A Father's Stake. Mary Anne Wilson

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       CHAPTER THREE

      GRACE REMEMBERED THE crumpled paper Willie G. had pushed in the food bag. She took it out, saw a phone number with his name under it, then folded the note and dropped it into her purse. She glanced at the directions the attorney had given her, then kept her eyes open for the turnoff to Wolf Creek.

      After just a few more miles, she finally saw two signs. One was a billboard, announcing the way to the reservation, and the other, much smaller, informed travelers that they had twenty miles to go to arrive at Wolf Lake, population 3,201, altitude 5,106 feet.

      She’d been surprised at the altitude and the heat, but one seemed to go with the other. The off-ramp curled back under the overpass, and Grace found herself driving north on a two lane, paved county road that cut through hauntingly beautiful land. Not much green, and the few trees seemed twisted and stunted by the heat. But the colors were stunning.

      The sky was starting to be invaded by the suggestion of purple, gold and orange from the west. The shadows of majestic buttes and mesas that rose from the high desert floor were lengthening. Small dust devils skipped over the packed earth, leaving puffs of cloud in their wake. The land made her feel very small and insignificant.

      A few cars passed her in the opposite lane, but she hadn’t seen anyone in her rearview mirror since she turned onto the highway. Gradually, she started to notice patches of green off to the west, along with trees here and there that looked tall and ancient. Over the next few miles, the green patches grew in proportion to the parched earth. Finally, a sign for Wolf Lake appeared, overshadowed by a more elaborate one for the Reservation ten miles beyond the town. At a rise in the road, she could see Wolf Creek, maybe three miles to the northwest. It was a simple layout, a long main street, with streets branching out from it. The first buildings were clustered together, as others then fanned out in the colors and shadows of the low sun. Beyond those were large chunks of land, with greenness and distinguishable pastures.

      When she finally drove onto the main street after passing through a section of construction, she realized the place had been fine-tuned for tourists. The buildings that lined the street were separated from the road by an old-fashioned raised wooden walkway that used to protect people from snakes and mud. Now they added a quaint charm.

      Some of the businesses had been determinedly fashioned after frontier structures, with a mix of aged wood and stone and brick. Others were designed like Willie G’s, with adobe and chipped stucco shouting “Southwest.” When she had time, she’d come back and walk the wooden sidewalks, but for now the elaborate window displays in the businesses were a blur of color and glitter. The only thing she noticed was the bed-and-breakfast Willie G. had told her about, then she was heading out of the town.

      She looked at her odometer, made a note of the miles, and was about to reach for another French fry when the roar of an engine sounded behind her. A bright red Jeep gunned past, then cut back into the lane with very little distance to spare.

      She caught a glimpse of the driver, a man with a cap pulled low over an angular face. He was staring at her instead of the road as he raced ahead, rounded a curve, and disappeared from sight.

      “Jerk,” she muttered, realizing that even though there were no traffic jams out here, the area still had its share of crazy drivers.

      She popped the almost forgotten French fry into her mouth, aware now of the ranches that seemed to spread all the way to the horizon, checkerboarded with green and brown sections. The houses and ranch buildings were far off the road, barely visible, but the entrances were fancy, with intricate gates of wrought iron, wood, stone and brick.

      She rounded a curve and saw a new sign for the Reservation in the direction of the foothills. Then her attention was caught by the entry to yet another ranch, but this one was different. It was a simple entrance, almost plain, with worn stone pillars on either side of a dirt drive. The wooden gate stood open. On the pillar to the left, chiseled into a flat stone halfway up from the dead weeds and dirt at the base, were two weather-eroded words. Wolf Ranch.

      Grace slowed and made the turn into the entrance, but then she stopped, unable to drive between the pillars. Excitement, apprehension, curiosity and that bit of fear kept her foot on the brake. So much was at stake that she could barely breathe. She fingered the steering wheel, then touched the gas pedal and slowly drove through the pillars and onto the dirt drive that cut up a gentle hill between neglected wooden fencing.

      Some of the crosspieces had fallen into dead weeds and grass, while others sat at crazy angles. The ranch looked as if it had been neglected for more than a few years. It felt deserted, no, СКАЧАТЬ