Across Raven River
Table of Contents
Across Raven River
DEDICATION
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
About the Author
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Across
Raven
River
K. D. Gearhart
Copyrighted © 2020 K. D. Gearhart
All rights reserved.
This work may not be reproduced or distributed without written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, events, or
locations are entirely coincidental.
Cover art by E.C. Stever.
Cover Photo credit xeniamarie.
Print ISBN: 978-1-672934-38-1
DEDICATION
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
About the Author
DEDICATION
To my husband, Tom.
Acknowledgement
Thank you to the many who helped in the completion of this work; my husband, Tom; beta readers Kathy Kovar, and Carolyn Helget; Corrie Burgess; and Bearlodge Writers from Sundance, Wyoming. Thank you to my editor Jennifer Goode Stevens for making my writing better. A VERY special thank you to Eric Stever for the cover work and shadowing me through the publishing process.
And always a thank you to my mother who though she never realized her dream of becoming an author, works through me to create characters and plot lines I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 1
LOVE TRIANGLE OR MÉNAGE A TROIS?
Grainy, unflattering pictures of one woman and two men stared back at me from the supermarket magazine rack. I recognized Lindy Dwyer, Wes Gabel, and Alex Winston—stars from the long-running Kids Network television show The Baker High Trio. Last week I’d heard a news blip the show had been canceled. Guess child stars can’t stay in high school indefinitely.
Before I could read more of the tantalizing story, the black conveyor belt began to move my groceries forward. A checkout clerk I hadn’t seen before greeted me without looking up by asking if I’d found everything I needed. Her spiked red and orange hair, the tattoo of a half sun underneath her right eye, and her nose piercing didn’t put me off, but I was sure the ultra-conservative geriatric crowd had different views. I started digging in my purse for my credit card.
“Oh, my God! You. Are. Her.”
I looked up to see who the clerk, whose name tag appropriately read Sunrise, was talking to. A flush crept up my neck when I realized it was me. Sunrise continued, “I just LOVE your books.” She bent down to retrieve a well-worn paperback from beneath the counter. “Serena is so AWESOME! Can I have your autograph?”
The Grammar Police, aka my mother, who often took up real estate—uninvited—inside my head, was telling me to politely correct the young girl’s use of “can.” But I let it slide and wrote Books open the world to you. CJ McKeena across the smear of what I hoped was chocolate on the inside cover. Sunrise finished scanning my purchases and presented me with the total of $289.74. It had been a while since I’d shopped for groceries; I’d been traveling the past three months speaking at writing workshops and conferences up and down the West Coast.
Sunrise waved the receipt to get my attention. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?” I asked.
“Just wondering when your next book is due out.”
I flashed her my book-cover smile and said, “Soon.”
As I wheeled the cart to my car, I heard the words my mother always said when she caught me in a lie—Courtney Jane, no good ever comes from fibbing.
Truth be told, I didn’t have a book coming out soon. I didn’t have a plot. I hadn’t written one single word. My agent, Nancy Fenton, was under the impression I was nearing the finish line of the first draft of my latest manuscript, and that protagonist Serena Knight was again about to reveal the identity of the killer at the end of a twisting and turning plot that kept readers buying book after book. I’d cajoled Nancy into pushing the release date to late fall, pointing out that I still had titles on the best-seller list and sales hadn’t fallen off.
Even Serena Knight needed some down time.
Vowing to seriously start writing tomorrow, as well as to eat healthier, I pulled up to a drive-through and ordered super nachos and a sugary cinnamon doughnut chaser. I fished a deep-fried confection out of the bag on the drive home. Okay, two. Maybe I’d better work on that fibbing thing. I licked my fingers before punching in the security code to my gated community, where Nancy had rented me a guest cottage behind a McMansion in the hills outside Los Angeles. I had used the house as home base while fulfilling my speaking obligations and had until the end of June to vacate the premises.
My cell phone jingled, alerting me that Nancy was calling again. I had ignored two calls and a text while shopping. Knowing she was persistent, I answered. “Hey.”
“A car will be there in thirty minutes. No, make that twenty.”
“What?” I asked. “We must have a bad connection because I thought I heard you say a car would be here to pick me up.”
“And wear something Wyoming Western.”
“What is Wyoming Western?”
Nancy sang, “Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know.” I waited in dumb silence until I realized she was listening to Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.” Nancy hummed a few bars before saying, “You know, something you would wear down on the farm at home in Wyoming.”
“We ranch in Wyoming. Someday you and I are going to take a road trip to Kansas and Nebraska and then to Wyoming so I can show you the difference between farming and ranching. We might even go to Montana so you can see the Big Sky cattle ranches.”
“Wow! Funny you should mention Montana because if you play your cards right, you can have an all-expenses-paid vacation to a fabulous private ranch where you will rub elbows with Hollywood stars, plus be paid a fat consultant fee to boot. Boot—get it?” Nancy actually chortled into the phone. “I’ll meet you in the coffee shop of the Turner Professional Building.” She disconnected without a goodbye, let alone an explanation.
I quickly put away the perishables and promised the nachos we’d have a soggy date later. Standing in front of my closet, I tried to decide what would constitute a Wyoming Western outfit. At home on the ranch, I’d be in well-worn cowboy boots, faded blue jeans, a T-shirt advertising a local bar
, and a King Ropes cap.
I opted for a yellow and turquoise plaid shirt over a white tee and jeans. As always, my grandmother’s Black Hills gold cross was my only jewelry. I was pulling on boots as the limo drove up.
The Turner Professional Building was home to movie biz offices. Nancy had told me she was promoting my first non-series book, Trouble in Skull Canyon, to movie producers. My heart did a little flutter glancing at the glass and stone building. Maybe that’s what this meeting was about. Who didn’t like a Western saga with shoot-outs, a hanging, and, of course, several scenes of good old-fashioned knockin’ boots?
I spotted Nancy as soon as I walked into Bogie’s Beans. Today the strip of color in her white hair was chartreuse and matched the psychedelic swirl in her broomstick skirt. As always, the fragrance of patchouli oil hovered around her, reminding me of Pig-Pen from the Charlie Brown comics. One evening over drinks and recreational Mary Jane for Nancy, she had regaled me with stories from her time spent at a commune in the hills outside of L.A.
It was a less-mellow Nancy today who dispensed with a greeting and launched into the reason we were meeting in the mecca of everything film. “Opportunity of a lifetime for you. Consultant on location for Geoffrey Stone’s latest film.”
“The Geoffrey Stone?” I asked stupidly. There was only one Geoffrey Stone associated with the movie industry. And right now, he was HUGE.
“Time to go,” Nancy said, standing. “Just smile and let me do the negotiating.”
A half hour later, a lucrative signed contract in my hand (that said “job description to follow”) and a pushed-back deadline for my non-existent book, I was singing, “Whoopee-ty-yi-yo. Eagle Landing, Montana, here I come!”
Chapter 2
THE CAR SERVICE dumped my bags without a backward glance at the terminal where Geoffrey Stone’s private jet sat idling on the runway. A rail-thin blonde wobbled her way toward me, resembling a little girl playing dress up in her mother’s high-heeled shoes. She juggled an armful of glossy-looking booklets, which threatened to slip away with each step.
“I’m Tiffany Rawlings, Mr. Stone’s assistant.”
Darn! Would’ve lost my bet that her name would be Britney.
Struggling to hand me a brochure, she continued, “This is general information. Covers questions you may have. I . . .” Tiffany jumped like she’d been jabbed with a cattle prod and lost her grip on the booklets, which spilled from her arms. She tapped her earpiece, answering, “Yes, Mr. Stone.”
I bent and scooped up the booklets, alternating each spiral binding to corral them into an orderly pile. My OCD wouldn’t let them just lie scattered on the tarmac. Tiffany smiled when I handed her the stack, but then she teetered away—still talking into her headset—without offering any further instructions.
My experience flying by private jet is zero, so I stood awkwardly wondering what to do and where to go. A uniformed man came toward me, relieved me of my luggage, and told me the plane would be leaving in ten minutes. I admit I felt a little privileged as I sank into my seat—its leather was butter-soft and smelled like a saddle and tack shop. My stomach did its usual little flutter as the jet lifted skyward. The high seat backs didn’t allow for gawking to the front or back of me, but across the aisle, a young man and woman turned toward each other, their hushed conversation too low for me to overhear.
The flight attendant handed me a perfectly brewed cup of coffee, and I settled in to read the information Tiffany had given me. I was still waiting on Nancy to email more about my role as consultant. We’d had dinner together three nights ago, but when I’d asked her about my job, she had said “something horsey,” actually air quoting with her bejeweled fingers.
I flipped the brochure shut and closed my eyes to digest what I’d read. The film was starring none other than Lindy, Wes, and Alex—The Baker High Trio. They must be trying out the big screen. The movie synopsis had the three celebrating their high school graduation with a Western-flavored vacation. We were flying into the private TRO Ranch in the Montana Rockies, the brochure said, “to film horse and mountain scenes including Lindy’s kidnapping by a deranged mountain man and her subsequent rescue by Wes and Alex.”
I love horses. And mountains. Sounded like a perfect place to draw inspiration for my nonexistent novel while getting paid for a fun job at the same time.
The jet touched down on the private airstrip, smooth as a trumpeter swan landing on Yellowstone Lake. The scenery that sped by the window reminded me of my home state of Wyoming: a forest of thick evergreens under a blue sky painted with mares’ tail clouds. Homesickness tugged at my heart.
The passengers milled around in small groups on the tarmac waiting for the luggage to be loaded into the back of a van. We all piled in, and the vehicle drove down a paved road and stopped in front of a massive log structure. The foyer of the lodge was what I imagined a billionaire’s Montana McMansion would look like—native stone, massive logs, elk antler chandeliers. Room assignments included a welcome packet with a list of ranch do’s and don’ts discreetly tucked between fliers detailing the history of the area and the lodge amenities that were available to the guests. The ranch blurb described the untamed beauty of Dryhead Mountain, named after the dryhead agate that had been mined in the area many years ago. The brochure had pictures of Raven River, which ran through the ranch, and boasted of having the best trout fishing in the lower forty-eight. I wondered where it had gotten its name. Most likely from the large black passerine birds whose noisy caws ruin a peaceful horseback ride through the forest. Or an early explorer could have named the river after the black-haired beauty who broke his heart. Maybe Serena Knight would have to figure out what happened to the woman named Raven who mysteriously disappeared while trout fishing. I’d keep that plot line in mind. The town of Eagle Landing was thirty miles from the ranch, and transportation to and from town would be provided. Courtney McKeena was printed on a brown name tag, which dangled from a lanyard with the suggestion it be worn at all times. I scowled at the name tag. It depicted a cartoon horse standing with a cell phone to its ear. Tiny print in a word balloon said, “Hi-yo, Silver—Away!” Come on, people—Lone Ranger’s Silver was a classy horse!
My single-occupancy room resembled a picture from Log Home Living Magazine, and I sent a text to Nancy with a smiley face and thumbs-up emojis. I quickly unpacked and headed down to the dining room where brunch was being served. I bypassed anything healthy-looking and sat down with my heavy-laden plate away from the few others who dotted the dining room tables.
“You’re CJ McKeena! I recognize you from your book’s jacket.” I looked up to see a willow-thin woman with a near-translucent complexion. “I can’t get enough of your character Serena. Gutsy lady, and boy, does she get into some pickles.” I smiled up at her, my eyes traveling to the lonely looking piece of wheat toast on her plate. I discreetly pushed away my buffet for show only, having no intention of not scarfing down every last morsel after the runway model moved on. Instead of walking away, she set her plate down and took the chair next to me. “My name is Sissally—two s’s, two l’s—Meade. My dad stutters, so when he told the social worker my name for the birth certificate it came out with extra letters.”
I finished chewing my mouthful of bear claw before answering. “Please call me Courtney. CJ, the writer, is on hiatus,” I said with a smile. I studied the Hollywood type, finding it odd that she used words like “gutsy” and “pickle” and that she had already shared personal information like her father having a stutter. I liked her immediately, though, and heard my mother admonishing me for judging a book by its cover.
“I do hair and makeup for the stars,” she said, air quoting stars. She leaned forward. “Between you, me, and a fence post, I’ll have my work cut out on our star diva, Lindy. She may have been a golden child star once, but burning the candle at both ends has taken its toll.”
Before Sissally could gossip further, a commotion at the door drew our attention. The star child herself, all grown up
to the ripe old age of 21, was posing for a selfie. She and her entourage of three flounced to a table and looked around as if expecting a waiter to be at their beck and call. I didn’t imagine the term “self-serve buffet” was in their vocabulary.
Sissally raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. I motioned to the second bear claw on my plate, and she smiled and took it. I wasn’t sure, but I thought she had a mini orgasm with the first bite. I turned away to let her chew in privacy.
“Oh, boy,” Sissally said around another bite of pastry. “Maybe we’ll see some fireworks. Probably not, though, because there aren’t cameras rolling, but . . .” Her voice trailed off as we watched two boys on the cusp of manhood enter the dining room. They were Hollywood Handsome—chiseled jaws, kissable lips, perfect noses, eyes that made Grandma’s nether regions quiver just a little. I knew from TMZ that the blue-eyed blond was Alex Winston. Personally, I preferred the dark coloring of Wes Gabel—chocolate-brown eyes, and ooh la la, the way his dark locks curled around perfect earlobes. I snatched up my water glass and took a big gulp.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Sissally breathed just above a whisper. I watched as the tip of her pink tongue slid across her top lip. She broke the spell with a cackle. “Out of my league. Plus, because I’m 25, they consider me ancient. And they are pretty smitten with Lindy.”
I said, laughing, “I’m at that awkward age of 31, not old enough to be considered a cougar but too old for teeny-boppers.” I watched as several other young, athletic-looking women made healthy choices from the buffet. I glanced at the carbs on my plate, losing my appetite, and pushed up from the table. “I’m going to get a walk in on one of the designated walking paths before our meet and greet tonight.” I sighed. “Suppose there will be more food?”
Sissally laughed. “Designated walking paths. What a joke. We’re smack dab in the middle of the mountains. I don’t know about you, but where I grew up in the hollers of Kentucky, we didn’t have walking paths. We had trails.”