too busy to see me, but penciled me in for the next afternoon. “Better call and confirm,” she said. “His schedule has been pretty fluid for the past few weeks.”
In Scottsdale, “a fluid schedule” would have meant the sheriff was working on something big, but here in the boonies, it could have been either a reflection of understaffing or incompetence. Frustrated, I decided to pay a visit to Sunset Trails Guest Ranch, but was careful not to let Jimmy know. There was no point in risking another freak-out.
Ten miles out of town, a gravel road split off Route 47, heralded by a sign announcing that the Sunset Trails Guest Ranch was located one mile down “one of the most scenic drives in Arizona.” The sign didn’t exaggerate. Enraptured, I rolled down the Trailblazer’s tinted windows, the better to see the true colors of red and orange mesas and the yellow-gold sun chasing purple shadows from the beige desert floor. Only a few hundred feet away, the Virgin River—no longer encased by the steep cliffs of the Virgin River Gorge to the north—burbled merrily along, shaded by tall cottonwoods and silver-green sage. Adding to the road’s unearthly beauty, a nearby coyote yipped a farewell aria before turning in for the day.
Too soon I was parking my Trailblazer in the ranch’s visitor’s lot. Near the guest ranch’s main building—a two-story log lodge pretending to be a pioneer structure—people dressed in riding gear waited to be mounted on the horses being led from the corral. As I approached the lodge, a large dog ran out to meet me. Not certain of the animal’s intentions I froze, but my concern proved unnecessary. The moment the blue-eyed heeler reached me, it flopped down on the ground, bared its belly, and grinned.
Pet me, pet me, he begged.
Never one to snub a friendly dog, I complied.
A few tummy-rubs later, my new friend escorted me to the lodge’s front steps, then ran off to join the horses.
I had never met Hank Olmstead, Jimmy’s adoptive father, but as I entered the pine paneled lounge area decorated in leather and wood, I recognized him from a photograph Jimmy had once shown me. Tall and lean with a sun-roughened complexion, he stood in front of a massive stone fireplace, gray head bent solicitously while he listened to a young couple’s complaints.
“…wasn’t as good as usual,” the woman said, sounding annoyed. The combination of professionally streaked hair and perfectly applied makeup with designer shirt and jeans made her look like a dressed-down fashion model.
Olmstead nodded. “My apologies about breakfast, Mrs. Arden. Because of a death in his family, our regular cook had to leave town suddenly. We expect him back day after tomorrow.”
“You’re saying we have to wait for another two days to have decent food?” snapped her husband, who with his vulture-beaked nose and acne-scarred skin, was nowhere as pretty as his wife. To make up for his physical shortcomings, he’d strapped onto his ostrich-skin boots a pair of sharp-roweled spurs that might have belonged in a silversmith’s showroom but nowhere near a horse.
Olmstead smiled wearily. “I’m truly sorry about this, Mr. Arden, because we’ve always enjoyed having you as guests. Why don’t you let me comp you this morning’s trail ride? And tomorrow’s?”
Some of the irritation disappeared from the ugly man’s face. “That’s big of you.”
“Sunset Trails always tries to accommodate.” Olmstead shook the man’s hand. “Let me personally escort you nice folks out to the wranglers so I can be certain they give you two of our best horses. By the way, you might want to take off those spurs. They tend to annoy the horses, and we don’t want any accidents, do we?”
He waited until Arden reluctantly unbuckled his equine torture devices and handed them over. “Wonderful quality,” Olmstead said. “I’ll put them in our safe, okay? Now, let’s get you mounted up. You’re about to take in some of
In Scottsdale, “a fluid schedule” would have meant the sheriff was working on something big, but here in the boonies, it could have been either a reflection of understaffing or incompetence. Frustrated, I decided to pay a visit to Sunset Trails Guest Ranch, but was careful not to let Jimmy know. There was no point in risking another freak-out.
Ten miles out of town, a gravel road split off Route 47, heralded by a sign announcing that the Sunset Trails Guest Ranch was located one mile down “one of the most scenic drives in Arizona.” The sign didn’t exaggerate. Enraptured, I rolled down the Trailblazer’s tinted windows, the better to see the true colors of red and orange mesas and the yellow-gold sun chasing purple shadows from the beige desert floor. Only a few hundred feet away, the Virgin River—no longer encased by the steep cliffs of the Virgin River Gorge to the north—burbled merrily along, shaded by tall cottonwoods and silver-green sage. Adding to the road’s unearthly beauty, a nearby coyote yipped a farewell aria before turning in for the day.
Too soon I was parking my Trailblazer in the ranch’s visitor’s lot. Near the guest ranch’s main building—a two-story log lodge pretending to be a pioneer structure—people dressed in riding gear waited to be mounted on the horses being led from the corral. As I approached the lodge, a large dog ran out to meet me. Not certain of the animal’s intentions I froze, but my concern proved unnecessary. The moment the blue-eyed heeler reached me, it flopped down on the ground, bared its belly, and grinned.
Pet me, pet me, he begged.
Never one to snub a friendly dog, I complied.
A few tummy-rubs later, my new friend escorted me to the lodge’s front steps, then ran off to join the horses.
I had never met Hank Olmstead, Jimmy’s adoptive father, but as I entered the pine paneled lounge area decorated in leather and wood, I recognized him from a photograph Jimmy had once shown me. Tall and lean with a sun-roughened complexion, he stood in front of a massive stone fireplace, gray head bent solicitously while he listened to a young couple’s complaints.
“…wasn’t as good as usual,” the woman said, sounding annoyed. The combination of professionally streaked hair and perfectly applied makeup with designer shirt and jeans made her look like a dressed-down fashion model.
Olmstead nodded. “My apologies about breakfast, Mrs. Arden. Because of a death in his family, our regular cook had to leave town suddenly. We expect him back day after tomorrow.”
“You’re saying we have to wait for another two days to have decent food?” snapped her husband, who with his vulture-beaked nose and acne-scarred skin, was nowhere as pretty as his wife. To make up for his physical shortcomings, he’d strapped onto his ostrich-skin boots a pair of sharp-roweled spurs that might have belonged in a silversmith’s showroom but nowhere near a horse.
Olmstead smiled wearily. “I’m truly sorry about this, Mr. Arden, because we’ve always enjoyed having you as guests. Why don’t you let me comp you this morning’s trail ride? And tomorrow’s?”
Some of the irritation disappeared from the ugly man’s face. “That’s big of you.”
“Sunset Trails always tries to accommodate.” Olmstead shook the man’s hand. “Let me personally escort you nice folks out to the wranglers so I can be certain they give you two of our best horses. By the way, you might want to take off those spurs. They tend to annoy the horses, and we don’t want any accidents, do we?”
He waited until Arden reluctantly unbuckled his equine torture devices and handed them over. “Wonderful quality,” Olmstead said. “I’ll put them in our safe, okay? Now, let’s get you mounted up. You’re about to take in some of
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