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Falling Darkness by Karen Harper (19)

19

“I’ll go look for the old guy and Julia, boss,” Heck insisted after the officer with a message from the sheriff left. “You can’t pedal a bike.”

“Jace took one, but there are more in the carriage house—and that bike for two. I can hang on and use one leg while you pedal. Let’s go. I can’t believe this, but, thank God, Bronco’s all right.”

“We going to Julia’s house? We can call a horse taxi for that.”

“No, we’re going back where Julia took us today, since Claire phoned the sheriff to say that’s where she’s going. He’s gathering others there for a search, and the officer said that’s where Julia’s dad has gone before. Thing is, Claire has a head start on anyone, but at least she has a cell phone with a direct line to the sheriff. And, thank heavens, Officer McCallum said he saw her take the wagon and not a horse. I’ll bet she’s never driven a horse team in her life. She always gets too damned involved in people’s lives and gets into trouble.”

“That’s her all right, boss, but it’s you too.”

“Never mind that. Let’s go.”

* * *

Claire tried to tell herself she was not afraid. She finally had a cell phone, one that, with a simple touch, would get Sheriff Archer on the line, though he’d warned there could be dead spots out here. And she was doing the right thing. She had to help Julia, partly to make up for missing something.

A trained forensic psych, she’d still overlooked signs earlier today that Julia was barely clinging to her inner strength the way that old staircase had clung to the cliff. Why hadn’t she picked up on the cues earlier? Oh, sure, she’d known Julia was upset and had reached out to her. But she’d let her initial reading of Julia—confident, in control, sure-footed—cloud reality. Beset by family problems with her father, her daughter, even her ex, Julia was shaky.

Besides that, both Vern Kirkpatrick and Wade Buxton had put pressure on her. Now here Julia was, in charge of seven—no, with Gina, eight—more WITSEC refugees, trying to play tour guide for them, get them settled and keep them safe.

On the cliffside staircase, Julia had said she wanted to live and die “here.” But by that did she mean die someday on the island or right there on those steps the way her mother had? She’d said she could stay there forever, and Claire should have picked up on that too. People who were thinking of leaving—of death—sometimes wanted to pick the place for...

No, surely, that strong woman would not consider suicide.

She urged the horses faster though. For steering them, she was going strictly on watching Julia today and movies. She’d only seen a few Westerns, not the hundreds that Hunter Logan seemed to lose himself in. Maybe he saw Julia as his jailer and wanted to escape to “Back in the Saddle Again,” that song that was playing over and over in their house.

But other thoughts haunted her about Julia: If she had found Bronco on the floor, wouldn’t she have called for help first before chasing after her father? Or could she have seen her dad riding away without knowing Bronco was hurt? Worse, could she have decided to ride out alone, maybe even head back to Arch Rock, and her father had then hit Bronco so he could go after her?

Parents! Her and Darcy’s father had deserted them, and then their mother had become almost a recluse with her voracious, constant book-reading mania. Even now, as Claire turned the wagon into the depths of the shadowy conifer forest, she thought of a line from the long poem Evangeline by Longfellow their mother had read them amid countless other things. It was something about the forest looking primeval and the whispering of pine trees. Those words were the beginning to the tragic story of separated lovers who didn’t find each other until, in old age, they were reunited only in time for one to die in the other’s arms.

Suddenly, the trees seemed so much thicker than earlier today, but then, she’d had her attention on the people she was with, not so much the forest primeval and the looming tragedy at the end of the story she and Darcy dreaded. She shuddered and shook her head to clear it of her agonizing. Surely, not far behind her were the island police and others to look for the old man—and Julia.

Finally, yes, there in the familiar opening up ahead, Arch Rock. If only it was the busy season, Julia had said many would be here. But if Mr. Logan had a loaded gun, perhaps fewer people was best.

She almost cried in relief when she saw two horses tethered to the big beige-and-green Arch Rock sign. They were here, together. Julia knew how to handle her father, didn’t she, even if he’d turned violent today?

Not wanting to take the wagon too near the edge, Claire pulled back on the reins and headed the team toward a place to tie up. An errant thought in her panic: Wouldn’t Lexi be proud of her for driving a horse-drawn wagon for the first time?

She scrambled down in the shadow of tall white pines, limbless for the first ten feet or so of their trunks before their delicate needles began. It made her feel she walked among giant posts guarding the site.

She couldn’t decide whether to call for Julia or her father or just look. Would it be wise or not to sneak up on the old man if he had a loaded gun? What she’d love to see is both of them sitting near the top of the steps as she and Julia had earlier today, just talking.

A chill wind picked up, rustling the branches overhead and tugging at her hair. By glancing west, she tried to gauge how much daylight was left, but the sun was shrouded by hulking cumulus clouds. Darkness came early in late autumn. She stood still at first, looking out toward Arch Rock, not getting too near the edge, then walked toward the stairs. The two tied horses snorted and stamped, looking nervously her way, the whites of their eyes showing.

Claire nearly jumped into them in alarm when she heard a man’s voice behind her.

She spun. It was as if Hunter Logan had emerged from a tree. He was wearing a ten-gallon hat and was dressed the same way she’d seen him yesterday but also wore a fringed beige suede jacket. And he was wearing a side holster with a pistol in it.

“This is cattleman’s land, young lady. A friend of mine owns it.”

Claire just stared for a moment. He had suddenly developed a Western drawl. This was like walking into fantasy island. And she had next to no experience dealing with a person with dementia.

“It’s lovely land,” she said, deciding it would be wiser and safer to play along. “I didn’t mean to trespass and mean no harm.”

“That’s one of Gene’s cowboy rules, you know, number three, so it’s pretty danged important. A cowboy must always tell the truth.”

“Yes, I admire that. Actually, I’m here looking for a friend of mine.”

“Not the rancher?”

“Ah, no. Maybe his daughter. Her name is Julia.”

“I just run off that man who owns the saloon with dancing girls. I don’t want to run you off, but Julia’s not here, just her horse.”

“Maybe she was talking to the man with the saloon. Do you remember his name?”

“Vern. He’s a cattle rustler in several of Gene’s movies.”

“Really? Would it be all right with you and your friend who owns this land—”

“It’s a spread. And don’t get pushy with me, ma’am, ’cause I know how to push back.”

“Oh, no, I’m not. Being polite to ladies is probably a cowboy rule too.”

He just nodded but moved his right hand to the pistol.

“Would it be all right,” she said, “if I walk over to the stairs to look at more of the view? I thought my friend might be there. She likes to sit there.”

“You’d need to be real careful. A woman I once knew died there.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He must be referring to his wife, but she said only, “Was that the lady who had the heart attack?”

“It might have been an Indian attack. They can still be seen here’bouts, you know. No, I reckon someone shot her, someone escaping from a posse,” he said, frowning.

Claire’s pulse pounded harder as Mr. Logan drew his pistol from his holster in one smooth move and spun it once, then again, around his index finger.

“I wasn’t here in time to help her,” he said and sniffed hard. He blinked back tears. “The sixth rule is that a cowboy must always help people in distress, but I couldn’t help her. Not the one who died there or her ghost who rode that horse in,” he added, pointing at one of the horses from Julia’s stables.

“Please put your six-shooter away,” she said, trying to sound calm when she wanted to run and scream.

“Now, don’t you be afraid I’d hurt a lady. Cowboys respect women and this nation’s law, rule number nine, so you can tell there’s nothing wrong with my thinking. I just needed to get out, especially to ward off thieves and rustlers like that Vern fella.”

He turned toward a sound Claire heard too. Several horses, yes, but at least four men on bicycles. Two were on the same bike, a tandem. Oh, thank heavens, Heck and even Nick!

But Mr. Logan raised his pistol and aimed their way. Claire leaped forward, hit his arm. He swatted at her but his shot went down, awry. A woman screamed. Oh, Liz. Liz was here too, on a bike barely visible through the scrim of trees.

Two police officers jumped off their bikes and wrestled the old man’s gun away. Claire didn’t even wait for Nick but sprinted to the staircase.

Julia was not there. Maybe she was sitting farther down. With all the ruckus, why didn’t she climb back up? But the wind was whining so loud that she just didn’t hear their voices, that was all. Claire had expected to see her—wanted to see her, sitting here, maybe crying.

As she heard Nick’s voice calling “Jenna! Jenna!” above, she didn’t see Julia.

Then she did. Dear God, help us all. She was sprawled on a rock, facedown, far below.

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