MCCUTCHEON HAD SPENT far more enjoyable times than this, but as his mother once told him a long time ago, “Son, sometimes you just have to keep dancing even when the music’s bad.”
He followed Guthrie Sloane as he double-timed it up and down and over and around, never stopping to rest, never pausing to regroup, just shuffling along tirelessly, a young man on an urgent mission. McCutcheon followed until his lungs screamed for air and the muscles in his legs burned in protest and the muscle in his chest warned him to slow down.
“I see her!”
Guthrie’s words jerked McCutcheon from the misery of his exhaustion. He stopped, his legs immediately cramping, and gazed down the wooded slope. Guthrie was forging on toward the dark shape that moved far below them. “Jess!” Guthrie belted out, as strong and deep as if he hadn’t just covered ten miles in the mountains on snowshoes. “Jess!”
McCutcheon rubbed his burning thighs and watched as Guthrie charged down the slope, kicking up spumes of wet snow. The girl turned to look behind her. She was carrying something in her arms, something heavy enough to make her kneel when she stopped. But it was Jessie Weaver, and she was all right. McCutcheon felt the tightness in his stomach ease. Everything would be okay.
JESSIE COULDN’T BELIEVE her eyes. Blue cradled in her arms as she knelt, she watched as a man plunged recklessly down the slope toward her. She recognized him even from this great distance. Hard not to. She’d known him for more than half her life. Knew the way he moved, the sound of his voice, and if that wasn’t enough, she recognized his tall, broad shouldered build, and that hat. His broad-brimmed brown felt Stetson. The same hat she’d snatched from his head and flung into the creek the day they’d had the argument about her working for a veterinarian the summer of her sophomore year at college.
“Arizona!” he’d said, rounding on her in disbelief. “Jess, do you have any idea how far away that is?”
“It’s a good opportunity for me. I’m lucky to have been chosen. The practice specializes in horses.”
“Why can’t you work with Doc Cooper? He does horses. He does cows, pigs, sheep. Hell, he does it all. And he’d love to have your help.”
“I want to learn everything I can, Guthrie. I need to. This lady doc’s real smart, real good at what she does. I’m going. I’ve already accepted the offer. I’m sorry if you don’t approve and I realize it’ll be hard being so far apart.”
“Hard?” he’d said. “I don’t know how I’ll ever survive without you.”
She’d lost her temper at him then. She’d reached up and snatched that hat from his head and flung it into the creek. “Dammit, Guthrie Sloane, all you ever think about is yourself!” Not exactly true, of course, but she’d been angry.
He’d had to jump into the water to fetch his hat. It’d been cold, too. Early spring, the ice barely out. He’d retrieved it, though, and he’d never said another word about her summer job in Arizona.
As he came down the slope Jessie spotted another man far above, nearly hidden in the trees, but it was Guthrie she watched. And then he was close enough to touch her. He sank to his knees, braced his palms against his thighs and struggled to catch his breath.
They stared at each other, his shoulders heaving, a pandemonium of emotions churning in her.
“You all right?” he asked, as soon as he could speak.
She nodded. “I’m fine, but Blue’s hurt,” she said.
“How bad?”
“Bad.” And then, to her absolute mortification, her eyes filled with tears. She turned away, blinking back their sharp sting.
“It’s okay, Jess,” he said. “We’ll get her to Cooper. He’ll fix her up. What about you? Badger told me you busted your arm a few days ago.” She gazed down at Blue, unable to speak past the ache in her throat. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and silently she damned herself for being weak. “You’re all wet,” he said. “We need to get you home and into some dry things,” he said. He touched her shoulder. She stiffened and shook her head.
“Don’t.”
He pulled his hand away. “Let’s have a look at Blue,” he said. Jessie tried to unzip her parka but couldn’t with just one hand. She dropped her eyes while Guthrie did it for her, then gently extricated the little cow dog from her warm cocoon. “Hey, Blue,” he said as he drew out the dog gently and cradled her in his arms. “Hey, old girl. Easy… It’s all right, I’ve got you.” He glanced at Jessie. “What happened?”
“Bear,” Jessie said.
“She sure enough looks clawed,” he said as he stroked Blue’s head. “Lost a lot of blood?”
She nodded. “She’s pretty weak. I tried to bind up the worst wounds.”
“You did just fine. She’s tough. She’ll be all right.”
Jessie raised her brimming eyes to his and shook her head. “She can’t die on me. Not now.”
“She won’t. We’ll get her home, take her to Doc Cooper’s…”
They heard the sound at the same time and turned their heads simultaneously toward it. It was faint but growing louder, a rumble that sharpened and defined itself as it approached. A helicopter snaked out of the ravine from which she’d just walked. It came into view barely above tree height, skimming right over the top of McCutcheon, so close and looming so large that both she and Guthrie, though already on their knees, ducked. Instead of passing straight overhead, it circled and hovered for a few moments, long enough for her to see an arm wave out the passenger-side window and for her to read the big letters on the side.
Yellowstone HeloTours.
Jessie lifted her own arm in startled response, wondering what the devil Joe Nash would be doing flying his sight-seeing clients way out here. He seemed to be looking for a place to land. The big machine thumped its way downslope about five hundred feet from where she stood and then, in a clearing scarcely big enough for the spinning helicopter’s blades, it set down. The passenger jumped out and raced toward her in a crouch. He was dressed in a green wool Filson jacket that sported a prominent and familiar shoulder patch.
Jessie rose to her feet and stared with disbelief at the entire spectacle. As Comstock drew near, she turned to Guthrie, who was still on his knees, holding Blue, and asked in a rush of remembered anger, “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you ran off to Alaska!”
CHAPTER FIVE
BEN COMSTOCK HAD BEEN a warden for nearly twenty years. He’d passed through all the standard phases a warden goes through, from the idealism of youth to the disillusionment of experience. He’d seen it all, and he’d long since stopped believing he could single-handedly protect and defend the wilderness and wildlife of Montana. Even though he was aware that Joe Nash had broken just about every game law in existence, slyly eluding all the traps Comstock had set for him, he never hesitated to call on Joe when he needed his services. And right now, he was glad he had. He had both considerable affection and tremendous respect for Jessie Weaver. He’d known her since she was a little girl, having spent many a pleasurable evening at the Weaver ranch, playing poker at the kitchen table and sharing good sipping whiskey with her father.
He’d heard from Bernie that she’d just sold the ranch. For her to do it had taken a lot of guts. He hadn’t really believed she’d have deliberately ridden out in the midst of a freak autumn snowstorm, hoping she’d freeze to death up on that mountain she loved, but the doubts had nagged at him ever since he’d gotten the call that she was missing. She had to be pretty depressed after losing her father, breaking up with Guthrie Sloane and now losing the ranch, as well.
No doubt his relief at finding her alive and well showed plainly on his face as he approached. “Good to see you, Jessie,” he said. “Can you make it to the chopper?”