He straightened, his free hand automatically reaching behind to check the pack that held the two-way radio, waterproof matches, a multitool knife, his sleeping bag and mat, the first-aid kit, food. There was good thinking and bad thinking. He had to stay in his son’s head, not remember some of the things he’d seen in his years of trying to bring people back alive to where they belonged.
It was fully light now although the rain made a lie of the fact that this was June. Fog clung to the ground in a number of deep pockets, and Cord couldn’t see the tops of the tallest trees. From the looks of the clouds, he didn’t expect the drizzle to let up for several hours. By the feel of the air on his cheeks, he gauged the temperature to be about fifty degrees. Most people, if they were dry and wore a light jacket and remained active, could stay out all day in this temperature. Thankfully there wasn’t enough breeze for a wind chill to factor in, but Matt was probably at a higher elevation and maybe wet.
That was why he hadn’t worn a jacket. He wanted to experience the worst of what his son might. He felt a cool bite along the back of his neck and down his shoulders, but he was used to being exposed and had long ago stopped perceiving cold as discomfort. It wouldn’t be the same for his son.
Turning in the saddle, he spoke to Shannon. “It’s going to warm up more. Even with the rain, we’ll get at least another ten degrees. That’ll help.”
She nodded and gave him a quick smile. Still, her eyes telegraphed her concern. He wondered if she knew how transparent she was. “I can’t keep thinking,” she said. “What if his granola bars get wet? I wonder if he’ll eat them anyway.”
“He will.” He leaned forward to make it easier for his horse to climb a short hill and then explained that most people out like this wound up eating anything and everything that was remotely palatable.
“What happens when he runs out of food?”
“Then he gets hungry.”
“Then, hopefully, he’ll get serious about hustling back home.”
It was more complicated than that. Still, he held back from spelling out those complications to her. The tightness around the corners of her mouth made it clear that she knew how serious things were. Yet, she wasn’t making impossible demands on him or allowing fear to have the upper hand. He wanted to thank her for that, to compliment her self-control.
He also wanted to draw her attention to the wind’s fragrance, the messages spread by birds and insects, the rhythm of nature to her.
He didn’t ask himself why.
“What are you looking for?” Shannon asked when it seemed that Cord had been gazing around him forever.
“For patterns,” her ex-husband said, the words coming slow and soft. “My grandfather called it
Did Cord really think she would buy that business about patterns and spirits? Yes, she’d heard him mention such things in the past and had tried to understand what he was saying, but he talked about insight and instinct, making what he did sound like philosophy, not tracking. And, she could now admit, for too much of the time they were together, she’d been so wrapped up in her own life that she hadn’t truly listened. She-they-had been so young.
“What is
“That this is a people place, a part of nature that has been touched by many and changed.”
She looked around her. As far as she was concerned, they were in the wilderness. There weren’t any buildings, chimney smoke rising in the air, livestock. Yes, Arapaho had been scarred by ski trails and lifts, but there weren’t any nearby and they were idle this time of year. The trees grew so thickly here that even without the rain and ground fog, it would have been impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the trail. She felt completely isolated from the rest of the world. How could Cord say that the wilderness had been changed by mankind?
But Cord knew things, sensed things no one else did; she had no doubt of that. And when he spoke this morning, she listened to the words, the sound, the energy in him, and used those things to keep from losing her mind.
“Does being in a people place make it more difficult for you?” she asked.
“It’s going to make finding Matt take longer. His spirit is mixed in with the spirit of others.”
“Spirit? I guess that’s as good a name to give what you’re looking for as anything. Is that how your grandfather referred to-to… I don’t have a word for what you’re talking about.”
“Not many people do. Gray Cloud had a unique way of describing the wilderness, mystical almost. I’ve held on to his descriptions because that’s better than anything I could come up with.”
“Like the way he gave credit to the Great Spirit for everything,” she offered, almost without knowing she was going to say the words, words she’d never forgotten. “I remember you telling me that Gray Cloud believed that in nature everything lives in harmony. That an ant is as important as a bear.”
“And that we must see with our hearts and that the wind speaks to us and in the wilderness there is only the present.”
“The present,” she echoed. “Time, as we think of it, had no meaning for your grandfather, did it? ‘The rhythm of nature is slow, steady, and has a beat all its own. The ground itself has a heart, and if one knows how to listen, he can hear it.’”
“You remember more than I thought you did.”
She concentrated on the gentle, deep-throated question and asked herself why those lessons and more had stayed with her all these years. She wanted to tell Cord that she’d never forgotten Gray Cloud’s wisdom and had, almost instinctively, incorporated some of it into her life. But they’d come to the first steep rise in the trail. Before much longer they’d leave behind the civilization Cord still sensed. Then, hopefully, he’d be able to put his unique skills to work and find their son. He’d hear the earth’s heart and it would tell him what he needed to know. Maybe she’d be able to listen with him.
Listen to a heartbeat that didn’t exist? What was she thinking? Had fear for Matt unhinged her? Or was Cord somehow responsible?
Repositioning herself in the saddle, she wondered why she felt uncomfortable when usually she could ride all day without becoming weary. The rain hadn’t changed its gentle, almost lazy cadence, thank heavens. Because they were surrounded by trees now, she could hear the wind’s song as it eased its way through the treetops.
She and Cord hadn’t been married more than a few weeks when she first heard him speak of the sound the wind made as a ballad. Back then she’d held on to his every word, awed by his knowledge of what took place beyond roads and telephone wires. His understanding of her, at least her body, had been just as complete. He’d played her as the wind plays with the treetops and her body had sung to him.
When it went wrong between them, she’d forgotten that there were things he knew more about than any other human alive.
At least, she’d thought she’d forgotten.
Here, in his world, as she joined in his effort to find their son, too much was coming back to her.
She felt like crying, like singing. And she wished there weren’t so many years and silences between them.
Cord stopped, reining his horse gradually and gently. He straightened, seeming to lift his body fully off the mare’s back, then cocked his head to one side. The gesture was all it took for Shannon to know he wanted her to listen, as well. Gradually the sound came.
Frogs. Dozens and dozens of frogs. They sang their discordant notes with full-throated joy, proclaiming their delight at having it rain. Up until that moment she had been thinking about the creatures, and the boy, who must be seeking shelter from the drizzle.
But some, like frogs, embraced rain.
“Do you think the frogs know we’re here?” she asked.
“They know,” Cord explained. “But we don’t represent a threat to them.”
She chuckled at that. “Matt loves it when the ones who live in the pond behind our place start croaking.
