Breathing deeply of nature’s fragrance, Catherine surveyed her surroundings with a song in her heart. “Oh daddy it’s so good to be back. Why do we ever leave it so long?”

With his arm around her shoulder’s Charles Chandler drew his daughter close to his side until she could lean her head upon his shoulder. “I don’t know honey. It’s the same every time. We hate leaving the place and pledge to return before the year is out, but somehow we never do. Stupid isn’t it? We sit in my office and dream of the sun soaked beaches of Bali and Fiji, and what do we really need…?” he left the question unfinished, turning to gaze into his daughter’s luminous grey green eyes, that were now dancing with joy.

“To be here.” She finished for him, gesturing with her arms out wide, “This is all we need daddy, to be here. Far from the maddening crowd.”

Charles Chandler sighed, “That’s so true Cathy. Being here has everything we need to revitalise ourselves again. That and the fact that being here brings us closer to your mother.”

The sadness in his tone was easily detected and his daughter squeezed his arm, as tears threatened to close off her throat.
She missed her mother terribly. Even seven years after she had died the pain had not lessened any, but Catherine knew what her father had meant, that being here at the cabin brought her mother so much closer, for this was where the three of them had spent so many beautiful hours together.

“Everywhere I look I can see her Cathy.” Her father continued. “Why is it that I spend fifty weeks of the year missing her unbearably then come here for the two weeks to feel her close again? Why do I torture myself so throughout those fifty weeks?” He shook his head unable to understand it.

“We should come here more often daddy. Its good for us.”

“Yet it brings its own pain.” Charles looked down at his daughter watching her eyes carefully, not missing a thing. Catherine tilted her head a little trying to avoid those penetrating grey eyes of her father’s, unwilling to add to the burden of his own loss.
I miss her so.” The threatened tears rose from her throat to her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “Yet I know that she wanted me to be happy, and I am happy daddy when I am here.”

“You too huh? Being here brings her back to us. We did so much together in this sunny glade, there are so many memories waiting to remind us. Its like she is here isn’t it?”

Catherine nodded and Charles speaking lowly replied, “She is really here.” His eyes someplace distance, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He straightened then, drawing himself up to his full height and breathing deeply of the scent of wildflowers all around them the scent of pine on the air, the smell of fresh water from the lake. “With every breath I take I am coming alive.” He told his daughter, then felt immediately sad knowing they would both think of the same thing, that being there had not given life to Caroline Chandler. Nothing had been able to save her life. Not fresh air, not nature’s song, not even money. Nothing had been able to stop the cancer from spreading. Nothing at all.

Catherine shivered, “Cold honey?” Her father asked concerned.

“A little.” Catherine answered, though both knew that it was not from the air around them for the sun was hot on their backs. In fact, Charles had contemplated removing his jacket, for he had grown so warm.

“Would you like to go inside? If you rustle us up some coffee, I’ll bring in the bags.” He removed his arm from around her shoulders, and they turned wordlessly as one towards the car and the cabin beyond. Catherine hesitated as her father unlocked the trunk and removed some bags, as the coffee, milk and sugar would be in one of them. He reached for that first handing it to her, and with a small whispered thank you, Catherine took it and made her way to the cabin door, fishing the key from the pocket of her jeans as she went.

Stepping into the cabin brought a fresh flood of memories, this used to be her mother’s first priority. While Catherine and her father had unloaded the car, Caroline had gone into the cabin to make coffee. While to step over the threshold now and not to be welcomed by that spicy aroma made the cabin appear dank and dark inside with a mustiness associated with a dwelling unlived in for some time.

The threatened tears of her memories made Catherine work quickly. Not bothering to wait for the water to boil she poured hot water from the flask they had brought for the journey, and soon had the scent of coffee permeating the cabin, so at least her father would feel the welcome the moment he stepped inside. Her initial pain was worth it to see his smile of relief as he stepped into the cabin some five minutes later. Catherine had opened the shutters and the windows to let in fresh air, had set the checked tablecloth upon the table and had made coffee. The aroma of which wafted to his nostrils the moment Charles opened the door. He smiled at her, “This one mine?” He dropped a bag to each side of him and reached for the steaming mug of coffee. “Mm, just as your mother used to make it.” He told his daughter sipping the rich black brew.

“The cream is open if you’d like some, I’ve already put it in the refrigerator.”

Charles shook his head, “No, this is fine Cathy. Thank you.” His eyes focused on the rest of the room, and Catherine knew he wasn’t just referring to the coffee.

Sunlight filtered through the opened windows, bringing the whole cabin to life. “We’ll pick some wildflowers later for the table daddy. It’ll be just like old times.”

“Can we have pancakes for breakfast too?” He asked chuckling.

“Only if you make them.” Catherine laughed. It was well documented that cooking was not one of Catherine’s best assets. Charles laughed. “We’ll do them together.” Catherine laughed too, remembering the previous year when most of the pancake mixture had ended up on the both of them rather than in the pan, and then when her father had bragged that he could toss pancakes, one had stuck to the ceiling. At this sudden memory both Catherine and her father snorted with laughter into their coffee while trying not to spill any.
Two pairs of dancing eyes met over the rims of the mugs. Charles found his voice first. “We should come here more often Cathy.” He told her.

“Yes.” Catherine agreed with a mischievous smile, “We should.”

They spent a pleasant day, leaving the unpacking while they explored around the cabin. Exclaiming at how large certain plants had grown, just happy to be together to listen to all the sounds of nature’s song as they walked along arm in arm.
It had been a long time since they had enjoyed one another’s company like this, too long indeed.

Reaching the cabin, Charles took his luggage to unpack in his room while Catherine prepared the vegetables for their dinner. He would cook them and turn them into a meal for the two of them, with a large salmon he had bought on the way up to the cabin earlier in the day.

“I have some letters for you Cathy.” His voice called from his room. Catherine stilled in what she was doing, “For me?”

“Yes, well they’re from Peter actually. I’m sorry to admit that I have had them a while. I put them in my desk drawer and only noticed them when I cleaned up yesterday morning. I’m sorry; I hope there was nothing important in any of them. I think they are from that pen friend of yours.”

Catherine put down the knife she was using to scrape the carrots and walked towards her father’s room. “From Vincent?” She asked curiously.

“I suppose so, if he’s the one you always write to. I must say the handwriting looks the same, sort of fancy. They’re at the bottom of this bag I think.” Catherine watched her father from her position in the doorway, tugging beneath some clothing for the letters, and pulled them out together with one mighty tug, almost making him fall backwards. Catherine laughed, “There seems to be a lot there?”

“There is. Peter sends his apologies. With his being away for a couple of months then us in Fiji the letters had piled up. He thought reading them would help while away the time at the cabin. This fellow writes an interesting letter so I am led to believe?” Charles asked raising one eyebrow in question.

Catherine laughed, “Now, now daddy, Vincent and I are just pen friends, why I have never even met him.”

Charles was surprised, “Never?”

“No daddy never.” Catherine smiled at him impishly her eyes dancing.

“Do you mean to tell me that in all the years you two have spent writing to one another and living not two miles apart that the two of you have never even met?”

“How do you know its two miles?” Catherine asked mystified.

“I don’t, that was just guessing. But he lives in New York doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but I don’t know where. He has never revealed it, and Peter would never say. I like it that way, it’s mysterious and I value his friendship daddy. Vincent has always been there for me over the years.”

“Meaning?” Charles asked gruffly.

“Meaning nothing daddy. You’ve never let me down either, if that’s what you thought I meant. It’s just that writing to a stranger can be so healing. I can tell Vincent things I would never tell another living soul, and receive some very good advice in return. Knowing Vincent is like having an invisible friend that is solid and real at the same time. I have used Vincent as a sounding board more times than I can remember, and his advice always comes good. He’s a good friend daddy, but no more than that.”

Charles nodded. Peter had told him much the same the other way on, when he’d questioned Peter about it as Peter had handed him the pack of letters. Catherine had become a good friend to Vincent too, in more ways than she would ever know, but somehow he’d been given the impression that this Vincent felt a little more for his daughter than just friends and he wondered if he should say anything to Catherine.

Taking the letters from him, Catherine frowned as she counted them. “I wonder how far back some of these go?” she spoke as if to herself. “I haven’t heard from Vincent in some time actually, and I feel terribly guilty because Peter won’t have any to take back to Vincent, for I haven’t written him any in six months at least.”

“Some friendship.” Charles retorted.

Catherine’s eyes challenged his, “I’ve been sitting my exams daddy you know that, and things like letter writing were the last thing on my mind.”

Charles nodded, “Well just see that you write this Vincent a long letter while we are here. I know, why don’t you write out a diary for him, a bit of something you do every day, from what Peter has told me about him, he’d appreciate that.”

Again Catherine’s head snapped back, and she searched her father’s eyes for clues.

“What?” He grinned at her.

“Let’s swap notes shall we? What did Peter tell you?”

Charles shrugged, “Just that this guy lives in a sort of commune out of town, with homeless people, nothing more than that really.”

“Really?”

“Yes. That’s all Cathy believe me. But surely you knew this?”

Catherine nodded, “Yes I knew that. There are only two things Vincent never talks about that’s himself or where he actually lives. That is his address. That’s why all mail goes via Peter. On the few occasions, I’ve asked anything I’ve received some very non-committal answers from Vincent so I haven’t pursued it again. Clearly, Vincent is uncomfortable with talking about those things. Do you know any more than that?”

“Peter told me that he’s different.” Charles started to put his shirts into the wardrobe, examining it first for signs of rodents that might have found their merry way inside during the winter months.

“Yes he told me that too.”

“And you have never wondered how different that might be?” Satisfied that the wardrobe was clear Charles reached for the hangers to put his clothing away.

“Sometimes. And a few times reading between the lines of his letters I have imagined those differences. I think a lot of them are facial. I’ve thought about Downs Syndrome, or maybe a burns victim, but Vincent has spoken of candlelight and lanterns, and never gives any indication of being afraid of a naked flame. I prefer not to wonder too much about it. Vincent is, as I said, a dear friend, and I have my own image built up in my mind as to what he looks like. I guess I want nothing to spoil the illusion of that.”

“How old is he do you know?”

Catherine started at the abrupt change in conversation. But she knew her father, and she knew he was still building romantic castles in the air.

“He’s about eighteen months older than me. Why do you ask?” Catherine eyes danced beneath lowered lashes, able to see him clearly but shutting her emotions off from him.

Charles shrugged, “No reason, just wondering.”

Catherine laughed out loud, “You are so transparent do you know that daddy? Why I can hear your mind whirling away from here you’ve got Vincent and I married off already haven’t you and don’t deny it? I know you daddy.”

Charles was caught up in his daughter’s infectious laughter “All right I admit it. Not so much married off though, not until I’ve met him at least. But Cathy, you know that perfect friends make perfect marriage partners, and from what you have told me in the past about the way Vincent’s letters have made you feel, well I can’t help believing that this Vincent is your long lost soul mate. I for one would like to meet him one day. I can remember many occasions when I owed him my thanks for turning your life around.”

Catherine nodded; she could remember those occasions too. And no doubt they wouldn’t be the only occasions. Hopefully she would always have Vincent’s friendship. Hopefully he would always be there for her whenever she needed him.

“Well, I’ll put these beside my bed daddy and have a flick through some of them in the morning. I feel too tired to read any now. I was thinking of having an early night do you mind?”

“Mind? No Cathy, of course not I too am tired. What do you say we both have an early night, then get up and drive down to the stables, take a horse each and spend the whole day out riding?”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea daddy.” Catherine came into the room to hug her father tightly, before turning to return to her own room, “Goodnight Daddy, I love you.”

“I love you too honey. Goodnight Cathy, pleasant dreams.”

Always an early riser Catherine was awake long before her father on this first morning of their vacation.
She stretched languidly, allowing time for varying limbs to catch up and awaken with the rest, before surveying the room beneath half closed lids.
Everything was just as it had always been. In the seven years since her mother’s passing, Catherine had deliberately not altered anything. Even the furniture was still placed in the same positions. But today for some reason Catherine felt the sudden urge to move on. True coming to the cabin brought her mother’s presence closer, and the memories would always be stored and treasured in her heart, but there came a time when one simply had to move on. And for some reason Catherine felt that her mother would be gladdened by this new approach.

Alighting from the bed, arms raised above her head in a full-fledged stretch, Catherine took in a deep breath of fresh air that only seemed available in the mountains, and then crossed the room to her clothing laid over the arm of one chair.
To her today marked the first day of the rest of her life. She felt wonderful. She looked wonderful. Surveying her reflection in the full-length mirror Catherine saw herself anew.
A beautiful young girl stepping into womanhood stood before her. Bright shining, enthusiastic eyes shone from a perfect oval face, with firm luscious lips just asking to be kissed. Catherine giggled at the thought.
She twirled in front of the mirror, seeing in her mind’s eye not jeans and a sweater but a gorgeous gown fit for a ball, her eyes lit by a glittering chandelier overhead. She could almost feel the rich fabric caressing her legs as the dress swirled around her.
Catherine had everything. Good looks, a rich father, gifts galore, wealth, health and happiness she could ask for only one more thing to complete the set. True love. That’s all she needed now, someone to love her for herself, someone with whom she could attain the happy life her mother had wished for her, someone who would complement her in the years ahead.
With that thought in mind, Catherine lowered herself into the rocking chair, determined to think on fresh thoughts, not old sentimental memories that would make her usual sadness return by sitting there. For her mother had held Catherine in her arms in that very chair and rocked her daughter to sleep on so many occasions, that generally Catherine was swallowed up with grief when she sat there.
Now with quiet determination Catherine fought back the memories, even speaking out loud, “Mother I love you, and mother I am so grateful to you for your compassion and tenderness, but I wish now to reach out for that happy life that you wanted so much for me to find. So please mother do not feel sad if I do not sit here and grieve your passing another day, instead rejoice with me that I am seeking the future that you wished for me to find.’ For long moments Catherine sat perfectly still, her feet planted firmly on the ground and ran through some thoughts in her mind, then she spoke aloud the questions that burned through her soul.

‘Where is he mother?
Where is my prince in shining armour?
Where is the man that completes this picture that you painted for me?
This happy life that you which for me to find?
Can you lead me to him mother?
Do you know where he is?’

In no way did Catherine feel foolish as she spoke out loud for she could feel her mother there with her. Not in spirit, no never that, but in her mind’s eye. And with her minds eye she could seek the things her mother had told her time and time again would be there, if only she looked in the right direction.
Her parents she knew, had married young, and Catherine envisaged the same would be true of her. Plus she would find the same happiness her parents had found. She had everything else; this then would be the icing on the cake. The very best of the best, yet did she have to look for him, or would he just cross her path and she would instantly know he was the one?

Delirious in her thinking Catherine giggled with a sudden spark of joy. Whatever happened from wherever he might come, she was going to enjoy and savour every moment, because she knew in advance where it would lead, and she knew that she would know from the moment she clapped eyes on him, that he would be the one.

In her mind’s eye, and now rocking gently back and forth in the chair Catherine contemplated her knight in shining armour.
He would be wealthy and he would adore her. He would bestow her with gifts and he would love her to eternity.
His eyes would be of the purest blue, and they would bedazzle her as he leaned in to take her lips beneath his own. Catherine squirmed at the thought, giggling just a little with a slight embarrassment.
Her mind conjured up images of her true love, but she could not decide upon the colour of his hair. Most romantic fairy tales told of a prince with black hair, or with blond hair, but for a reason Catherine could not comprehend she instantly dismissed those possibilities. Her prince would be different, a cut above the rest.
Wherever he went he would turn heads, people would stare mouths agape at his beauty.

Hugging her knees close to her chest Catherine delighted in her dream. Yes he would be perfection personified, but he would not know it. To know it would make him chauvinistic, and that would spoil the illusion.
Thus, he would be unaware of his beauty and his inner beauty would surpass the outer. He would be graceful and regal in his movements and everyone would love him, and he would have time for them all.

Catherine sighed deeply. ‘ Oh Mother’, she spoke aloud. ‘Does such a man really exist? Or does he only live in my dreams?’
The answer was swift, silent and penetrated her mind with a surety that would not be denied, ‘he exists my love, and he is waiting. Just as I found my own prince in your father so your prince awaits you.’

For a moment, Catherine’s startled eyes swept around the room. The voice had been so real. Though she had heard it only in the deepest recesses of her mind, it was almost as if it had been spoken in the room in response to her question.
Joy seared Catherine’s heart. He existed. He was waiting for her. Then if he was waiting for her, did she already know of him?

Her mind in a spin, Catherine dwelt upon all the people that she knew, raising them before her and dismissing them as quickly as they rose. No, not him, not him, not him she went on and on. ‘I know that I would know him, and he doesn’t fit any that I know.’ For a moment she panicked, ‘Mother where is he?’

If she had imagined a reply for her question, this time it did not come as no voice spoke either on the gentle breath of the wind that came in from the opened window or in the deep recesses of her mind, all was silent.
Catherine gazed around the room as if to find some clue that would bring his identity to mind. There was nothing. She knew this room like the back of her hand. Everything was firmly imprinted upon her mind so that in the days she was forced to live at the town house she could come here to this cabin any time that she chose, just by bringing forth the images that she knew so well.
There was nothing different about it, save for a pile of letters from Vincent next to her bed.
Catherine stared at those letters, as dawning became apparent, her lips forming his name in a gentle caress. ‘Vincent?’

This was a man that she knew to be different and this was a man that she knew to be noble but she had never seen this man and he had never described himself in any one of his letters to her in all the years they had been writing. And there had been some.
Catherine thought back to the first time Peter had suggested that they wrote to one another. Some of the content of his words had been lost over the years, but Catherine caught the gist of them now in her mind.

‘Catherine, how do you feel about having a pen friend my dear…there’s this young man I know…’ Catherine could remember that Peter’s next words had made her feel sad, her heart had reacted positively to writing to this lonely soul. ‘He hasn’t many friends Cathy because he is different, but he is a wonderful person. I think correspondence between the two of you would be good for him.’

Catherine had agreed without preamble. She was a sucker for lonely souls, but she was surprised when Peter had opened his briefcase and handed her a letter from this person straight away. She could remember Peter’s wry grin, ‘I took the liberty of asking him to write to you first’ he had told her.

Catherine had kept that first letter, in fact all the letters Vincent had written since. They were in a box tied with a midnight blue sash in her room back at the town house. But that first one had imprinted itself upon her mind at her tender age of eight and a firm friendship had sprung up between the two souls, each searching for something unknown to them each needing a friend to tell innermost secrets to.

In Vincent, Catherine had confided all her deepest passions, her deepest sorrows. He was her sounding board when she contemplated a future move. He listened, and he wrote the most beautiful letters, filled with wisdom that she had admired even at such a tender age.

Right there and then, Catherine wished that she were holding his first letter there in her hands, she wanted to read it so badly. She needed to know what it was he had said that had compelled her to rush from the room pick up a pen and paper and reply to his letter before Peter had departed so that he could take it with him to deliver.

Their lives were so different and Catherine had discerned from the very beginning that Vincent came from a poor family but that family was rich in love warmth and affection. He spoke of people that lived around him, he told her stories of their lives of how being with his family had altered their perspective, had given them courage to go back into the world they had known before and turn their lives around. For years, Catherine had imagined this world of Vincent’s to be some place magical, a place far from her own, yet within easy reach. In fact the way he spoke of his life and the people in it, he could well have been speaking about another world, a world apart from hers.

Her eyes fixed firmly upon the pile of letters at the side of her bed, Catherine rose to her feet, her intention plain.
She hadn’t heard from Vincent in a long time. It was probably their longest separation ever. As well as the holidays of both Peter and their own she’d had exams to sit and while she awaited the results she and her father had taken this trip up into the mountains. She had worked hard and hoped to secure herself a place at Radcliffe College. She knew that her father could secure her a place there with his money, but she wanted to do it the honest way. Somehow, she felt Vincent would approve of that. But she had never told him, had never asked his opinion on this occasion, and she knew that was because Vincent in his own way had over the years changed her ideals, had moulded her into a new way, had helped her to look upon things differently. To work hard and attain a good result brought joy, and Catherine looked forward with anticipation to the grades she had worked so hard to achieve over the past year.

Picking up the pile of letters held together with a large rubber band, Catherine had no way of knowing until she opened them which one was the earliest. Not even the dampness of the envelope, or the faded ink could highlight how long each had lain inside Peter’s house awaiting his return to bring them to her.
Turning them over in her hand, Catherine released the rubber band, and settled it onto the bedside table, then spread the letters across the bed, trying to work out their correct order.

‘I shall have to open them all. And read the dates within before I can start reading them’ she told herself, reaching for the envelope closest to her. As always, the red wax seal like royalty would use impressed her and the words ‘her prince’ rose to mind. Catherine giggled. Whatever would Vincent say if he knew what she was thinking?

As she unfolded the envelope, and pulled from it the thick parchment paper familiar with Vincent’s use, Catherine noted the date, and determined not to start reading, she smoothed the letter, and put it down next to its respective envelope.
Determinedly she went through the pile of letters, doing the same with each, sorting them into date order as she went along, and all would have been fine if she had not been curious with the ink smudges on one particularly shorter than normal letter.

Vincent’s usual perfect handwriting was smudged, by what looked like on closer examination, tears that had fallen. Catherine’s heart reacted violently. Tears from Vincent! But Vincent never cried. Oh, there was that time when his brother had gone missing and had been presumed lost maybe dead, but that was years ago. Whatever could have hurt Vincent enough to make him cry again?

Catherine spread the letter, knowing she had to read it, and took it across to the rocking chair intent on reading it there. Somehow it deserved the gentle rocking motion, as if that alone could ease his grief just as her mother had eased her own on the many nights she had been unable to sleep from some nightmare or another, or some eerie sound whispering from the mountains.

At that moment, a knock at her bedroom door brought her out of her reverie. ‘Are you awake Catherine?’ Her father’s voice called softly.

For a moment, Catherine wondered if she should ignore him and stay silent in the hope that he would think her still sleeping, until one look at her watch told her he would be concerned if she did. She never slept so late in the mornings.

“Yes daddy. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I’m making a hearty breakfast honey, we’ll need it if we are to be out riding all day.”

“Okay.”

Catherine looked back at the letter in her hands now undecided. If what Vincent had written would make her sad, it might rob her of the joy she would find out riding this day. If she left it until her return she might wonder what the contents were but that would not spoil her day out with her father.
Her decision made, Catherine took the letter, and placed it on top of the bedside cabinet, then gathering up the rest not yet opened, she pulled open the drawer of her bedside table, and lay them all inside. She’d read them tonight.
And she’d read that top letter first.

Flicking their tails, the two horses picked their way over the fern covered ground, taking their riders higher and higher up the mountain passes. The sun was warm on their flanks, the flies bothersome, but beneath the shade of the pine trees, the flies diminished, and besides it was marvellous riding in the dappled sunshine.

“Oh why oh why do we leave it so long?” Charles Chandler rode his body into the saddle to aid the mare’s ascent.

Catherine giggled, “Because we are stupid daddy. And because there is always one more case that needs rapt attention you know that.”

“A lawyers daughter you certainly are honey. It’s a wonder the pitfalls of that career haven’t put you off from following in my footsteps.” Charles reined in his mare to take time to survey his daughter.

“I’ve never thought of doing anything else daddy, you know that?” Catherine’s mare had found something good to nuzzle at in a bush alongside them, and her attention was drawn to see what it was. “Wild strawberries! Look daddy wild strawberries, we should pick some to have with the cream.”

“And where pray would we carry them? By the time we get home they would be squashed even if we did have a bag to put them in.”

“We could come up here another day prepared for that.” Catherine suggested.

“Same thing honey, by the time we got them back to the cabin they would still be squashed.”

Catherine grinned from ear to ear, “What?” Her father asked caught up in her mischief.

“Who said anything about taking the strawberries back to the cabin daddy? If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed….”

Charles Chandler laughed heartily, “You mean bring the cream up here?”

“That’s what I mean.”

Charles laughed, “Oh Cathy I can see you are going to be a force to be reckoned with, with a brain like that.” The pair laughed together, and simultaneously click clicked their tongues to move the horses onwards.

“How far are we going daddy?” Catherine asked as they re-entered the sunshine, leaving the shade behind, and the flies returned in full force. Catherine waved a hand in front of her face, “Remind me to wear my hat with the corks on next time will you daddy?”

Charles laughed as an image of his daughter wearing an Australian bushman’s hat came to mind. He had to admit though it was a sound idea.

“I’ve never noticed the flies this bad before Cathy. Do you agree that they are getting thicker the higher we go, or is it just my imagination?”

“They are certainly more troublesome that I can remember daddy. Perhaps there is something rotten up here someplace.”

“Wild strawberries could lead them I suppose.”

“But there’s been berries growing when we’ve come before. I’ve certainly not seen them so bad. Must be a plague of them this year. There doesn't appear to be so many in the shade though.”

“No. Well then we can either go back or keep riding up to the next canopy of trees, what do you say?”

With a hand to her brow, Catherine surveyed the way ahead. The next copse of trees was some hundred yards or so ahead. They could not trot because of the rough terrain and it being a constant ascent. “It’s a long way at a walk daddy. I would like to go higher though. I have missed that view.”

“Me too. Shall we put up with the flies then just this once? We could swat each others.”

Catherine nodded, “I think we need to keep our mouths closed too.” She spat a fly off her lip, and Charles eyes creased at the corners. He frowned. Though they had only walked a few yards on from when they had first started this topic, the flies had got denser, and the buzzing was growing unpleasant.

Charles drew his brows together, something wasn’t right. “Hold on honey.” He mumbled, wiping flies from his face, and squinting his eyes to stop them filling with the miserable little creatures. He drew his mare to a halt and dismounted, looking around him. Something had caught at his nostrils, something awful from his higher position upon the mare, but down on the ground it was worse.
Holding up his hand to his daughter, he bade her still, and stepped toward the area where the flies were at their loudest, with one hand held to his face against the stench. His stomach churned, something was obviously dead and it was something big.

Fanning the flies with his free hand he pressed on, his heart in his mouth, his eyes half closed against whatever he would see any moment, but even so he was unprepared for the sight.
The colour drained from his face as he caught glimpses of the body and he quickly turned and stumbled back towards his daughter his hand clamped to his mouth.

“What is it daddy?” Catherine’s concern was evident in her rising tone. She dismounted just as her father bent double to vomit on the ground. He waved her back as she made to pass him, grabbing her sleeve and holding her still. “Don’t go.” Was all he could manage.

“Daddy?” Catherine’s eyes wide and fearful looked from the fly drenched spot back to her father. Whatever had he seen?

“Have to go back down…” her father croaked, “call police…”

Catherine understood at once. “A body?” She whispered hoarsely.

Charles nodded.

“Murdered?” Catherine asked nervously.

“Yes.” Taking the reins of his horse, Charles tried to remount, but his legs were unsteady, as jelly. Seeing this Catherine helped him up into the saddle and on shaky legs she too re-mounted. Both looked back at the spot as they turned their mounts back the way they’d come, and for a long time neither spoke.
It would be the first murder Catherine had ever heard of in these mountains. Of course, it was the perfect place to hide a body. Few people came there most of the cabins were owned by wealthy people that came only to get away from it all about once a year, or whenever they could manage it. So, a body could lie undiscovered for a long time but it was her father’s reaction that bothered her the most he had seen dead people before in his line of work though usually at the morgue when he’d been assigned to a case, or at the hospital.
It must have been bad for him to react so badly and Catherine felt nausea rise in the pit of her stomach. Who would kill another in such beautiful surroundings? And when had it happened? Had the murderer gone or was he watching them even now? The hairs on the back of Catherine's neck prickled and she urged her mare forward into canter behind her father's horse. She had to leave this place and fast, already invisible fingers were pressing around her throat threatening to choke her and in her mind's eye Catherine could feel eyes boring into her back. Someone was watching. She was certain of it!