Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping (18 page)

“How nice to have a pool of possible employees amongst your customers,” I remarked. “I might give that a thought when hiring help at the inn. I can offer room and board in exchange for a percentage of the employee’s salary, like you do. That way someone will always be there, and I don’t have to close the doors the way we did to come on this trip. I gave my housekeeper a week of paid vacation, but she had it coming, anyway. Colleen’s exceptional help, and so is Janet, the gal who does most of the cooking and serving of meals at the inn. She had just been employed for a couple of weeks, but had requested time off while we took this vacation. She wanted to go visit her grandmother, who’s on her deathbed in Glendale, Colorado. And, also—”

“You’re rambling, Mom,” Wendy stopped me in mid-sentence to remind me of the time. “We need to head out in a few minutes to get to the ranch on time.”

I’d been chatting with Emily and drinking my morning coffee, and hadn’t been paying much attention to the time. I think I was subconsciously trying to sabotage our plans, hoping we’d arrive too late to take the horseback excursion, but I would never have admitted it, even to myself.

“You girls have a great time today,” Emily said, as she turned to walk back to the golf cart she’d driven to our site in. “I’ve already entered the address of the Rolling Creek Ranch on the GPS in my car for you. Follow the directions it gives you, even if it seems like it’s leading you to the middle of nowhere, because the middle of nowhere is exactly where this ranch is located.”

* * *

If Emily had not forewarned us, we would have turned around and headed back the direction we’d come, because we drove for miles without seeing any signs of human life. We did see plenty of antelope, a few jackrabbits, and a couple fox kits playing around a pile of wood. And once I saw what I thought was a rare albino peacock with its plumage fanned out.

“Stone is right, Mom,” Wendy said, as both she and Veronica looked in the direction I was pointing and burst into laughter. “You need to make an appointment with your optometrist. Your ‘rare albino peacock’ is just a clump of white blossoms on some kind of shrub. Did the very notion of spotting a white peacock out on the high plains of Wyoming not seem a bit unlikely to you?”

“Well, yeah, now that you mention it. It’s just that I’m getting a little concerned that we’ve taken a wrong turn along the way. This road seems to go on forever, and I’ve not even seen a house in miles. Are you sure we’re even still in Wyoming? You know Cheyenne is only seven miles from the Colorado line.”

“That’s south, Mom, and we’re heading northwest. Emily said this ranch was massive, so we’re probably already on the Rolling Creek Ranch and just haven’t gotten to where all the barns and the homestead are located. In fact, up ahead I believe I see what looks to me like a couple dozen horses.”

I shielded my eyes from the sunlight coming in through the window. I sat in the driver’s seat of Emily’s car and couldn’t see anything that looked even remotely like horses. I saw what resembled ink dots on a green canvas, though, and assumed they were the horses Wendy had pointed out. Since I didn’t want my daughter to think she was riding with a legally blind driver at the wheel, I replied, “Oh, yes, of course. That must be our destination. The GPS indicates that the ranch is just up ahead a short distance.”

Stone and Wendy were right about my deteriorating vision, and I planned to schedule an eye exam with Dr. Herron when I returned home. The initial cost of the pair of glasses I was wearing had floored me, and I was hoping to make do with them for at least another year before having to replace them. I wanted to get new frames as well because, even though I liked the light weight and looks of my rimless glasses, they needed constant adjusting or repairing due to my habit of sitting on them at least once a week, whether I needed to or not.

We pulled up to a gate that a young ranch hand swung open. Driving slowly, we entered a field that was being utilized as a parking lot. There were about ten or eleven vehicles in the lot, most of them pickups and SUVs. Wendy pointed toward a red metal barn where people were gathering.

“There’s Cassie Bumberdinger and her kids.”

I noticed all three of them wore cowboy attire, complete with leather chaps. I had on a pair of jeans that were a size smaller than was comfortable. In my defense, I hadn’t imagined I’d opt to go on a horseback excursion considering my history with horses.

Not to mention the fact I planned to start a diet after vacation ended. I didn’t want to purchase an entire new wardrobe on account of a temporary ten-pound weight gain. After all, I had every intention of losing those extra pounds and fully expected these jeans to fit perfectly within a couple of weeks or so.

Of course, I also fully intended to learn how to speak fluent Italian and organize seven crates in the basement of the inn that were full of photographs dating back to the seventies. I hadn’t gotten around to doing either one of those things yet either. Regardless, I just prayed the tightness of my denim jeans didn’t become an issue. I was certain I’d have enough issues to address during the trail ride as it was.

We soon discovered there were seventeen people on the trail ride, including the three of us and the Rolling Creek Ranch guide leading the way. At my request, I’d been paired with a docile mare named Buttercup. Even her name sounded gentle, and I was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable I felt with her. I could sense she felt at ease with me as well, as she nuzzled my cheek with her warm nose. For the first time since planning this excursion, I felt confident the trail ride would be fun—a pleasant and relaxing adventure.

Mounting Buttercup was another matter altogether. My snug jeans didn’t allow me the agility I’d witnessed in the others, including Wendy and Veronica, while mounting their horses.

“One foot in the stirrup, and an easy swing of the other leg up and over the horse’s back, then slide right into the saddle, all in one fluid motion,” Justin, the guide, repeated to me for the third time. Easy peasy, he assured me.

Easy peasy
? Well, it might be for a cowboy who probably slid out of his mother’s womb with his spurs on, but there was no conceivable way I was going to be able to swing my right leg up and over the saddle. I soon realized I’d have better luck scaling Kilimanjaro than I was apt to have getting to the top of this horse’s back, which at the moment looked to be about twenty hands high. She wasn’t actually that tall, of course, but she looked monstrous from my viewpoint on the ground next to her.

Justin finally lost patience with me and gave me a boost, practically tossing me up and over the calmly waiting Appaloosa. Listing suddenly to the right, as I tried to settle myself in the saddle, I nearly fell off the opposite side of Buttercup’s back. My feeling of relief vanished like Stone in a lingerie store. I prayed this inauspicious beginning was not an omen for the remainder of the day.

Chapter 11

Once I was firmly seated in the saddle, Justin explained a few horseback-riding basics to me while the other sixteen riders sat quietly waiting. Although nobody voiced an objection, the audible sighing of the entire Bumberdinger clan indicated how impatient the group was becoming with the greenhorn. Even young Chace appeared to look displeased at being
saddled
with someone in the group who should have signed up for the “Beginners Horseback Experience” that was also offered, and not the “Advanced Horseback Trail Ride” package.

But little did the little brat know my only reason for signing up for anything horseback-related was to get to grill his mother about any motive she had to kill her ex-husband’s new wife. If not for this potentially being my only chance to speak with Chace’s mother, I’d have stayed and vegetated on the couch in our rented motorhome and let the younger gals do their own thing. I’d be snacking on butter-laden popcorn with my tight jeans unzipped and watching old movies on the DVD player. But, alas, instead of what I’d like to be doing, here I was preparing to begin an adventure I wasn’t thrilled about.

I told Justin I felt confident I’d be able to keep up with no difficulty. He didn’t look totally convinced, but he nodded and motioned for the group to follow him out through the gate the ranch hand was holding open for us. As we headed down a well-worn trail, Justin began to address us all with a litany of facts and information about our surroundings, as if repeating them for the umpteenth time.

“As most of you know, the Rolling Creek Ranch borders the Laramie Mountain Range, in what is referred to as the peneplain area. This flat area shows advanced erosion caused by water runoff from snowmelt and rain in the mountains. Most of this range is between 8,000 and 9,500 feet in altitude, except for Laramie Peak, which, at just over 10,270 feet, is the ninth tallest peak in Wyoming. Laramie Peak is further north of here than our ride is going to take us today, but we will have a good view of it later on if anyone would like to take photos of it.”

As our guide spoke, I reached up to the front pocket of my flannel shirt to make sure I’d remembered to put my cell phone in it. I wanted to be able to take photos along the way. I was relieved to find it securely resting inside the buttoned pocket. There was no telling what kind of exotic animal I was apt to spot out on the prairie we’d be crossing on our excursion.

“For those of you who aren’t from Wyoming, this is the tenth largest state in the union in size, but the least populated, with not much over a half million residents. In comparison, Denver, Colorado’s capitol city, has about fifty thousand more residents than the entire state of Wyoming.” Justin went on to recite interesting statistics and trivia about the area, and answered questions that his comments prompted. We listened to the guide as we headed up the dirt trail away from the corral and barns.

In true coroner assistant fashion, my necrology-fascinated daughter asked about the murder rate in Cheyenne. Justin assured us the murder rate was low, with no recorded murders so far for the year. He explained that the crime rate in general was low, with violent crimes averaging less than one hundred fifty per year, in a town with a population of just over sixty thousand. Wendy, visibly disappointed with those statistics, thanked Justin for the information. When the Q&A session withered out, Justin explained our schedule for the remainder of the excursion.

“In a couple of hours we will be stopping at a mesa along a stream where a chuck wagon will be cooking us up a ‘cowpoke lunch’ consisting of beans, flank steak, and fried potatoes. There will be coffee, water, and soft drinks available, as well. There’s also a restroom station there, provided by the Medicine Bow National Forestry department, which I encourage everyone to take advantage of because it will be our last opportunity to use one until we return to the ranch.”

Things were going smoothly so far, for which I was delighted. Buttercup and I moved as one at a leisurely gait alongside Wendy and Veronica and their mounts. Wendy’s horse, a spirited Arabian, was named Riptide, and he fit his name perfectly. I was glad it was Wendy, and not me, who was riding him, because he definitely had a mind of his own. Buttercup, on the other hand, could not have been any easier to control.

I was optimistically hoping that the horseback adventure I’d impulsively signed us up for wasn’t going to be the nightmare I’d anticipated. I could actually feel my courage being bolstered more and more with each step Buttercup took. I could see Cassie and her children riding right in Justin’s wake at the head of the pack. Everybody else followed in groups of two and three, with Wendy, Veronica and me bringing up the rear.

Before I could finish mentally patting myself on the back for my self-proclaimed display of courage, the pace Justin had set picked up to more of a slow trot. I was sure I could adjust, but less certain I’d be able to make my way up through the pack to pull beside Cassie Bumberdinger so I could chat with her and feel her out on the death of Fanny Finch.

I knew Wendy and Veronica, both accomplished riders, were holding back for my sake, knowing I wasn’t exactly at ease around horses to begin with. If they’d been allowed to by our guide, they would both take off at a full gallop across the prairie and be totally at ease and carefree, whereas I, even at a mild trot, could feel my stress level beginning to rise.

After a shorter time than I expected, I began to feel a little more comfortable with the pace Justin had set. My comfort level went up another notch when he said, “We are going to continue our ride at this speed to accommodate the less experienced riders.”

As he spoke, Justin looked directly at me, and sixteen other pairs of eyes soon turned in my direction to stare at the novice in the crowd who was going to hold the rest of the group back for the remainder of the day. A chorus of cheers replaced the accusatory glares when he added, “But these horses know their way back to the feed trough with their eyes closed and will gladly lead you there if you’d like to ride at your own pace when we head back. They are also all trained to canter, and I promise they won’t let you go astray on the ride back to the barn where our ride originated, no matter what speed you choose.”