Chapter 15

Summers' fascination with Cheryl became more understandable when I met his wife, Joyce. She said they had lost a daughter at age ten, and Cheryl was practically a reincarnation of their girl, though Cheryl's face was proportionately wider and her cheeks a little fuller. Still, they could have been sisters.

"He's never really accepted her death," Joyce said in a quiet conversation at the opposite end of their large living room where the mantel was covered with pictures of Kimberley Summers. "He planned for her to take over the operation of the ranch because the boys didn't seem interested in it. He was right, too, because they've gone on to other things. Kimberley, however, couldn't wait to jump in and give orders. At first I thought it was because she liked being Little Miss Bossy. Then I realized it was because she had a talent for the horses and for what was required. Keith finally started listening to her suggestions and implementing them."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said.

"Thank you, but I came to terms with it," she said, giving her husband a wistful glance across the room. "Keith never did. He won't admit it, of course, but he sees Kimberley when he looks at Cheryl. That's why he calls her Little Missy. It was his nickname for Kimberley. Oh, he knows she's not Kimberley. He's not in denial. But that's who he sees when he looks at her. I hope he doesn't make a pest of himself as far as she's concerned."

I told Cheryl the whole story when I finally had a few minutes alone with her. Those beautiful brown eyes blinked twice, keeping tears at bay. She nodded, and then she latched herself to Summers' side on his return and stayed there when she wasn't posing.

I did most of the photography, while Cheryl either posed or stood with one arm around Keith's waist and her side pressed to his, occasionally detaching herself to shoot one or two shots when I had a teaching point. Even then, she took Summers' hand and pulled him along with her. She was supposed to be my assistant and help with the photo work, but I didn't mind. Her self-appointed new job was more important, and I loved her even more for voluntarily taking it upon herself.

Summers agreed to more pictures of vacationing guests and fewer pictures of Cheryl because she suggested it, though I shot plenty of her both on film and on digital chips. She had suggested I give him a personal photo album of the shots not used for his brochures. Most of the shots of her would go in that album. I agreed, but said that the gift would be from both of us.

I never knew they gave an award for Best Uncle of the Year, but she said that I'd just won it.

"Look," Summers said, waving a hand at my horse trailer. "You're gonna leave that and your two horses here while you're gone." He waved his other hand across the lot at a huge camping trailer. "It's a fifth-wheel hitch, so you can pull that with your truck."

The Ford engine "sounded funny" to both Jake and Ricky. They'd insisted I take the GMC instead, which had a fifth-wheel but no bumper hitch. Which also meant I took the huge trailer for just two horses, a fact that raised the eyebrows of Keith's foreman until I explained.

Keith looked at me like I was a dude saddling up for the first-time. "If that deal is as big as it's advertised to be, you ain't gonna find a room anywhere in town at this late date, even if it is a ski resort with plenty of rooms for rent. Your choices are gonna be pitch a tent or live in that. Take that. It's got three beds. Little Missy will be more comfortable in it than in a sleeping bag on the ground."

Cheryl squeezed the arm around hers, smiled up at him, and said, "Sounds good to me."

Summers grinned at me. "I think that just ended the argument."

When the Summers family was out of sight, Cheryl stopped waving and dropped her hands to her lap. She stared out the windshield at nothing for a while. "Uncle Randy, I didn't ask for you to take the camper for me. I hope you understand that."

"Of course I do. I knew at the time you said it."

"Cool."

"And I thought your reason was very sweet of you."

"Thanks."

She chewed on the thoughts for another ten to fifteen minutes, then inspected her fingernails without raising her hands from her lap. "Uncle Randy, would you mind if I spent two weeks at their ranch next summer?"

I glanced at her and returned my attention to the road. "Of course not. Why would I mind?"

"I don't know. Maybe you think my proper place isn't at Summers' ranch but at Long's."

She was still looking down at her hands. "Cheryl?" I said, causing her to look up tentatively. "Your life is yours to live. Your proper place is where you want to be, not where Randy Long wants you to be. I want you to be where you will enjoy yourself, and if that's with Keith and Joyce for two weeks, then that's fine with me. You'll be sixteen next year, so your parents still have some say about where you can or can't go, but if you want to spend two weeks with the Summerses, they shouldn't object. And if they do, I'm pretty sure Joyce can talk your mother into it."

In retrospect, I should have said, "your parents," but honestly speaking, I got it right the first time.

"You think so?"

"I spent more time listening to her than you did." Which was true. When Cheryl was with Joyce, so was Keith, and he didn't give his wife any more opportunity to speak than he gave me. "If anyone can talk Mandy Kuczynski into the idea, she can, one mother to another."

Her face went from gloomily doubtful to eagerly anticipatory in less than an eye blink. "Cool."

"Two years after that, you'll be eighteen. Then you can work wherever you want, and if you'd like to be a Summer Dude Ranch worker, I doubt you'll have any trouble getting a job. Not unless you kill half the horses as a guest."

"Uncle Randy! That's not funny."

"And," I continued as if she hadn't spoken, "you'll have your own three-year-old horse you can bring along for your personal use."

Her eyes grew so large I thought they swallowed those graceful brown wings. "Blaze?"

I shrugged. "It will be time for her to get off her butt and get a job. I think she'd like working with you best."

"Can you find a place to pull over?"

"Why?"

"Because I can't hold back this kiss much longer, and it's gonna last long enough for you to drive us off the road and down a mountain."

I don't know about you, but that sounded to me like an excellent reason to pull over.

We truly lucked out. We happened to be seeking a camping trailer space at Rainbow Campground, the only one in town we hadn't yet checked, when the people who'd entered in front of us said they had a family emergency and had to return to Nebraska with their camper. Rainbow was next to a marina and the town's lakeside park, so it was the most expensive in town. The space was a top-tier price space because it was on the shore, with its own beach and a beautiful view of the boaters and skiers on Hargus Bay, the town to the west beyond, and the majestic rocky cliffs of the surrounding mountains beyond that. More mountains towered to the south and southwest. In July, the ski slopes were verdant swards of grass off to the northwest. I had the distinct feeling that when all was covered in snow and ice, this would still be a beautiful place to park a camper.

Almost as beautiful as the wide-eyed face of my niece as she took in the view. "Uncle Randy," she murmured, "if it's shitkicker, let's just do something else here. Maybe just do local nature photography and lie on our beach."

I didn't argue.

We set up the trailer and had lunch. Since things didn't start until six at the park, we lazed on our beach and soaked up some sun, which felt warm in the relatively cool mountain air. Cool compared to what I was used to at the base of the Western Slope, though the locals were probably complaining about the heat.

"Uncle Randy," murmured Cheryl, keeping her voice low because our neighbors to either side were sunning on their beaches, "the only thing wrong with this place is that we have to wear more than our necklaces."

"Well," I whispered after thinking for a moment, "at least we have scenery that's almost as beautiful as you in your necklace and a smile."

Cheryl lifted her head and looked around. "Wow! That's one hell of a compliment."

"Uh huh," I sighed, wriggling to a slightly more comfortable position because of a pesky rock under my shoulder. "It is to the scenery."

Her hand found mine. The gentle squeeze felt more passionate than the oral session we'd spent in the camper outside of Glenwood the night before. "I love you, Uncle Randy."

"I love you, too, Niece Cheryl."

With some advice, directions, and a map from John and Tammy McKeown, who ran the campground, we packed dinner and cameras and piled into the truck. Cheryl wore the smile of someone who had needed a pre-departure orgasm and had received it.

Look. She said I could either give her one before we left or she would be humping a camera lens before the concert was over for the night. I was just protecting my investment. Those lenses are damned expensive.

Cheryl gave me a quick peck on the lips before I turned the key. "Mmmm," she purred, running the tip of her tongue over her lips. "I know what you've been eating."

"Cherry pie a la Cheryl," I said and put the truck into gear.

The directions weren't really necessary. All we had to do was get in line and follow the crowd. Parking wasn't as bad as I'd expected because the parking area was huge. It wasn't great, but it could have been far worse if not for shuttle busses and the many tour busses. I later estimated the crowd at over two thousand people. We decided to leave the food and cooler in the truck and wander around doing photographer things for a while. After all, we didn't know if we'd be staying.

The direct sunlight in the valley doesn't last as long as it does on the Western Slope this time of year, but we still had enough light for flashless photography of the people and scenery. We shot pictures of the concert shell, the dressing tents behind them, people camped out on the grass, people milling about, people lined up for the porta-potties, and people setting up collection tables for the money that would count as votes for the bands. We shot pictures of the trees, the sidewalks, the parking area, the park's town hero statue, and the concession stands.

Cheryl was armed with one of the electronic Nikons and her FUPOS 1369. I periodically checked her results. I didn't know talent could be inherited from an uncle, but she'd apparently inherited some of mine. Sometimes she'd produce a shot she was exceptionally pleased with. She'd squeal with delight and press against my side while jumping up and down as she showed it to me. Nobody seemed to notice my discomfort at her public display of affection. Nobody seemed to notice the display, either. Everyone was having a good time, including my photogenically beautiful and photographically talented niece.

We were still shooting when the comedian emcee started the proceedings with plenty of announcements and some occasional heckling from the audience. Finally he announced that Stampede would be playing Monday night, and that got a warm reaction from the crowd.

Cheryl wrinkled her cute little nose at me. "Stampede? Eeew! Five dollars says that's a shitkicker band."

"I don't want to take your money because it's too easy. I've heard of them. They are, mostly, but they play other stuff, too, so you can't really call them shitkicker."

"And this place likes them? Maybe we should leave now if that's what they're going to play tonight."

The announcement of Junior and the Twins caused the world to explode in a cacophony of screams, whistles, and cheers that made both of us jump.

Cheryl pulled my head down to ask in my ear, "Shitkicker?"

I shook my head. "No clue." I had to shout because of the crowd. "Must be local."

The announcer finally established order and listed the other three groups for the night. Unrehearsed could be anything, but Defiant Sheep and especially Taco Jones and the Enchiladas wrinkled the pert nose again.

The last one was the first up. When we saw how they were dressed, all red, white, and blue sequins and spangles, including their cowboy hats, it was no question that they were shitkicker. "They look like a Busby Berkeley act," I murmured as they quickly set up.

"Who?"

I blinked at her for a while. "Producer of Broadway musicals from thirties and forties. Broadway's idea of how The West looked and dressed. Like the play and movie of Oklahoma on steroids."

The cute wrinkles deformed the cute nose again. "They made a stage play about Oklahomo?"

I pressed my forehead to hers and rotated my neck until our noses touched. "It's a very famous musical. Remind me to expand your horizons and educate you when we return home."

"If you really want to expand my horizons and educate me," she began, that lascivious grin curling oh-so-smoothly into place.

"No."

"Okay." Again she didn't press the issue. But again I had the feeling that I had just stepped more firmly into a bear trap. "Come on. We've gotta take pictures of this bunch. Nobody back home will believe me when I tell them how they were dressed. Well, Mom probably will. I'm sure she thinks her homo brother dresses that way on his ranch."

Her smirk made me want to turn her over my knee, but I was afraid it might just turn her on while getting me arrested for child abuse. But then I laughed. "You could always tell her that it's some of my friends."

The "Well, duh!" look fooled me at first. After a second or three I realized that was her intention. "You're trying to fool her into letting you come back next year, aren't you."

"Except for two weeks with the Summerses."

"You tell her those are my friends and you might spend the whole summer with Keith."

Evil Cheryl smiled back. "Will Blaze be big enough to spend the summer away from home?"