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tan, and the fabric pale green accents, all put together with casual
elegance. Now I know what her taste is. My mind contemplated that
phrase in a way it never had. I would like to know what her taste is.
I almost laughed at myself. Too many years in the company of men, I
thought, excusing myself.
Liz reappeared with a pair of folded blue jeans and reached down
to lug several bags out of the foyer. I took the heaviest one from her
and carried it out to the Jag, wondering why I was suddenly turning
into a butch.
Let s stop at Starbucks. I hear you re a bear without it, she said
and I drew back, surprised. Always befriend the secretaries. Part of
my line of work.
We drove north on I-30 and then took I-40 through Arkansas,
picking up I-55 to Missouri, then all the way up to Illinois: miles and
miles of tiny towns, fields of nondescript crops, and fresh air. I loved
car trips. They put me in touch with weather and people and roadside
greasy spoons and my own thoughts.
Watch where you re driving! Are you okay? Liz warned as I
swerved across the center line, mesmerized by a clothing billboard for
men.
Did you see that sign? Work clothes, size 20X! If you re 20X,
you define chapped thighs!
Off to our right, over the top of a crew-cut-crested field of corn,
we saw the largest man to ever sit astride a John Deere tractor, riding
right at us in a pair of overalls that flopped over the sides and back of
" 54 "
MISTRESS OF THE RUNES
the tractor seat like three denim inner tubes jostling for the same resting
place.
That could be 30X, I said in awe as the radio blared John Deere
greeeeen the color Billy Bob painted the water tower proclaiming
his love for Charlene. I looked over at Liz, then away when she looked
back. That glance elevated my nervous system a few frequencies above
just getting away from the city and taking a vacation. The two of us
together in one small space, strangers really, but sharing the same sense
of humor felt so good it was electric.
Liz had made all the arrangements, surfing the net until she d
found Willow Bend Farm and its owners, the Coltons a friendly couple
willing to entertain gawkers. As we neared the farm, a huge storm was
gathering, so Liz turned up the car radio to hear an announcer interrupt
programming to warn that a tornado was headed our way. From the
looks of the wall cloud just to our west, all hell was imminent! Liz
went into meteorologist mode, shushing me every few minutes so she
could hear the dire predictions, possible evacuations, and historical
comparisons of other such storms. I refused to acknowledge even a
dark cloud in the sky.
It s going to miss us, I said in a Pollyanna tone. The possibility
of seeing more than a dozen Icelandic horses and being close to Liz
Chase gave me a bigger rush than any drug.
The grass-rich pastures of Willow Bend appeared around the
next curve, and a big barn stood just a few dozen yards in front of our
car. I jumped out and walked over to shake hands with Ann Colton. It
was dark as she waved us to the corral, the wind was picking up, and
lightning was barely visible on the western horizon.
I can t describe Ann because the time I spent looking at her was
infinitesimal in comparison to my staring at her horses. I was like an
archaeologist who d come upon a rare find and could not take my
eyes off it. The newest Icelandic horse was a mottled black and well
proportioned, but not as massive and muscular as I d envisioned one
should be.
A clap of thunder and bolt of lightning came out of nowhere, and a
young Icelandic girl spoke in her native tongue to the little horse as she
took him back to the barn. I was mystified how every Icelandic horse
farm in the U.S. seemed to have acquired a young Icelandic girl. Tina
Bogart had one, now Ann had one. Apparently, if one ordered several
Icelandic horses, the Icelanders threw in a teenager for free.
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ANDREWS & AUSTIN
Ann led us into the barn where she had several other horses, and
every one of them quickly turned its butt to us and unceremoniously
ignored our presence, the human equivalent of giving us the finger. Ann
led one of the horses out of its stall for us to admire, but by now, the
wind was howling like a she-cat. While the horses were unconcerned,
Liz was almost apoplectic.
Even I was forced to admit the weather had turned inclement, to
say the least. Ann insisted we take shelter in her home, but I assured
her that we were just a few miles from our hotel. I wasn t going to risk
being trapped with strangers I d take my chances in the car with Liz.
The fact that I would brave the elements to be alone with Liz registered
briefly on my subconscious. We said quick good-byes, and Liz and I
dashed to the car just as all hell broke loose.
Liz flipped on the radio only to be assured that indeed tornadic
storms encircled us. The tornado alerts had progressed to the take-cover
stage, and rain we couldn t see through was slashing against the car
windows.
Good grief, where did this storm come from? I leaned into the
window as if putting my eyeballs closer to the rain would let me see
through it.
I ve been trying to tell you! This is the same storm that s been
tracking us for two hours. I just find it really odd that it s tracked us
right to this barn. It s not a good sign.
What do you mean it s not a good sign? I maneuvered off the
country road and merged onto the interstate.
I just don t feel good about it.
About what the barn, the horses, the town?
All of it, she muttered in an all-encompassing way.
Well, that makes me feel better. We need to just go with the flow.
I ve never seen so much flow.
Cars pulled off the highway, their lights unable to penetrate the
dark rain. Roadways were suddenly eight inches deep in water. Semis
flew by, throwing veritable rivers of water up into our faces, blinding us
for what seemed like treacherous minutes. Exit signs were completely
unreadable in the downpour.
Liz dialed the hotel number on her cell phone, trying to get
directions, but it didn t matter what the desk clerk shouted above the
water pounding on our roof; we couldn t hear him. We couldn t see road
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MISTRESS OF THE RUNES
signs, or intersections, or anything but buckets of water and howling,
wind-driven rain.
I m going to need a freaking chiropractor by the time we get
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