Labor Day. Families were enjoying their last weekend in the mountains before winter set in, she supposed.
After parking before an old-fashioned horse rail, obviously new, she picked up a postcard from the passenger seat. It showed the seven peaks that formed a semicircle along the eastern border of Hells Canyon and gave the area its name. Seven Devils Mountains.
The peaks were west of the camp-ranch-resort where she was to be employed as a wrangler-hiking guide-whatever. The sun was setting behind the mountains in a near replica of the scene on the postcard she’d impulsively bought in LostValley, Idaho, the small town where she’d gassed up and which was an hour’s drive down the winding, dusty mountain roads she’d just traveled.
Observing the pink, gold and magenta streaks of the sunset and the mysterious shadows of the forest, she experienced the oddest sensation—that of a weight settling on her spirit. A forlorn sadness accompanied the heaviness, as if something vast and terrible impinged on her soul…a tragedy…
The emotion puzzled and irritated her. Seven Devils. The name was almost a premonition, a black cloud lurking on the horizon. Maybe she’d been here in a past life.
Yeah, right, and maybe she’d been Cleopatra in another.
A soft neigh from Attila, reminding her of his needs, pulled her out of the introspective mood. She had things to do and people to see.
After backing the horse out of the trailer, she snapped a lead rope on his halter and tied it at the end of the railing so he could munch the fall grass while she went inside to report to her new bosses, Keith Towbridge and Jonah Lanigan.
The lodge was empty. She surveyed the quaint main room, which had a high ceiling, a huge fireplace and rustic furniture made from alder and white cedar.
To her left was an office with a counter separating it from the great room. An archway to the right disclosed a small store stocked with canned goods and camping gear. A staircase gave access to rooms on the second floor while a hallway led to the nether regions on the main level of the sturdy building.
According to the brochure she’d picked up in town, the place was advertised as an adventure destination in the real West, which apparently meant hunting, fishing and paramilitary games for those “wanting to break out of the ordinary routine of life.” That idea would appeal to the deskbound executive, she supposed.
“Anybody here?” she called.
The place was so silent she could hear grass grow if she listened hard enough. The hair on her nape stood up.
“Hello!” she yelled more forcibly.
“Hello, yourself,” a masculine voice finally replied. “I’m in the kitchen.”
She walked down the hall and into a galley-type kitchen. Directly across from it was a room with three tables, each with four chairs. Windows displayed the view in three directions—all magnificent.
A man, as long-legged and lean as a coyote, glanced at her while he continued a chore at the sink. His features were hawkish, the angles of his face stern but attractive in a hard-jawed, clean-shaven way.
Like her, he was dressed in boots, jeans and a white T-shirt. He also wore a blue work shirt, open down the front, over the tee. Unlike her, he wore no hat. She liked to keep her hair tucked out of sight under a worn gray Stetson.
“You the new wrangler?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Who sent you here?”
She wondered if this was a trick question. “Trek Lanigan from the Trading Post north of Lost Valley. Are you his cousin?”
The Trading Post was a store that sold Native American crafts some of it old and valuable. That was where she’d seen the Help Wanted sign and asked about the job. The owner of the store bore a distinct resemblance to this man, except he wore his hair long. This one kept his cut short.
Glancing at the dining room, she realized she’d expected more of a working ranch and less of a resort type place. She didn’t like being around people all the time.
Most of the time, she amended.
The man nodded, affirming he was the cousin who’d hired her by phone interview. He finished washing a potato and dropped it in a pot of what looked like simmering soup stock. The pot was huge, the aroma coming from it mouthwatering.
“Can you cook?” he wanted to know.
“Yes. But Mr. Lanigan didn’t mention it as a requirement.”
“He’s Trek. I’m Jonah. Keith Towbridge is my partner. His wife is Janis. They have a son, K.J., short for Keith, Junior. Their house is on the back of the ranch, but they’re over here fairly often. You’ll met them later this week.”
Mary took in the information and stored it for future reference. It sounded as if she had definitely been hired. For now. At least he hadn’t taken one look and told her to get lost. The owners could probably use all the help they could get out here in the wilds.
“I, uh, have to take care of my horse. He needs water and bedding down.”
Jonah Lanigan shot her another assessing glance. His hair was almost black, his eyes a smoky blue-gray that effectively hid his thoughts. He was four or five inches taller that her own five feet ten inches.
In her work boots, she was as tall or taller than most men. Her height usually gave her an advantage, but not with this man. She stirred uneasily.
“The stable is in back.” He frowned and she noted the irritation he suppressed. “There’s a bunkhouse attached. I suppose we can make room in the lodge, though.”
“The bunkhouse is fine,” she quickly told him. “Uh, if I have a private bedroom?”
He shook his head. “There’s an empty room at the top of the stairs. Put your stuff up there for now. I’ll need your help at breakfast. Six o’clock sharp.”
“Right.” She retreated.
So far, so good. She’d made it past the first hurdle. The rancher down in the valley had taken one look at her and said the wrangler job she’d come there to fill wasn’t open. His son had looked her over with obvious interest.
She probably had an Equal Opportunity case against the older man, but she hadn’t liked his manner—nor his son’s—or the poor condition of the ranch and stock, so she’d left without arguing.
Attila whickered as soon as she appeared. She soothed him with a few quiet words, untied the rope, then led the horse around the lodge to the backyard where she spotted the stable. There was a fenced area next to it.
After freeing the nine-year-old stallion in the paddock, she filled a trough with fresh water, then checked the stable.
The eight stalls were empty. She prepared one for her horse, placing hay in the manger and spreading fresh straw over the dirt floor. Finished, she went outside and observed the dun-colored Thoroughbred as he walked around the fence and checked out his new quarters.
His silver coat with the brownish tinge—really a dark ash-blond—seemed a lighter
