onto a widening in the berm where a picnic table rested under a huge willow. There was nothing left but to walk the last leg of the journey. Perhaps someone up at the house could bring her back, in a heavier car with chains around its tires, to collect her suitcases.
She turned off the lights, shut off the engine, took the key from the ignition, and opened the door.
Cold…
The air seemed twice as bitter here as it had on top of the mountain where she had found and buried the cat. The wind howled down the long, narrow, steep-walled valley just as water gushed through the natural contour of the land. It whipped the pine boughs around until they seemed like the arms of some unearthly dancers going through a frantic routine. Clouds of cold, grainy snowflakes snapped about her, stinging, seeking open cuffs, a crack at the collar, a gap between the buttons.
She turned toward Owlsden which lay a mile or better up the road from there and had taken only a dozen steps when she knew that she could never walk it. The steep grade would have her on her knees or sprawled full- length as much as she would be permitted to stand upright — while the wind, scouring the valley walls, would lift the hem of her coat like the cloth of an umbrella. She turned around and faced towards the town again, held her hand over her eyes to keep the snow out of them. It was nearly as far to the square in town as to Owlsden, but on level land where she would find sure footing. Tucking her chin down and squinting her eyes, she started to walk.
By the time she reached the square, it was just after six in the evening. The stores were closed, except for a grocery-newsstand combination and a cafe. She chose the cafe, crossed the tiny, bench-dotted park, and went inside, brushing the snow from her coatsleeves and shoulders as she did.
The cafe contained three men in lumberjack clothes: heavy plaid hunting jackets, sweaters beneath those, heavy jeans with legs that laced at the bottom and fitted neatly into heavy-duty, unpolished black boots. An old, white-haired man in a tattered sweater sat at a corner table, by a large window that gave a view of the square, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. The waitress behind the counter and the man at the short-order grill were both plump, middle-aged, ruddy-complexioned and pleasant-looking.
She sat on a stool at the counter and said, “A cup of coffee, please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Both, yes.”
The waitress fetched the coffee and put it down. “New in Roxburgh?” she asked, smiling pleasantly. Her teeth were even, white and broad.
“Yes,” she said, unbuttoning her coat and shaking her damp, yellow hair away from her face. “I'm going to be Lydia Boland's secretary.”
“Really!” the waitress said, obviously charmed at that.
The man at the grill looked up and nodded, smiled. Evidently, Lydia Boland was a pleasant topic of conversation so far as these people were concerned.
“Yes,” Katherine said. “But I'm having some trouble getting up the highway to Owlsden.”
“It'll be locked in for days!” the waitress said, shaking her head knowingly. “The Roxburghs bought the town two plows and a cindering truck so we wouldn't have to depend on the State to clear our roads. It takes the State two weeks to get into places like this after a major snowstorm. But even with the local plows, the way the wind whistles through here and drifts the snow, it takes a few days to get things back to normal.”
“I'd imagine so,” Katherine said. She sipped her coffee. It was hot, burning a path down her throat, breaking up the cold in her stomach. “That's why I thought I really ought to get up to the house before things get even worse than they are. Could I use your telephone to call Mrs. Boland and see if they'll send someone down for me and my luggage? My own car's much too light to make that steep grade.”
“So will their car be,” the waitress said, swiping at the top of the counter with a damp rag.
“But I can't stay here when I'm expected—”
“Let me call around to see if I can find Mike Harrison. He's got a Land Rover that's equipped to go anywhere.”
“I wouldn't want to cause trouble—”
“Mike wouldn't be troubled,” the woman assured her. “He likes to show his machine to people, like a grown man with a toy — and he'd surely want to meet the town's newest resident. I'll warn you, though, that you'll have to endure a wild ride up the road to Owlsden; Mike doesn't spare the thrills when he gives someone their first demonstration ride in that crazy buggy.”
“If you really think he wouldn't mind,” Katherine said, “I'd appreciate his help. I'll pay him well enough for his trouble.”
“No need to pay,” the woman said.
“But—”
“I doubt he'd take your money, seeing as how he has more of his own than he can ever easily spend. His father owns a lot of timberland on up the valley and two of the largest planning and processing mills in the mountains. Nearly everyone in Roxburgh has worked or now works for him.”
“I see,” Katherine said. “But if he's who you say, he's probably busy with—”
“He hardly ever does a decent day's work,” the waitress said, though her tone was not sarcastic but warm, as if everyone looked kindly upon Mike Harrison's sloth. “I'll get him on the phone. Be back in a snap.”
She walked along the counter and said something to the man at the short-order grill, then disappeared into the kitchen where, apparently, the telephone lay.
Katherine finished her coffee and placed enough change on the counter to cover the cost plus a generous tip to compensate the woman for her telephoning as well as for her counter service.
By then, the waitress had returned. “Found him,” she said. “He says he'll be delighted to take you up there.”
“Wonderful!” Katherine said, thinking about the treacherous road she would have had to try again if Mike Harrison had not been available or willing.
“He says to give him fifteen minutes to get his Land Rover and be here.”
The time passed quickly as she waited in the cafe for Harrison, mostly because the waitress was a talker — and a good one, relating one anecdote about Harrison, the town, the Roxburgh-Bolands, after another. She was the kind of woman who laughed a great deal and who would have looked out of place without an apron around her waist, a grandmotherly type whose gossip was never malicious. Katherine knew that, whenever she had a day off and wanted to get a bite to eat outside of Owlsden, she would come back here for the conversation as much as for the food.
At a quarter of seven, with darkness full upon the land now and the snow falling just as fiercely as ever, Michael Harrison arrived at the cafe, his hair laced with snow, his face pinched into a bright red heartiness by the brisk fingers of the wind. He was a tall, rugged-looking, handsome man, only a couple of years older than Katherine. His face was cut in Roman lines, with a high, broad forehead, well-set blue eyes, a straight, thin nose, firm lips and a chin cut square and strong. His shoulders were wide, his carriage that of a man who knows how to handle himself in any situation.
He crossed the cafe and actually did a modified, courtly bow to her, something she had never expected to find here in the wilds. His smile was positively dazzling. “You're our new resident?”
“Katherine Sellers,” she said.
“I'm Mike Harrison, and I'm pleased to meet you.”
“Me too,” she said. She had swiveled away from the counter on her stool, but she had not risen. He was such a gentleman and made her feel — even after that brief exchange — like such a lady that she felt she ought to abide by more ancient traditions of manner and remain in her seat.
“I didn't know Lydia was hiring a new secretary.”
“Companion, actually,” Katherine said.
“I told her how much she'll like working for Mrs. Boland,” the waitress said. “Couldn't find a kinder lady.”
Katherine noted that, as the waitress spoke, a strange look passed across Mike Harrison's face, held more behind his eyes than in them, concealed but still partly evident. It was a look of irritation at what the waitress had said and, perhaps, an expression of qualification or disagreement with her sentiments about the Roxburgh-Bolands. It was the first sour note, no matter how small, she had discovered in the heretofore sweet apple of the family name, and she wondered exactly what it meant.
