Night of Shadows (3 page)

He scanned her doubtfully, as his
eyes rested on her expensive travel suit and heels.

But Melinda was a desperate woman. An
hour later she was perched high in the seat of an aged, dented Chevy truck she
dubbed Old Blue. It whined in protest every time she mashed on the accelerator,
and groaned each time she shifted a gear. But — as the farmer had assured her —
the motor seemed to be in good shape. She only hoped that the rest of the truck
would hold together long enough to reach the ranch.

She was headed west on a narrow
highway that obviously was not one of New Mexico's major thoroughfares. As the
pickup hit some of the numerous potholes that defaced the pavement, she was
jarred and bounced painfully against the overhead. She rubbed her scalp and,
with the other hand, hung onto the gyrating steering wheel. It didn't help that
Old Blue also was equipped with bad shocks.

More than an hour had passed when
she started to watch for a sign that marked the turnoff onto County Road 38. She
wondered how its condition would compare to the so-called highway she already
was on.

The western horizon was ablaze with
a mixture of purplish, orange, gold and yellow hues that reached up like
fingers and caressed the clouds. But the descending sun radiated intense heat
as it converted the pickup cab into an unwanted sauna. Perspiration soaked
Melinda's clothes, causing them to cling to her body.

Occasionally, as she shifted
positions, she found herself almost glued to the uncomfortable vinyl seat. She
fiddled with the dials on the makeshift air conditioner, but it no longer
worked.

She encountered so little traffic
on this off-route that it was no problem to relax a little and take advantage
of the view. Shimmering heat waves distorted the hazy blue range of mountains
in the distance. Melinda observed them with anticipation. It had to be cooler
in the higher elevations where she was destined.

The nearby landscape was dotted
with numerous, colorful desert plants such as elephant ear cactus with red
blossoms and purple wild flowers that resembled verbenas. Yellow and orange
flowering plants she was unable to identify flourished along the hillsides. She
suspected that the recent rains had brought out this temporary colorful display
that would shrivel as soon as the wet spell ended and the harsh desert sun
again prevailed.

Water was pooled alongside the roadway,
evidence of recent heavy deluges that even the extreme heat had failed to dry
out. Melinda rolled her window all the way down, and relished the pungent aroma
of the desert plants mixed with the warm, humid air that fanned her face.

As she gazed up through the
windshield at the deep blue sky, she saw two hawks gliding gracefully in slow
circles as they searched for prey. Beyond them, dark thunderheads formed in the
distance.

She was so enthralled with the
scene that she almost missed the road sign announcing her turnoff.

Quickly she jammed the stubborn
brakes, bringing the truck over to the side of the highway. Then she wrestled
the steering wheel to the left and turned the vehicle away from the pavement.

Melinda felt edgy as she drove
farther down the gravel road that penetrated the rugged and unfamiliar terrain
before her. Beyond the nearby barren, black lava hills, she noted the clouds
that now rolled swiftly in her direction. She tried not to let them worry her. She
was from the South, after all. She was used to a little rain.

As she lifted her sunglasses to
peer at the road ahead, she couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration for
this country, ugly as it had first appeared from the confines of the airplane. She
indulged her artistic talent by often sketching illustrations for advertising
layouts, and now felt the urge to pull out a drawing pad to capture this
panorama purely for the sake of its own rugged beauty.

But she had to pay attention to the
business at hand. Quickly reverting to her old practicality, she gripped the
steering wheel firmly with one hand and used the other to spread out Joan's map
beside her on the seat. There was nothing to be concerned about. She was simply
taking a road out to a ranch where people had lived, probably in utter boredom,
for years.

Joannie had advised her in the
directions to pay special attention to the mileage reading on her odometer so
that she would be sure and take the correct turnoff to Sacramento Ranch. Only
then did she notice that the instrument on the old pickup had not registered
any miles since she had left Roswell. To complicate matters, the pickup
sputtered and coughed, as though on the verge of stranding her in the middle of
nowhere.

These additional aggravations
contributed to an inadequate feeling that had dogged her from the beginning of
this hastily planned trip. She usually prided herself on her ability to
organize, her mastery of detail. And this mad, haphazard journey was so far out
of character that she kept expecting disaster at any moment.

The truck wheezed once or twice
more, then seemed to recover as she mashed the accelerator and mentally dared
it to fail her now.

She patted the dashboard
encouragingly. "Good 'ol truck," she muttered.

The road continued winding in the general
direction of the mountain range ahead of her. She frowned down at the map on
the seat, and noted there would be several turnoffs required. She would have to
do some guessing. She was supposed to travel 33.8 miles west from the main
highway, then make a right and travel 8.2 more miles through Tres Cruces
Canyon.

The rearview mirror reflected her
scowl. Would it be too much to ask the county to erect a few road signs? There
certainly wasn't any place to stop and ask directions.

Melinda drove on for miles, while
she boosted her morale with confident thoughts. She hummed a few broken strains
of
Home on the Range.

Suddenly, a whirling wind filled
with dust blasted the truck, causing it to sway momentarily. Enormous, dirty
rain splats drummed the windshield as she stared in dismay. Through the
accompanying downpour, she was barely able to discern the dim road just ahead
that led to her right. This had to be the place to turn, from what she could
decipher of Joan's directions. She prayed she wouldn't get stuck out here as
she savagely jerked the wheel and slid onto the two deep ruts that appeared to
constitute a road.

She kept going, hoping she was in
Tres Cruces Canyon. At one point, she was forced to slide to a complete halt as
torrential rain mixed with golfball-sized hail pounded the roof, deafening her
with its roar. She anxiously watched the windshield, half expecting it to
shatter. Mercifully, the hail lasted only a few minutes.

The rain continued, but finally let
up enough to provide her with visibility to drive on. At least, the windshield
wipers worked, swishing madly in their effort to keep up. She had to press
onward. She looked for a house or another vehicle where she might get help. Yet,
who but a nitwit would be out in this?

The lashing rain again swept over
the truck, and again compelled her to stop. As she nervously waited, streams
formed in the ruts of the road. Before she could fathom what was happening,
water began to swell, sweeping like a small river around her. For the first
time, she felt genuine fear as she knew that this rain was more than a mere
annoyance. It was a cloudburst. She was in a canyon — a low lying canyon, now
filling fast with muddy water.

Panic overtook her as she pressed
the accelerator, and sloshed onward. She must reach higher ground — quickly! 
The water rushed down from the surrounding hills to the lowest points, and
cascaded through canyons like the one she was now in.

Oh, dear powers above, Melinda
thought. Please, please help me. She had never before experienced terror like
this. Her leg trembled as she tried to bear down on the gas pedal. The engine
sputtered and died. The water sweeping around the pickup rose rapidly. Her mind
froze with indecision.

Should she stay here? Or should she
leave the security of the truck?

She felt moisture on her feet, and
looked down where water had seeped into the floorboard. The truck slowly moved
at an angle with the current, then lodged against something. There was no other
answer. She had to get out — now — and make it to higher ground!

She shoved open the door, and
berated herself for not acting sooner. Yet, she again hesitated as she looked
down at the gray, muddy torrent that swirled past her. Debris floated by with
what looked like a rattlesnake writhing on top of it. That's when the hysteria
overcame her.

Clinging to the door, she grabbed
her purse, slung it over her shoulder and gingerly stepped down into the
clutching stream of icy water. The current grabbed at her waist and knocked her
off her feet as it tried to pull her under.

At the same moment, she lost her
grasp on the door and was swept downstream. She struggled desperately to keep
her head above the churning waves, as she tried to paddle toward the edge of
the stream.

She managed once or twice to regain her
footing momentarily. But the water was relentless. A passing tree limb knocked
her end over end. She surfaced, gasping and choking for air. She was fast
losing her strength.

She thrashed her way towards a log
headed her way. By now, she gulped water along with the air each time she took
a breath. She stretched out her arms to try and latch on to the evasive limb as
it rushed by, but it was out of reach. It was a lifeline, her last hope for
survival — gone.

As the water sucked her under, she
screamed in torment. Perhaps it was a hallucination in her final moment, but
she thought she glimpsed an image of a man on horseback on high ground above
her. He shouted something. Then, the force of the muddy waters rolled her over
and over.

She surrendered to darkness.

Melinda was aware of pain stabbing
at her shoulder when she moved a hand weakly to touch her forehead. Her eyes
fluttered open as she fought her way back to consciousness. She tried to focus
on the flames that wavered in the fireplace across a dimly lit room. Where was
she?

Her last recollection was of lungs
filling with water, and the shadowy image of a pale horse and rider standing
above her like omens of death. But she wasn't dead. She was very much alive.
Melinda shivered with a sudden chill and reached down to draw a coarse blanket
up around her shoulders.

"It's about time you woke
up," a gruff voice said from somewhere behind her.

The stranger came into view, his
figure a dark outline against the firelight. He stood frowning down at her. As
her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw the deep crease between his black,
thick eyebrows. His manner was aloof. Melinda clutched the blanket tighter for
security. She wondered if she was in danger.

"Who are you?"

She meant to make the question
sound authoritative, but her voice croaked. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

"I'm not with that bunch you
hang around with."

"What — are you talking
about?" Melinda tried to comprehend the hostility of his tone. She wished
her head were clearer. It was like walking unexpectedly into a script written
for someone else. And he certainly thought she was someone else.

He didn't answer. As the fire cast
an unsteady light on his dark, suspicious eyes, she blinked up at his rugged
features. With his torn clothes and scraggly beard, he resembled a vagrant. She
groped in vain for some memory of what had transpired in the hands of this man.

The accusing tone remained in his
voice as he continued speaking. "Only a crazy person would drive into a
canyon in a storm like that."

He reached towards her face. The
unexpected gesture made her jerk away. The sudden movement cost her dearly,
eliciting such pain in her head that she fainted. She didn't know how long she
lingered in fevered vertigo, drifting in and out of a whirling void of
nightmares.

When she finally awoke, it was to a
caustic smell that burned her nostrils. Her arm was aflame with heat. She
looked down first at her tattered clothing, then to the stranger's tanned,
rough hand as it held a rag to bathe a jagged wound on her lower wrist. His
dark hair tumbled over his eyes as he worked methodically at his task.

"What is that stuff?" she
demanded.

"Horse liniment."

He started jerking the covers up
around her as though anxious to be finished with her. When she winced at the
sudden ache his movement caused her, he instantly froze.

"Sorry," he mumbled, as
though unaccustomed to the word.

An obviously impatient man, he
seemed to will himself to slow down his movements enough to gently finish
tucking the covers around her. Then he walked away, returning shortly with a
spoon full of some odorous concoction.

"Open your mouth," he
commanded.

Too ill to argue, she obeyed as he
poured the liquid down her throat. She gulped, swallowed, and choked as it
seared its way through her insides. It smelled like motor oil, and tasted just
as awful.

"I guess that's something for
horses, too," she gasped.

"It's all I've got." He
examined her for a few moments, as if to reassure himself. "You look like
you're doing okay. I'm going outside for some air."

 "Wait!  I want to talk to
you."

Ignoring her, he grabbed a dirt-stained
jacket and a crumpled cowboy hat from several pegs on the wall. Then he opened
the outside door and disappeared. His boots made a hollow thumping sound on the
outside porch as he walked away.

Melinda held out one hand as though
to stop him, but it dropped helplessly to her side. Her stomach still churned
in rebellion against the medicine.

Grimacing, she scanned her
surroundings in more detail. Shabby, faded plaid curtains were pulled back,
allowing some light from the overcast skies to shine in. She reclined on a
thin, torn cotton mattress that was held in place by a rusty metal bed frame.
Feathers poked through the threadbare pillow where her head rested.

A worn, hooked rug covered the
rough-textured wooden floor in front of the fireplace, where a small flame
still burned.  An old sofa and a spindle-backed rocking chair, which
looked like refugees from a pawn shop, provided most of the room's furnishings.
The walls appeared to be made of splintered, unfinished lumber.

She turned her head, and saw a
small kitchen enclosure outfitted with an old, wood-burning stove and a
rickety table and three chairs. A kerosene lamp on the table indicated there
was no electricity in this shanty. Melinda assumed this was her rescuer's home.

Had she stumbled upon a mountain man
of sorts — maybe a hermit? His unkempt looks and anti-social manner
seemed to back up that theory.

She resolved that the sooner she
could get of here, the better. She made a move as if to sit up. But a wave of
dizziness reminded her that she was far from well. Though she fought hard to
stay alert, she was submerged in a state of semi-consciousness.

It was hard to keep track of the
time. She remembered at one point feeling the man's cold hand pressing against
her forehead while her throat ached and her temples pounded. She heard him
mutter softly to himself.

"You've got a bad fever,"
the man informed her in a louder voice. The brusque tone seemed to mask a
deeper concern.

She surrendered to a deep sleep.
Once, when she was awakened by a woman's voice crying out, she realized with a
start that it was her own. She dreamed of being held like a child in someone's
arms as she shivered and whimpered. She was soothed by a compassionate male
voice that penetrated her delirium.

"Take it easy, now. That's the
way."

"Daddy?" she asked.
"No, not Daddy. Daddy's dead. Is it Perry?"

"Just go back to sleep."

Her body was racked with
temperature extremes that alternated between blazing fire and icy cold. She
wasn't sure when the torture subsided. But there came a time when, at last, she
was at peace. When she again awoke, she felt a gnawing in the pit of her
stomach. It was good to be hungry again.

She inhaled deeply. The air smelled
of fresh rain. With each invigorating breath she took, Melinda revived even
more. Then, she saw him. This time, he wasn't looming over her. Nor did he seem
so menacing. He was bent over in slumber, crumpled in the rocking chair that
had been moved beside her bed.

Curiously, she examined him. She
wondered why she had been so frightened of him before. He was younger than she
had first thought and, in his sleep, looked quite harmless. His wan face,
unguarded and haggard, revealed the ordeal she must have put him through.

Her heart warmed towards him. After
all, curt as he seemed, he had cared enough to save her. Sensing her scrutiny,
he woke up instantly and straightened in the chair. A guarded expression
slipped over his face. She ventured a tentative smile, but received no
response.

"How long have I been
here?" she asked weakly.

"Five days."

"That long? But that's
terrible. I have to get out of here. I have — pressing business."

"Yeah, I'll just bet you
do." His tone oozed sarcasm, implying for some reason that he knew exactly
what she had in mind. "Just relax. You're not going anywhere for a while.
It's still raining."

Melinda felt the crushing worry
about her sister return. She had wasted enough time, and Joan might be out
there somewhere in this.

"I'm afraid I have to
insist," she said crisply as she struggled to a sitting position.

"Insist all you want. It isn't
going to do you any good."

With a calculating look, Melinda
scanned his rumpled clothes. He certainly wasn't well off. There might be other
ways to motivate him.

"I can pay you."

His look was smoldering.
"Really? You must have hit a lucky streak. That's not the way it usually
works with you people."

Again, he made no sense. And this
time, it wasn't because she was feverish.

"Now see here, whatever your
name is. I can tell you're — down and out. I know you can use the money."

He looked deeply offended.
"My, my. Where are those Southern manners I've heard so much about? You
just called me a bum. Didn't you?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to
insult you."

"Never mind. I told you
before. Unless you sprout wings, I'm stuck with you." He paused.
"Anyway, you're too sick right now to travel. For a while there, I thought
you were actually going to die on me."

He said it like her accident was a
deliberate attempt to annoy him.

Melinda bit her tongue against an
angry retort. "I told you. I can pay you for any inconvenience I've caused
you. And I promise. If you get me out of here, I'll make it worth your
while."

"It sounds like you're about
to miss a wager on a long shot. Is it one of those 'sure things'?"

"What in the world are you
talking about?" Melinda lost her patience.

"All right. I'll play along.
You want to pay me for my time? Fine. What are you willing to offer?" He
scratched his beard as he eyed her shrewdly.

Melinda hesitated. She had no idea
what the going rate for rescue was, but she was beginning to realize that this
man was no gentleman.  She'd better not put herself in a position where she
promised too much. He'd probably grab her life savings, along with her first
born child.

"First off, you have to understand
something. I rented that truck I was driving, and I'm sure I'm going to have to
pay for it now. It's going to run me short of cash." She wasn't about to
tell him she could use her credit to draw money for almost any amount she
wanted. "I can pay you at least a thousand dollars now. And — and more in
the future, by the month, if you — think that's really necessary."

"That's it? That's all your
life is worth?" He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

"Really now, Mr. — Just what
is your name?"

"Does it matter? I'm just
lowlife to you. Listen, lady. All the money in the world isn't going to stop
the rain. But if you're so eager to give away your fortune, we'll talk about it
later. Okay? Will that make you happy?"

He stood suddenly and changed the subject.
"Are you hungry? I only have canned meat and crackers. Or soup. Take your
choice."

"Soup would be fine, thank
you."

"Great." He turned and
walked toward the stove. "I'll add it to the tab."

Melinda reached around to prop up
her pillow, and then rested against it as she watched him. With his back turned
to her, she examined his lean, sinewy muscles outlined underneath a tattered
shirt. Cleaned up, he might even be considered handsome — to some women.

The tantalizing aroma of food
wafted through the room, causing her mouth to water. Soon, he walked over with
a steaming bowl.

"You wouldn't touch this
before. Do you think maybe you could try it now?"

She needed no convincing. Eagerly,
she reached for the bowl and spoon he held. He pulled back from her.

"You're too weak. You'll spill
it."

He approached again, intent upon
feeding her. But she became equally adamant that she would not inconvenience
her reluctant rescuer any more than she had to.

"I'll do it myself."

Stubbornness must have registered
on her face, because he finally relented and handed her the bowl and spoon. He
watched critically as she took the first few bites.

"You must be feeling
better." He again walked over to the peg where his jacket hung, and jammed
his hat over his head. "I need to go check on my horse, while the rain has
let up."

Good riddance, she thought.

After he was gone, she put aside the
spoon and grabbed the bowl with both hands as she gulped its contents down to
the last drop. Satisfied, she placed the bowl on the stand beside the bed and
began to carefully test each muscle. Nothing broken. A lot of soreness, but
everything was working.

Now what she wanted more than
anything else was her handbag — if it had survived the flood. She had
remembered slinging its strap over her shoulder just as she left the pickup.
Somehow, she knew she would feel less vulnerable if she could assure herself
that she at least had her credit cards and driver's license still in her
possession.

 Her travelers' checks and cash probably
were mostly sodden and useless, but maybe she could find something to entice
this stranger to take her into town immediately.

Weakly, she sat up and moved the
blanket aside. She spotted what looked like a tiny closet on the far side of
the room. Her purse might be in there.

As she staggered across the room,
she clutched at furniture that offered support along the way. She pulled open
the closet door and stood swaying for a moment as a wave of light-headedness
hit her, then passed. She was rewarded with the sight of her handbag neatly
stashed on a shelf.