Murdered In Conard County. Rachel Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ then, though, as Scrappy nudged his arm repeatedly, he realized the horse wanted to take a walk. It was dark, but not too dark, and there was a good trail leading north toward the state park lands.

      And Blaire Afton.

      Gus half smiled at himself as he ran his fingers through Scrappy’s mane. Blaire. She’d assumed her ranger position over there about two years ago, and they’d become friends. Well, as much as two wary vets could. Coffee, conversation, even some good laughs. Occasional confidences about so-called reentry problems. After two years, Scrappy probably knew the path by heart.

      But it was odd for the horse to want to walk in the middle of the night. Horses did sleep. But maybe Gus’s restlessness had reached him and made him restless, as well. Or maybe he sensed something in the night. Prickles of apprehension, never far away in the dark, ran up Gus’s spine.

      “Okay, a short ride,” he told Scrappy. “Just enough to work out a kink or two.”

      An internal kink. Or a thousand. Gus had given up wondering just how many kinks he’d brought home with him after nearly twenty years in the Army, most of it in covert missions. The grenade that had messed him up with shrapnel hadn’t left as many scars as memory. Or so he thought.

      He was tempted to ride bareback, given that he didn’t intend to go far, but he knew better. As steady as Scrappy was, if he startled or stumbled Gus could wind up on the ground. Better to have the security of a saddle than risk an injury.

      Entering the corral, he saw happiness in Scrappy’s sudden prance. The other two horses roused enough to glance over, then went back to snoozing. They never let the night rambles disturb them. The other two horses apparently considered them to be a matter between Scrappy and Gus.

      Shortly he led the freshly saddled Scrappy out of the corral. Not that he needed leading. He followed him over to the door of his cabin where a whiteboard for messages was tacked and he scrawled that he’d gone for a ride on the Forked Rivers Trail. A safety precaution in case he wasn’t back by the time his staff started wandering in from their various posts. Hard-and-fast rule: never go into the forest without letting the rangers know where you were headed and when you expected to return. It applied to him as well as their guests.

      Then he swung up into the saddle, listening to Scrappy’s happy nicker, enjoying his brief sideways prance of pleasure. And just like the song, the horse knew the way.

      Funny thing to drift through his mind at that moment. A memory from childhood that seemed so far away now he wasn’t sure it had really happened. Sitting in the car with his parents on the way to Grandmother’s house. Seriously. Two kids in the back seat singing “Over the River” until his mother begged for mercy. His folks were gone now, taken by the flu of all things, and his sister who had followed him into the Army had been brought home in a box from Iraq.

      Given his feelings about the darkness, it struck him as weird that the song and the attendant memories had popped up. But he ought to know by now how oddly the brain could work.

      Scrappy’s hooves were nearly silent on the pine needles that coated the trail. The duff under the trees was deep in these parts, and he’d suggested to HQ that they might need to clean up some of it. Fire hazard, and it hadn’t rained in a while, although they were due for some soon to judge by the forecast. Good. They needed it.

      The slow ride through the night woods was nearly magical. The creak of leather and the jingle of the rings on the bridle were quiet, but part of the feeling of the night. When he’d been in Germany he’d learned the story of the Christmas tree. The idea had begun with early and long winter nights, as travelers between villages had needed illumination to see their way. At some point people had started putting candles on tree branches.

      Damn, he’d moved from Thanksgiving to Christmas in a matter of minutes and it was July. What the hell was going on inside his mind?

      He shook his head a bit, then noticed that Scrappy was starting to get edgy himself. He was tossing his head an awful lot. What had he sensed on the night breeze? Some odor that bothered him. That could be almost anything out of the ordinary.

      But the horse’s reaction put him on high alert, too. Something was wrong with the woods tonight. Scrappy felt it and he wasn’t one to question an animal’s instincts and senses.

      Worry began to niggle at him. They were getting ever closer to Blaire Afton’s cabin. Could she be sick or in trouble?

      Maybe it was an annoying guy thing, but he often didn’t like the idea that she was alone there at night. In the national forest there were people around whom he could radio if he needed to, who’d be there soon if he wanted them. Blaire had no such thing going for her. Her employees were all on daylight hours, gone in the evening, not returning until morning. Budget, he supposed. Money was tight for damn near everything now.

      Blaire would probably laugh in his face if she ever guessed he sometimes worried about her being alone out here. She had some of the best training in the world. If asked he’d say that he felt sorry for anyone who tangled with her.

      But she was still alone there in that cabin, and worse, she was alone with her nightmares. Like him. He knew all about that.

      Scrappy tossed his head more emphatically and Gus loosened the reins. “Okay, man, do your thing.”

      Scrappy needed no other encouragement. His pace quickened dramatically.

      Well, maybe Blaire would be restless tonight, too, and they could share morning coffee and conversation. It was gradually becoming his favorite way to start a day.

      Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, ringing through the forest. At a distance, but he still shouldn’t be hearing it. Not at this time of year. Not in the dark.

      “Scrappy, let’s go.” He touched the horse lightly with his heels, not wanting him to break into a gallop that could bring him to harm, but just to hurry a bit.

      Scrappy needed no further urging.

      * * *

      “WE THINK SOMEONE’S been shot.”

      The words that had come across the telephone seemed to shriek in Blaire’s ears as she hurried to grab a light jacket and her pistol belt as well as a shotgun out of the locked cabinet. On the way out the door she grabbed the first-aid kit. The sheriff would be sending a car or two, but she had the edge in time and distance. She would definitely arrive first.

      The call had come from the most remote campground, and she’d be able to get only partway there in the truck. The last mile or so would have to be covered on the all-terrain side-by-side lashed to the bed of the truck.

      If someone was injured, why had it had to happen at the most out-of-the-way campground? A campground limited to people who seriously wanted to rough it, who didn’t mind carrying in supplies and tents. After the road ended up there, at the place she’d leave her truck, no vehicles of any kind were allowed. She was the only one permitted to head in there on any motorized vehicle. She had one equipped for emergency transport.

      She was just loading the last items into her vehicle when Gus appeared, astride Scrappy, a welcome sight.

      “I heard the shot. What happened?”

      “Up at the Twin Rocks Campground. I just got a call. They think someone’s been shot.”

      “Think?”

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