Shirley Murphy: Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Telling_Tales_BookFi

Half defeated, half relieved, she threw the cage in the backseat of her king cab and took off fast for home, pausing for tourists and for stop signs so the few blocks seemed to take forever. Skidding into the drive, she ran in hauling the one covered cage, and shut it in the guest room. The cat would be all right for an hour or two. Racing back out, she could hear Rock pawing indignantly at the back door. She left him in the yard, she didn’t need an excited Weimaraner racing among the frightened horses. Maybe it was those old shacks below the pastures that were burning, those ancient workers’ cottages from years ago when the river delta was farmed for artichokes. She thought they were rented now, though how much rent could you charge for an old wooden cabin that let the wind whistle through? The three places were tinder, that was sure, dry as a bone. She could see thick gray smoke ahead, rising over the lower hills, hiding the Harpers’ pasture.

Turning up the hill beyond the village, speeding up the narrow two-lane, she watched the fire licking up below the north pasture. She had to slow to pass a dozen cars that were pulled over to the side, their drivers rubbernecking. Why did people do that, why did they feel compelled to get in the way, slow down the firefighters and police? She was nearly to the Harpers’ turnoff when she heard Joe scramble up from the backseat, felt his paw on her shoulder. “Can’t you drive faster? Those poor horses.”

“I can drive faster and get us both creamed,” she said, glaring at him. At home, when she’d settled the cat cage in the guest room, she’d called out for Joe but there was no answer, and that had been worrisome. Racing out to the truck, she’d prayed he hadn’t gone galloping up into the hills alone headed for the fiery canyon, had told herself Joe had better sense, that he wouldn’t do that. She turned, scowling at him. “Now that you’ve made your presence known, would it do any good to ask you to stay out of trouble?”

“Does anyone live down there?”

“An old woman, I think. I’ve heard she’s a pretty heavy drinker, maybe she accidentally started the fire. And her grandson—Billy’s a nice kid, he works for Max and Charlie sometimes, feeding, cleaning stalls. I guess Hesmerra’s the only family he has.” She sped up when she’d passed the gawkers, turned left onto the Harpers’ gravel road. No point scolding Joe for slipping into the truck, no point telling him he’d be in danger around the fire, it would only make him bolder. She parked on the shoulder where the lane was blocked, where Charlie had shut the gate to the yard. She got out and slipped through the gate, Joe Grey trotting beside her. Ahead, Charlie was leading her sorrel mare and a boarder across the yard at a trot, toward the south pasture. Already Ryan’s eyes stung from the smoke as she went to halter two more horses.

Charlie couldn’t see the fire below the hill, could see only dark smoke rising up, as she moved the first two nervous horses through the north gate into the stable yard, her mare snorting and pulling back. She could see in her mind the three weathered field hands’ shacks that stood below the hill huddled at the edge of the floodplain beside the river. Surely the old woman and Billy had gotten out, those places were so small, only a few steps to the door or a window. Hesmerra Young. Everyone called her Gran. Charlie thought of her and Billy waking to flames, the blaze licking at the walls and ceiling, and she felt her stomach lurch. But surely they were safe, the fire trucks were there now, and she tried to ease her worry. Billy Young was only twelve, a silent, shy boy, with gentle hands for a horse or dog; he worked for the Harpers at odd times when they needed extra help. Maybe, when the fire broke out, he was already gone, off on his bike to work at one of the other ranches. Often, as Max headed to work before daylight, he’d see Billy somewhere on the road on his bike, and give him a lift, throw the bike in the back of the pickup. The boy did odd jobs for many of the local horse people, cleaned stalls, fed, cleaned tack, lunged and exercised the horses. She guessed he went to school when he chose, maybe in the afternoon. She didn’t know how he managed that, maybe he had a work permit like their young friend Lori Reed, who was learning carpentry as Ryan’s part-time apprentice. Charlie liked that a kid wanted to learn a hands-on skill, in addition to getting a formal education. If Billy was gone when the fire started, if his gran was alone there sleeping off a hangover, had she gotten out, had she even smelled smoke? Redwing reared again, fighting the rope, but the boarder, a bay gelding, was calm and sensible. By leading them together, she got them across the yard and into the south pasture, as far from the flames as their land went. As she eased the mare through, her phone vibrated. Latching the gate, she picked up. “I’m moving the horses,” she told Max. She looked up as Ryan’s truck pulled in.

“Shall I come up?” Max said.

“No, Ryan’s here, we’re fine. I’ll call if we need help. Shall we hook up the trailers?”

“No, they have it under control, not a breath of wind down here,” he said curtly.

He sounded strange. She said, “Is everyone all right?”

“Everything under control,” he said shortly. “I have to go.” He hung up, startling her.

Something was wrong, he hadn’t wanted to talk. She told herself they were busy, the place must be chaos, the men cleaning up, to keep the last of the blaze contained, not let it creep along and start in the surrounding fields. The bottomland along the river lay fallow now, gone to coarse grass and weeds, the owner waiting for an upturn in the market, for some developer to give him an inflated profit. She didn’t like the thought of condos or tract houses down here, destroying the open land where she liked a nice gallop along the trail that ran beside the river. Max said no one would build houses on the flood bed, they’d have to be certifiably crazy. But all over California, people had done just that, built on cheap lowland, and then were surprised when, during heavy weather, their living rooms filled up with river mud.

She could hear the firefighters’ shouts, could still hear the hiss of water hitting the buildings, the dull chunk, chunk of shovels as if the men were cutting back dry weeds or pitching rubble and loose boards away from the hot spots. Ryan joined her at the north gate. They haltered the other four horses and led them across the yard, Max’s buckskin gelding snorting, strung with nerves. Probably the fire wouldn’t climb the hill, with no wind, but the horses sure could smell it, and that was all they needed. At least the new green grass was rich with moisture, not tinder dry. But still, a sudden wind whipping up the cliffs from the sea, and who knew what the blaze would do? Well, the trailers stood ready if they were needed, the tires inflated, and all their horses would load easily. It was that, or tie the bunch of them head-to-tail and lead them all at once to safety, to one of the neighbors’ pastures.

Slapping Bucky on the rump she sent him trotting away, the other three following him closely, as if Bucky might protect them. Ryan’s short dark hair was atangle, the collar of her jacket turned under as if she’d pulled it on fast, leaving the house in a hurry. With the horses moved, Charlie let the two big mutts out of the barn and put them in the south pasture with the horses. They took both vehicles, heading for the blaze, Charlie following Ryan’s truck. She could see Joe Grey sitting tall on the back of the seat. A right turn, and right again a quarter mile down the hill, and they bumped along the narrow dirt track that skirted the bottomland, heading into the smoke and the tangle of men and vehicles, the confusion of fire hoses spewing water, undulating like muscular pythons. They parked short of the burn, against the hill, and got out. Charlie smiled as Ryan threatened Joe Grey.