Free Montana Refuge by Alice Sharpe

every day.
    Julie knew from experience that Tyler had already rounded up most of the herd, but there were always last-minute details to attend to before the two hundred or so cows and calves would start the trip up into the mountains. They would follow far behind the chuck wagon to minimize dust settling on food and stores. Wranglers would help the novices get used to their horses and the rigors of the trail, but today was a purposefully slow day so as not to overtax anyone. Frankly, the pace was always pretty slow. Calves could not move that fast and the horses needed respect as well.
    Groups of guests and wranglers would trade positions as the drive continued, riding drag at the back of the herd for a while, then taking on the flanks. The cows always seemed to know exactly where they were going. Tyler stressed that herding them was really just a matter of troubleshooting problems while letting them find the easiest route with a little guidance around the edges.
    She’d made a human head count before they left. The menu for the night was relatively easy, but she’d been cooking for one person—herself—for the last year and her taste ran more along the line of broiled fish and steamed vegetables. No way around it, cooking rib-sticking food for almost twenty people was going to be a stretch.
    She’d met all of the guests as they delivered what personal items they wanted transported that wouldn’t fit in their saddlebags including their assigned bedrolls. As the wagon rumbled along the trail to the first campsite, Julie attempted to connect the names with the faces in her mind.
    There was the woman with the accent riding Snowflake, the white mare with the gray nose—Meg, no last name, please. Then there was Dr. Rob Marquis, a late arrival who appeared unaffected by a night camped out in an airport. The lawyer from Boston was named Red Sanders. Two cherubic-looking brothers from either Iowa or Idaho—she couldn’t remember which—named Nigel and Vincent Cresswell. Carol and Rick Taylor were a friendly repeating husband-wife duo Julie remembered meeting three or four years back and were traveling with their grown son, Bobby. Then there were a group of three women, all secretaries at the same brokerage firm on Wall Street—Sherry, Mary and Terry. The odds of keeping their names straight were astronomical, but as they appeared to travel in a pack, it shouldn’t be a problem.
    That left John Smyth whom she’d met the night before and who had apparently delivered his bedroll when she was on one of her forays up to the house. It was hard not to speculate about the man. Was it possible he had searched her cabin? And if he hadn’t, had he seen anyone else hanging around the cabins? She had to find a way to get him alone and ask him without involving Tyler. He’d look apoplectic when she brought up possible crime that morning and she was determined not to involve him again.
    And now, here she was, sitting beside a fifty-eight-year-old grizzled cowboy with a shotgun at his feet and a six-shooter strapped to his waist. His saddled horse was tethered with a line hooking her halter to the back of the wagon. Julie almost wished Roger Trill would show up—let’s see how a city cop handled the odds out here.
    Andy seemed to sense she was looking at him. He grinned at her as he grabbed his thermos out from under the seat. “Boss says you and he are done,” he said as the wagon dipped in a rut.
    Julie took the thermos as Andy used both hands to guide the team. She hadn’t expected Tyler to talk about her with his men. “Yeah,” she finally said, staring toward the horizon as they traveled the worn trail through green pastures. Tiny pink wildflowers carpeted a meadow off to the left; a hawk flew circles overhead, its high-pitched call suggesting there was a nest nearby. Julie took a deep breath and for a second, it was hard to believe she’d ever been gone.
    “Do me a favor, missy. Pour me a cup of that coffee, will