No news.
He walked into the kitchen, slatted the remains of his coffee into the sink and rinsed the mug. Without even thinking of what he would do when he got there, he dressed himself for a winter storm, and less than ten minutes later he was in his Jeep Wagoneer, heading for Katy Junction.
CHAPTER FOUR
GUTHRIE WAS TAKEN ABACK by the stranger who opened the door of the Weaver ranch when he banged on it just past midnight. “Who the hell are you?” he said.
“Caleb McCutcheon. Are you the warden?”
“No! I’m here to look for—” He spotted someone else in the lamp-lit room. “Badger! Where’s Jess!” Guthrie pushed past the stranger and into the kitchen, relieved to see the bewhiskered and familiar face.
“Oh, I expect she’s up on the mountain somewheres, hunkered down and waiting for dawn. Same as we are. Only, I don’t doubt as we’re a whole lot more comfortable. Good to see you, Guthrie. You been gone awhile. Too long. A lot’s happened since you left. This here gent’s bought the whole Weaver ranch, lock, stock and barrel.”
Guthrie rounded on the stranger as if drawing a sword. “You’re a developer?”
“No. Like I said, I’m Caleb McCutcheon. And if you have any ideas on how to find Jessica Weaver, I’m listening. We’ve been sitting around doing nothing for way too long.”
The two men measured each other for a brief moment, and then Guthrie nodded curtly. “I brought snowshoes from my place. You’re welcome to a pair. She’s up on Montana Mountain—like Badger says. Probably went looking for Fox. That mare always heads up there this time of year, trying for North Dakota. Damn mustang thinks they don’t have such things as fences there, though that gray stallion of Jessie’s usually manages to convince Fox to stick around.”
“Old Gray’s dead,” Badger said bluntly. “Got struck by lightning this summer.”
Guthrie was taken aback for the second time in as many minutes. “She thought highly of that horse.” He could hardly conceive of what Jessie had been through in the past year, but if he had thought himself to be suffering this past summer, it was nothing compared with the hell that she had endured. “C’mon, let’s go. I have a backpack full of emergency supplies and spare headlamp batteries. I don’t guess I’m waiting for daylight. And by the way,” he said to McCutcheon, thrusting out his hand, “I’m Guthrie Sloane. From what Badger says, we’re neighbors.”
IT WAS DARK YET, but nearing the dawn. The snow had stopped. Her muscles were stiff and sore and she was cold and hungry, but both the night and the storm had lost their grip, and with the coming of daylight she would be able to walk down out of this high place. It would be slow going, carrying Blue. She could keep to the trail, or cut off it just below the big lightning-struck pine, climb over the ridge and head down for the main road. That would be quicker, and there was bound to be some traffic—a rancher heading for Katy Junction for his morning coffee, newspaper and goodly dose of gossip at the Longhorn; a plow truck sweeping back the drifts.
She could catch a ride, and maybe even get hauled over to Doc Cooper so’s she could have Blue seen to. Some of the dog’s wounds needed stitching up. Jessie could have done it herself if she’d had two good hands—and made a better job of it, too. Half the women in the county could lay in a neater row of stitches than Doc Cooper. Still and all, he knew his stuff and had helped the Weavers through many a livestock crisis. Never nagged about payment, either—eventually he always got his due and then some. Folks out here just naturally stood by one another in tough times, and lately it seemed that the times had always been tough.
In the gloaming Jessie struggled to her feet, stomping them to restore circulation. She had thought to let Blue free for a bit, but as she started to unzip her coat the zipper had stuck and she gave up. When she moved out from beneath the sheltering overhang of the blowdown, the depth of the snow surprised her. She made up her mind without really thinking about it. She would take the shortcut out to the main road. It would shave five miles off her journey, though still leave her with another ten to cover if no traffic happened by. Ten miles in nearly a foot of wet October snow, carrying an injured dog, ought to be a good workout. And to think that some folks paid good money to join a health club to exercise!
Jessie pointed her feet in the right direction and started walking.
GUTHRIE SLOANE DIDN’T give much thought to the man struggling along behind him, except to note that he was doing all right for a person his age. Jess was in trouble, and he had no intention of holding back. Nossir. If McCutcheon signed up for the trip, he was in for the long haul, and it was proving up to be a long rough haul. The trail up into the pass was steep, and there were a lot of places that a man could run afoul on a dark and stormy night like this.
He was going on pure hunch, figuring what route she’d have taken, where the mares might’ve been headed until this unexpected storm had caught them out. Of course he could be wrong. Maybe Jess had started up into the pass while at the same time the mares had angled down out of it, sensing the storm. Maybe she’d caught their sign and trailed after them. Maybe she was already out of the high country, encamped in some sheltered draw, with a cheerful fire keeping the darkness at bay, Blue tucked beside her and a billy can of hot coffee boiling.
Such thoughts did little to ease his torment. If anything happened to Jessie he’d blame himself for ever leaving her. He should’ve stuck it out and helped her through this awful time. True, she’d told him it was over between them and she’d meant it, but could they erase all those years of friendship just because as lovers they had failed?
No! She was his best friend and nothing would ever change that. It was suddenly the most important thing on earth to him that she realize he would be there for her, no matter what. Always.
Guthrie was unaware that the snow had stopped until McCutcheon mentioned it the first time they paused to take a breather. The older man had pulled up beside him and slumped over himself. Hands braced on his knees, he’d drawn deep gasping breaths until his lungs had caught up with the rest of him, at which point he’d raised his head and said, “It’s stopped.”
“What?”
“The snow.”
“Huh.” He only rested for three, four minutes at most, and then started out again. The trail was steep and the snow was heavy and wet, sticking to the snowshoes. The next time he halted for a breather McCutcheon bent over himself once more in a prolonged coughing fit and then raised his head and looked around.
“It’s getting light,” he said.
Guthrie stared out across the valley. He could see the ranch buildings along the river, a grouping of black rectangular shapes against the brightness of the snow, toylike in the distance. “So you own it now,” he said softly. “The whole of it.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not a developer?”
“No,” McCutcheon explained, again struggling to catch his breath. “The land can never be divided up or developed. It’s written right into the deed.”
“Conservation easements?”
McCutcheon nodded. “Lots of ’em. But that’s fine with me. I like it just the way it is.”
Twenty minutes later the two men had snowshoed into the dawn, and by the time the sun had lifted over the jagged shoulders of the Beartooth Range they had intersected Jessie’s trail in the snow where it left Dead Woman Pass and headed down toward the road.
“Dammit!” Guthrie said, at once wildly relieved that she was okay and bitterly disappointed that she had chosen to take the shortcut and had missed them. “She can’t be too far ahead. She’s aiming for the road. It’s closer than the ranch, and