"LOOKING INSIDE"

      It had been a typical vacation day. We drove our 4-passenger pick-up and horse trailer west along the highway until we were about 2 hours away, unloaded the horses and started down the trail while Mom drove the pick-up west to our next "base," Kickin' Trail.

      This was our fifth summer of doing this, my father, my mother, my brother Cole and I.  My Dad sells construction materials, not paint brushes and nails but huge flatbeds of bricks, mixer truckfuls of cement, huge wooden spools of electrical wire.   He wears a suit, carries a briefcase and comes home for dinner at 6 p.m. every Monday through Friday. But that is not who he really wanted to be.

    When he was a teen-ager, he'd run off to his second cousin�s ranch inMontana. For two years he herded horses and roped calves and learned never to get lost in the snow. The second cousin died, the ranch was sold, and my Dad's life got back "on track."  It became what most people call "normal." meaning average, although in our Dad's case, it seemed to me better than normal.

     A college degree, marriage to my mother, three years later my brother Cole, a 4-bedroom house, then me -- his daughter Kate.   And all during those years an ever-growing business -- "Burnett's Buildatorium For All Your Construction Needs." Chet Burnett was considered by most people's standards a very successful man.  Still, he never forgot those two years on a ranch, the "good old days."  The older he got, the rosier they glowed.

      Our Dad wasn't exactly unhappy with life.  He was very happy when he realized that both Cole and I loved horses and had a fair knack for riding them.  So by the time I went to middle school, my Dad had a horse, Cole had a horse, and I had a horse. Naturally we couldn't keep them in our back yard, but there was a boarding stable on the edge of town.

     My horse was a jaunty little bay gelding named Cheyenne who, to my Dad's surprise, had some memories of his own. . . . once Cheyenne was out of the rent string and living the life of a pampered pet, he started to remember his own rosy good old days. He had, it seemed, been a cutting horse. A really good one!  How did I know that?  Cheyenne could whip a head-to-tail turn, slide to a stop, and change leads every other stride.

       Cole's gray jumper, Valiant -- a handsome Harry of a horse suitable for my Handsome Harry of a brother, -- could jump and he could run.  He was, after all, a pureblood Thoroughbred who once was a race horse.  He never much liked racing, but he loved jumping. However, when it came to nimble maneuvers, Valiant couldn't keep up with Cheyenne . . .

       My Dad's horse, Bo Bonito, was neither quick-hoofed nor prancing handsome nor a pureblood, but he was flashy. Bo Bonito was a sorrel buckskin, golden coat, red mane, red "socks," red tail, red stripe down his back.  He was also sturdy enough to carry my Dad, who, like a lot of inactive businessmen, carried some extra weight of his own.  

       Bo Bonito was the only one-man horse I had ever known. He didn't let anyone except Dad ride him, but instead of snorting and bucking and other horsey misbehaviors, Bo Bonito simply refused to budge. Being a big, strong horse, he would plant his hooves and brace himself.  I swear if you ran at him with a tractor, I think he still wouldn't budge.

     Nor would he take treats from any of us lesser mortals. Cole and I could hang over the stall door with fresh, fragrant carrots that Bo loved. He would flare his nostrils in a sneer and turn his tail to us. But as soon as Dad showed up, Bo Bonito was all dance and prance and whinny and snort and expecting carrots to be forthcoming.  Just not from us. . . 

      You might wonder where my mother was in all this horsey-ness. She was not an animal person. She did try,  She even bought jeans.  But as luck would have it, the third time out, the stupid rent horse took the bit in its teeth and ran with her downhill.  If that has never happened to you, believe me, for a rider who doesn't know how to cut short a downhill runaway, it's scary.  It ended Mom's horse days.    

       Then my Dad discovered the state horse trails.  He realized he could have those rosy ranching days of his youth back again. For a month, anyway. Instead of spending his month-long summer vacation going to the beach, or visiting aunts and uncles, or sight-seeing between stops at a motel with a pool, we could spend that month exploring state horse trails.

        Cole and I thought it was a great idea. But Mom?

     "There are places to stay overnight, Lillian.  Sort of horse hotels. Nice stables, nice cabins with all the conveniences," said Dad.  He sounded a little like a child talking to Santa Claus.

       To our astonishment, Mom agreed at once.  I suppose we shouldn't have been so surprised.  Cole and I have the great good luck to have parents who actually love each other.  Our Mom understood our Dad's nostalgia for those rosy ranching days. 

      "I can drive the pick-up with the horse trailer," she said, "and meet you at the next stop each night. It will give me a chance to add to my collection of components." She meant dried leaves and flowers and seed pods and things.  Mom's favorite hobby is flower arranging, and she is very good at it.   She always wins prizes, even at State Garden Fairs.  Her best arrangements are the showy Oriental ones. The trick to the art of it, she explained, was having the right components.      

      We chose Pennsylvania for our first summer. There are historical battlegrounds in Pennsylvania, and Cole, to our amazement and his, found he really liked history. I thought we'd never get him out of Valley Forge. Since then we've spent each summer riding horse trails. We've "done"Virginia, Wisconsin and Colorado.  All great.

      Now Cole is a senior in college, majoring in history with a minor in archaeology so he can go to battlegrounds all over the world and dig up historical things. I'll be a college sophomore in Fall, still majoring in Undecided.  Mom has a collection of components that is the envy of every flower arranger in town.  For Dad, every summer has turned out rosier than he ever hoped.

      This particular summer we chose Tennessee for our month-long ride. If you think Tennessee is nothing but guitars and banjoes and Graceland, you're wrong. . . .     In Tennessee there are miles and miles of green forests with a dozen different kinds of trees, their leaves interlaced against the sky. Clear water streams tumble into an occasional little waterfall. Lakes glisten and lap along their shores, inviting you to swim or fish or canoe.  Tennessee was Cherokee country ... In the silence of those green forests you can imagine Cherokee warriors lurking, watching, waiting for the white man to go away, which of course he never did.  Tennessee is also a state of local legends.  Not every state we had visited had legends, or at least we didn�t hear them.  Tennessee does, and someone is always anxious to tell you one. It is no coincidence that national storytelling competitions are held here. . . . 

       We'd been following the Natchez Trace Trail about two hours when suddenly Cheyenne and Valiant put a frisky little spring into their hooves.

          "They must smell fresh hay," I said.

       "Around the next bend it looks as if the trail forks into a clearing," said Cole.

       "Isn't this beautiful country!" said my Dad to no one in particular.

     Cole was right and so were the horses.  Another fifty yards, the trail forked, and there in the clearing was Kickin' Trail.   It was a big surprise.

       "A luxury horse resort," I said. "That's what it promised in the brochure."  This place looked even better than it did in the brochures.   Mom and I always read the brochures.  Dad and Cole never read them.

       "They're only going to photograph the good parts," said Dad.

     "They're like some girls who look great until you get to know them," said Cole.  Sadly, that was sometimes all too true, both with brochures and with girls that Cole got to know.

       But not in the case of Kickin' Trail. It seemed to have only good parts . . .

    "Looks really good," commented Cole. But he wasn't looking at the buildings. He was looking over at the riding ring where the lovely blond creature we had seen on the trail was leading her spectacular Arabian gray.  

         Dad winked at me. "Good looking animal," he said. "Don't see many Arabians out on the trail."

       "Just what I was thinking." Cole grinned.  He wasn't fooling either of us, and he knew it.  He shrugged and looked back towards the riding ring.

       'Mom's here," I said. "I see our pick-up in the parking lot." . . . .

       "Katie and I'll take the horses on over to the stable, Dad" Cole offered as we dismounted. "You go find Mom."

      "She'll be in the cabin." Dad swung off Bo Bonito and smiled at the world around us. "I hope the food's good here. I�m hungry."

        He handed the reins to Cole and happily ambled off.   Usually Bo Bonito would come along only if Dad led him.   Anyone else and he would refuse to budge.  But by now he had resigned himself to the end of the day routine, which was good.  I suspected, however, that Cole wanted him to act up so that he could make him behave and impress the blond.

        I've learned a great deal about men watching my brother Cole.  He says I have learned the wrong things, like not to trust any of them.  Maybe, at least, not the ones my age.  Too many players.  I know for a fact their knee-jerk reaction is to try to impress a female.

      But Bo Bonito did not act up and the beautiful blond creature did not even see us. She was watching an older man put another Arabian horse through its paces in the riding ring.

       Cheyenne and I were the last ones going into the stable, since we were a sort of rearguard in case Bo Bonito changed his mind. As we went through the doorway, I glanced back. The older man had dismounted and was leading his horse, too. He was also holding hands with the beautiful blond. The good-looking young man who had been out riding with her was nowhere in sight.

       Yet another good-looking young man of a different sort was inside the stables, talking to Cole. A player.  I could spot them every time.  I think of them as harem boys, lolling atop their fat satin pillows, picking and choosing among the women who came parading by as if women were fruit on a sampler tray being displayed for their idle pleasure.

       I will say this for my brother Cole.   Handsome as he is, he has kept the hunter mentality.  He goes after what he wants. Nothing annoys him more than to be gone after and, I am proud to say, he is more clever than most at sidestepping unwelcome female wiles.  How do I know that?  I hear some of those cell phone conversations. And of course, I�m always available for advice.  I'm sure some day he'll ask me for some.

       "Good-looking horses," the harem boy was saying to Cole. "Had them long?"

       "A few years," answered Cole. "They suit us, but they're not fancy like some you have in here right now." Cole nodded towards the stalls where four horses, all with the look of blooded Arabians, were watching us, the newcomers.

          "Oh, yeah, they're fancy all right," said the harem boy with a shrug. "But for trail riding, I'll bet yours are a sight better.   And look just as good."   He saw me walking in with my beloved if not spectacular Cheyenne.  

         He grinned. "Hello."

          I knew that kind of "hello."   It said, You may admire me.

        Cole in turn grinned at me, a brother who knew the things that irritated his sister. "This is my sister, Kate.  Katie, this is Ronnie Joe. He's in charge here at the stable. His Mom and Dad own Kickin' Trail."

     "Stepmom," corrected Ronnie Joe. He smiled and raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to swoon. I must have sneered, because he added right away, "She and Dad just got married about two years ago. She's great. Nate and I couldn't be happier for Dad."

      "I'm glad for all of you," I said icily. "Now, where should I putCheyenne?"

          "That nice big corner stall." . . . 

        I gave Cheyenne a final pet and a carrot. "He's not a papered horse, but yes, he was a cutting horse.  I just use him for trail riding."

       "And occasionally for showing off," added Cole. He winked at Ronnie Joe. "You know how that is. Sibling rivalry."

         Ronnie Joe laughed. "Not really. My brother's too young for that.   Just turned twelve.   Finally getting to a useful age."

        Cole had put up Valiant and Bo Bonito but seemed in no hurry to leave. "Do you often have Arabians here on the trails?" he asked.

     "Mostly just when the Hunters are here.  Although they come pretty regularly. Those two grays and the black are theirs. The white one boards with them."

        "I saw the horse trailer," said Cole.

         Ronnie Joe nodded. "Heavy duty money. Unusual family."

      "How so?"  Cole was really pressing it.

       "We'll probably meet them at dinner," I said. . . . .

        Cole held out his hand. "See you later, Ronnie Joe.  Glad to have met you."

       They exchanged a manly shaking of hands.  I had already drifted out of the stable.

          Cole caught up to me. "I knew you'd really take to Ronnie Joe."

       "Right!" I growled. "Although I have to admit, that stable is one of the best kept and outfitted I've seen. It has all the little gadgets, rings for halter tying, a tack room with a lock, a crib for mash, hang-up water buckets that won't get kicked over."

        "Fit even for an Arabian prince," agreed Cole.

        "Or princess?" I asked.

     Cole sighed. "I fear she is married. To the old guy in the ring. No accounting for tastes."  

           "Ronnie Joe informed you?"

         Cole frowned. "Yes, matter of fact, right away.  Like a warning.   Now that I think of it, as soon as I mentioned the Arabians we'd met on the trail.�

        "She was not out riding with her husband?"

         "No," said Cole. 'She was with her stepson."

       "Imagine that."   Well, at least Cole would not be pursuing the beautiful blond and get himself into trouble.  We had Ronnie Joe to thank for that.  I am a fair person.  I will give the devil his due.

       "I'm sorry if I was rude to someone who provided you such useful information."

          Cole shrugged. "He probably found it a refreshing change."

         "From?"

      Cole chuckled. "It seems a couple of days ago the Morrisons arrived with their Tennessee Walkers."

          "The dark blue trailer."

         "Mom, Dad, and eagerly breathless daughter. Kim by name.  I have been forewarned."

       "By Ronnie Joe?  He's probably just imagining it.  He�s obviously under the delusion that every woman wants him."

            "I doubt he's under that delusion about you."

       At the excellent dinner in the lodge served up by the affable owners of the ranch -- father, stepmother and the two sons, Ronnie Joe and young Nate, they do meet the other guests including the Hunters -- the older man with the beautiful young wife, the stepson who impresses Kate right away, and one of the daughters obviously not pleased with her new stepmother. They meet the owners of the Tennessee Walkers,-- two pastors and their daughter so taken with Ronnie Joe. The meet the owners of the Quarter horses who seem to have some conflict with the Hunters, but the owner of the Morgan apparently prefers to drive into town for his evening entertainments.  After dinner there is music and conversation. A friend of the owners, a Cherokee, offers to take Cole to a nearby, unknown dig.  Everything about Kickin' Trail promises a great few days.

         Until the corpse of one of the guests is found on the trail.