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“Wait! Hold it! Give me a minute, for chrissake. You sprang this on me without giving me any warning.” While mulling it over, he nibbled on his kosher dill spear. “Do you swear the story is that big?”
“Huge. Gargantuan.”
He ogled a young woman jogging past the window, took another bite of pickle, scratched his armpit. “Okay, you can take a few days. But you’d better not be jerking me off.”
She shuddered at the thought.
* * *
“Welcome to the Ponderosa,” Barrie said to herself as she drove through the open gate and up the gravel drive to Gray Bondurant’s house.
Traveling under an assumed name, using a fake ID made for her by an ex-con—one of Daily’s more unsavory sources—and paying with cash so as not to leave a paper trail, Barrie arrived at her destination in the late afternoon. She hoped her safety precautions were overkill, but she was taking no chances.
Even by northwestern Wyoming standards, Bondurant’s property was off the beaten path. The single-story ranch house was set against a grove of aspens that were just taking on their spectacular autumn color. In order to reach the house, she’d driven across a stream where clear water gurgled over a stone creekbed.
The house was constructed of log and stone. A covered porch ran the width of it. Three horses were grazing in a paddock. Toward the back were a barn that looked older than the house and a detached garage that stood open and empty except for a snowmobile. Several cords of firewood were stacked against the exterior wall of the garage. Other than the horses, there was no sign of life.
Now that she was here, Barrie suffered a severe case of tummy butterflies. The surrounding terrain was rugged and intimidating. The mountain range made her feel small and insignificant, as no doubt Gray Bondurant would consider her. Alighting from the rental car, she wondered exactly what she would say to him by way of introduction. From what little she’d heard and read about him, she knew chances weren’t good that he would welcome her with open arms.
Her flutters were for naught; he wasn’t at home. She realized that after several minutes of ringing the doorbell and knocking. Damn. She was mentally pumped up for the encounter with the former Marine. She’d gone to too much trouble and personal expense to retreat this soon. Even an immediate drive back to Jackson Hole held no appeal.
Deciding to wait for Bondurant’s return, she sat in the rush-seated rocking chair on the front porch. The view of the Tetons was breathtaking, so she was content to sit and rock while contemplating this marvel of nature. However, it wasn’t long before she became aware of another of nature’s phenomenons, this one biological. She needed a bathroom.
After another fifteen minutes, she left her satchel in the chair and returned to the front door. Since the garage had been left open, there was a good chance that the house had been left unlocked. It was.
The door opened directly into a living area. Exposed beams supported the high ceiling. An enormous fireplace dominated the stone wall at the far end of the room. The decor was thoroughly masculine. Large pieces of furniture were upholstered in forest-green suede. The windows were unadorned. Woven wool rugs looking like large saddle blankets dotted the hardwood floor. The silence was absolute, without so much as a clock ticking. The room smelled faintly of wood smoke and… and man.
The male essence was so strong, so pervasive, that Barrie turned her head quickly, almost expecting to see Bondurant materialize out of thin air.
Chiding herself for acting foolish, she walked quickly through the central room and found her way to a large bedroom. Here again, the surfaces were hard, with the exception of the unmade bed, which she purposefully avoided looking at. She went into the adjoining bathroom.
A single toothbrush hung from th
e rack above the sink. Towels were folded on a shelf. A shirt hung on a brass hook on the back of the door. She couldn’t resist the impulse to touch it. Cotton. Unstarched. Comfy.
The bathroom was basically neat, although she noticed that the cap on a bottle of cologne was dusty from disuse. She was tempted to open the mirrored medicine cabinet and take a peek inside but decided that would be a gross invasion of privacy.
After using the toilet, she rinsed her hands and dried them on a towel hanging from a chrome ring mounted in the wall. The towel was slightly damp. Not too long ago, he’d dried his face or hands on it. She found that slightly disconcerting and experienced a queer sensation in her midsection. Again, she was powerfully aware of the house’s occupant, as though he were there, just invisible.
The quiet and seclusion were making her weird, Barrie decided.
She retraced her steps through the bedroom, promising her absent host that as soon as she got a drink of water, she’d be out of there.
She located the kitchen with no problem. There was a six-pack of beer in his fridge. No bottled water. No soft drinks. She settled on water from the tap, adding several ice cubes taken from a freezer stocked with cuts of beef and little else.
Holding to her promise, she returned to the porch to continue her wait. Surely he would be back before dark. He wouldn’t have left his house unlocked if he planned to be away for any significant length of time.
An orange sunset segued into a purple dusk. Stars came out, more stars than she’d ever seen, having lived in a city all her life. The Milky Way cut a ghostly swath directly overhead.
With the onset of darkness, the temperature dropped. For warmth, she wrapped her arms around herself. In spite of the cold, she kept falling asleep, her chin hitting her chest whenever her head dropped forward. Her body was two hours ahead of Mountain Time, and her alarm clock had gone off at five that morning.
“This is nuts,” she said, teeth chattering.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she went back into the house and lay down on the long suede sofa. Seconds after laying her head on the cushion, she fell asleep.
Chapter Nine
The billiard balls clacked, and Howie Fripp emitted an obnoxious snort when his shot sank one into the pocket. “My game. How many’s that?”
