Barnstorming (Gail Mccarthy Mysteries) by Laura Crum Read Free Book Online

about.
    Climbing off Sunny, I unsaddled him, brushed him, and hand grazed him a little on the patch of rough lawn that I watered to keep it green in the dry season. Sunny munched happily, but I only gave him a minute.
    “Sorry, son,” I said, tugging his head up and leading him back to his corral. “I need to move along.”
    I distributed a flake of mixed alfalfa/grass hay to each horse, and then trudged up the hill toward the house. Or houses, rather. I still couldn’t quite get used to it. There, in a flat spot next to the vegetable garden, where Blue had once parked his travel trailer when he first moved out here, sat a small cottage. Shingled all over with cedar shake and roofed in green tin, the same as the main house, the new house looked like a little sister. Resisting the urge to sink down in the comfortable rocking chair just inside the big windows, I pushed my weary legs up the hill to my original dwelling.
    Opening the door, I called out, “Anybody home?”
    No answer except a small meow. I glanced down to see Shadow, our little black female cat, twining herself around my ankles.
    “Just you, huh?” I said, reaching to pet her.
    Walking over to the table, I saw the note. “Gone shopping. Be back soon. Mac (and Blue).” Written in my son’s angular printing. I smiled. All was well with my family.
    A sigh of relief escaped me, though I hadn’t consciously been aware I was worried. But Jane… I shook my head. I could not rid myself of the memory of Jane’s sightless eyes.
    Stepping over to the stove, I lit the burner and filled the stainless steel kettle with water. Tea. That’s what I needed. A cup of tea.
    As I placed the kettle on the stove, I leaned back for a second, taking in the room around me, trying to absorb the peace of home.
    Familiar and friendly, the rough-sawn knotty pine that lined the walls and open-beam ceiling glowed apricot gold in the evening light that filtered in through the large, south-facing windows and lit up the worn Oriental rug on the red-brown mahogany floor. Though the rug was old, it was new to this room. Blue and I had inherited it when his father had died. Blue’s mother, who had died a year previously, had loved and collected various exotic treasures and this rug was one of hers. Our old rug being worn to tatters, we had installed the “new” one recently. Its formal but faded rust red and lapis blue patterns looked just right on the scuffed floor.
    My eyes moved from the rug to the black woodstove on the gray river-rock hearth; the stove was silent and cold now, but gave the promise of a glowing fire in the winter days ahead. A Navajo-patterned blanket covered the couch next to the stove and a moss-green claw-footed armchair rested under a pair of Japanese woodblock prints on the wall. A round table in the corner by the kitchen and a desk with a computer on the far side of the room completed the accoutrements necessary for life.
    The kettle hissed its readiness and I turned and made my tea, adding a little milk and sugar. Carrying the steaming blue willow cup, I made my way out on the porch and sat down, my eyes on the skyline.
    Sitting in the chair, looking out at the opposite ridge, my horizon, my gaze rests on the landmark tree, lit up like a golden antler against the shadowed green of the ridgeline behind it. For a moment all my whirling thoughts subside and I remember riding along the ridge this afternoon, gazing at the landmark tree from the far side, seeing it outlined against the sky, knowing my porch lay beyond that, on a distant ridgeline.
    In that second, peace wraps itself around me. For a brief moment I forget about the horror of Jane’s body and the frantic maelstrom of events which is bound to follow soon. I stare at the familiar sight of the landmark tree on the ridge, sip my steaming tea, and let my thoughts wander in their usual paths.
    I sit here often in the evening, fascinated by the notion that once, not so long ago, I stood on the opposite