Charlie had a hunch the guide who greeted them at the trailhead the next morning had spent more hours on a military base than a ranch, and not just because he kept referring to the time of day as “oh-seven-hundred hours.” There was also the buzz cut, and the warning not to let their horses go “AWOL,” and the way he kept pointing two fingers at his eyeballs and then at Smithson.
“I want this to go smooth and by the numbers,” the man who’d introduced himself as Ranger Mitch informed them. “No tricks and no screwing around. Let’s move out.”
The horses, who clearly had a better idea of what was going on than their riders, ambled into a neat single-file line.
“So no reverse cowgirl?” Smithson joked, presumably for Emma’s benefit, since none of his cronies had gotten out of bed for this outing. Charlie suspected they were still sleeping off the effects of last night. It was mostly the older crowd today, plus himself and Smithson, looking a little worse for wear, as well as Mugsy, Emma, and Jean.
No one laughed at Smithson’s off-color remark, though Ranger Mitch, who apparently had supersonic hearing, winged a pine cone at him.
“I have eyes on you,” their guide said, somewhat redundantly given the jabby fingers.
Charlie would have enjoyed the moment more if he wasn’t deep in a memory of Jean explaining that particular position. She was a good teacher, offering a quick conceptual overview followed by plenty of hands-on learning. He still preferred theregular cowgirl, because he liked seeing Jean’s face, and Charlie had always had simple tastes, but the variation was also fun.
It was nevernotfun, being with Jean.
And there was so much more he could have learned. She’d promised to show him something called the flying Pamchenko once he was ready for more advanced curriculum. Only they’d never gotten a chance, because apparently it required a running start and two days later, he was on a plane, separated from Jean by an ocean.
Now that she was here, a different kind of barrier stretched between them. Plus you probably couldn’t do something like the flying Pamchenko in a covered wagon, even if he did manage to win back Jean’s favor.
The odds of that seemed slim right now. It felt like he’d lost ground since yesterday, and it wasn’t hard to guess that it had something to do with last night’s big announcement. Unless it was because Jean hated it here, or he’d missed a cue and wasn’t playing the game right, and now she was bored and wanted to leave.
The problem was that he couldn’t ask about the game without forfeiting, because the whole point seemed to benotacknowledging they were playing. And since Charlie wasn’t sure how long Jean would stick around if she wasn’t entertained, he needed to find a clever way to let her know the truth without letting her know that he was letting her know.
The first step would be getting her to acknowledge his existence. So far, he might as well be a tree as far as Jean was concerned. No, that wasn’t fair. She was looking at the trees, and the rocks, and the sky overhead. The scenery interested her; it was Charlie she was blanking out. Every time he so much as thought about moving closer, Jean drifted away.
“What are you doing?” Mugsy asked, pulling up alongside him.
“Nothing! How did it go last night?”
“Fine.” She stared straight ahead.
Apparently neither of them was in a sharing mood. That saved Charlie from admitting he’d been speculating about the logistics of the flying Pamchenko, which would have been awkward for them both. He was pretty sure Mugsy still thought of him as a teenager half the time.
“I wanted to talk to you about that girl.”
Charlie glanced at her sharply. If Mugsy meant Adriana, she would have said her name. Same for Emma Koenig. “What about her?” He tried not to sound too eager, even though he’d been dying to talk to someone about Jean.
“I think I recognize her. From the resort.”
If he hadn’t been clutching the reins, Charlie would have fallen out of the saddle. “You saw her?”
“I’m not one hundred percent. I kept thinking there was something about her—”
“Her clothes, maybe. They’re very interesting, aren’t they? Or her face? Since she’s so, you know.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Pretty.”
Mugsy frowned at him. “I mean she looked familiar. But it was dark the first time I saw her, and I was a little distracted, so I don’t want to go off on one of your guests if I’m wrong.”
“When exactly was it? That you saw her.” It killed Charlie to think he’d missed a last glimpse of Jean on his way to the car.
“She came to the door. For turndown service.”
“Turndown—” He caught himself before it turned into a question. “Right. That.” Charlie swallowed. All this time he’d thought Jean stood him up that night, when in fact shedidcome to the cottage. Which made Mugsy’s claim that Jean sold him out and did a runner once she had what she wanted a lot less convincing.
“Only I don’t see why the niece of the Schnapps King would be working at a hotel,” Mugsy continued, oblivious to therearrangement of Charlie’s brain, “so either it’s not the same girl or there’s something shady going on.”
“Like what?”
“She’s a spy.”
