The Angel Wore Fangs(26)

The T-shirt carried that raunchy country music title on back, which Andrea now had misgivings about and therefore had yet to uncover: “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.”

What was I thinking?

And, yes, she’d also bought a white cowgirl hat. Talk about touristy!

To shade my face from the sun. Jeesh, give a girl a break!

Cnut probably thought she looked foolish. He didn’t actually say so, though. In fact, she’d caught him checking out her butt this morning. She might be thin and a mite deficient in the breast department, but she had an admirable caboose, and she knew how to work it.

When they entered Spruce Sap Valley, it took another ten miles of dirt road before they approached a sign announcing, “Circle of Light Ranch.” Along the way, they began to see high tensile wire fencing enclosing endless pastures and periodic warnings: “No Trespassing!” and “Caution: Electrified Fence.”

“You’d think this was a prison compound and not a cattle ranch, or even a dude ranch,” she commented. What has Celie gotten herself into?

Cnut just grunted, becoming grumpier and grumpier the closer they got to their destination. He seemed increasingly more focused on their surroundings, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes. “Do you smell something?” he asked.

“No. Just the air freshener.” A little cardboard pine tree hung from the radio knob, giving off an artificial spruce scent.

He shook his head. “This is not good,” he said enigmatically.

“The smell? I can throw it away.”

He shook his head again and continued to scowl.

She was afraid to ask what he was looking for. Surely not some ISIS terrorist lurking behind a tree. This wasn’t the Old West where bad guys had smelled from lack of bathing. Heck, even the good guys hadn’t bathed very often. Was he thinking ISIS followers had particular B.O. or something? If so, he ought to inform the Navy SEALs. They could probably use that intel to sniff them out. Sniff. Get it? Ha, ha, ha! Maybe I won’t share that thought with him. This time. But, really, his moodiness is irritating.

Up ahead was the gatehouse to the ranch with a sign warning: “Stop. Identification required before entry.”

She dug in her purse for her driver’s license. “I didn’t know that ranches even had gatehouses.”

“They don’t, usually.” Mr. Tall, Blond, and Silent said nothing more.

Okay.

But then, she noticed that the gatehouse was empty. “There’s no one here,” she pointed out.

He gave her a no-shit! look.

Someone needs a grumpy pill. “Maybe it’s one of those automatic things where a person flashes their ID and the gate opens.”

“Must you talk constantly?”

Well, that was rude. “I talk when I’m nervous. I’m worried about my sister,” she said. “So sue me.”

“I know you’re worried. You wouldn’t have hired me if you weren’t.”

“You got that right.”

“I told you to stay home.”

“Bite me.”

“Later.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Now you’re a comedian.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

She put down her window and leaned out to get a better view. “Phew! I smell it now. Rotten eggs. Must be manure.” She immediately put her window back up.

He laughed. “Cow shit doesn’t smell like sulfur.”

“Well, how would I know? I’m a city girl. What’s that puddle of slime over there? Cow puke?”

“You do not want to know.” Cnut unbuckled his seat belt and opened the driver’s door. “Stay here.” He was carrying a pistol in one hand, which she hadn’t noticed earlier. Of course, he would carry a weapon. This was a dangerous assignment. She just hadn’t thought about the need for weapons beforehand.

Walking over to the small building, he pointedly stepped around the puddle of slime. The door was open, an oddity in itself. Through the window in front, she could see him fiddling with something on the desk. Suddenly, the electric gate swung open, and he came back to the vehicle, got in, and turned on the ignition again.

“Holy freakin’ Ponderosa!” she said as they drove up to the lodge a mile or so later. The massive log structure was something straight out of that old TV series Bonanza. If long-dead Ben Cartwright—who was a fictional character for cripes’ sake!—stepped onto the front porch, she was out of here! “Uh, Cnut,” she said tentatively, “have you ever watched reruns of Bonanza on TV?”

“A time or two. On the Western Classics Channel. Why?” he replied as he parked the vehicle in the lot on the side of the building, which was discreetly screened with tall hemlocks to preserve the historic image. There were eight or nine other vehicles parked there, mostly pickup trucks and a silver Mercedes with New York plates, but no people about.