Night of Shadows (5 page)

"Did you hear anything last
night?" she asked casually.

"A few cattle are milling
around — those that weren't caught on low ground when the waters came up.
That's about it."

"Yours?" she asked
sympathetically.

He nodded. She wondered then if
part of his chronic ill temper might be blamed on concern for the livestock
that must have been destroyed in the storm. It was his livelihood, after all.
However, he still had not satisfied her curiosity.

"Wasn't that airplane horribly
loud?" she asked. "It came so close. You went out in the jeep about
the same time, didn't you? I heard you."

"Planes fly over here all the
time. It didn't mean anything. I just went out to check some cattle."

"In the pitch dark?"
Melinda asked incredulously.

"If you're so interested, then
you
tell me what it means." Michael's tone turned cold.

Melinda was sorry she brought up
the subject. He stood, almost turning over his chair. Then he cleared the table
by piling dishes onto one arm. He dumped everything in the sink before he
turned around to face her. As he wiped his hands on a dish towel, his tense
stance contradicted the forced indifference of his voice.

"Really," he coaxed.
"I want to know. Why are you so concerned?"

"Well, I — it was just
strange, that's all."

"Something to do with Roy
Finch, do you suppose?"

His voice was so accusing that
Melinda found herself gaping at him.

"What are you talking about?
Who's Roy Finch?"

"Don't give me that,"
Michael said in disgust. "That road you were on leads to Eagle Ranch. What
was your business there?"

He walked slowly over to the table,
and leaned over it to scrutinize her at close range.

"You may as well tell me all
about it. I know more than you think I do."

Melinda responded angrily.
"You've definitely got me mixed up with someone else. And I don't want any
part of whatever you're involved with. But just to clear things up — not that
it's any of your business — I was on my way to Sacramento Ranch to see Preston
McClure."

Michael's eyes flashed with
surprise, then mistrust as he straightened and stepped backward. "I don't
believe a word of it. Why would Preston have anything to do with the likes of
you?"

Melinda scooted her chair back,
stood, and faced him squarely.

"Now look here. I've had about
enough. I'm Preston's sister-in-law, Melinda Bailey. And contrary
to what you seem to think, I have every right to be here."

Utter disbelief wiped away his
hostile expression.

"Joan's sister?"

"So you know the
McClures?"

Michael's face turned a flaming
red. "I should have known. When you said your first name, I should have
recognized it. And you both have that Southern accent. What's the matter with
me? I never even made the connection. I never dreamed anybody could be that dense,
to come charging up here all alone — "

"Thank you. I'm
flattered." Melinda was beginning to guess the truth.

"No, I didn't mean it that
way. I apologize. For everything." He took a deep breath and looked into
her eyes. "This is very awkward for me, Melinda.  I guess I should have
introduced myself properly before. My name is Michael McClure. My friends call
me Mac. I don't know what Joan calls me. Nothing complimentary, I'm sure."

"So you're Preston's
brother." Melinda said it without enthusiasm, as she recalled her sister's
scathing descriptions of him during rare telephone conversations. She was the
one who should have guessed, long before this.

It wasn't such a coincidence that
she had crossed paths with him, after all. She was destined for the Sacramento
Ranch when she took a wrong turn. How many ranches could there be in this
vicinity? Right now, though, Melinda's first thought was for her sister's
welfare.

"Have they found her
yet?" she asked anxiously. "Is she all right?"

His grim face told her everything.
"I checked with Preston on the radio this morning. Nothing has changed.
And you being here isn't going to help matters, either."

"Is that your way of telling
me I'm not welcome?"

"I didn't say that." His
voice sounded harsh despite the protest. "Besides, you're Preston's
responsibility, not mine. Now, if you'll just step aside, I'll straighten this
place up so we can leave."

"Fine," Melinda said
tersely. "I need some fresh air anyway."

"Look, I'm sorry if I — "

She slammed the door on his
apology. Then, feeling a little childish, she took a couple of deep breaths to
calm herself. With the reception she already had received from Mac, she hardly
relished the upcoming meeting with Preston.

She walked over to the porch's
wooden railing. The shelter was, indeed, on high ground, offering a panoramic
view of a deep canyon where a ribbon of water far below showed evidence of
recent flooding. A soft, cool breeze that carried the fragrance of wet juniper
and pinon trees fanned her face.

Then, a loud crash in the
underbrush right below caused her to flinch, and grip the railing in alarm.
When a deer appeared in the clearing, it spotted her immediately and bounded up
the hill to her left. She was delighted as she followed its progress, and saw it
join a group of three more deer in the distance.

They disappeared briefly behind a
cluster of trees. She leaned over the railing as she strained to catch a
glimpse of the animals. Occasionally, the distinctive white spot of a rear end
gave one away. She had no idea how long she had been watching them when the
door behind her opened.

"You'll have time for sight-seeing
later," Mac said. "Come on. I've had enough of this place for a
while."

He handed Melinda her purse, and
she followed him to the jeep parked nearby. He gave her a quick boost inside.
Then he walked to a small corral at the side of the shack, opened the gate and
slapped a raw-boned, tall white gelding on the rump. The horse shot out
of the enclosure and took off running.

Mac watched the horse disappear
into some nearby trees with an expression of open fondness. It was nice that
the man was capable of some affection, Melinda thought. Then, he stepped inside
the vehicle.

"Ol' Bismark will probably
beat us home," he observed with admiration. "I'll send someone back
to pick up the trailer later."

When Mac took off with a roar of
the engine, Melinda held onto the jeep's dash to keep from bouncing through the
top. Mac was none-too-careful as he maneuvered the rocky road that
now veered downhill.

"We'll be going higher up into
the mountains, so we should be able to get out of these canyons pretty
soon," he explained.

He guided the jeep through some hub-deep
water still pouring through an arroyo. Mud holes had formed at the side of the
road, where occasionally the jeep would slip sideways. Mac gripped the steering
wheel and seemed to physically force the vehicle to straighten out.

They climbed upward, leaving the
canyon behind. Melinda was lost in her own world, as the road and the scenes
blurred by. Back in the sanctuary of her Atlanta office, she had not realized
that this country was so enormous — so wild.

Joan could be lost in this
wilderness, and no amount of manpower would ever be able to find her. Maybe Mac
was right. Maybe Melinda could make no difference at all.

"Are they still looking?"
she asked glumly.

Mac stared straight ahead. There
was no feeling in his voice as he answered.

"The rescue squad called off
the search. After this rain — " 

He shrugged, without finishing the
sentence.

"You don't like her, do
you?" Melinda was too discouraged to sound accusing.

His silence was her answer.

As they pulled onto a graveled
road, clear of the mud they had just left, he reached for the CB radio.

"I'll check with Preston and
see if anything's turned up. I already told him who you are."

The two brothers carried on an
abbreviated conversation over the airways. Of course, there was no word of
Joan. Then, the voice over the radio continued.

"Tell Melinda not to worry.
We've got a room ready. We'll take good care of her."

At least Preston sounded friendlier
than his brother. As they drove on, Melinda pursued her questioning.

"Who was the last person to
see Joan before she disappeared?"

"I was."

The jeep lurched, almost as though
Mac had chosen that moment to deliberately drive over a chuckhole. Melinda
refused to be subdued by his shortness. She would have her questions answered —
all of them.

"What was she doing when you
last saw her?"

"Look!" Mac exploded.
"Don't you think the sheriff has been out here asking all the same
questions? You're hardly being original."

"Just tell me what she was
doing, please."

Mac's sigh was heavy. "She
wanted me to take her into town. She said she had some business to attend to. That
was — let me see — about two weeks ago. It was in the afternoon."

"Was she upset?"

"No more than usual."

Melinda glared at Michael — Mac.
Her sister was precious to her, and that she was less than admired by him was
something he didn't bother to hide.

"Well, did you take her into
town?"

Mac shifted the jeep down to a
lower gear and concentrated on maneuvering an especially deep crossing filled
with running water. She could see he wanted to ignore her.

"You listen to me," she
informed him, her voice rising a few decibels. "When Preston called me and
told me Joan had disappeared, that's all the information I ever got. Am I
supposed to believe there's nothing more to it? I don't know your brother. And
I don't know you. But I love my sister, and frankly, I don't care what either
of you think. I'm going to find out what happened to her. Now, are you going to
answer my questions or not?"

She saw Mac's hand squeeze the gear
shift. He must have been holding his temper, for he exhaled sharply. She could
see his indecision as he avoided looking in her direction. His behavior made
her think he was about to fabricate some story to shut her up.

"No, I did not take her into
town."

"Why not?"

"I had something else I needed
to do."

Did he sound defensive? Maybe even
guilty? He must have felt Melinda staring at him, because he glanced at her
with exasperation.

"Darned it all, your sister
was always coming up with some crisis!  I had to look after some horses that
day. How was I to know — ?"

He paused, and looked away from
Melinda to direct his full attention to the road ahead.

"Know what?" she finished
for him. "That this time she might have really needed your help?"

She couldn't help her accusation.
If Mac had answered her sister's plea, if he had taken her into town...would
things now be different?

Mac savagely jerked the wheel to
avoid a huge boulder that had slipped down the side of a canyon and onto the
road.

"Listen," he answered.
"I spent hours — day and night — helping to look for that girl. I've went
out in the jeep. I've been out on horseback.   There's no sign of her. And I
still wonder if..." He looked over at Melinda, hesitant, before he
continued. "I still wonder if this isn't another one of her little
acts."

He didn't try to disguise the
disgust as he continued. "Joan dearly loves attention. You probably know
that."

The girl was missing, possibly even
dead. Didn't he care? Seething, Melinda remained silent as she tried to sort
through what she had learned. Then, a memory pricked her — that odd name he had
blurted out at the breakfast table. Was there some tie to Joan?

"Who is this Roy Finch
character you mentioned?"

"It's not important."

Then, as if to silence her, he
picked up his CB radio receiver and spoke into it:  "We're almost there.
Have you got everything ready?"

"Sure, Mac. I told you we
did."

"I hope you've been taking
care of things while I was gone, Preston."

"I've managed fine without
you. You're not indispensable, you know."

Melinda was reassured by the mellow
sound of her brother-in-law's voice. Surely the other owner of the Sacramento
Ranch couldn't be as difficult as the McClure she had already met.

The entrance to Sacramento Ranch
was framed by a wrought-iron arch resting atop two lofty pillars of stone. Beyond
the gateway was a two-story, adobe ranchhouse splashed with soft earth
tones. Balconies and windows were outlined with intricate black metalwork,
reminding Melinda of pictures she had seen of Mexican haciendas.

Desert plants were scattered in the
foreground. Nearby, a large barrel cactus wore its bright red blossoms like a
proud usher. Sticks of yucca plants resembling broom handles sprouted from
clusters of fleshy green, spiked leaves.

As the jeep halted in front of the
house, Melinda guessed that the tall, young man striding towards them was
Preston. Mac jumped out, walked around the jeep, and opened her door. He took
her elbow as she stepped down gingerly, suddenly aware that her sore muscles
had stiffened during the jostling ride. When she looked up, she saw Mac's
expression grow guarded as he watched his brother approach. Preston, in turn,
did not even favor Mac with a glance as he grabbed Melinda's hand for a warm
greeting.

"Melinda, I can't believe it's
really you!"  He released her hand, stepped back and examined her. "Look
at you. Are you sure you're all right? Should we send for a doctor?"

"No, no," she protested. "I'm
fine."

"I feel awful about what
happened to you. Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

Melinda mumbled something about a
sudden impulse, then staggered with weakness as she took several steps away
from the jeep. Mac rushed over to her, tucked her arm through his and motioned
Preston to take her other arm.

"She needs a doctor,"
Preston said, as he helped steady her.

"No, she doesn't." Mac
overruled him. "She just needs rest."

"How do you know? You don't
have the medical degree. I'm the veterinarian."

 The brothers glowered at each
other like two bulls ready to butt heads. Melinda felt uncomfortably like a
buffer zone between their silent, warring personalities as they assisted her up
the sidewalk.

They shared striking physical
characteristics. Both were tall and tanned, with dark eyes and hair. Mac was
perhaps the taller of the two. But clearly, the younger brother seemed far more
amiable and charming. Preston's next stern words, however, made her realize the
McClures might not be so different, after all.

"Everyone who lives out here
knows better than to drive into a canyon during a heavy rain." Preston's
thick eyebrows wrinkled in a perfect imitation of his brother's scowling
disapproval. "It was a miracle Mac happened to be there."

"Yes," Melinda commented
dryly. "Thank goodness I wasn't the only idiot out that day."

She bit her tongue. Her statement
hadn't come out quite the way she intended — or had it?

Mac grimaced at her. "I was
taking care of the stock. And the difference between you and me is I knew what
I was doing."

Preston hastily broke in to change
the subject.

"Did you have enough
food?" he asked Mac.

"Enough. Yeah."

"I guess you were comfortable
then." Preston then frowned at his brother. "Please tell me you
didn't make her play cards with you. You lose more girlfriends that way."

"Shut up, Preston," Mac growled.

Preston gave Melinda a long,
appraising look, which he then switched to Mac. His curiosity was so visible
she almost could read his mind. She and Mac had spent five days together. What
had happened between them? What had they talked about?

It did not take a genius to guess
their relationship was less than harmonious after their forced confinement
together. Preston seemed amused. And Mac was quick to see his brother's smirk.

"You think something's funny,
do you?" Mac turned to Melinda. "You never did answer my brother's
question. Why didn't you let us know you were coming out here?"

Melinda stalled by concentrating on
putting one foot in front of the other as the three of them slowly climbed the
steps. She thought it over. Maybe she had been wrong in her assessment of that
telephone conversation back at her office. If so, then perhaps it was best to
be frank.

"Quite honestly, I didn't tell
you because I had the impression you didn't want me here. I didn't intend to
argue with you about it. So I just came."

"So you got muleheaded, and
ended up in one heckuva mess," Mac muttered. "Maybe you'll agree now
you really were better off staying home."

"I follow my instincts. And
that comment you just made confirms I was right. I don't think either one of you
is overjoyed to see me. Nor would you be, even if these were the best of
circumstances. Even if Joan were still — here."

She thought again of Joannie's
letter, imploring her to drop in — not to let anyone know she was coming. Melinda's
suspicions deepened as she watched the almost conspiratorial look the two
brothers exchanged. When Preston spoke up to reassure her, he flashed her a
winning smile.

"Don't pay any attention to
Mac. Joan's only sister? Not welcome? That's ridiculous."

He released Melinda's arm to pull
open the heavy, carved mahogany door that led into the house. But when she
heard the trilling of a mockingbird, Melinda hesitated momentarily. She peered
around and located the gray and white bird perched atop a weather vane on a
nearby barn.

"Infernal bird." Mac
stood aside to give her room to enter the house. "It gets its days and
nights mixed up all the time."

"I think it sounds lovely."
Melinda felt obliged to defend the valiant songster.

"Wait'll it starts up at two
or three in the morning, eh, Mac? It doesn't sound so lovely then,"
Preston said.

Melinda listened a few more
moments, then summoned the strength to walk over the threshold on her own power.
Inside, she blinked in the dim light of the hallway as a tall, thin woman
slowly descended the stairs in front of her. The woman's gray hair was pulled
into a severe bun. Her pale blue eyes surveyed Melinda from head to toe.

"So. You're Joan's sister."

Her aloof tone gave Melinda the
same feeling of animosity demonstrated by Mac — that this woman, too, greeted
with displeasure anything or anyone connected with Joan.

"This is Harriet,"
Preston broke in hastily. "After a few days in her care, I guarantee
you'll be as good as new."

Maybe so, Melinda thought to
herself — if she doesn't poison me first. From her elevated position, the
stoic, elderly woman scowled down at the two brothers as if it were she, not
they, who ruled the premises.

"Why are y'all just letting
her stand there?" she demanded. "Bring her on upstairs. Can't you see
she's about to drop in her tracks? You've been taught better manners."

"We just got here,"
Preston answered defensively.

Harriet continued down the stairs,
nudged him out of the way and put her arm around Melinda. Despite her actions,
the woman's severe expression never eased.

"Please. Just a minute — " 
Melinda turned back to Preston. "Haven't you heard anything at all about
Joan? Anything?"

Mac fixed his full attention on
Preston as the younger McClure hesitated.

"No," Preston said, as
his eyes shifted to avoid meeting Melinda's. "Nothing."

"But if she were lost
somewhere, out — in this weather — could she have survived?"

The McClures glanced at each other
uneasily. Neither offered an answer. At that moment, Harriet again took charge.
She tugged at Melinda's arm.

"You can talk later," she
said firmly. "Right now, you get yourself to bed."

When they reached the top of the
stairs, out of sight of the brothers, Mac's muffled voice drifted up from below.

"I'm warning you, Preston…"

His voice faded before Melinda
could hear the rest of his threat. Preston's sarcastic retort, however, was
loud and clear.

"The same old Mac. All you
ever think about is money. Can't you ever change? Can't you just once stop
telling me what to do? Oh, and by the way. Welcome home, brother. Glad you're
okay."

Harriet hurried Melinda down the
hallway into a bedroom, and shut the door soundly as though to keep out the
raised voices. A sigh escaped her as she led Melinda to the enormous king-sized
bed heavily draped with a bright gold comforter.

Melinda sat down wearily as Harriet
disappeared into the adjoining dressing room. Moments later, the woman returned
with a nightgown.

"This was Joan's. She wouldn't
mind, do you think? Not for her sister."

Melinda resented Harriet's use of
the past tense. Her eyes moistened as she accepted the gown, and put the silky
blue material to her cheek. Did everyone here think Joan was dead?

"No, she wouldn't mind,"
Melinda whispered.

Then, she became aware that
Harriet's austere expression had softened into a mixture of compassion and
curiosity.

"What you need is a nice, warm
bath."  Harriet disappeared into the next room, where Melinda heard the
sound of running water. Soon Harriet reappeared.

"I'll run down and fetch you a
bite to eat while you freshen up."

After Harriet left, Melinda stepped
into the hot bath and soaked, letting weary relief soothe her. Then she reached
up and unbraided the pigtails in her gritty hair. She gave her scalp a vigorous
scrub with fragrant shampoo.

Much later, after she dried her hair
and lavished her body with lotion, she slipped into Joan's gown. Melinda then
dabbed on a little perfume and surveyed herself in the mirror. While the
bruises on her face were not so painful, the ugly black smudges remained.

She dug into her bedraggled purse,
and pulled out some foundation makeup to disguise the ugly wounds. When at last
she completed the task, she didn't look that much better. But at least she was
beginning to feel like a woman again.

The tapping at the door announced
Harriet's return with a tray of food. Harriet bustled in, ordered Melinda into
bed, then arranged a tray filled with hot biscuits, gravy, steak, potatoes,
salad and a slice of apple pie before her. Harriet stood, hands on hips, to
examine her patient.

"You look a darned sight
better. Well, eat. Get some sleep. You must be exhausted. Just holler down the
stairs if you need anything else."

Melinda sniffed the food with
relish, hardly noticing when Harriet left. After her recent diet of soup and
crackers, the steamy aromas drifting from the tray made her ravenous.

She attacked the food, positive she
could eat every bite. But her shrunken stomach could hold only a few small
morsels. With trembling hands, she lifted the tray to one side. It had been a
long, grueling day.

Melinda reached over and turned out
the lamp on the nightstand, then succumbed to the luxury of the soft mattress.

At last, Michael — Mac, rather — was
rid of his burden of taking care of her. And she told herself she was grateful
to be rid of his presence. But as she wavered on the brink of sleep, Melinda
pictured his face as she had seen it in unguarded moments.

 What was he really like? She
remembered the feel of his rough hands tending her. Could they be more gentle
under different circumstances? Melinda shoved her face into the pillow and
willed her mind to cease such foolish thoughts. Then she curled on her side to
drift into a troubled sleep.

Once, during the night, she was
aware of a figure standing still above her, but she was not frightened. She
recognized Mac's familiar outline in the dim light from the hallway, and knew
he was checking on her as he had so many times before during her illness.

"I heard you call out,"
he whispered. "Are you all right?"

Melinda pretended to sleep. She
knew she couldn't trust herself to look up into those discerning eyes. She felt
too alone, too vulnerable. He would see far more than she intended. When he at
last turned and quietly left the room, Melinda was dismayed by the melancholy
that enveloped her.

The next morning, she was awakened
by the mockingbird chirping outside her window where bright sunshine filtered
through the pulled drapes. Its happy song lifted her spirits. She sat up with
vigor. She'd had enough of the pampered lady routine.

Melinda massaged a few rebellious
muscles in her legs to work out the stiffness, then hopped out of bed. She
stood, stretched and then reached over to don a robe hanging on a nearby closet
door. After opening the curtains, she examined the scene below.

From her upstairs vantage point, she
spotted five or six workers as they moved about between the stables and corrals.
One tall, sandy-haired young man carrying a saddle hoisted over his shoulder
spotted her and waved familiarly. She waved back. Her attention then was caught
by the many horses that filled the surrounding pastures, and cattle grazing in
the distance.

Wanting a better look, Melinda
opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the veranda. Her artist's eye was
caught by the reddish hue cast over the vista by the rising sun. This place
would make a wonderful backdrop for an advertising display — something like
men's cologne, for example. Something that sounded manly.