There aren’t any horses either. No signs of life. I hide in the trees a good hundred feet away. I can see the renovations from here. The stained-glass window over the entry doors—new. The railing around the front porch—fixed and painted. The grounds—immaculate, with the exception of the old cars.
I pull a protein bar out of my backpack and watch. My ass hurts after a few hours of sitting on the ground. I get up and haul my pack onto my aching back. I’ll come back tomorrow at a different time.
Until then, I pass the hours like I always do. Walking. Scavenging. Sleeping. Staying out of the way. I never hitchhike, though it would be pretty safe to do around here. This is a small town. But I can’t risk being recognized, even though I’m not from here. It’s close enough to Fort Worth so it’s not completely off the map but far enough away to be separate from big city life. The kind of place people never lock their doors. It’s what I’m counting on. It’ll be the perfect place—as long as nobody lives there.
The next day at dawn, I wake, roll up my sleeping bag, collect my things, pull my baseball cap down low on my forehead, and return to the tree line to observe the lodge.
I watch for an entire week. A small group of people stayed for the weekend. A pretty blonde woman greeted them. Some guy with black hair peeking out from under his cowboy hat led six people on horses away and came back two hours later. An older black man came and went around mealtimes. Whenever the people left, a heavy-set Mexican lady went in the back door with cleaning supplies.
Realization dawns. It’s being used as a hotel. Some sort of dude ranch. I sit on the ground with a thump. Well, this ruins my plans.
I observe the lodge for two more days before I boldly decide to go inside and check it out. I’ve learned people rarely come here unless guests are expected. The problem is, I’ll never know when that might be, but it’s barely after dawn. I take a calculated risk that nobody will arrive anytime soon. I can be in and out before anyone is the wiser, and if someone shows up, there are places to hide. It’s a big lodge. I know because my friends and I trespassed a time or two back then.
I take one last look around and listen. No engines. No sounds of horses in the distance. Nothing but birds waking with their morning songs.
I leave my stuff camouflaged under a bush and fly across the yard so fast, my hat flies off. I backtrack to retrieve it before settling against the side of the house near a hedge. I sit for a moment, making sure I wasn’t seen, as I catch my breath, then slink around to the back door. Just as I suspected—unlocked.
I walk in, my heart beating out of my chest, the sound of blood rushing through my ears. I know what I’m doing is wrong, but what choice do I have?
“Hello?” I whisper, then louder, “Anyone here?” I keep one hand on the door handle, ready to bolt.
When nobody replies, I finally breathe, but I don’t let my guard down. Someone could arrive at any time. I run through the place and count ten bedrooms, each with an en suite bath. A rec room. A huge kitchen and dining area. An office. A smaller bedroom off the mudroom. Several large gathering areas. And the grand foyer. The foyer is the room I remember best. The staircase curves at the base and then after seven or eight steps splits off in either direction the rest of the way up. There is a second staircase off the kitchen that goes up to the hallway left of the guest rooms.
The whole place has been completely refurbished. It’s a mansion if ever I saw one. But none of what I see excites me until I find a doorway at the end of the right upper hallway that leads to an attic. The stairs are creaky and dusty. At the top and to the left, lean large pictures of men who must have lived back in the eighteen hundreds. It’s creepy the way they stare at me. There’s an old bookcase, miscellaneous furniture, and several mattresses. Mattresses! I haven’t slept on one of those in a while.
I go over and sit on one, dust rising as I sink into it. I cough and then straighten. What if someone came in the house while I was coming upstairs? I bolt to a large octagonally shaped window with a view out back and then to another overlooking the front yard. The attic is massive. Dust motes dance in the light from the east window. That window is huge—big enough for a person to climb through. I cross the floor on light feet, happy the floorboards aren’t as creaky as the stairs. I stand in the center of the attic until I’m sure I don’t hear anyone below. It’s completely quiet. I could stay here until I figure something else out.
I hear a noise in the distance and race back to the south window. There’s a small cabin maybe a quarter mile away but in clear view, especially from up here. The guy with the black hair, who was giving the horse tour, is wielding a chainsaw. He’s cutting a downed tree into sections. After a while, he takes off his cowboy hat, wipes his brow, and then, oh my… he removes his shirt. He picks up a smaller piece of wood and whacks it in half with an axe. I’m not sure how long I watch, but by the time he’s finished, he must have a cord of wood lying there. Why would one person need so much? Does the cabin not have electricity?
He disappears for a minute, then returns riding an ATV, hops off, and throws the split wood in back. Then he gets back on and, oh Lord, he’s coming toward the lodge.
My heart pounds. No time to clear the house and make it to the woods. I’m stuck here.
I drop down and watch him by peering over the windowsill. He’s still shirtless. When he comes closer, I can almost see sweat rolling down his torso as it glistens from the manual labor. He must be the caretaker of this place. How did I not see the cabin with all my reconnaissance?
He comes so close he disappears from view. I sit quietly and listen. There are a few vents in the floor, making it easier for me to hear what’s going on below. The back door opens and closes. I hear footsteps and other noises, which I assume is him stacking the wood. He makes three more trips in and out, then drives away. He goes back to the cabin, puts his shirt back on, gets on the ATV, and leaves.
He delivered wood. Does that mean new guests will be arriving? I think it’s Wednesday. Sometimes I don’t know what day it is unless I go into town and visit a store. Last week, guests arrived on Friday. Could I stay here with other people in the house? They do come and go, and with these vents, I can hear a lot.
Yes. I can do this. It’s better than camping, especially when it rains.
But I have a lot of work to do if people will arrive tomorrow. I need to get my things. Clean the mattress. Find some food—I’m running out, and I vow to make my remaining supply last as long as I can.
I race down both sets of stairs, run to where I hid my pack, cross back to the lodge, and return to the attic, making note of which stairs creak. I’ll mark the ones that do. I’ll find some old clothing upstairs—something to place on the steps that make noise.
I hide my stuff behind the bookcase. Not that it looks like anyone comes up here, which is what I’m counting on. I look at the old mattresses again. I can’t risk coughing or sneezing. I’m going to have to clean one of them.
In the kitchen, I find a utility closet with lots of cleaning supplies. I gather what I need, along with a handheld vacuum. It’ll make noise, but I’ll be careful.
Back in the attic, I peek out all the windows, then cringe when I turn on the vacuum. I know it can’t be very loud, but right now it sounds like buzzsaw. I run it for about fifteen seconds, then stop and look out the windows again. It’s not very efficient doing it this way but necessary.