Rocky Mountain Lawman (3 page)

Her artist’s eye was taking snapshots, and mentally framing them as if for a canvas. Maybe someday, if she was here long enough, she’d ask those old guys if they’d mind if she took a photo of them.

She was dressed for painting again, and she liked the fact that nobody looked askance at her splattered jeans, shirt and jacket. It was a fact of her life that sooner or later most everything she owned showed signs of oil paint. Sometimes she joked that it just jumped out of the tubes at her.

She had carried her painting supplies with her and set up her portable easel with a blank canvas on it. On the bench beside her, she spread out her tarp and then opened her box of brushes and tubes of oils. At home she preferred a sturdy acrylic palette, but when traveling she used one covered with tear-off papers, like a stiff pad. The farther she got from a studio, the more problematic cleanup became.

Looking around, she thought about the colors she wanted for undercoating the canvas. Though the viewer would never see them, at some level they satisfied the brain, as if while they might appear invisible, they weren’t.

But even as she sat there staring at the stark white canvas and trying to pick tones and hues from the world around her, she knew she was chickening out. She ought to go back to the woods and paint what she had wanted to paint, not hide out here in the center of town.

She shouldn’t let that crank drive her off. When had she ever been one to give ground anyway? Four years in the army, some of it in a combat zone, had stripped her of ordinary fears. One man with an attitude wasn’t enough to run her off, not anymore.

But then she realized what she really wanted to avoid: Craig Stone. Her attraction to him had been immediate and strong, and she didn’t want that. Not now, maybe not ever again. And certainly she didn’t want to grow any feelings, even purely sexual ones, for a man who clearly wasn’t going to be around except every now and then. Heck, given his job, she might never run across him again.

So why hesitate? As men went, that made him pretty safe, didn’t it?

She was used to being very clear about things, at least in her own mind, but the lousy breakup with Hector had left her uncertain in some way she hated. Worse than uncertain, she realized. Unsure. Very unsure. As if she didn’t trust her own mind and feelings anymore.

After her time in Iraq, where she’d been caught up in some pretty ugly stuff, she’d had a certain amount of post-traumatic stress. Of course she had. Damn near everyone had it to one degree or another. For some it was more crippling than others, was all.

She’d been fortunate. She’d come home with a bunker mentality, a tendency to jump at every unexpected noise and a total loss of any sense of safety. But she had come back without disabling flashbacks, and after about six months she’d been able to drive again without seeing every oncoming vehicle or object alongside the road as a potential bomb. She knew how lucky she was, especially after spending the past few years working with vets who were a whole lot less lucky.

She didn’t often have nightmares anymore, she functioned, she felt safe most of the time and an inclination toward explosive outbursts had been gone a long time now. War was a life-altering experience, and not all its effects would vanish, even with years, but she believed she’d come back as far as she ever would.

This square, for example. There’d been a time when she would have found it extremely uncomfortable here, surrounded by strangers who walked by, with cars moving along streets, windows that stared blankly back at her and doors that could conceal any kind of threat. But here she was, feeling pretty much fine, although maybe a smidge less comfortable than she had felt alone on that hillside with pretty good sight lines. So maybe this sense of uncertainty was all the breakup’s fault. Hector certainly hadn’t added to her self-confidence any.

Which still left the question of why she was sitting here in the square when the place she really wanted to paint was that hillside from yesterday. That rocky valley and creek had called to her, suggesting both nature’s strength and mystery. This lovely but tame park didn’t do that.

Still, the morning eased by, the people shifted, cars left and new ones appeared. Birdsong emanated from nearby trees. A wandering dog came up to sniff her, then decided she didn’t have anything worth pursuing, like food. It wandered on and was greeted by the guys playing checkers.

She still hadn’t pulled out a brush, the canvas sat blank in front of her, and she finally accepted that something about that Buddy guy had triggered problems she had believed she had overcome.

She was sitting here paralyzed, emotionally and physically. The way it had sometimes been after she returned from the war. Lost in some place where even thoughts seemed to fall silent, where time passed unnoticed. Just plain lost.

She tried to whip up some anger, either at Buddy or herself, but it wouldn’t come. Moving meant action, and action meant taking risks. Anger was dangerous if it grew too big. She understood all about it.

She had hunkered down again in the silent, safe cave within herself, but even acknowledging it didn’t free her from it.

Damn.
But the word floated through her mind with little emphasis, as if it came from some place far away.
Dissociation.
She understood that, too. The only question was for how long. Or how she could shake it.

Some portion of her mind managed to remain detached from her detachment, odd as that sounded. It allowed her to observe what she was doing, and started commenting. A learned skill from the therapy she’d gone through after her return.

The problem with her current dissociation was that it provided a comfortable place to be. A safe place, beyond reach. The other side of the problem, however, was that it held her paralyzed and uncaring, and therefore useless. And the observer part of her even rustled up a little annoyance that some jerk in the woods could have put her here again by doing something as insignificant as yelling at her. Man, he hadn’t even threatened her, he had just told her to go away and called her a spy.

Still, she didn’t move. The day progressed around her, the afternoon arrived with warmth and she was beyond noticing much except the way the shadows moved with the passing hours. She even quit paying attention to the activity around her, instead closing her eyes. It would pass. It always passed eventually. That was one thing she had had to learn to believe, that it would pass.

* * *

The morning after his meeting with Buddy, Craig drove a service truck into town to pick up his laundry and dry cleaning, and shop for some fresh food. Freeze-dried and other lightweight foods didn’t satisfy him indefinitely. Tonight he was going to stay at one of his favorite cabins in the forest and cook. And maybe even heat up enough water to take a comfortable gravity shower rather than the icy ones he was used to.

Oh, he could have come into town more than he did, but the fact was, he liked his job enough to want to be in the woods as much as possible. And nobody hassled him about it as long as he filed his reports on time. That had taken up most of last evening at the ranger station.

He tossed his cold groceries into an ice-filled cooler in the back of his truck, then headed toward the sheriff’s office. He and Dalton were going to have a little chat about Buddy. Not necessarily a big deal, but Dalton had jurisdiction and might be able to learn more about what Buddy was up to. For his part, Craig was confining himself to hunting for what might be damming some streams while keeping a long-distance bead on the Jackson place. Problem was, his duties were going to carry him farther afield. They always did. It was a big forest he had to keep an eye on, from humans to animals to growing things. He couldn’t stay in one area too long without overlooking other important things.

But now he was concerned about Skylar Jamison. Maybe he should hunt her up and make a strong suggestion that she paint elsewhere. Who knew what kind of paranoia Buddy was ratcheting up with his new friend.

When he got to the sheriff’s office finally, he saw her sitting in the courthouse square with her painting stuff. At least she would be easy to find, and he didn’t have to worry about her being out on that hill before he could talk to her.

Inside, the dispatcher, Velma, sent him straight back to the sheriff, Gage Dalton. Dalton had a small office, his desk overrun by a computer on one side and papers on the other. He almost looked glad for the interruption.

“What can we do for the forest service?” he asked.

Craig dropped into one of the wooden chairs facing the desk. “I’m not exactly certain, but I am uneasy. I’m sure you know Buddy Jackson.”

“Most folks do. And most folks stay clear. It’s not that he’s done anything wrong, he just makes people uneasy with all that doomsday stuff.”

Craig nodded. “I’ve been thinking of it as basically harmless.”

Gage straightened a bit. “But not now?”

“Damned if I know. That’s why I stopped in. Twice this summer he’s tried to chase off visitors. Last month it was a group of campers. Two days ago it was an artist who was sitting across the valley and painting. He called her a spy and told her to go away.”

“Spy?” Gage repeated the word disbelievingly.

“That was my reaction. The word was over-the-top. So I paid Buddy a visit yesterday morning to remind him he can’t drive the public off public land. Just a neighborly reminder, but what I saw bothered me.”

“Such as?”

He told Gage about the Cap guy, the AR-15 and the trip wires. As he did so, Gage began to frown. “I can see why you’re uneasy. And Buddy’s out of your jurisdiction.”

“Exactly. But he’s in yours. Those trip wires especially bother me. They’re just outside his fence, which means they’re most likely still on his land, but you know the law about them.”

“I surely do. Warning only. Well, I guess I’ll have to mosey out that way and have a little chat with Buddy. See if I can do some snooping. The problem with these preppers is that they’re so secretive. They don’t want anybody to really know what they’re up to.”

“Of course not. Innocent folks who haven’t prepared might come looking for help.”

“Only they don’t phrase it that way,” Gage said grimly. “It’s not people looking for help. It’s thieves looking to steal and kill. I didn’t think Buddy had gone quite that far, but I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know if I get wind of anything.”

“Same here,” Gage promised.

As he emerged into the main office, Craig glanced out the window and saw that Sky was still sitting in the same place. In fact, it looked as if she hadn’t moved at all.

“You know her?” Velma asked, her voice scratchy from years of smoking.

“I’ve met her.”

“Well, I’m starting to worry. That girl has been sitting out there since early this morning, and she hasn’t moved much since she set up her painting stuff. She’s been sitting like that all day. Think I should send someone over?”

“I’ll go,” Craig said. “I need to talk to her anyway. She’s probably just lost in thought.”

“All this time?” Velma shook her head. “I hope you’re right.”

So did he.

“Sky?”

Startled out of her inner silence, she opened her eyes and saw Craig Stone squatting in front of her. Where had he come from?

“Sky are you all right? I was just in the sheriff’s office across the street, and the dispatcher was getting worried. She says you haven’t moved in hours.”

Talking felt like too much effort, but the concern in those gray eyes managed to touch something inside her. “Relaxing,” she said heavily. It was hard to get the word out. But a tendril of panic began to penetrate her cave. She didn’t want to have to explain what was really going on. She didn’t know if she could. This guy probably wouldn’t even be able to understand.

“No,” he said after a moment.

She watched, still not caring, as he packed up her stuff. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Where?”

“Someplace quiet.”

She couldn’t even work up the energy to argue. The observer scolded her, but she didn’t care. It would pass on its own. It always did.

She didn’t resist as he led her to a forest service truck across the street and helped her in. He tossed her belongings in the back, then climbed in beside her and drove them out of town toward the forest.

“Why?” she managed to ask finally.

“Because I know a thousand-yard stare when I see it.”

Wow. That should have evoked a response, but it didn’t. She drew a breath, a deep one, trying to sync herself to reality again.

“There’s a cabin I’m taking you to,” he continued as if they were having an ordinary conversation. “It’s one we keep for foresters and researchers. I was going to stay there tonight. Got a hankering for a real meal and a real shower. There’s plenty of room, it’s peaceful and nobody will bother you.”

Except him. He’d walked into her cave. Oddly, she didn’t feel any irritation.

Nor did he try to draw her out. The rest of the long drive, he didn’t say a word. The shadows had grown lengthy by the time the truck bumped up to a small cabin in a clearing that was only slightly larger. She saw his horse in a small corral, grazing contentedly.

It wasn’t until he parked and came to help her out that things began to come together again. Chilly pine-scented air and the quiet of the forest reached her. She was coming back.

For the first time since that morning she felt something: a massive wave of relief. The world began to take on depth and reality again, no longer seeming like a colorless play she watched from a distance.

Inside the cabin, she sat in a rustic but well-padded chair while he built a fire in a woodstove. Soon the heat began to reach her, and she took another long breath.

She was back. Looking around, she took in the basic decor, evidence that this was a temporary dwelling used by those who didn’t demand conveniences. He had a lit a few oil lamps and was now heating some cast-iron cookware on top of the woodstove.

“I hope you like steak,” he said. “I’ve got some fresh broccoli I picked up today, but not enough to qualify as a meal.”