Chapter 13 – Horse country

I walked across to where my two-seater was parked and turned to wave goodbye, but the ex-agent had already disappeared inside the office.

I put the irritating brevity of Guy’s farewell out of my mind and set off to make my inquiries. Though my sexy little skirt had stood me in good stead in my encounter with the horny officer of the law, it was now brought home to me how being overly conspicuous had its drawbacks too. A fitful breeze had sprung up and was playing havoc with my hemline. Before I got back in my car, I recognised that if I was to pursue my investigations without hindrance, I needed to wear something less revealing, no matter what my boss’s preferences might be.

In the end my visit to the records office turned up nothing of note. The Simpson mansion had been bought two years before and a considerable sum had changed hands. When I searched for the sale of the ranch itself, I drew a blank, but a large amount had been involved in the disposal of the land around it and amply covered the cost of the other purchase. The title to that real estate was now in the hands of Trail-to-blaze Inc., whose registered address was as Gloria had told me, back East. I came away with little result to show for my research except that I was wolf-whistled twice on the short walk from my car to the office and once again on the way back.

I rummaged in the car’s trunk to find a bag in which I had stashed a few spare clothes, kept for emergencies. I pulled out a loose sweater and a straight white skirt of a more practical length. These would definitely do the job, so I slipped back into the office and used the powder room to effect my change. My clothes were now better suited to whatever I might encounter. Pleased with my resourcefulness I got into my convertible and headed for the hills. It was time to pay Gloriana’s a visit.

It was a lovely day for a drive. The sun shone down out of a cloudless sky. I’d had this little car on and off for almost ten years now. Athena hadn’t been new when I’d bought her, but she had never let me down yet. I drove with the top down, the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. The engine sang as the miles rolled by, danger was forgotten and I had a new sense of purpose. The mountain air was intoxicating, and life couldn’t get much better.

When I reached the little town which nestled high among the foothills, the first thing I saw was a sign advertising the equestrian centre. That would be my first port of call. I followed the arrow which pointed the way and pulled up at the entrance to the driveway under the Trail-to-blaze logo. I got out to look about me. This was horse country all right.

At the end of the gravel drive was a ranch-style property that looked brand new. I would start my inquiries there. I left the car in situ and walked the distance to the door. An old-fashioned bell-pull hung on the porch, so I gave it a tug and waited. No-one appeared so I tried again. I was about to give up when a suntanned girl a few years younger than myself appeared from around the side of the building. She was wearing a stripey crop top and abbreviated jeans. Ankle boots and a cowboy hat completed her ensemble.

“You’re a-wastin’ your time there, honey” she exclaimed with a grin. “That ole rope is just for show. Come round to the side porch and I’ll let you in.”

Once inside the porch my guide turned to face me. “Now. Call me Connie. How can I help?”

“Well, Connie. I’m Jennifer. I was just passing through and saw the sign.”

“Do you ride?”

I had to give in to a falsehood here. “It’s been a long time, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to pick up again. What are the hiring arrangements?”

While Connie recounted how they ran the centre, I appeared to listen intently, though my mind was elsewhere, wondering how I could uncover whatever secrets the place might hold. She finished by listing the particulars of stabling and the guest quarters.

I thanked her and said I would contact her when next I would be free.

“No problem” she smiled. She accompanied me as I headed out towards my car.

As we walked along, I remarked as casually as I could “Say. I reckon somewhere about here must be the place where an old friend of my family used to work, Flora Benson. She was the cook there for years and years, apparently, though it wasn’t called Trail-to blaze then. It was something like Ranch St Theresa. Is this the same place? I’d be interested to know.”

The girl shook her head. “Nope. Never heard that name.” Her manner seemed to have become suddenly distant, almost wary.

“I think it was changed later on. Yes, I think it came to be called Gloriana’s right at the end.”

Connie shook her head gravely. “Sorry, no dice. You must be thinking of some place else."

I thanked her again. I took leave and got into the convertible. As I drove off, I was aware that she remained gazing after me, her curiosity clearly aroused.

I looked back after a hundred yards and she was still staring. I’d obviously touched a nerve somewhere. I took the road back through the little town and stopped at a general store. I bought some fruit and cookies and a bottle of water, then asked the woman behind the counter the same question I’d posed to Connie.

“Bull’s eye!” she laughed. “There is a place up in the hills which was called that. I believe it was the original ranch that owned the land before the riding centre was built. It’s in the middle of nowhere and is nigh on falling down. You wouldn’t think so when you see it, but it’s still occupied. A queer old soul, name of Meg Stevens, has the place and lives up there all on her lonesome. We rarely see her down here. She keeps herself to herself, but I guess she could have known your friend.”

“I might just drive on up and ask her.”

“Well, you can try. Take the old road and you won’t miss. Don’t expect any kind of welcome though. She’s not the friendly sort!”

I thanked the woman and walked back to my car. I followed her directions and half-way up the hill I stopped to eat and to consider what line I intended to pursue. I wasn’t clear what I could expect to find. It was doubtful whether this solitary woman knew Flora or not, but if she did... What if she also knew Gloria, back in the day? Finding out could make the trip a lot more worthwhile.

I got back in my two-seater and drove on. The sun was hot and the views were stunning as the old road wound up the hillside. Not far from the top I spied what I’d come in search of. In a slight hollow set back from the road was a timber building that had seen better days. This must be Gloriana’s. I parked up at the gate and got out to take stock of my surroundings.

Though the ranch house itself wasn’t particularly eye-catching, the scenery around it was breathtaking. The seclusion might not suit everyone but I could see why some folks might wish to live up here. The air was fresh and clean, birds sang, and as to the setting, words could not do justice to it.

After a final glance all around me I started off down the slope towards the old ranch, only to find I had been anticipated. The lady I’d been told about was climbing the slope towards me.

The woman was tall and raw-boned and of an age that was hard to guess. Certainly, she seemed active enough as she strode uphill, unlike the little old lady I’d been expecting to encounter.

When still some way off, she accosted me. “I seen your automobile stop up there, young lady. No visitors here, thank you, this is all private land. You’d best be on your way.” Her voice was harsh and grated on my ear, out of harmony with the idyllic surroundings. She stopped some distance from me and frowned.

“Is it Mrs Stevens?” I called.

“None of your business” came the surly reply.

“I’m inquiring about a Flora Benson” I persisted. “I believe she used to work here. With a woman called Millie.”

Dropping those names didn’t help. In fact, it seemed to create even more hostility. “There’s nuthin’ I can tell ye!” she glowered at me. “All gone before my time. You’d best be on your way. Good day to you!”

With that I was dismissed. The woman turned and made her way back to the house. Disconsolately I got back in the car and drove off. I was unhappy to have been so easily defeated so I pulled up after a few hundred yards and got out. I would see whether a more circumspect approach might yield any better result.

Stepping back up the lane as quietly as I could, I came to where a footpath led across a meadow in the general direction of the ranch. I took this diversion and trod cautiously down the path. My high heels were really quite unsuitable for this sort of trek but eventually I arrived at where a hedge of brambles hindered further progress. I picked up a stick and cautiously parted the undergrowth to be rewarded with a side view of the ranch building itself. The lady of the house was also in my field of vision.

At last I had achieved some kind of success, I reckoned breathlessly, not daring to make a sound. What could I learn about her now, I wondered? I was to be disappointed. The woman was crooning tunelessly to herself as she went about her business. Meg Stevens was engaged in hanging up the laundry to dry. Other than noting that the underwear on display was of a fancier style than I would have imagined such a rustic individual to wear, I gained nothing from my vigil. She disappeared into the building and silently I turned and retraced my steps. I was left with little to show for my efforts save some nettle rash and a muddy pair of shoes. Like the response I’d got from the girl at the riding centre, the mention of the cook’s name had provoked a very similar negative reaction. Uncanny!