, and Skye was as comfortable in the buggy as she had been in the saddle. They chatted, and Skye pointed out various things to him as they drove, including a golden eagle, several deer just underneath the trees along the roadside, and the sign of a cougar that had passed through the night before.
The cougar tracks launched them into a discussion of tracking and footprints in general. Skye admitted it had been a long time since she’d had to be concerned with human tracks, coaxing a willing Holmes into a discourse on the subject. The scientist appeared fascinated, absorbing everything he could tell her, as they made their gradual way down the road westward.
After a few miles they turned left onto a larger road. This was a paved two-lane, and more traveled. But to Holmes’ amusement, most of the cars seemed to have drivers who knew Skye, treating her conveyance with respect and affection, often calling a greeting out the window and waving as they went by.
* * *
Unfortunately, as they drew near the national monument, the percentage of local traffic decreased, and the percentage of tourists increased. Skye had to watch carefully, for many of the automobile drivers were unused to horse-drawn vehicles and occasionally committed gross errors. The pinnacle of ignorance was reached when an impatient driver roared right up behind their buggy, then leaned on the horn. Despite their seeming placidity, this proved too much for Buddy and Peggy Sue, who visibly panicked.
“Oh, shit,” Skye muttered, gathering the reins. “Hang on.”
Holmes’ eyes widened in concern as the two horses bolted, running helter-skelter down the road. Skye hauled on the reins, yelling, “WHOA! Whoa, fellas! Easy, easy!”
Finally she braced her feet against the dash and leaned back, tugging at the reins with everything she had. The horses checked, then dropped to a walk.
“Good babies,” Skye soothed. “Good horsies. Whoa, babies. Whoa.”
The horses stopped, and the buggy came to a halt. The offending automobile pulled up behind and stopped, allowing more distance than before, and not honking the horn this time. Skye handed the reins to Holmes.
“Here, hold ‘em while I make sure everything’s okay. Then I’m gonna have a little word with our tailgaters.”
* * *
Holmes kept a tight rein as Skye clambered down, worried the horses might bolt again while Skye was between the wheels. But they didn’t, and Skye did a thorough once-over of her team and her buggy. Certain nothing was damaged and the horses were uninjured, she marched herself back to the automobile.
“Dammit! What the HELL did you think you were doing?” Holmes heard Skye light in on the driver, and he bit his lip to hold back laughter; the ignorant driver was getting a most thorough chastisement. “Don’t you have ANY sense? Do you REALIZE…”
Skye’s voice dropped in volume, and Holmes waited patiently until she was finished educating the driver. She moved to the rear corner of the buggy, checked for oncoming traffic, then waved the driver around when it was safe to do so. The car moved much slower, only speeding up when it was well clear of the horses. Skye hoisted herself into the buggy seat, and Holmes turned over the reins.
“Nicely done,” he complimented her. “With both horse and human.”
“Thanks,” Skye grinned sheepishly. “For awhile there, I thought I was gonna end up demonstrating how NOT to drive a buggy.” She smooched to the team and they started off again. “At least we aren’t too far from the monument. Actually this is it, in this big field to the right.”
Holmes turned and scanned across the valley, trying to imagine it filled with giant redwood trees. A few hundred yards farther, they turned into the driveway leading to the visitor’s center and made their way to the hitching post near the building. A park ranger came out to greet them.
“Hey there, Dr. Chadwick, good to see you,” she beamed to the scientist. “I see you’re here as a guest this time, instead of a volunteer.” She tied up the team for Skye with a practiced hand.
“Yup, Patty, I brought a friend to see the stuff,” Skye grinned. “It was a lovely day for a buggy ride, so we decided to take the team.”
“Did you bring some nummies for the babies?” Ranger Patty asked.
“In the boot like usual,” Skye chuckled. “I know you hate taking care of ‘em.”
“Oh, can’t stand it,” Ranger Patty snickered. “You two go have fun. I’ll see to these big babies.”
Holmes, ever the gentleman, exited the vehicle first, then handed Skye down.
“Hey, Patty,” Skye added, “keep an eye on ‘em extra close today, if you don’t mind. We had a runaway back there, when some idi…” Skye bit off her words, to Holmes’ amusement, then continued, “when an inexperienced car driver spooked ‘em. They look okay, but I don’t want ‘em going lame on me halfway home.”
“Ooo, sure thing, Dr. Chadwick,” Ranger Patty said, concerned. “Don’t worry about a thing. Just go show your friend around.”
“I can do that. C’mon, Holmes.”
“After you, my dear Skye.”
* * *
They spent the rest of the morning prowling the site. Holmes was amazed at the huge petrified tree stumps, especially the mammoth clump of three conjoined trees he suspected would barely have fit into Skye’s den. Skye, one of the volunteer docents for the monument, facilely explained the history and geology of the site, to the detective’s fascination. Around noon, they returned to the buggy for the picnic basket, and set up on a large landscape rock next to the visitor’s center to eat.
After lunch they wandered around the historic Hornbek Homestead, which was part of the monument. Holmes shook his head; this had been a contemporary dwelling of his own Baker Street flat. The main house was certainly not without its comforts, but overall, Holmes thought, the ranch still lacked certain amenities.
“It seems…quite desolate,” he murmured, looking around at the very basic and comparatively crude structures and facilities, set in their isolated surroundings. “I well understand how primitive my own flat likely would have appeared to you, but this is positively Spartan by comparison.”
“Living in the h
igh desert isn’t easy, Holmes, even today. I’d never have looked down on your flat, because sometimes we still have to live this way.” Skye stabbed a finger at the old cabin to evoke her meaning. “Let me tell you, I sure don’t take so-called ‘modern conveniences’ for granted; sometimes I think they’re only that much more to go wrong. In January during that huge blizzard, I couldn’t get out of my driveway for three days. The drifts were over my head in places. I was heating with firewood, using lanterns and generators.” Skye waved a hand at the homestead. “I don’t scorn this place in the least, especially when you consider she started with nothing but a bare tract of land, four kids, and no husband to help. I tip my hat to Mrs. Hornbek. She had to have been a helluva woman. I’d like to have met her.”
Holmes shot an admiring glance at Skye as she moved on to the next structure. I’d lay odds she would have recognised a kindred spirit if you had, he thought.
* * *
When they got ready to go home, Skye asked Holmes if he would like to drive the buggy. He accepted enthusiastically, and handed Skye into the buggy before untying the team. They thanked Ranger Patty, who assured them the horses were in fine shape, then Holmes climbed into the buggy and they started home.
Home, Holmes thought. Yes, it seems it is my home now. This will take some getting used to. His gut tightened and a wave of desolation washed through him. A hand materialized on his arm.
“You okay?” Skye asked softly.
“Yes,” Holmes answered shortly, though not brusquely.
“Uh-uh,” she insisted. “I know you’re lying, Holmes. That won’t cut it. ‘Fess up.”
Holmes cut his grey eyes sidelong, and replied smoothly, “Nothing with which you need concern yourself, Skye.”
It was an effective, direct, yet subtle brush-off, and as such there was no graceful way for Skye to press further. It both hurt and angered her, Holmes noted, seeing her body language close. After several minutes she huffed, “Fine. Wallow in your homesickness if you like. I’m here to help, but if you don’t want it, I’m not about to force it down your throat.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 14