The afternoon was still warm and while infrequent puffs of breeze offered to ease the discomfort, it looked like the evening would again bring a clinging summer humidity to the area. Cathy came to this crook in the river often just to enjoy the pleasure brought by the cool up-stream breeze and the shade of the dogwoods.

Since the death of her parents just one year ago, Cathy had undergone the normal phases of grief and hurt. Having never lived anywhere but here on the farm, she, the youngest of four siblings, had the bulk of the work taking care of the family farm and the debt which is carried by such ventures. She tended to the animals and fields as she did the books and the tax man, one day at a time.

At 21 she was very aware of the clock ticking away within, and that someday she would have to rejoin the larger social order, even if between the calving and fouling, and even plowing. For the first time since her parents died, Cathy was feeling lonely.

Always a quiet place, the only sounds being put forth by various birds, insects, and trees hushing in the wind, the mechanical sound was quickly noted and located. Cathy could see a line of dust churning far off to the east and felt as much as heard a throaty rumble of an engine. She followed a deer trail to the crest of a low rise and watched to see what would come out of the dust.

Only one real road came into the area but there were a couple BLM trails, and an abandoned rail grade that disappeared like a spearpoint into the mountains to the west. It was along that grade that the dust was lifted. Before long she could make out a bright metalic glint and a shimmering effigy of a dark-clad man. He was on a motorcycle.

Cathy had no fear of the fauna that shared the farmlands with her but she felt a chill about this visitor. He left the railroad grade about 200 yards away and made his way to the river, carefully following a heavily used cow-trail to avoid the tall wild grasses. She crept low behind an old snag and watched as the bike came to a stop at the river's edge.

The bike was very clean -- almost like a fire engine did it gleam. Great care had been given to this machine, she thought. The bright chrome work was paled by the deep purple and blue irridescant gas tank and fenders. It had a large black duffle bag on the back, leather saddle bags, and a bed roll on the handle bars. As the engine's rumble stopped, the rider slipped the stand down and smoothly lifted himself away from it.

He was wearing a leather vest with sleeveless T-shirt under it and his arms were deeply tanned as was his face. "Blue eyes", she thought, as he scanned the area. Sun-lightened hair held it's wind-placed set as he went about unloading his equipment. Cathy was struck by the neatness and efficiency of the work he was about, observing that he wasted no motion as he disassembled and then erected his camp. Everything had a purpose and place.

From his saddle bag he pulled a clear plastic container, turned the cap, and drew deeply from it. He then unfastened and unrolled his bedroll from the handlebars and drew from it a collapsable fishing pole and a pocket tackle box. These he set aside while he shook out the bedroll and this he placed inside the tent. From the other saddle bag he pulled a small leather case and a green towel. With these he headed to the bank of the river and out of sight.

Cathy removed herself from the rise and worked her way quietly down to the river. There was a narrow animal trail which skirted the bank and she followed it toward where she saw the biker disappear. A tapping noise caught her attention and she froze then slowly peered around a Scotch broom bush to see the man bent over the water, shaving. He recovered the razor he'd dropped and turned to the mirror he had propped against an exposed root. His back was to her so she felt a bit at ease.

Following a splash of water against his face he stood and began to remove his vest and shirt. These he carefully laid out on a large stone. He then removed his boots. Unlike the boots worn by the ranch hands, these were clean though dull of finish, but like everything else about this fellow, apparently well cared for. His socks he rolled and stuffed into a boot. He loosened his belt and at this point Cathy felt herself begin to blush a bit. She was completely at ease with the naturalness of farm animals and all that they do, but she had no experience with men and so with a bit of a pounding in her chest she watched as he removed and stored the rest of his clothing.

He lacked the tan marks of someone who worked out of doors like the disgusting framers in town whose tan ended at their ghostly pale butt cracks when they bent to drive nails. This man's color was consistant and broken only by the light and shadows as he walked into the river. His maleness framed in a shock of dark hair brought more tempo to her pulse and her cheeks began to flush. She felt silly peeping at this naked man but at the same time unable to look away.

He waded out into the river then settled down and breast-stroked leisurely for a bit then turned turtle and dove under, his bare ass disappearing under the riffles just ahead of his heels. He burst back up and snapped his head in a circle to clear the water from his ears and hair then picked up a soap bar from his case and began to wash. By this time Cathy was in a mood to help him wash behind his ears but she remained still and watched.

After rinsing and taking another quick spin around the slow moving current he pulled himself up onto a slant of bedrock which afforded a nice warming spot in the sun to dry. He lay himself flat and placed his hands behind his head and held still, almost as if sleeping. He was turned such that Cathy needed no imagination to take in every part of his figure. After several moments of this she noticed a definite wetness in her panties and she caught the sweet smell of feminine lust on her finger after she had touched herself there.

She forced herself to turn back down the trail, leaving the man to his day, hoping she wouldn't snap a branch or loosen a rock to draw his attention. She returned to the rise and watched for a bit more to see if he had stirred from his nap, but on seeing nothing, she turned back to look at her farmhouse just barely visible from her perch. She lamented the loneliness, the loss of her parents, and was thankful for the company of her dog, a big hearted sled dog, half malamute and half German shephard.

A rustle of brush startled her back to her present situation and she sank and spun around. There was no movement and no more sound. Feeling uneasy, she slipped down the backside of the rise and took to a wooded trail away from the river. She was looking back over her shoulder when a grunt and a snap, followed by strong hands on her shoulders, stopped her in mid-stride. She whipped her head around and looked up and into bright blue eyes and a white friendly smile.

As suddenly at ease as she was startled, she returned his hello with one of her own. Stepping back she began to make an excuse for why she was there when he offered an appology for scaring her so. He sheepishly explained he was looking for a bathroom and laughed and she replied that they were pretty much standing in it. She was well aware that he was wearing his jeans once more.

He offered his name, Jeff, and asked for hers. "Cathy... Cathy Burrows." He pointed in the direction of his tent and started to leave in that direction saying "I've got a camp set up over this way - I hope it isn't on private property." She lied, saying it wasn't, and that nobody ever came out this way anyway. They walked back to where his bike was still cooling and he put a few things away while she asked questions about his machine. "It's a Harley", he said, "been to nearly every state in the past ten years, still runs like a new colt." Once again, the "neatness" of the man and his possesions struck her. There was nothing at all out of place, no litter, no clutter she had come to associate with the image of men she had gleened from T.V. and comedians.

While she was bent over the bike's gleeming chrome, he had pulled a couple plastic wine glasses and a bottle of wine from somewhere and had place out a two-foot square gingham picnic cloth. He offered her a seat and a glass of Chianti, and began cleaning two fish he had caught following his nap. He made quick work of the cleaning, leaving no trace of mess, and had them in a small cook pan sizzling quietly while he peeled a couple of small carrots. "You'll stay for lunch, won't you?" he asked as he slipped the carrots into a small pot. "Well, I've some things to do..." she said haltingly. "Nothing that can't wait half an hour, I hope."

A walk followed lunch - she had never had such tasty trout - and they found themselves at the rock where she had watched him napping in the sun earlier. She blushed again at the mental images she recalled and she quickly sat down in the late evening rays. He had been behind her and missed the rosyness that had come to her cheeks. He sat down as well and neither said a word for a few moments. Her mind was no longer resisting the recollections of earlier, and the wine and food were making her as relaxed as she had ever been. She leaned back against his chest and pointed to a white spot on a far hillside, telling him there were mountain goats in those hills. He squinted off into the distance and saw them and wondered outloud if they ever came down to the river.

Cathy was having trouble not turning around and wrestling Jeff out of his jeans at this point, and was completely content when Jeff placed his left arm across her chest from behind, resting his hand on her forearm in a easy grip. With his other hand he pulled his survival knive across her throat and drew it deeply into her. The last thing Cathy heard was the grating noise of his blade against the bones of her neck and moments later her lifeless body was floating out into the slow-moving river to the blue Pacific ocean.

Jeff cleaned his knife and rinsed the rock of blood and returned to his world where everything was in it's place and had a purpose, wishing these unwanted intrusions would end.

dp