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Angie couldn’t remember what Chad Krugman looked like, but she did remember that he didn’t ride very well, which meant it was a good thing they were trailering the horses most of the way. She’d made arrangements for a place to park her truck and trailer, and they’d ride the final eight, maybe ten miles. Unless Krugman had been practicing his horsemanship, he’d still have a sore ass, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that other than offer her sympathy, and she’d have to do that silently, because in her experience most men got all bent out of shape if she so much as hinted that they couldn’t do something as well as she could, even when it was glaringly obvious.
When he and his client drove up just before dark, she automatically looked at the man who got out of the driver’s seat, but he wasn’t familiar at all. She was a little surprised, because logically Krugman should have been driving—he’d been here before, therefore he was more familiar with the sometimes confusing twists of the dirt roads, which might or might not be marked. She then looked at the passenger, and even though she’d refreshed her memory by looking at his photograph, there was still a blank moment before she had a vague “oh, yeah, now I remember” kind of thing that underscored how unremarkable Chad Krugman was.
He was an inch or two taller than she, soft around the middle, with thinning dark hair and forgettable features. His clothes were kind of baggy, and just as forgettable. He wasn’t ugly, he wasn’t attractive, he was just nondescript. If his personality had been stronger none of that would have mattered, but he might as well have been born with “ineffectual” stamped on his forehead in glowing neon, except that would have been too memorable. Whatever he did for a living, Angie was fairly certain he’d never be a howling success at it. He’d muddle by, mostly by escaping notice, and that would pretty much define his life.
His client, Mitchell Davis, was almost Krugman’s polar opposite. Angie smiled at both of them as she went down the steps to greet them. Krugman smiled hesitantly in return, but Davis merely gave her a dismissive look, as if he had more important things to do than being polite.
“Ms. Powell, it’s nice to see you again,” said Krugman, and when Angie held out her hand he hastened to grab it in a slightly moist grip.
“You, too,” Angie said easily. “And please call me Angie.”
“Of course. And I’m Chad.” He looked pleased, then that expression was chased away by an anxious one as he said, “Mr. Davis, this is our guide, Angie Powell. Angie, Mitchell Davis.”
Davis merely nodded his head while he looked around, his sharp gaze taking in her less-than-new truck and the horse trailer that had seen better days; his upper lip curled slightly. She kept her face bland. Maybe her truck and equipment weren’t brand new, but they were in good shape and got the job done. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said, keeping her manners in place even if he wasn’t making any effort to do the same.
Davis was everything Krugman wasn’t. He was taller, leaner, his dark hair touched with gray at the temples. His features were hard and chiseled, his eyes a clear gray. His movements were crisp, authoritative. His clothes fit him as if they’d been custom made for him.
Angie disliked him on sight.
She could already tell this was going to be a long, long week. With any luck, Davis would bag his bear almost immediately, and neither of them would see any need to hang around for the rest of the week doing nothing. If not, well, she’d keep her mouth shut and a smile in place, and get through it as best as possible. Like anyone who worked with the public, she’d had clients before whom she disliked, and they’d gone home none the wiser. Davis wouldn’t be any different. Maybe.
“Let me show you to your cabins,” she said after the men had gotten their duffels from the back of their rented SUV. Krugman knew the way, of course, but she led them down the path that led to a patch of ponderosa pines behind the house. The cabins were tucked among the trees, partially visible from the house but positioned so both she and her clients had a sense of privacy. She had already turned on the lamps inside, and turned up the heat. Each cabin also had a working fireplace, if someone wanted the ambiance of a real fire, but the shared heating unit was more efficient and less work. Most people didn’t bother with a fire.
“I’ve put the boxes with your rifles inside your cabins,” she said. “Chad, the first cabin is yours.” She unlocked the door and gave him the key. “Mr. Davis, this one is yours.”
“Yeah, great,” he said as he took the key from her, his tone making it plain he wasn’t impressed by the accommodations, either. She pushed her annoyance away. She would be polite to him.
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” she said to both of them. “If either of you brought your laptop and need to go online, Internet is available at the house. There’s also a television room, if you want to watch anything tonight. Supper will be served at seven. It isn’t anything fancy, just stew and biscuits. I’ll see you then, or you can come in earlier to watch television or talk.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Chad said, smiling nervously. Davis’s hard, cold eyes said he disagreed, but at least he kept his opinion to himself.
As she strode back to the house, Angie reminded herself that this wasn’t about her, it was more about the dynamics between Chad and his client, and they weren’t good. He was trying so hard to impress Mr. Davis, and Davis was making it plain that he thought the entire trip was second-rate at best.
The success of the trip would depend on whether or not the hunt was a good one. Though it was getting late in the year, not all the bears would have denned yet; the weather had been relatively mild, so some bears would still be active. She would find Mr. Davis a bear or bust a gut trying.
She half-expected Chad to come up to the house before the dinner hour, but to her surprise it was Mr. Davis who showed up. He carried a laptop case. “I need to check some reports,” he said brusquely.
“Sure. Right in here,” she said, showing him to the small den outfitted with a flat-screen television and satellite Internet; in the corner was a desk with a wifi modem. She gave him an index card with a string of numbers typed on it. “This is the wifi password.”
“Thanks.” He was already taking out his laptop, but at least he’d made a nod toward manners.
“You’re welcome.”
She left to give him some privacy, and finished setting the table. People didn’t come on hunting trips expecting bone china and silver utensils, so she didn’t even try to go that route. The plates and bowls she set out were sturdy earthenware, glazed a dark green with black rims, and she used a particularly heavy set of stainless steel. She did put out cloth napkins, made from a thick, heavy-duty, dark green cotton that didn’t show stains.
The meal was a simple one, with the stew, fresh homemade biscuits, and chocolate cake. She knew all three were above average. Maybe she wasn’t a great cook but she was a darn good one, and she enjoyed it when she had the time. When she’d lived in Billings, with access to a greater variety of ingredients, she’d liked experimenting with different dishes. Maybe someday she’d be able to try her hand at different stuff again, but right now all she could handle was the basic, hearty dishes. Part of this stew, for instance, had already been put in the freezer for next week, when she was back from this hunt. With nothing else on her books, and no anticipation of any further income for the next several months, she couldn’t afford to throw away any food.
At ten to seven, Chad appeared in the door to the dining room. “Smells good,” he said.
“Thank you.” She gave him a smile, keeping it neutral, but a smile all the same. “Mr. Davis is in the den, on his laptop.”
Chad made an awkward gesture. “I won’t disturb him. Is there, ah, any way I can help?”
“Just by eating your fill,” she replied. “Everything’s under control.” She checked the time. “The biscuits are ready to come out of the oven, so if you’ll excuse me—”
“I’m sorry. Sure. I didn’t mean—”
“You’re my guest,” she said, breaking in on his stammered apology. She tried another smile on him, hoping to settle him down. “It’ll take just a minute to bring in the food. I hope you like chocolate cake!”
