Tell Me When It Hurts (14 page)

“
It sounds beautiful,” Archer sighed. “I’d like to see it someday.”

“
Well, then I’m sure you will. So . . . let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” he said, handing her Millie’s tack. “You already have a passing acquaintance with this stuff—and with my horse, as I recall.”

Last night, over burgers, Archer had confessed to visiting Millie daily, though she omitted her invasion of the tent. Now deciding that the best defense was a good offense, she said, “Well, didn’t you notice Millie looked a lot nicer? I never heard any thank-yous, now that you mention it.”

Connor shot her a sidelong glance. “Uh, not really. We kind of use our horses in a functional way in Wyoming, much as we love ’em. I don’t inspect her daily for dust, since
everything’s
dusty. I did think she was getting a bit vain, though, staring at herself in the brook all the time, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where that was coming from. Now I know.”

“
Hah! Very amusing. You should do stand-up.”

He didn’t look at her, but he smiled. “You could have just asked to play with my horsey, you know. I don’t bite.”

“
That remains to be seen.”

He laughed and tossed a halter to her, with a lead rope attached. She caught it in one hand. Archer stepped over to Millie, fastened the halter, and then just let the rope hang. She began brushing the mare, who kept grazing.

With Millie brushed and her hooves picked out, Archer grabbed a fresh saddle pad from Connor’s tack pile and threw it over Millie’s back. It fell smoothly into place. Then she settled a heavy brown western saddle on her back and nestled it into the gentle swale between withers and rump. Archer stared at all the leather loops and ties on the saddle.

“
Hey, McCall, what goes where? This is a big mess—too many strings and hangy things,” she protested, glaring at the saddle and grabbing various ties and thongs, trying to make sense of it all. Millie stood patiently waiting.

Connor was repacking dry goods in the hanging satchels. He turned, looked amused, and ambled over.

“
Still need me, huh?” With a couple of tugs on the girth, the saddle was snug.

“
I ride English. It’s not like this,” she murmured, a little defensively.

“
Uh-huh.”

As Archer stood next to Millie, her heart began to race with excitement. Then it slowed. She hadn’t ridden since she gave away her own horse, Half Moon Bay, just after Annie’s death. Half Moon was the horse she’d bought after Clique’s death. He’d proved honest, talented, and sweet. But now her hands began to tremble.

I can’t get on this horse,
she thought.
It’s not fair to Annie.
But almost as quickly, she thought:
You’re being crazy as a bat. Annie loved horses. She wouldn’t want them gone from your life any more than she’d want them gone from hers. Stop being such a drama queen.

Archer shoved her quaking hands into her jacket pockets and leaned into Millie to steady herself. Millie stood her ground, then bent her neck and looked back at Archer.

Archer blinked, then took a deep breath. She grabbed the saddle horn, put the toe of her left boot in the wide western stirrup, took a quick bounce, and swung her right leg up and over. Settling in, she breathed a sigh of contentment. It felt like opening the front door of her cabin after a long trip.

She sat up and squeezed lightly with her calves, and Millie immediately started away from the camp in a relaxed stride. Connor looked up and waved. Archer grinned and waved back.

When she was ten minutes away and out of earshot, she stopped and bent low to wrap her arms around Millie’s neck. Then she straightened and stood up in her stirrups, raised both arms, and opened her hands to the sky in a silent gesture of thanks. After a minute, she lowered herself back into the saddle and pressed with her calves, moving into a walk.

For more than two hours, Archer and Millie walked down hills, trotted up slopes, and cantered along level open stretches where the footing was firm. On one long gallop, Archer imagined herself on Clique—a team again, tearing up the countryside, jumping logs and stone walls and fences just because they were there. While Millie was no Grand Prix jumper, she easily took the fallen logs on the paths, and even jumped a stone wall with grace, her black mane and tail flying.
Millie, my dear, you’ve been holding out on me,
thought Archer, delighted, stroking the little mare’s neck on the walk back to the camp.

When she got there, Archer couldn’t stop grinning. “It was beyond wonderful, McCall! I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, swinging out of the saddle and handing him the reins. Connor smiled back and said, “Well, I can see that Millie enjoyed the ride.”

CHAPTER 14

Archer stood at the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes for dinner and reflecting on her morning with Millie. It was getting dark earlier. Next week they would turn back the clocks. Hadley sat near her bowl, waiting less than stoically for her evening kibble. Archer finished the potatoes and put a pot of water on to boil.

Hearing three raps at the back door, she looked out to see Connor and Alice. She smiled and opened the door.

“
Hi. What’s cooking?” he asked.

“
Mashed potatoes, flounder, and salad.”

Archer’s cell phone rang, and she followed the sound to the jacket hanging by the back door.

“
Hello?” she said. Her smile broadened. “Gavin! How the hell are you?”

Pause.

“
That’s terrific—it’s quite a feather in your cap to get that kind of a commission!”

Pause.

“
Oh, gee, Gavin, I just did a job last month. I’m in the midst of a project here, so I think I’ll pass on this one, if you don’t mind.”

Pause.

“
Oh, I see. New York? Well, if there’s no one else. . . . Wait just a sec.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of brightly colored paper and a pen. “Okay, go.” She took a few notes. “Okay, fine. You’ll send me the itinerary and specifics by overnight mail tomorrow?” . . . “Okay, yeah, I think so.” . . . “Got it.” . . . “When do you need it done?” . . . “This week’s okay, then?” . . . “Okay . . . I’ll get it done. . . . Good-bye, Gavin. See you soon.”

Archer hung up, lost in thought. Connor looked at her, took off his saddle-colored jacket, and hung it on the peg over her jacket.

“
So?” he asked.

“
Huh? Oh, sorry, I was off somewhere else.”

“
So, who’s Gavin? Your secret lover?” he asked, moving his eyebrows up and down in a credible Groucho Marx imitation.

Archer laughed. “Hardly. He’s an old friend—an architect in Boston. He’s only thirty-four—way too young for me.”

She said the words, knowing that Gavin had been in love with her for years. He’d joined the Group nine years ago, after the murder of his wife and two-year-old son, and had since become the East Coast coordinator. He and Archer had become close confidants and best friends after Annie’s death. He admired Archer’s directness, energy, and passion—to him, not letting go was a plus. They spoke at least weekly and met at least once a month for informal dinners in Springfield or Sturbridge.

She came up from her thoughts to hear Connor saying, “Hey, don’t knock it. The older woman younger man thing is very hot, you know. How old are you, anyway?” He was looking in the cabinet for the corkscrew.

“
I turned forty-three a month ago, September fifth,” Archer said.

“
Really? I would have pegged you for ten years younger than that.”

“
Clean living, McCall, clean living. And since we’re getting personal, how old are you, pray tell?”

“
I turned forty-nine last August. And don’t tell me you pegged me for ten years
older
than that—I couldn’t take it,” he said, testing the boiling potatoes. “So, what led your young friend to call?”

“
Legal work—a quick research project.”

“
Ah . . .”

Archer retook her territory in the kitchen, and Connor set the table, then sat reading a British magazine,
The Field,
on Archer’s coffee table. Archer checked the flounder, and Alice fell asleep on one end of the sofa as Hadley fussed around the kitchen. Archer opened the door, and the Lab scooted out.

An hour passed. They were just clearing the table when they heard the howl. Archer dropped the dish of potatoes; it shattered on the floor.

“
Hadley!” she cried.

Grabbing Connor’s xenide lantern from the counter, Archer flung open the back door and bolted in the direction of the howl.

“
Archer! Wait a minute—you don’t know what’s out there!” shouted Connor, chasing her.

She speeded up, flashing the light up ahead, then close, ahead, then close. Then she saw. Five hundred yards ahead, three coyotes had encircled Hadley. One lunged at her flanks just as Archer flashed the light that way. Hadley was turning in frantic circles. Archer could see that her slow old Lab was terrified.

In an instant, Archer also could see that she couldn’t get to Hadley in time to make a difference. She turned and raced back into the cabin, straight to the closet in the front hall. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Connor had grabbed a smaller flashlight from the kitchen utility drawer, then had snatched up a four-foot maple branch, and was running toward Hadley.

“
Wait!” she yelled to him over her shoulder as she dragged a flattish box from the bottom of the closet, opened it, and pulled out the parts of her assault rifle and night vision scope. She had it assembled and loaded in eighteen seconds. She ran past Connor.

Connor tried to grab her arm. “Archer, you can’t—you’ll shoot Hadley.”

Without pausing, she ran toward Hadley and the coyotes, then stopped. She brought the rifle up and sighted through the scope. She could see one of the coyotes clinging to Hadley’s flank. Another had the side of her fleshy neck in its mouth. Hadley was staggering. The third coyote was closing in.

Her training ran through her head.
Sight . . . focus . . . steady . . . squeeze . . .
The rifle cracked, and the coyote on Hadley’s flank fell away. A second later, its yelp drifted back to her on the still night air.

“
Archer, stop. Please. No way can you make that shot,” Connor pleaded from a dozen steps behind her.

Without lowering the rifle, Archer sighted again and fired. The coyote at Hadley’s neck dropped, and then she heard the yip. The third coyote ran into the darkness.

Archer engaged the safety and laid the rifle down on a grassy hummock, and she and Connor raced toward Hadley. Without a word, they lifted the mauled Lab onto Connor’s jacket and carried her swiftly but gently to the Jeep. Archer got her jacket and car keys and hopped in, while Connor got in the backseat with Hadley. She lay there motionless but for her labored breathing.

“
You’re gonna be fine, old girl,” he crooned to her, smoothing her wrinkled brow. “Just fine. Such a good, brave girl you are.”

At the end of the driveway, Archer jumped out, unlocked the gate, and pulled out of the driveway, wheels skidding in the wet dirt. For the first time in memory, she didn’t relock the gate. She called the veterinary clinic from her cell phone. The vet on call, a Dr. Tulloch, assured her they would be ready. When Archer pulled into the parking lot, the staff was in gear.

Two assistants got Hadley onto a stretcher. Twenty minutes later, she was in surgery. Archer and Connor waited in silence in the little waiting room. Unable to sit still, Archer began to pace.

“
So, Arch, why’d you name her Hadley?” Connor asked in an effort to distract her.

Archer sat down on a bench and leaned forward, head in hand, staring straight ahead. Finally, she looked at Connor, as if realizing for the first time that he was there.

“
Sorry. Did you say something?”

He repeated his question.

“
Oh, right. Hadley Richardson was Hemingway’s first wife. He loved her best.”

“
Really? How many wives did he have?”

“
Four.”

“
Didn’t know you were a Hemingway fan.”

“
I shouldn’t be. I hate war, hunting, fishing, bullfights, boxing—most of the stuff he wrote about and loved. But I love the way he tells a story: direct, simple . . . and always about love, or dignity, or courage. You know, winning even in defeat because you fought for something true, something that mattered. In two sentences, he made you feel exactly the way he wanted you to feel.”

“
I’ve only read a little Hemingway. I’ve read more of Fitzgerald.”

“
Well, you can’t like Hemingway and Fitzgerald both. It’s impossible—they’re mutually exclusive.”

“
Oh, really? Says who?” asked Connor, sounding both puzzled and amused.

“
Just my opinion,” she said, uncharacteristically declining the challenge. Silence. “We got her for Annie when Annie was eight. She was cute as all get-out. We all went to pick her out. Adam and I were playing with the lively, funny ones, but Hadley walked over to Annie, sat at her feet, and just stared at her. Annie picked her up and put her in her lap. Hadley lay there, happy, and Annie kept saying, ‘This one, Mommy. This is the one.’”

Just then Dr. Tulloch came out.