Crimson Highway by David Wickenhauser (i can read with my eyes shut txt) 📕

half-dozen horses came to the front of their stalls and nickered at Mary.

“These are my babies,” Mary told Jenny, then took Jenny to each of them, and told her its name, and a little of the history of each one.

“Swimming took longer than usual,” Mary said, “so we don’t have time to ride before dinner. If you’d like, we can find some time tomorrow.”

Jenny was disappointed at that news, but could hardly feel ungrateful considering all that this wonderful family had done for her so far.

“Sure, I’d love to,” Jenny said, again. It seemed to her that she had been saying that a lot lately.

They then went in to help with dinner preparations.

Back on the porch now, Martha remarked, “Well, Jenny, we are glad to have you here. I don’t know if I should be saying this, but you are the first one that Hugh had ever brought home to meet us. You must be very special to him.”

Jenny thought about that. “I’m not sure that’s the way it worked out,” she said honestly. “I think it’s more that he didn’t know what to do with me. And, he’s way too much of a gentleman to just drop me off in the middle of the highway somewhere.”

Martha considered that.

“You could be right. However, I’m betting it was more than that.”

Jenny looked at Martha expectantly, hoping for more.

“We’ll know more when he comes down out of the hills,” was all that Martha offered for the time being.

“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m turning in,” Mary said.

“Me too. Breakfast starts early,” Martha agreed.

The three walked upstairs together. At her door, Jenny said to both Martha and Mary, “Thank you for a great day. And thank you for being so kind and considerate to a stranger.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie, get a good night’s sleep. Good night,” Martha said.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hugh

Just as the eastern sky was beginning to lose its grey pallor, and take on the crimson tones that heralded a new day, Hugh woke from the deep, contented sleep that he experienced only on these all-too-infrequent outings in the forests of northern Idaho.

Buck nickered his greeting, and Hugh led him over to the stream, and then to the little meadow. Returning to the campsite, Hugh built the fire back up, and set a dented, fire-blackened metal coffeepot of water on it to heat up.

His usual breakfast on these outings comprised coffee in one Sierra-type cup, and handful of oatmeal with an assortment of dried berries and nuts in another cup. No muss, no fuss.

Cleanup consisted of a quick wipe-down of both cups, and his one utensil, an all-purpose spoon. Everything then fit into the now-emptied coffee pot. His one bow to “civilization” was the gallon-size, plastic zipper baggie that he put the coffee pot into to keep it from getting soot all over the other things in his saddle bag.

Buck returned to the campsite just as Hugh was finished packing everything up.

“Well, Buck. What should we do today?” Hugh asked his favorite horse. Hugh was feeling much more relaxed—more like himself—and he was game for anything.

Buck nickered, and blew at the mention of his name. Then he nodded his head up and down, and blew a bit more.

“That sounds like a plan,” Hugh replied. “Let’s circumnavigate the ranch today, keeping to the ridges. And just see what’s to see.”

There was a practical reason for Hugh’s choice of activity today. He figured that neither his dad, nor his brother, had taken the time lately to ride out and examine the property.

Besides the usual issues of spotting fencing that needed repairing, streams that needed unblocking, or deadfall trees that needed felling, Hugh knew that there was another element that needed keeping track of.

This part of Idaho had long been a destination for people euphemistically called “free spirits.” These were people who sought remote locations to get closer to the land, and to live unencumbered by the laws and mores of the bureaucratic world.

While Hugh had no argument with these people’s desires, he nevertheless did insist that they not squat on his family’s land. Unlike other huge tracts throughout the Western states, much of the land in this area was held privately by families like his own. Or it was owned by the logging companies. In other words, it was private land.

And, besides, a sobering truth these days was the reality that the Mexican drug cartels were finding their way even as far north as Idaho. They would seek out open patches within heavy forest to plant their marijuana crops, far from the spying eyes of the drug enforcement officers.

Authorities had been getting much better at detecting and eradicating these grows in the more usual locations like California, Oregon, and such, so the cartels had been seeking out even more remote locations. The payoff for a successful marijuana garden, even one small enough to be managed by only a couple of illegals, was enormous … into the multi-millions.

One of the major problems with these cartel operations was that they protected their grows with deadly booby traps and armed guards. Hugh was extremely concerned that Mary might ride out some day and stumble upon one of these operations. There had never been one on his family’s land, so far. But, there had been a couple found in nearby counties.

Hugh saddled Buck, and swung into the saddle.

It had occurred to him many times during these outings over the years how setting off down a trail on horseback was similar to pulling onto the highway in his truck. Both experiences left him with a great feeling of well-being. He loved doing both equally well.

And, for Hugh, that was a sure sign that the forest, the night’s sleep, and the companionship of his horse, had finally worked its magic on him. He was actually