Saddle Up (3 page)

Los Angeles, California

“You're back already?” Miranda remarked in surprise. After several nonspeaking parts in low-budget horror flicks, Lexi had finally scored her first big role in a film called
Zombie Cheerleaders from Mars
.

“Yup. Low budget always means a lightning-fast shoot.” Lexi dropped her bags on the kitchen floor and then reached into the fridge for a Dr. Pepper. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.” Miranda hated even the smell of the sickly sweet stuff, but Texas-born Lexi had practically been bottle-fed on it. “So how was it?” she asked.

“Omigod,” Lexi groaned. “Have you ever been to the Black Rock Desert? There is absolutely no sign of civilization for hundreds of miles. It's like being on the surface of the moon! On top of that, it was blistering during the day and freezing at night. There was only one motel for fifty miles and only one place to eat. Most of us had to camp out in tents and cook our own food, an experience I
never
want to repeat.”

Miranda shuddered at the thought. Lexi's cooking skills were atrocious, even in the best of circumstances. The girl burned holes in boiled eggs.

“The only highlight was meeting this smoking-hot camera guy named Kent,” Lexi said.

“Oh yeah? Did
he
cook?” Miranda asked.

“No.” Lexi grinned. “But food was last on our minds.”

“Oh.” Miranda flushed.

“How was your week?” Lexi asked.

“I filmed a hemorrhoid commercial,” Miranda replied dryly, dismayed that it was her greatest claim to fame since graduating film school.

“We all have to pay our dues,” Lexi replied.

“I know.” Miranda sighed. “But I came to L.A. to make
films
. I just wish Bibi would give me a chance.”

“What about that horse-whisperer gig you did?” Lexi asked.

“You mean the one she took all the credit for?” The innovative camera work Miranda contributed to the short production had even garnered an award.

“I never dreamed I'd still be waiting tables after all this time, either, but the fact is, most of us never do get a break. If you could only bring yourself to compromise your ideals a little, maybe you could get more freelance work.”

“But I hate all the commercial crap.”

“Randa, honey, until we make it big, my tips and your commercial
crap
pays our bills.”

“I know you're right,” Miranda replied. “I just want a tiny bit of creative freedom. Maybe I should make a documentary. They don't cost much to produce. I'd just need to find the right subject.”

Lexi chewed her lip pensively. “You know, if that's what you're looking for, I just might have a lead for you.”

“A lead? What do you mean?” Miranda asked.

“I was hanging out with Kent on his break when this guy from the Bureau of Land Management pulls up, asking about hiring a cameraman for a wild-horse roundup a few miles north in the Calico Mountains.”

“Wild horses?” Miranda instantly perked up. “Are you for real?”

“Sure am, but don't get too excited. It seems the company they contract with to gather the horses is involved in a court battle with animal rights activists. Long story short, the activists got a court mandate to video the roundup. Kent asked a few questions about the job, but then turned the guy down with a laugh when he heard the pay he was offering.”

“How much?” Miranda asked, her interest piqued. The location alone would be a cinematographer's dream.

“The guy said he needed a camera for two days but offered only five hundred bucks for the entire job. Nonnegotiable. Said it's some government deal. Kent countered that he needed two hundred an hour plus expenses. If you're willing to work cheap, they might still be looking. He said there's a hold on the roundup until they've hired someone.”

“Are you kidding me?” Miranda squealed. “I'm all over this. Please tell me you have a contact number for this guy.”

“I don't,” Lexi replied. “But I can call Kent and see if he got the name and number.”

“Can you call now?” Miranda almost pleaded. “I'll owe you forever for this, Lexi. I'm giddy just thinking about the possibilities.”

“Do you know anything about wild horses?” Lexi asked.

“Well…no. Not really,” Miranda admitted. “But I do know a bit about domestic ones. My grandparents raised cattle in Montana. I used to spend all my summers with them. They are actually how I got interested in filmmaking. It was my grandpa who bought me my first camera. He and my Grandma, Jo-Jo, are the only people who ever encouraged my dream of filmmaking. I really want to do this job, Lex. I owe it to them as much as to myself. This is finally something worthwhile, and what's it really going to cost me but my time?”

“How about your job?” Lexi shot back. “What are you going to do about work? Call in sick?”

Miranda's stomach knotted—she hadn't even thought about that part. “I'd rather just ask for some personal time off.”

“Without notice, Bibi might very well say no,” Lexi countered.

“Then I'll have to take my chances. I may never get another opportunity like this.”

“Think carefully, sweets. Bibi Newman has a ton of clout in this town. Cross her, and you might never find work again.”

Miranda jutted her chin. “I don't care, Lex. Making films is what I came out here to do, and I'm damned well going to do it…or die trying.” She just hoped it wouldn't be dying of dehydration in the middle of the Black Rock Desert.

* * *

Calico Mountains, Northwestern Nevada

Driving out to Nevada a few days ahead of the crew, Keith sought out the local ranchers and inquired after the location of the horses and the water sources. After making camp on the Donnelly Flat, he set out on horseback to scale Donnelly Peak and get a better lay of the land.

Cresting the barren butte, he scanned the equally desolate horizon, devoid of all vegetation but clusters of cactus and scattered thickets of sage. It had been years since he'd spent any time alone in the desert. He'd once loved it, but now the landscape felt as arid and bleak as his own soul.

Tonya had been right when she'd said he'd been “performing” for so long that he'd lost himself. If he was ever going to get his life back together, he needed to leave the rez. She was also right that his only true option was to try to salvage what little remained of his tattered reputation. At least there were people who knew him from before. Maybe Mitch and Beth West didn't approve of how he'd used his talents, but they still trusted his skills and judgment.

From his elevated position, Keith spotted half a dozen small family bands of mustangs. The knowledge of their fate pulled at his conscience. Tomorrow the wranglers would gather up hundreds of these horses, mainly for the crime of competing for the limited resources that had recently worsened with wildfires and drought.

Was it better to round them up and save them from death by keeping them in captivity? Or was there greater dignity in a quiet death? Which would the horses choose if they knew?

His own father had chosen death over life in a prison.

Suddenly he was thirteen again, standing on the top of Crow Heart Butte, the most famous landmark in all of the Wind River Valley. He and Grandfather had come to scatter his father's ashes. “This is the site of a great battle,” Kenu said. “It was here that our people fought for hunting rights after the Fort Laramie Treaty granted the Crows the same privileges we'd been given in the Fort Bridger Treaty. After four bloody days of battle, the two great warrior chiefs met in an attempt to end the bloodshed. Washakie of the Shoshone raised his fist to Big Robber of the Crow. ‘You and I will fight to the death, and when I beat you, I will cut out your heart and eat it!'”

“Who won, Grandfather?” Keith asked.

“Chief Washakie was the victor. As promised, he cut out Big Robber's heart and displayed it proudly on the end of his spear. That is why this place is named Crow Heart.”

“Did he really eat it?”

His grandfather replied with a secretive smile. “No one really knows. When questioned later in his life, Washakie said only that young men do foolish things.” He laid a tremulous hand on Keith's shoulder. “Your father had the heart of such a warrior, but he let bitterness and hatred take root. That is how he earned his Shoshone name, Kills With Words.”

Keith recalled with a sharp pang the look of desolation in Kenu's eyes and the tears that trickled down the old man's weathered face. Placing the urn in Keith's hands, he said, “Take this, my son. Cast the ashes to the four winds and we will pray that his troubled spirit will at last find peace.”

Looking out over the vast desert plains, Kenu murmured a Shoshone prayer to the Great Spirit. Keith had never forgotten his grandfather's words. Now he uttered the same prayer for himself.

* * *

The highway became long, straight, and increasingly barren the farther north Miranda drove. Too weary to continue all the way to Gerlach, she'd opted to stop for the night in Fernley, which she later discovered was the last vestige of civilization.

Waking well before sunrise, she continued north through the Paiute Reservation and the tribal headquarters of Nixon, a mere bump in the road. After that, she found herself alone on the highway for sixty miles. Not for the first time, Miranda felt the urge to turn back. She was still amazed that she'd committed herself to trekking into a desert wilderness to film wild horses. Maybe she should
be
committed. Surely she'd lost her mind.

The route, lined by treeless, grassy mountains that transformed into undulating hills, ran through a narrow valley formed by the dry bed of Winnemucca Lake. She passed through the forsaken mining town of Empire, almost ghostly now with its boarded-up general store and empty houses. A few miles farther up, the highway opened onto a narrow patch of desert leading into the tiny town of Gerlach.

True to his word, Mitch West was waiting for her when she pulled into Bruno's Country Club Motel. Even if his hat, boots, and faded denim hadn't identified him, the West Livestock emblem on the pickup truck behind him was a dead giveaway.

“Miz Sutton? We were wondering if you'd really show up. I'm Mitch.” He extended his hand, closing heavily callused fingers around hers. “And this is my wife, Beth.” He inclined his head to a smiling woman in her mid-fifties, dressed much the same as he was in hat, boots, and denim Sherpa jacket.

“Nice to meet you both,” Miranda said.

“We're set up at the Donnelly Flat, at the western base of the Calicos,” Mitch replied. “You can ride with us in the truck.”

“Can't I just follow you?”

“Not in that.” Mitch nodded to her Mustang convertible. “The roads are rough for the next few miles, and then there aren't any roads at all.”

“No roads?” Miranda swallowed hard. “What am I going to do with my car?” She eyed it with misgivings. Although she'd bought it used, it was still her pride and joy. It was her gift to herself for the videography award. She knew she'd rightfully won it, even though Bibi had taken all the credit.

“It'll be safe right here,” Mitch reassured her. “I've known Bruno for years.”

“You might want to go ahead and make a pit stop before we head out,” Beth advised. “There are no restrooms where we're going, and not much privacy either. It's pretty much open desert.”

“Thanks for the advice. I'll be back in just a minute.”

Mitch was talking on a satellite phone when she came back out. “We'd best head on out,” he said. “The crew's already on site. Trey'll be ready to start scouting at sunrise.”

“Trey?” Miranda asked.

“The chopper pilot,” he explained. “He's also our oldest son. If you're ready, we'd best get rolling. He'll be taking off in about an hour, and we've got a good forty-mile drive ahead of us.”

Miranda popped her trunk to collect her gear—her new Black Magic cinema camera, a case of bottled water, and a few other necessities she'd shoved into a backpack. She wasn't sure how long the shoot would take, but had prepared for several days.

Beth eyed Miranda's pack skeptically. “Is that all you have? Where's your video gear?”

“It's all right here.” Miranda patted the outer compartment. “I have a mini cinema camera. It's perfect for this project.” The camera was a videographer's dream come true, the latest technology and totally portable. She'd drooled over it for months until it went on sale at a price she could afford. Miranda closed her trunk with a shiver, wishing she'd packed a heavier jacket.

“If you're cold, I've got a thermos of coffee in the truck. It'll help warm you up,” Beth offered.

“I'd love some.” After Miranda climbed into the truck, Beth handed her a Styrofoam cup. Mitch joined them in the cab a moment later. “This place looks so familiar,” Miranda remarked. “I feel almost as if I've seen it before. Is this the same desert where
The Misfits
was filmed?”

“Nope,” Mitch said. “That was a couple of hours south, near Dayton.”

“Is it an accurate portrayal?” Miranda asked. “Did they really capture horses that way and sell them for dog food?”

“Yes. It's sad but true,” Beth replied. “They used to chase them down by airplane, rope them, and then make them drag tires until they dropped. It's why our practice of gathering by helicopter has such a stigma attached to it. The animal rights people think we're doing the same thing—running the horses to death. In truth, it's the most efficient and humane way to gather them.”

“We're dealing with a real bad situation up here,” Mitch said. “I can't stress enough that we need to get this thing done quickly. We have to finish this job before hundreds of horses die.”