and hoped the time at Smoketree would be well spent.
I napped heavily and woke from the depths of a dream so real it made me physically ill. I sat upright in my bed and shivered, hugging myself against the images. And then I realized I was in Arizona, at Smoketree, not in a California hospital with glass in my head and arms.
“Damn!” I exclaimed. “I thought the dreams were supposed to stop—” But all the psychiatrist had ever said was that they would, not when.
I climbed out of bed stiffly, disoriented from the dream as well as jet-lag. And then I caught my reflection in the mirror above the vanity. A bleary-eyed, tousle-headed woman of twenty-eight, hardly ready to face a dude ranch full of strangers.
The nap had pressed my bangs away from my face, baring my forehead with its purple welt. On anyone else the scar, once healed, would be a thin pale line. On me, a keloid-prone Scandinavian blonde with very fair skin, the thing showed plainly. Makeup did cover some of its offensiveness, but I always knew it was there. A few of my fellow models had taken care to remind me.
I sighed and pushed the bangs back into place. Enough self-pity. I was hungry, and supper waited. I washed my face, pulled on a tweed jacket over my sweater and took myself up to the Lodge.
The big front door stood open under a yellowish porch light. I stepped into the roomy foyer. It was densely populated with an impressive collection of antlered trophy heads mounted on the wooden walls. Deer, elk, antelope and moose loomed at me out of the shadowed interior; moose, I wondered, in Arizona? Well, perhaps the hunter had brought the trophy back from another state. Then I came face to face with a bristly, snarling creature I’d never seen before; a printed card tacked beneath the beast labeled it “javelina.” I decided, after a brief study of its malevolently glassy eyes, I much preferred it on the wall than in its natural state.
I picked my way carefully across a lovely earth-toned Navajo rug and met Nathan Reynolds just inside the cavernous dining room. He greeted me with a warmth I realized was both customary and genuine. He escorted me within, took my drink order and went off to do the honors.
The size of the place impressed me instantly. The beams were massive things, roughhewn as if a lumberjack had simply knocked off the outer bark; ingrained with the patina of age and authenticity. The floor was polished, pegged hardwood, dark as raw honey. A flagstone fireplace swallowed half of one wall, warming the room considerably with its crackling fire. Pine scent mingled with the aroma of roasting beef. The tables, covered in red-checked gingham, were scattered all over the room, silent testimony to Smoketree’s sizeable capacity, though I saw only a handful of guests present.
One of them rose as I approached, a man I judged to be in his mid-fifties. He smiled pleasantly and nodded. “Please—won’t you join us? Lenore and I were just discussing the need for new blood around here. ” He smiled and extended a large hand. “I’m John Oliver. This is my wife, Lenore.” He wasn’t much above average height but his bulk was concentrated in shoulders and chest, and a wide face was accented by a pair of very shrewd brown eyes. His graying hair was cropped closely but still sprang vigorously from his scalp. There was a vitality and command about him that branded him influential and competent.
Lenore, I thought, was her husband’s opposite. She was younger than he by only a few years, but took pains to hide her age. Her dark blonde hair was frosted, but she had had it done, and recently, at a good salon. She was darkly tanned but her face was very tight around her green eyes and at the points of her jaws, a sure sign of at least one facelift.
“Kelly Clayton.” Her brows slid upward. “The name is familiar, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”
I kept my voice very calm as I slid onto the wooden bench next to her. “You may have seen my photograph. I model.”
She brightened at once. “Ah, of course! I recall you now.” For a moment the slight frown marred her too-smooth face, and her eyes narrowed appraisingly as she studied my face. As I was trying to decide if her look was simple curiosity or if she was looking for, or at,