Aunt Dimity Goes West (9 page)

office for shipping. He came back from town each

day with something new to round out our wardrobes:

wide-brimmed hats with ventilated crowns, shock-

absorbing hiking poles, and lightweight headlamps for

night hiking. Since my injured shoulder made wearing

a day pack uncomfortable, I asked Toby to buy a waist

pack for me; it came with pouches for two water bot-

tles and a zippered compartment for small essentials.

Aunt Dimity Goes West

67

Toby joined us for every meal and spent the

evenings with us around the fire pit near the outdoor

spa, singing songs, telling stories, and making beauti-

fully gooey s’mores. It seemed a shame not to take

advantage of the arcade games and the home theater,

but no one wanted to stay indoors when the outdoors

was so enticing.

When I finally took the time to explore Mrs.

Auerbach’s library, I found that it contained books on

Colorado flora, fauna, geology, art, architecture, folk-

lore, photography, and history, as well as biographies

of prominent Coloradans. I selected a volume on

Colorado pottery to read in bed, but I never made it

beyond the first paragraph of the introduction because

I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to read

further.The thin air was like a narcotic.

The trails around the Aerie were narrow, rock-

strewn, and crisscrossed with tree roots, which made

them far more challenging than the smooth, well-

trodden paths surrounding Finch. Since I’d been all

but bedridden for six weeks, I had trouble keeping up

with the others, but Toby was never in a hurry and he

always found clever ways to keep the twins occupied

while I plodded slowly uphill, wishing I had an ice

pack for my throbbing shoulder.

Toby was the ideal guide, extending our hikes grad-

ually each day as our stamina increased. He pointed out

famous landmarks and repeated their names until we

knew them by heart: Ruley’s Peak, Mount Schroeder,

Chaney Canyon, the Bartos Range.We waded in Willie

68

Nancy Atherton

Brown Creek, picnicked in Getty’s Gulch, and snapped

photographs of mule deer grazing near the defunct

Luddington Mine.

Toby had us stand stock-still and listen as the leaves

chattered in stands of white-barked aspens. He drew

us close to ponderosa pines, to smell the vanilla fra-

grance in the deeply creviced bark. He spotted a pair

of luminous Mountain Bluebirds perched atop an old

fence post at the edge of a meadow, and told us that an

early prospector had named the town after a pair that

had guided him to his first gold strike.

Toby also taught us to wear gallons of sunblock,

to
stay with the group,
and to bring extra water on every hike.Thanks to his sage advice, and good fortune with

the weather, we managed to avoid dust storms, sun-

stroke, rattlesnake bites, hypothermia, altitude sick-

ness, and a host of other woes that awaited unwary

travelers in the mountains.

Rob and Will were so carried away by their high

altitude adventure that they insisted on “camping out”

in the playroom every night.They got a huge kick out

of crawling into the sleeping bags in the freestanding

tent and furtively switching on their headlamps after

I’d called for lights out. I didn’t mind. I liked knowing that the only bears in their wilderness were plush and

toothless.

Bill called after breakfast every morning, but he

was unable to answer Dimity’s most pressing ques-

tion. Danny Auerbach had switched his e-mail to auto-

reply while he negotiated a new deal somewhere in

Aunt Dimity Goes West

69

Alaska, and Bill had been unable to reach him by

telephone, so we still didn’t know whether or not a

family emergency had cropped up for the Auerbachs

around Christmastime. Dimity found Danny’s sudden

inaccessibility deeply suspicious. I thought the altitude was making her daffy.

At our campfire on Friday,Toby made the momen-

tous announcement that the boys were fit enough to

ride the next day.

“I called ahead to the Brockman Ranch, so they’ll

be expecting us,” he informed us. “They’re providing

two English-trained ponies, according to the instruc-

tions your husband gave them.”

“Do they have English-trained ponies?” Annelise

asked, surprised.

“Sure,” Toby replied. “The Brockman used to be a

working ranch, but beef isn’t as profitable as it once

was, so Deke and Sarah Brockman run it as a dude ranch

now.They cater to riders from all over the world.”

Will and Rob didn’t like being thought of as dudes—

once we’d explained to them what a dude was—but

they were so anxious to climb into the saddle again

that they
asked
to go to bed early. I left them zipped into their sleeping bags in their tent, to dream about horses, and shortly thereafter went to my bed, to dream about

sweet-natured, blue-eyed cocker spaniels. Abaddon

couldn’t compete.

Seven

T oby did a double take on Saturday morning

when Will and Rob paraded before him,

nattily attired in tailored black riding coats,

white turtlenecks, fawn-colored breeches, and tall black boots, with sturdy black riding helmets in their hands.

“You were expecting blue jeans and cowboy hats?”

I said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“It’s what most people wear at the Brockman

Ranch,” said Toby, “wherever they come from.”

“Well, my boys learned to ride in England, and

they’re accustomed to English riding clothes.” I folded

the twins’ distinguishing bandanas and tucked them

into their breast pockets, so that only the tips pro-

truded. “I may pick up some western gear for them to

wear after they get used to their new ponies, but for

now I’d like everything to be as familiar as possible.

But I’m bringing clothes for them to change into

when they’ve finished riding.”

“Can they ride?” Toby asked, eyeing the boys’

formal outfits doubtfully.

“Like the wind,” I said proudly. “Don’t worry. No

one who sees my sons on horseback will make fun of

the way they’re dressed.”

Aunt Dimity Goes West

71

Since it was our first nonhiking day, Annelise had

donned a pretty sun dress, a pale blue cardigan, and a

pair of canvas slip-ons that were entirely unsuited for

the trail. I’d dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, with a zippered sweatshirt on top to ward off the

morning chill, and Toby was clad in his usual ensem-

ble: T-shirt, flannel shirt, multipocketed trousers, and hiking boots.We all wore our wide-brimmed hats and

copious sunblock, and carried our trusty water bot-

tles in our packs.

The morning was a carbon copy of the three that

had preceded it. The sun shone like a blowtorch, the

sky was preposterously blue, and the air was so crisp it almost twinkled. Bill called after breakfast with nothing to report but the vicar’s decision to leave rock and roll alone and ask the old reliable brass band to play

their usual selection of familiar tunes at the village

fête, a decision which had met with the villagers’

heartfelt—and loudly expressed—approval. After the

boys had taken turns telling their father about their plans for the day— “We’re going to ride with cowboys!”—

we all piled into the van.

Toby took the two-lane highway west out of Blue-

bird, over a mountain pass and down into a rolling

valley dotted with stands of aspen and bisected by a

willow-lined creek. As we came down from the pass,

we could see the Brockman Ranch laid out before us.

A dirt road led from the highway to a sprawling

log house with a deep porch, three stone chimneys,

and a huge rack of elk antlers nailed over the front

72

Nancy Atherton

door. Spread out behind the house were a large barn, a

spacious riding ring, and assorted holding pens, pad-

docks, outbuildings, and sheds.A row of rustic-looking

cabins sat among the willows along the creek, with

cars and campers parked beside those that were, pre-

sumably, occupied by dudes. Rob and Will nearly

popped out of their booster seats when they saw a herd

of buffalo grazing in the distance and a string of horses munching hay in one of the paddocks.

“The Brockmans had to go to Denver today,”

Toby informed me, as he parked the van in front of the

ranch house, “but I spoke with the head wrangler,

Brett Whitcombe, and he said he’d look after Will and

Rob personally. Ah, here he is now.”

A tall, slender man with short-cropped gray hair

had emerged from the house. He was dressed pre-

dictably, in faded jeans, a red-checked shirt, a tooled

leather belt with a big silver-and-turquoise buckle,

and pointy-toed boots. He carried a battered straw

cowboy hat in one hand, but he put it on as he strode

across the porch and came down the steps to greet us.

“Welcome to the Brockman,” he said as he opened

the passenger door for me. He looked as though he

might be in his midthirties—too young to have gray

hair, in my opinion—and his voice was gravelly but

gentle. “I expect you’ll be Ms. Shepherd.”

“Lori,” I said, staring up at him as I stepped out of

the van. “Please, call me Lori.” I pointed haphazardly

over my shoulder. “Annelise, the boys’ nanny, and Will

and Rob, my sons.”

Aunt Dimity Goes West

73

“How do you do?” he said, tipping his hat in their

general direction. “I’m Brett Whitcombe, head wran-

gler at the Brockman. Everyone calls me Brett. Good

to see you, Tobe,” he called as Toby came around the

back of the van.

Toby nodded amiably, acknowledging the nick-

name. “Likewise, Brett.”

While Annelise and Toby helped the twins out of

the van, I stood frozen in place, unable to tear my gaze from Brett Whitcombe.The straw hat threw a shadow

across his face, so I leaned in for a closer look.

“What color are your eyes?” I asked.

“My eyes?” Brett seemed surprised by the ques-

tion, but he replied, “My wife tells me they’re violet,

but I’ve always thought of them as blue.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head decisively. “They’re

violet. It’s an unusual shade. I’ve seen it only once

before, back in England. My sons’ riding instructor.”

I stepped back to survey the head wrangler’s long

lean body, short gray hair, and extraordinary eyes.

“You’re not related to an Englishman named Kit Smith,

are you? His full name is Christopher Anscombe-

Smith.”

Brett threw a mystified glance in Toby’s direction,

then said politely, “I guess it’s possible, but I couldn’t say for sure. I’ve never taken much of an interest in

genealogy.”

“You could be Kit’s brother,” I marveled. “His
twin

brother. The resemblance is uncanny. Do you see it,

Annelise?”

74

Nancy Atherton

“Do I see what?” she asked, herding Will and Rob

along until we formed a half circle in front of Brett.

“Doesn’t Brett look like Kit?” I asked.

Annelise shrugged. “I suppose he does, a bit.”

“A
bit
?” I pointed at Brett’s face. “He’s got
violet
eyes
!”

“They’re blue,” said Annelise, elbowing me in the

ribs. “You’ll have to forgive Lori, Brett. She’s still recovering from jet lag.”

“It’s a long flight from England,” Brett said sympa-

thetically. “Will you need a horse today, Annelise?”

“Not today, thank you,” said Annelise. “Lori won’t

be riding, either.”

“Mummy’s afraid of horses,” Will piped up.

“I’m
not
afraid of horses,” I protested.

“Yes, you are,” said Rob. “You’re afraid to give

Toby carrots, and he doesn’t hardly have any teeth.”

“He doesn’t?” said Brett, with a bewildered glance

at Toby.

“Toby’s a pony,” Annelise explained quickly. “An

elderly pony. Back in England.”

“We learned to ride on Toby,” Rob informed the

head wrangler.

“But we have our own ponies now,” Will added.

“They’re faster than Toby.”

“And they have more teeth,” Rob continued.

“They’re called Thunder and Storm.”

“We have a cat, too,” said Will. “His name is

Stanley. Do you have a cat?”

“Do you know Cowboy Sam?” Rob inquired.

Aunt Dimity Goes West

75

Brett looked from one identical chattering boy to

the other, grimaced slightly, and rubbed the back of his neck. “My wife has quite a few cats. I’ve known two or

three cowboys named Sam, but they don’t work at the

Brockman. The ponies I rounded up for you are out

back, in the riding ring.Want to meet them?”

“Yes, please,” the boys chorused.

“Let’s go,” said Brett.

He and Toby strode off with the twins, but An-

nelise gripped my arm firmly and held me back until

they’d disappeared around the side of the house.

“Honestly, Lori,” she scolded. “You embarrassed

that poor man to death, pointing at him like that.”

“But—” I began.

“No
buts,
” Annelise interrupted sternly. “And no more staring. And no more talk about Kit Smith. The