Chapter 20
Twenty
THE LION IN WINTER
After what seemed like a long time, she looked up and finally saw the woman in the nightgown coming toward her.
Like the first time she’d seen her, her long blonde hair was messy and tangled, her feet were bare, and she carried a rope with a noose.
Also like before, her body didn’t seem to react to the cold, and the blowing snow did not affect her nightgown or hair.
Goldie noticed that as the woman came toward her, her feet left no imprints in the snow.
Her stare was a combination of blank and forlorn, and since they appeared to be about the same age, Goldie couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.
“Oh, honey. What the hell happened to you?” she asked. “What brought you to this?”
She stood there quietly as the woman walked by, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
As she passed, Goldie tried to run a sympathetic gloved hand down the woman’s bare arm, but it was like the glove was passing through fog.
She touched nothing, although she shuddered from a sudden cold chill that shot through her head, but since she barely touched the woman, it wasn’t as bad as when Claude Bolton’s entire body had passed through her.
“God, why don’t you help these poor souls?
” she asked. She watched as the apparition turned, walked up the pathway to the director’s house, then slipped through its partially opened door and disappeared inside.
If nothing else, at least she now knew that this unidentified woman, like Claude Bolton, was recreating her death every day at apparently the same time as her original death.
She shook her head with sadness and frustration, then turned to go back into town.
She walked around the bend in the road in silence, then continued for about another half-minute before she heard a low growl.
Stopping and looking to her right, she saw a maple-brown mountain lion standing on a fallen tree trunk in the snowy woods, about one hundred and sixty pounds, staring at her threateningly.
Instantly, Goldie realized this must’ve been the same animal she heard the evening she walked up the road with a flashlight and discovered the gate and fence.
She quickly calculated she was closer to the gate than the director’s house.
Maybe she could run to the gate, slip through the chained opening, then hold it tightly shut, keeping the animal on the opposite side.
While this thought raced through her head, the mountain lion screeched at her, baring its three-inch fangs.
“Hey!” she called defiantly. “I ain’t no Meow Mix!”
The cat jumped off the tree trunk and rushed toward her.
“Oh, shit!” Goldie yelled, breaking out in a full run toward the gate.
As she ran, she thought: Find a branch! A rock!
Something to fight back with! But she could either look for a weapon or do her best Usain Bolt impression.
She couldn’t do both. Then she told herself: Don’t look around!
Keep your eyes on the gate! After ten seconds, however, she couldn’t help it.
Realizing the snow was slowing her down and she wasn’t going to reach the gate, she thought: It’s better to face the animal head on.
I’ll go down, but at least I’ll have my arms in front of me to fight back.
She stopped, turned, and crouched slightly, preparing for the impact of the lion about to pounce onto her.
“C’mon, you fucker!” she screamed.
But just as she did, a loud crack pierced the quiet of the morning, and the mountain lion tumbled over itself, then slid to a stop in the snow at Goldie’s black rubber boots, dead.
She looked down at the animal. Its eyes and mouth were still open, but blood was coming out of the back of its head, staining the snow.
Looking around through the falling flakes, she finally spotted Eli Johnson pointing a bolt-action rifle about sixty yards away.
After waiting a moment to make sure the lion wasn’t moving, he lowered the gun and started to come toward her.
Goldie patiently waited until the lawman limped over, which gave her adrenaline and heart time to return to normal. She was obviously relieved and grateful, but she also knew she was going to get chewed out for trespassing.
“Hi, Sheriff,” she meekly greeted as he came within earshot.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked. “I told you not to come here! This is exactly why!”
“Because there are mountain lions?” she asked.
“Because it’s dangerous!” he reiterated. “What if I hadn’t been here?”
“How did you get here?” she asked, looking down the road. “There aren’t any footsteps in the snow except mine.”
“There’s another bridge besides the covered bridge about a quarter of a mile downriver and a few houses on the south side of the water,” he explained.
“A family named Nelson has a backyard that backs up to the woods and fence. They keep chickens that were disappearing. Mrs. Nelson finally figured out that a mountain lion was probably living in an old tunnel access, and when it was out hunting, it would use one tree to get over the fence and into her yard, then use another on her property to get back over the fence again. I went over the fence at the Nelsons’ with a ladder and was following fresh tracks that led to guess where? ”
Goldie nodded, understanding. “Well… I’m sure glad you were armed today.”
“Wouldn’t make much sense to go after a mountain lion if I wasn’t,” he observed. “So, what’re you doing out here?”
“Bein’ nosy,” she admitted. “Like I told ya, seein’ some of the town’s minin’ history is helpful for my article.” She held out her hands for imaginary handcuffs. “You wanna take me in?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said seriously. “But I’ve got to find that tunnel access. There might be an entire family of lions living there. I also have to transfer Horace Mason today. If I did arrest you, the mayor would just get mad at me with you being his golden girl and all.”
“So—does that mean I’m free to go?” she asked, a little tentatively.
“Yeah. That means you can go.”
“What can I do to thank you for savin’ my life?” she asked.
“Just please don’t come up here again.”
“You got it,” she promised.
She looked down at the dead animal. The snow around its head was now heavily soaked in dark red.
“You’re a hell of a shot,” she complimented. “I mean, that was amazin’!”
“Let’s keep this out of the article, huh?” he requested. “And don’t say anything about it to the folks in town, either.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause you’re trespassing, and I don’t want kids coming up here thinking they’re Davy Crocket.”
“Oh. Yeah,” she realized. “Okay. Maybe you should tighten up that space at the gate with the chain.”
“You can bet on it,” he assured.
She nodded, looked at the mountain lion again, then stepped back toward the gate.
“Right... I’m gonna go now. But, Eli, really—thank you! That was an amazing shot.”
She had never called him by his first name before, and although she thought nothing of it, he noted it.
“Eh, maybe…” he began.
“Maybe what?” she asked, pausing.
“Maybe… you could save me a dance tomorrow night?”
She remembered the community Christmas dance and gingerbread house contest she was supposed to judge.
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
“I figure Peter’s going to be dancing with you most of the night,” he qualified. “But, if there’s a slow number—”
“No. A dance. Absolutely! Promise!” she agreed.
He nodded once, then she turned, approached the gate, and slipped through its opening.
Eli watched her walk down the road in the snow toward the covered bridge, then turned his attention to the mountain lion.
“Sorry, pal,” he said. “But you can’t go eating other people’s property. It’s the mountain code.”
Later that morning at 10:12, Mayor Banyan walked into the doors of the historical society carrying two cups of coffee. As usual, he was dressed in a suit and tie and looked very debonair.
“Good morning, Harriette,” he greeted.
Harriette Noise was dusting one of the glass displays as she looked up.
“Oh, good morning, Mr. Mayor. How are you?”
“Fine. Brought you some coffee,” he said, offering her a paper cup. “Milk and sugar, right?”
“Oh, how thoughtful. Thank you,” she said, setting her dusting wand aside. “You found both milk and sugar?”
“Being mayor has its privileges,” he grinned, unbuttoning his overcoat. “I wanted to ask you about Goldie Maraschino’s visit of the other day.”
“Yes. Nice young lady,” she noted.
Banyan took a sip of his coffee. “What did you two talk about?”
“Oh, all the usual things I talk about with folks,” the old woman replied, sipping her coffee. “The mining history, the artifacts, she was quite taken with the model of town, but then, everybody is.”
“Was she interested in anything specific?” he asked.
The white-haired woman thought for a moment.
“No… I don’t think so. She asked about the Maynard operation and the director’s house, and I told her about a woman who committed suicide there in 1902.
But I doubt that’s going to wind up in her story.
It was just one of those little side bits of trivia. ”
“Hhm,” he nodded, not particularly pleased she had shared that. “Anything else?”
The old woman took another sip of coffee and thought for a moment.
“Well, she did ask about—” she was interrupted by a middle-aged couple coming through the front door.
“Hello,” the woman of the couple greeted. “Is this the Sparkledove Historical Society?”
“It sure is,” Harriette said, setting her coffee down. “How can I help you?”
“We’re from Wyoming and wanted to learn something about the town,” the man said.
“We’ve got neighbors who have been here before, and they just went on and on about Sparkledove.”
“Well, that’s great to hear,” the mayor beamed. “Welcome. This lovely lady can tell you anything you need to know about the town and our upcoming events, like a big Christmas dance tomorrow night if you’re staying over.”
He looked at his associate. “Harriette, I’ll leave you to it. Again, folks, very glad you’re here.”
Taking his paper cup, he stepped over to the door and exited.
“Goodbye, Mr. Mayor,” Harriette called. “Thank you again for the coffee.”
“The mayor,” the woman said, raising impressed eyebrows and looking at her husband.
As Banyan walked through the still-falling snow to his realty office, he was more or less satisfied that Goldie and Harriette hadn’t spoken of anything significant that might interfere with his plans.