Something Wilder(11)
Nicole laughed at this. “I can handle myself just fine.”
Leo had no doubt this was true.
But Terry couldn’t help himself: “Can you?”
Nicole took a step forward, eye to eye now and staring him down. “We’ve been capably taking care of tourists for nearly a decade. There are a few cowboys who use this camp when they need to, and we have a guy who jumps ahead to leave supplies along the trail, but you won’t see them and you won’t need them.” She paused, gazing evenly at him. “That going to be a problem? I can call someone to come pick you up before we head out tomorrow.”
Terry laughed but took a small step back. “Nah. That’s all right.”
“Good.” She held his gaze for a beat longer. “You’ll meet Dub in the morning.” Nicole smirked. “I invite you to run these questions past her as well.”
She gave each of them a set of handouts, and in the flickering light Leo could just make out what he assumed was a list of rules stapled to a brief trip itinerary. All for him to look over tomorrow. For now, at the top of the first page and circled in red was his tent number. Nicole told them to turn in for the night and that breakfast would be served at seven o’clock sharp. “Get some sleep,” she said with a wink. “You’ll need it.”
Leo moved to follow the scattering group when a figure just out of the firelight caught his eye, a mirage at the edge of the moonlight, stepping out of the small horse pen. Stick-straight hair sparked the memory of fall leaves and naked skin on the bank of the river. It was a hazy memory, or maybe he was already half out of it, already dreaming. Shaking his head, Leo climbed into his tent and tumbled onto the sleeping bag there. He didn’t even kick his shoes off. The sense of déjà vu was gone before he could get a solid hold on it, and within minutes, he was asleep.
Chapter Four
TO LILY, THERE was no such thing as sleeping in. There were no holidays, only the special workdays with clean jeans—not dirty ones—at the dinner table. Even as a little girl she was up with the sun. In the summer, feed needed to be put out and troughs filled, meals prepped, and guests tended to. In the winter, the work changed, but no matter what, the horses came first, the humans came second, and self-care specifically fell somewhere much further down the line.
With the rest of the camp still asleep, Lily stepped out of her tent in time to catch the first spark of light in the sky. She loved the location of the tour’s base camp. At the edge of Horseshoe Canyon, it was remote enough to feel like wilderness but still close enough to town in case a guest sensed the true isolation they’d be facing and got cold feet. Not to mention, it was beautiful. City folks seemed to always expect the desert to be burnt and barren, but here it was as alive as any garden. There were pictographs on rock walls and clusters of cottonwoods that grew with their feet in the fitful stream in the sandy canyon bottom. Lichens clung to sandstone in clumps of bright red and orange, yellow and green. Cacti clawed their way through crusty soil; wildflowers erupted, and grasses swallowed trails, reclaiming. The sharp brine of juniper filled the air.
The morning was cool and damp from a rare streak of spring rain during the night. It was a welcome break from the heat of the last few days, but rain could be worrisome out here. High-walled canyons sent water rushing off and down, so it wasn’t the storm above that was necessarily dangerous, it was the rain miles away falling on higher ground. Lily taught people to listen for the obvious signs of floods, and to watch for the smaller ones, too: currents suddenly full of sticks and twigs, previously crystal-clear rivers turning muddy. Last night’s rain didn’t amount to much, but any rainfall meant mud and a doused fire. No fires meant no food, and any guide would agree that guests would write off a sore ass and a stiff bed, but they wouldn’t overlook an empty belly. At the dude ranch, Lily’s dad used to say, “You gotta keep ’em tired and full.” It had been true there and was even truer out here.
She stoked the fire back to life, watching the coals flicker and glow before finally catching. When the smoke spiraled overhead, Lily set the water to boil and got the coffee ready to brew.
The horses were fed and inspected, their hooves cleaned. Lily owned eight in all, each with their own quirks and temperament—which made it easy to assign them to riders of any skill level—and each one far more pampered than Lily herself.
Bonnie, her ten-year-old bay mare, was in a feisty mood, tolerating the comb through her tail but pawing the ground impatiently, ready to get started. It was rough country, but these horses were conditioned to riding it, preferring the slower pace and varied terrain—and extra treats—that came with a day on the trail over a quiet day in pasture back at Lily’s cabin. Some outfits used four-wheel-drives and ATVs to travel the Outlaw Trail where it was passable, but most of the maps Duke Wilder drew could be followed only on foot or on horseback. “If it was good enough for the outlaws,” he used to say, “it’s good enough for me.”
Lily’s father had been obsessed with these canyons and spent years chasing the same myths and legends she now exploited to take groups on guided tours and fake treasure hunts. Unlike Duke, however, the wannabe weekend warriors who hired Lily went home at the end of the ride, back to jobs and family and reality. Duke might have physically walked through the door at the end of a dig, but he was never really with his family, always dreaming about finding long-buried treasures while the rest of his life—his wife, his health, and his family’s ranch—eventually fell away.