While she, Charlie, was just a skinny, gawky redhead with no sex appeal and more freckles than brains.
Crystal Ryder was the first woman Max had looked at since his wife died.
How can I be thinking about such inanities, about my personal problems, when Dillon's lost and hurt?
Shutting the mare's stall door, she unsnapped Hestig's leash from the wall and, with the pup at heel, she circled the stable yard, shining her light deep beneath the trees and up into the hay shed, keeping an eye on the lane, hoping to see a squad car turning in.
But the dirt drive remained empty-empty and lonely. And the winding road beyond the lights was unrelieved in its dense and endless blackness. Feeling vulnerable, she pulled Hestig close to her, and headed for the darkened house.
Using the key Max had given her this evening, and pushing open the back door, she felt Hestig cower against her, so her heart did a double skip.
Quietly she told him to watch. To his credit, the big honey-colored dog came to attention with a surprised growl. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she reached inside and flipped the switch, illuminating the big country kitchen.
No one was there, no one standing against the oak cabinets or lurking beneath the table. Beyond the two inner doorways, the dining room and hall were dense with shadow. She stepped inside, keeping Hestig close, reached for the phone on the kitchen table, and dialed Harper's cell phone.
"Yes?" he said softly.
"I'm in your kitchen. Redwing came home. No sign of Dillon."
"We haven't found her."
"The mare slipped her saddle, it was hanging down, a girth buckle broken, the reins broken."
"Does it look like the mare fell?"
"She's lame on her left front knee. An abrasion, blood and dirt. Yes, like she stumbled. I doctored it. You haven't found Helen and Ruthie either?"
"We found Ruthie and Helen." Max's voice was flat. "They're dead, Charlie."
"Dead?" Her breath caught. "How? What happened? Where is Dillon?"
"Someone was up there in the hills. Someone met them on the trail. Their throats were cut. We haven't found Dillon," he repeated.
Every drop of strength had drained away. She sat down at the table, pulling Hestig close.
"Both Ruthie and Helen were slashed across the throat," Harper said, as if perhaps she hadn't heard, or understood. Hadn't wanted to hear.
She stared into the shadows of the hall, holding the dog close, filled with the sickening picture of the mother and that lovely young woman lying up there on the dark hills alone.
"Dillon," she said again. "Where is Dillon? The mare… The mare came home alone."
"I told you, Charlie. We haven't found her. Did you unsaddle the mare?"
"Yes, of course."
"How much did you handle the tack?"
"I… As little as possible."
"Why, Charlie? How did you know I'd want prints?"
"I just-with three riders missing, I just-thought it might be wise. I don't know. Just seemed a good idea. Where-where are you?"
"In the hills north of you. I'll send an officer down. Are you alone?"
"I have Hestig with me."
"Be wary. Stay in the kitchen. Squad car will be there pronto."
She hung up, staring at the two dark doorways, wondering if the killer had brought Redwing home-maybe ridden her home- then come into the house.
But why would he do that? After he killed Helen and Ruthie, he'd surely run, try to get away. Shivering, she looked more carefully around the kitchen.
Nothing seemed out of place, not even a dirty dish in the sink. Max kept his house, and even the feed room and tackroom, in the same orderly manner in which he ran the police station, every piece of equipment clean and ready, in its place where it could be quickly found.
She knew Max's house; she knew where he kept his gun-cleaning equipment, and where a.38 Chief's Special was cushioned beneath the shoe rack in his closet.
But she would have to go down the dark hall to reach the closet, passing the dark bathroom and bedrooms. She remained at the table, stroking Hestig, feeling cowardly and anxious, waiting for the squad car.
The kitchen still showed a woman's warmth, Millie's cookbooks still on the shelf above her little desk, her dried flowers in a vase, the flowered chair cushions. Millie had been a cop, and a good one. But she'd liked having a cozy home. All this, the flowers, the little pretty touches, he had kept, legacy from a cherished and cherishing wife. Millie had been dead for nearly two years before Charlie ever knew Max, before Charlie ever moved to Molena Point.
These last weeks, as she and Max worked with the pups, Max had told her more than he realized about Millie. He'd told her a lot about Clyde, too, as he recalled their high school days, their summers riding bulls on the rodeo circuit. And Harper had told her a lot about himself and the way he looked at life. She hadn't known he could be so talkative.
And all the evenings she had spent up here, with the excuse of training the pups, she'd kept turning down dinner with Clyde, turning down dates, a simple movie, a walk on the beach.
She had gone with Clyde to the jazz concert, though she wanted to be up here with Max. And she'd agreed to see the outdoor theater's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, but only to ease her conscience-then had sat on the hard bench during the performance, thinking about Max.
She was such a fool.
And how could she think about all this tonight?
But she couldn't think steadily about what had happened to the Marners. About what could be happening to Dillon. She was terrified to think about Dillon. Staring at the black windows, she realized that Dillon could be here on the ranch, could have slipped from the saddle out there beyond the lights.
She rose, nearly toppling her chair, snatching up the torch. Commanding Hestig to heel in a voice that brought him lurching to her side, she headed out to the yard, was sweeping her meager torchlight between the oaks, jumpy at every imagined sound, when headlights came down the road and turned onto the lane.
It was not the squad car she's expected, but Clyde's roadster, flashing down the lane butter-yellow, stirring in her a picture of the night Clyde had escorted her to the opening of her first art exhibit-not a one-man show, but her work prominently featured among that of five local artists. What a lovely evening, and how caring Clyde had been, dressing up for her, polishing the antique car until it gleamed, timing their arrival to pull up grandly before a crowded gallery, handing her out as if she were a movie star.
Behind Clyde's bright antique convertible, a black-and-white turned in from the road. Clyde was coming up the steps as it parked. The instant she released Hestig, the big pup rushed at Clyde, leaping and whining. Officer Wendell got out of his unit and stood in the yard, asking if she was all right, then went in to search the house. Wendell seemed even more rigid than usual, less friendly. He was always a quiet man. Thin and sour, not a lot of laughs. Maybe the murder had sickened him-or maybe just a sour mood. Wendell had taken a severe demotion recently, after getting into some kind of trouble over a woman. Charlie didn't know what had happened. She knew that Max wasn't easy on his men.
Clyde put his arm around her and drew her into the house. "Any coffee?" He looked tired. His dark hair stood in peaks, his T-shirt hung limp with sweat. His voice was hoarse the way it got when he was upset or out of sorts.
She poured the last of Harper's breakfast coffee into a mug and stuck it in the microwave. "Redwing came home." She pointed out toward the fence where she'd found the mare huddled. She'd never thought of a horse being huddled, but Redwing had been.
Another squad car arrived. Detective Davis and Lieutenant Brennan got out. Both had cameras. Usually, Davis did the photography. Davis waved her out, nodding toward the stable, her short, dark hair catching the light.