While Hazel spoke, Jacquelyn again admired Mystery Valley’s oldest and still finest ranch house. Built in the 1880s, it had replaced the original settlers’ cabin.
Its hand-hewn hemlock beams had been transported cross-country by cumbersome freight wagons. Other materials, too, had been selected to reflect success, not frontier frugality: a carved cherrywood staircase, hard-maple flooring, fireplaces manteled with blood onyx, marble and slate. On the wall behind Hazel, bright buffalo-hide shields flanked a beautiful wash drawing in a gold scrollwork frame. It depicted a small herd of Shorthorns splashing across a river, whipping the water to spray.
“Jake was a tough man,” Hazel reminisced in her deep, still-vibrant voice. “He insisted that all his children be educated, even his daughters, which was unusual in his day. That included my grandma, his daughter Mystery.”
Hazel fell silent, thoughtfully studying her young interviewer.
Jacquelyn felt as if she towered over the petite older woman, even seated, though she was only five-four. She waited for the next goldmine of information and was embarrassed to find the conversation again focused on her.
“You know I don’t cotton to short hair on women, but I think I like yours. In my day we’d call your hair color platinum. Marilyn-Monroe platinum. Quite glamorous. And I do believe your eyes are sea-green, aren’t they?”
Puzzled at the inspection, Jacquelyn quickly thumbed off the recorder. Something in the old girl’s determined visage signaled that the interview part of the visit was over. She supposed they were going to get around to the “slightly unusual request.”
“You know, Jacquelyn, at my age a woman can’t help warming her hands at the fire of the past. But while we should always recall our dead, this world belongs to the living.”
Jacquelyn raised an interrogatory eyebrow, waiting for more. “Yes?” she encouraged.
But Hazel kept her waiting, as if she was mulling possible explanations for the old matriarch’s secret.
Finally she said, “You told me last time that you want to capture the true feel of Jake’s pioneer experience, remember?”
“Of course. I hoped my articles were doing that.”
“Your articles are wonderful, dear. Quite honestly, I expected the usual twaddle and bunkum about grizzled pioneers. But you’ve captured the essence of Jake McCallum better than any other writer who’s tried. And many have.”
Hazel snatched up a copy of last week’s Mystery Gazette from a pedestal stand beside her chair.
“‘Jake McCallum,”’ she read out loud, “‘was a man who went a great distance while others were still debating whether to leave today or tomorrow.”’
The corners of her eyes crinkled deeply when Hazel laughed. “Jacquelyn, you do understand that old rascal’s basic nature. But for your own sake I want you to go that great distance, too. Or at least part of it. The important part.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“I’d like you to actually repeat Jake’s original journey. Not the entire trip, of course. As you already know, his original plan was to travel from his home in St. Louis all the way north to the Yukon to mine for gold.”
Jacquelyn smiled. “Yes. Until he was waylaid in a beautiful Montana valley to help a rancher with some straying cattle, right?”
“Right as rain. Because that rancher had a pretty daughter of marrying age named Libbie. One look at her, and Jake wrote back home that he was settling in Montana. The part of his journey that Jake’s journal mentions most was the hard, but beautiful, five-day ride through the mountains and Eagle Pass to this valley. Called McCallum’s Trace to this day.”
“And that’s the part of the journey you’d like me to make?” Jacquelyn mulled the odd suggestion for a few moments. Well, so what if it was a bit…eccentric of Hazel to suggest it? After all, Jacquelyn didn’t want to be one of those journalists who never left the office to find a story. And it really was an important piece of American history.
“All right,” she finally agreed, her face brightening. “It sounds like fun. My family has a Hummer at the summer lodge here that usually just sits in the garage. I’ll borrow it. I could also—what?”
She broke off, confused at the way Hazel was shaking her head to silence her.
“Jacquelyn, we’re talking about the ‘true feel,’ remember? Your own words. My lands, Jake didn’t cross those high-altitude passes in a Hummer—nor was there a highway, just an old Sioux Indian game trail. That’s still all there is up there.”
Jacquelyn’s jaw dropped slightly, and her eyes widened. “Hazel. You want me to ride across the original trace? Five days on horseback?”
“Well, you do ride, don’t you? I’ve seen you in your fancy riding britches. And there’s horses at your place.”
“Well…yes, I ride. But—”
Hazel dismissed her objections with a careless wave. “I rode that trail myself when I was about your age. Never in winter, of course, as Jake did. In August, just like you’ll be doing. Gets a bit nippy at night, especially up in Eagle Pass. Sure, you might even see some snow, but it’s quite exhilarating.”
“Hazel, you simply don’t understand. I ride, yes. But it’s the English style I learned at boarding school. You know—dressage, preparation for show jumping, things like disciplined turns and reverses, fancy jumps and tricky hurdles. Not trail riding in rugged mountains. Hazel, I—that is, I’ve never even been a Girl Scout. I wouldn’t know the most basic—”
“Oh, all your objections are just pee doodles,” Hazel scoffed, her eyes cutting to an ormolu clock on the mantel. “Because you’re going to have the perfect guide for this little trek.”
“Guide?” Jacquelyn repeated, immediately feeling like a parrot.
“I should say! None other than Mystery’s own world-champion saddle-bronc rider, A. J. Clayburn.”
Hazel opened up a photo album lying on the pedestal table and passed it over to her visitor. “This is A. J. at the rodeo at the Calgary Stampede, accepting his World Cup. One of the proudest days in Mystery’s recent memory.”
Jacquelyn took in gunmetal-blue eyes as direct as a Remington, an unruly thatch of thick, brown hair that touched his collar. The scornful twist to the mouth irritated her immediately. The handsome man in this photo radiated the easy calm and confidence, bordering on arrogance, of men who were good at handling animals—and thought the talent translated to women, as well.
“You’ve seen him around town, no doubt?” Hazel inquired.
Jacquelyn nodded, still too numb and confused by all this to speak. She had seen him around town, all right. How could anyone miss those metallic eyes and his wide-shouldered, slim-hipped frame? A. J. Clayburn was straight off the cover of a Western novel—but whether the hero or the bad guy, she wasn’t sure. Still, there was no mistaking the living, breathing personification of a great American myth.
But there was no way Hazel could expect her to travel McCallum’s Trace with this man. It was like putting a duck in the desert. He was utterly foreign to Jacquelyn’s genteel, urban world, and vice versa.
Hazel seemed to read some of these thoughts in her visitor’s stunned face.
“Believe me, honey,” she assured, taking the photo album back from her. “You’ll quickly learn to appreciate A.J.’s qualities. He’s what we Western gals like to call an ‘unflighty’ man. Nowadays, of course, that’s not what it once was. I don’t recall any flighty men who took Omaha Beach.”