The Virgin and Zach Coulter

Joseph Coulter had built the Lodge based on his wife’s love of the steep-peaked, log skiing lodges where they often vacationed in the mountains near Yellowstone Park. The Coulter Lodge’s two-story structure was built of heavy, massive logs, but the deep slant of the metal roof—its once dark red faded now to rose—combined with lots of window glass, always managed to give the solid, substantial building a graceful air. The porches that edged the front and three sides beneath the shelter of the roof’s overhang were still welcoming despite the boards nailed over the big windows and doors, sealing them shut.

Zach parked, and he and Cade left the truck, climbing the shallow, wide steps to the porch and the front door.

“These boards look new,” Zach commented as he and Cade used hammers and crowbars to pry them loose.

“J.T. and I replaced them not too long ago,” Cade told him as Zach ripped the last board free and laid it atop a stack behind them. “Somebody attempted to break in, probably kids.”

“Huh.” Zach pulled the key ring from his pocket. Much to his surprise, the key slid easily into the lock and after a moment of careful jiggling, turned with a grating squeal. He pushed the door inward and stepped inside, halting abruptly just over the threshold.

Cade joined him, his low whistle echoing in the big lobby.

Sunlight slanted through the open door behind them, throwing a bar of gold across the dust-covered floor. The rest of the lobby was swathed in gloom. Zach could just make out the wagon-wheel chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling at each end of the long room. They appeared to be draped in cobwebs, and what he remembered as iron sconces set at intervals along the walls were only gray shapes beneath more spiderwebs.

The room was eerily silent, the air heavy and still with a musty scent. Zach wondered if this was what archeologists felt when they opened a long-sealed tomb.

He flipped the light switch next to the door frame but as he expected, the power was off.

“Let’s get the boards off the windows,” he told Cade. “We need more light.”

The two headed back outside, leaving the door open, and worked their way around the porch, prying off the two-by-fours and plywood covering the big windows, stacking the lumber in piles as they went.

When at last they finished and returned to enter the lobby, sunlight flooded the big room.

The last time Zach had been here, the lobby had been alive with light, bustling with a throng of partygoers attending a celebration for his parents’ wedding anniversary. Now, the burgundy leather sofas and chairs, the gleam of polished wooden floors with deep red and cream wool carpets and the subtle sheen of wax on log walls—all were dulled beneath layers of dust.

As he and Cade walked farther into the lobby, he noticed the undeniable leavings of mice.

“Looks like something bigger than mice have been in here,” Cade commented, pointing at protruding stuffing visible at the corners of sofa cushions and littering the floor beneath.

“I hope it’s not rats,” Zach told him. “I hate rats.”

“Might have been raccoons. They can do a lot of damage.”

Zach nudged the shredded corner of the dirt-dulled oriental carpet. “Whatever it was, they were destructive.”

Cade nodded and walked toward the fireplace at the end of the room. Zach followed, assessing the damage along the way.

“Looks like the fireplace is still standing,” Cade commented.

“Yeah. Who knows if it’s still functional.” Zach bent to lean into the shoulder-high hearth and peer up the chimney. “I guess we won’t know until we get up on the roof and check it.” He turned, hands on hips, his gaze following the wall to the reception desk. “I’ll be damned,” he said, stunned. “Mom’s mustang sculpture is still here.”

Cade followed as Zach strode back down the long room to halt in front of the curved wooden oak counter that served guests at registration. On the wall behind, beneath a layer of dirt, tarnish and cobwebs, hung a four-foot-tall, six-foot-wide sculpture. Melanie Coulter had used her favorite Kiger mare as a model for the lead of four horses in full gallop. Even with the bright metals dark with dirt and tarnish, the mustangs seemed to dominate the wall, threatening to leap down and thunder across the lobby floor to freedom.

“I always thought this was one of the best things Mom ever did,” Cade said quietly.

Zach nodded silently. He remembered the days after his mother’s funeral, when his father had ridden out early one morning, leading his mother’s mare. Joseph Coulter had returned hours later without the mustang. Zach had always assumed his father had shot the horse, but his father refused to explain.