Night of Shadows (9 page)

"Oh, give it a rest, Mac,"
Preston said. He looked directly at Melinda. "Roy Finch is a — friend — of
mine. That's all. He owns the Eagle Ranch, the spread next to us. Joan hardly
knew him."

Answers. But not very satisfying
ones. By the testy silence that again fell, Melinda knew it was best not to
push her luck with more questions. After a lingering silence, both brothers
seemed relieved when she excused herself early before dessert and coffee were
served to go up to her room.

Melinda didn't remember falling
asleep. But sometime during the night she was awakened by the muted sound of a low-flying
airplane, followed by the shrill chirping of the disturbed mockingbird.

Puzzled, she checked the clock by
her bed. It was just after midnight. She stood, reached for Joan's robe, and
wrapped it around her. Then she stepped out onto the veranda to see if she
could catch sight of the plane. But the only movements she saw at first were
from the quivering stars and a spurt of brightness from a short-lived meteor.

At last, she spotted the swooping
shadow of an unlit plane drifting across the sky like a sinister omen. The
noise of its sputtering engine faded into the distance, and she lost sight of
it.

Melinda folded her arms as a
protective shield against the cool night air and stared toward the direction of
the noise. A full moon hovering on the horizon provided generous illumination.

Then, a stealthy movement caught
her eye as a shadowy figure on horseback drifted away from the stables. The
horse and rider moved in a slow walk, passing quietly below her on a dirt path.
Then they disappeared from sight toward the right side of the house. Horse and
rider clearly were headed in the direction of the airplane noise. All at once
the engine's roar ceased.

The plane must have landed nearby.

The mockingbird, no longer agitated
by the burst of sound, itself became silent. The only thing Melinda could hear
now was a chorus of crickets and the yipping of a coyote far away.

Then a sharp noise, like a boot
scuffing gravel, rang out. She thought she saw a dark figure move in the
vicinity of the corral and then duck out of sight behind a building. If so,
then the person clearly had seen her where she was standing in the full glow of
the moon.

Shaking now with more than just the
cold, Melinda stepped back into the safety of her room and closed and carefully
locked the sliding veranda door.

When she slipped back under the
covers, Melinda was too troubled to sleep.

 Could someone at this ranch be
involved in some type of illicit activity? But it made no sense to suspect the
McClure brothers. They were prominent, successful ranchers. What possible
motive could they have?

Yet this night had triggered a
memory of another time and place, when she had been ill and stranded. She had
heard a plane then, too, when Mac had slipped outside and driven away.

Melinda reluctantly admitted to
herself that the phantom horseman she had spotted tonight looked a lot like Mac.
What was he up to? And why would he feel compelled to meet the occupants of
that plane only when he was hidden by the shadows of the night?

Melinda had little to do the next
morning as she awaited the Ruidoso trip the following day. In her restlessness,
she wandered the upstairs hallway with the idea of finding Harriet and
requesting some paper and pencils for sketching.

First, she stopped at her room to change
from her robe and gown into casual clothes of Levis and a red pullover top. After
wrapping a bandanna around her long hair, she walked down the hallway and
spotted the open door to Mac's room.

That's when she saw the painting.

Melinda glanced around. The hallway
was empty. So she hesitantly walked inside to take a closer look at the commanding
pose of a long-legged black colt captured in the frame hung above the bed's
rumpled covers. The artist had outlined the magnificent animal against the
backdrop of a red, bleeding sunset.

Melinda moved even closer, almost
pressing her nose against the scene. Such exquisite detail had been captured
that the painting lost none of its quality, even with Melinda's unfairly close
scrutiny.

Then she spotted the tiny, delicate
signature scrawled modestly in the lower right corner — Colleen Davis McClure. By
the date noted next to the signature, Melinda was certain that the woman had
been Mac's mother. If so, she must have died shortly after this painting was
completed.

Melinda stepped back. Her attention
then was caught by a color photograph of a vibrant, handsome young couple
displayed on the bureau. She picked it up. It was an older picture, slightly yellowed
by the years.

The woman wore her dark hair long
and loose. Her high cheek bones and prominent nose indicated Indian ancestry. The
man wore a military uniform and a stern expression to match. They had to be
Mac's parents.

"What do you think you're
doing in here, Missy?"

Feeling properly guilty, Melinda
quickly replaced the photograph and whirled to face Harriet. The housekeeper
stood, her expression accusing. She carried an armload of fresh linens for the
bed.

"I — uh — the painting caught
my eye," Melinda stammered, as she backed up and moved closer to the doorway
and escape.

"That's no reason to go poking
through other people's things, now is it? Get out. Hear me?"

Harriet shoved her way past Melinda
and dumped the linens on a nearby chair.

"I swear to you," Melinda
said. "I came in here because of the painting. I'm an artist myself, you
see. I — I thought this woman in the photograph probably did the painting. It's
Mac's mother, isn't it? I saw the signature — "

Harriet didn't appear to be
listening to Melinda's babbling as she began tearing covers off the bed.

"I was looking for you,"
Melinda continued, a little more calmly. "I wanted to ask if you might
know where I could find some drawing material — pencils, papers. That sort of
thing. I wanted to do some sketching."

Harriet straightened up and made an
extra movement to the side, as if to eliminate a kink from her back.

"Will it keep you busy and out
of everyone's hair?

Melinda assured her that it would.

Grunting, Harriet gestured at
Melinda to follow. A few moments later, Melinda found herself trailing the
housekeeper up some narrow stairs to the attic.

Harriet instructed Melinda to wait
at the doorway. Then, she walked on into the room, knelt, and began grudgingly
to rummage around in an old chest. From where she stood, Melinda couldn't see
what Harriet was doing. But, finally, the old woman stood up. A sketch pad and
charcoal drawing pencils were in her hands.

She took a deep breath and blew to
clear away the dust. Then she walked over to Melinda and handed over the items.

"Hers," Harriet said, as if
it explained everything. "They ain't doing nobody much good up here."

A few minutes later, armed with the
drawing materials, Melinda stepped outside. It was still early enough for the
morning breezes to be cool, and she took a deep, appreciative breath of fresh
air. Directly ahead, she spotted rows of freshly painted white stables framed
by green alfalfa pastures.

Melinda was attracted by the
stables, with their not unpleasant odor that brought back agreeable memories. As
a teen-ager, she had owned and stabled her own horse for a short time — until
boys and other distractions replaced her interest in riding.

At the nearest pen, a large, black
stallion threw up his head and measured her cautious approach. His ears flicked
up and down with nervous energy. He tossed his head and snorted. Then, he
lowered his nose into the feed bin for another mouthful of grain, and lifted
his head once more to methodically chew. All the while, he kept a wary eye on
her.

Charmed, Melinda sat down on a
nearby bale of hay. Something in the arrogant way the stallion carried himself,
and the extraordinarily long lines of his neck reminded her of the colt in the
painting in Mac's room.

The horse was the same animal, now
matured. She was sure of it.

Melinda sat down on a nearby bale of
hay, propped the drawing pad on her knees, and began sketching his head. With
sweeping lines, she drew the proud arch of his muscled neck, then used delicate
strokes to capture the noble spirit in his eyes.

She lost herself to her imagination
as she worked.

In another time and place, this
stallion would have been destined to run free. He would have dominated any
untamed land. Yet, she felt no sadness at seeing him confined. His sleek and
well-groomed coat showed that domestication suited him. Melinda had an eerie
feeling that the stallion remained the master of his domain, even inside his
pen.

Melinda's final drawing was superb
— not because of her own talent, but because her subject demanded perfection.

She set the paper aside with the
idea of filling in the details later. Then, she stood and walked closer. Dazzled
by the gorgeous animal, she reached out in a slow, tentative gesture to see if
the horse would allow her to touch him.

He apparently was accustomed to
being handled, for he made no protest as she rubbed first his forehead, then
his soft muzzle, and worked her way up behind his ears. He seemed to appreciate
the attention, for he stopped eating and stood still. She laughed softly when
he let out his breath in a long, contented sigh.

Then, a rough voice from out of
nowhere startled her, causing her to jump and the horse to shy away.

"Joan likes the horses, too — except
she prefers them on the track."

Melinda slowly turned to face Mac. "You're
still angry with my sister, aren't you? Well, everyone around here keeps
forgetting one thing. Joan isn't here now. She hasn't been for days. Preston is
still asking you for money, isn't he? That has to be why you're so frustrated. And
if Joan isn't here, what's his excuse now?"

Melinda took no satisfaction in
seeing Mac's defeated expression. But she knew Joan had been the convenient
alibi, drawing Mac's bitterness away from a younger brother who he dearly loved
and could not bear to condemn. Melinda must keep hammering at Mac, to make him
see the picture as it really was.

"Preston got married right
after he was home from the service," she continued gently. "You
hadn't been around him very much in those years. You blamed all the changes you
saw in him on Joan, didn't you?"

She waited patiently, until finally
Mac answered.

"You're right about one thing.
It was never like it was before Preston left home the first time. We were good
friends back then. Life was tough, but we were — happy. That was before money
entered the picture. Back then, none of us ever dreamed we would end up so
prosperous. And it all started with this old man."

Confused at first, Melinda followed
Mac's gaze. Then she realized he was talking about the black stallion that now
had returned to busily munching his grain.

Taking care not to spook the
animal, Mac reached out gently to stroke the horse's neck.

"Before Black Gold here came
along, my father was a rancher — just like most everyone else who lives around
here. When we were growing up, life was a whole lot simpler. We grazed cattle —
sometimes sheep. We had good years and bad years, but we got by okay. It seemed
like we never got ahead, though. Then one year Dad bought a little black foal
from one of our neighbors, and raised him for racing. Back then, just about
anyone could afford a quarter horse. No one really expected to win much. Racing
was more like a hobby."

As if recognizing that a tribute
was being paid to him, Black Gold craned his head forward to receive a few more
loving pats from his owner.

"This old boy was not only a
winner, he was a sensation. Old as he is now, he's still the country's top
quarter horse sire. We sell breeding right shares on him for tens of thousands
of dollars."

The horse tossed his head triumphantly,
as though he understood every word being spoken. The old sire seemed so
enormously proud of himself that Mac chuckled. The rancher's face then filled
with the wistfulness born of a young man's dreams.

"He sure changed our
lives," Mac continued. "We still have cattle, of course. But our main
enterprise turned to horse breeding and racing. Don't get me wrong. Every once
in a while we still have a bad year. But no matter how bad it gets, I'll never
sell Black Gold to bail us out. Never. Besides, we've got a couple of colts — some
of his — that I think might have every bit the potential of their old
daddy..."

Animation lit Mac's face as he
continued talking about the business. He loved this life. And Melinda
recognized that the two of them with all their ambition had something in common
— no one with whom to share their dreams.

She said little, avoiding
interruption, for she recognized she was being shown an aspect of this man that
was rarely revealed. He paused for a moment, and they stood together in
companionable silence as they admired the horse. Then, Mac's next remark caught
Melinda by surprise.

"You know," he said
carefully, "I'll admit that maybe Joan wasn't altogether responsible for
what's been happening with my brother. But you have to understand she was part
of it. She was no angel."

Melinda was stabbed both with pain
and irony. Like Mac, she had managed to place the blame entirely elsewhere,
convincing herself that the fault for her sister's behavior had all been
Preston's.

"I'm not saying this to hurt
you." Mac selected his words carefully. "You would understand better
if you could have seen Joan at the race track. She was like a crazy person. She
would bet hundreds — sometimes thousands — of dollars on one race, and most of
the time lose it. I don't know why. Preston couldn't reason with her, couldn't
even guide her to put her money down on something more sensible. Maybe she liked
the thrill. Maybe she enjoyed putting on a show for her friends. She always had
to bring them along, always had to have them around her."

Seeing Melinda's face, Mac added
hastily:  "But she wasn't all bad. She was — real popular, actually. She
could be a sweet kid."

It was the first time Melinda had
heard him say anything kind about Joannie. And her instincts told her Mac was
telling the truth about the rest. Painful as it was, she had to find out more.

"What — friends are you
talking about?" Melinda asked. "Connie? Debbie?"

"Yeah. Them, too. But there
were others. Lots of others. We've had more than our share of guests out here. Joan
and Preston both had a knack for picking up all kinds of — freeloaders."

"Joannie was always very
generous," Melinda conceded.

"Yeah. She was. And sometimes
the people she brought here would stay for days, partying every night. No one
seemed to want to take any responsibility for the important things that needed
to get done around here. They just ate and drank — and slept late. Harriet
picked up after them all the time. I always had to take care of the business. I
got sick and tired of it, so I put a stop to it all. Besides, I think there was
something else going on — something I was never quite able to figure
out..."

His voice trailed off for a minute.
"Anyway, I admit I thought it was all Joan's doing. But looking back, I
can see Preston was in on it, too."

Mac put his hands together and
leaned against the railing of the small corral that surrounded the stable.

"You know, even a business
this big — with a bonanza like Black Gold — will go under if it isn't managed
right. Dad left me in charge, and I've been putting most of my share back into
the place. But Preston keeps trying to sell our best breeding stock out from
under us. He wants all his money up front, now, instead of looking to the
future."

Melinda was saddened as she looked
around at the empire built from such modest beginnings. Maybe Mac, being the
oldest, could better appreciate the hard work that translated into their good
fortune. He wasn't going to let this ranch deteriorate without a fight, even if
it meant alienating his own brother. At the same time, she couldn't help but
wonder just how far Mac might go to keep from losing the place.