Smoketree - By Jennifer Roberson Page 0,2

does snow in Arizona. How else would we have a ski area up there in the Peaks?”

I thought about the shorts and bikini I’d packed. “Should I have brought a down parka and snow boots?”

She laughed and shook her head. “The ranch isn’t that high. Most of the snow is concentrated above the timberline. But the evenings still get pretty chilly. That’s the way it is with deserts, though Flagstaff doesn’t really qualify—hot in the day-time and cold at night.”

“Gorgeous.” I was still admiring the mountains.

“The only way to get the full impact of Smoketree—and the Peaks, for that matter—is to see it all from the back of a horse. I hope you came ready to ride.”

“I did.”

“Then I’ll take you up myself.”

“Maybe tomorrow.” I rubbed at a gritty eye. “Maybe…” She nodded. “You’ll forget all about being tired the minute you lay eyes on Smoketree. Guaranteed.”

“You’re somewhat prejudiced.”

“Sure I am. But I’m also honest.”

She was. The first thing I saw was an appropriately rustic sign bearing a mountain logo and the legend: SMOKETREE—The Unique Western Experience. That, together with Cass’s confidence, whetted my interest.

“Smoketree,” I said. “A pretty name—where did it come from?”

Cass grinned. “Do you want the truth, or the story we’ve made up for the guests?”

“Whichever one sounds better. ”

She laughed. “Actually, the truth isn’t half bad. There’s this huge old oak tree, you see, right by the Lodge. A long time ago it was a bee tree, and when the original settlers decided to build right there, they wanted the bees removed. They tried everything, I’m told, but the bees stayed put. Finally, in disgust, they gave up and tried to smoke the bees out. The tree caught fire and burned down the homestead.”

“Was anyone killed?”

“No. But the story got around that the bees got the upper hand, and pretty soon people talked about the smoking tree. When the family rebuilt, the name sort of stuck.”

“What about the bees?”

Cass flashed me a grin. “They moved.”

“What’s the other story you tell?”

“Indians,” she said in mock solemnity. “What else?”

The road was rough and unpaved, two deep ruts picturesquely framed by quaking aspens, birches and pine trees. The aspen leaves had turned a delicate green, fluttering against white trunks counterpointed by black striations. The narrow winding road dropped gently down as if in benediction, leading into a lush meadow hidden deep in the sloping shoulders of the San Francisco Peaks.

I said nothing, struck dumb by the vision unfolding before my eyes. It was so unexpected and so perfectly right, I felt a rush of warmth and goodwill, amused and gratified by the sight. The lone man on horseback, flanked by two dogs, coming across the meadow added the final touch. He was still too distant for sound to carry, but I could almost hear the hoof-beats and the swishing of the long grass against the horse’s legs. Add music, and you’d have a great commercial for some lucky product.

He lifted his arm in a signaling wave, standing in the stirrups. A hat shadowed his face, but I could see the rest of him was lean and athletic.

“Smoketree’s welcoming committee?” I was amused they would go to such lengths, but it was a perfect tableau.

Cass glanced into the meadow curiously, then stomped so hard on the brake I had to stiff-arm the dash to keep from sliding off my seat. “Harper!” she said.

“Your resident John Wayne?” I asked. “What does he do—ride out to meet each guest?”

She stared at me blankly, then laughed and shook her head. “Harper? No, of course not. We don’t do that kind of thing.” She glanced back at the approaching rider. “Harper’s head wrangler.”

As the wrangler halted his sorrel horse by the car I felt my time-sense slip a cog. After all the cowboy movies I’d seen, I couldn’t help but feel a curious sense of deja vu spread through me. It dissipated quickly enough, but the impression remained.

He was tanned from exposure and wore the Western clothing fashion only aped, and he did it with complete naturalness. A wide-brimmed gray hat was pulled over his lean face. He was about thirty, I thought; blue-eyed, dark-haired and moustachioed like a Hollywood villain.

He was also, I decided instantly, the perfect model for a romantic’s vision of the American Cowboy. Even to the leather chaps that fit him like a second skin and the coiled rope fastened to his saddle.

He dismounted and rested one arm on the roof of the car, leaning down to look inside. The