Unsafe Haven

by Betsy Ashton

  WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING

  Unintended Consequences

  “If you like strong, sassy women, suspense, and a good mystery, you will love Unintended Consequences. Kudos to Betsy Ashton for a great read.”

  —KATHLEEN GRISSOM,

  NYT Best Selling Author of The Kitchen House and

  Glory Over Everything

  “The fast-paced writing style draws the reader into the action. Ashton unfolds a unique story that tugs on your heartstrings, clenches your fists at the injustice that happens to the characters, and then lightens with a humorous quip to release the tension and sadness. I laughed. I cried. I didn’t want to put the book down until the very end.”

  —CHERIE REICH,

  Author of Elements Of Untethered Realms Series

  “Ashton’s attention to detail, coupled with a terrific plot line with surprising twists, makes this read a terrific thriller. This book is not for the faint-hearted; it is a story that will keep you fully engaged until the very end. The author’s development of a strong, independent, female central character is refreshing and will appeal to men and women alike.”

  —KIMBERLY DALFERES,

  Author of I Was In Love With A Short Man Once and

  Magic Fishing Panties

  “With Mad Max: Unintended Consequences Betsy Ashton has given us a fresh and original crime story. It’s a study of how one woman’s automobile accident sets in motion a series of events that no one could have anticipated (hence the “Unintended Consequences” of the title).”

  —MAGGIE KING,

  Author of Book Group Mysteries

  Uncharted Territory

  “Mad Max is at it again―another “uppity woman” who can’t leave well enough alone. Just the way I like it.”

  —MOLLIE COX BRYAN,

  Agatha Award Finalist for A Cumberland Creek Mystery Series

  “. . . a genre-bending tale of murder, suspense, chaos, and triumph.”

  —MICHAEL MURPHY,

  Author of Goodbye Emily

  “I enjoyed the new characters here, namely the English tutor Max hired to homeschool the children and the two pastors from different sides of the track. The desolation of the area when they arrive is palpable, as is the menace that continually hovers over what’s left of the town. Another winner from Ms. Ashton!”

  —D.A. SPRUZEN,

  Author of The Blitz Business

  “Missing immigrant workers, later found murdered, along with other violence and sinister stalkings require Max’s sleuthing abilities. Much local involvement with two Baptist preachers, an abusive Catholic priest and two cowering captives in his manse add to the action. A fast, engrossing read highlighting social ills that seem to couple with natural catastrophes.”

  —SUSAN CORYELL,

  Author of The Overhome Trilogy

  UNSAFE

  HAVEN

  A Mad Max Mystery

  Betsy Ashton

  VIRGINIA BEACH

  CAPE CHARLES

  Unsafe Haven

  by Betsy Ashton

  © Copyright 2018 Betsy Ashton

  ISBN 978-1-63393-547-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  800-435-4811

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WHERE I HANG OUT

  CHAPTER ONE

  2008

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE we’re really at Uncle Johnny’s ranch,” my newly-minted thirteen-year-old grandson said. Alex clumped through the living room of the old Mexican-style adobe ranch house and stared through the rickety screen door.

  I hugged him. “Happy Birthday.”

  “Is Uncle Johnny coming back soon?” Alex twitched away, all but dancing in anticipation of a day full of adventures and surprises. “I don’t want to wait any longer to go on my first horseback ride.”

  “He’ll be here when he’s ready. Why don’t you watch what he’s doing?”

  From where we stood, I could see a mountain range looming in the distance, a dark green smudge rising from the red desert floor—the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, as Johnny Medina, my best friend and life partner, called them. They were close to one hundred miles away, yet they looked near enough to touch.

  Johnny’s family could hardly have picked a prettier spot for their cattle ranch. Nearer Santa Fe than Albuquerque, it nestled in that junction where the desert rose gradually toward the mountains. We’d arrived at the Medina family homestead the night before, and already I felt cleansed by the dry air filled with the tang of juniper, sage, and greasewood. I’d never been in New Mexico, but the land reached out and drew me in. I thanked the gods for bringing Johnny into my life when I needed support most; I thanked Johnny for remaining.

  Despite a tiring day of travel, Alex bounced out of bed right after dawn, impatient to start his birthday visit, with its promise of horseback riding, an overnight campout, and lessons in horsemanship.

  Johnny came into view with a dancing dark bay mare on a short lead. He tied her to a ring on the trailer across the dusty yard.

  “Oh, wow!” Alex forgot about using his indoor voice. “I want to go help.”

  Before he could push through the door and blast across the yard, I grabbed his arm and said in my most don’t-mess-with-me voice, “Stop right there. Uncle Johnny told us to wait here. He had his reasons. We’ll do as he said.”

  “But he needs help.” Alex squirmed, but didn’t try very hard to break my hold.

  “And how do you propose to help? You know nothing about horses.”

  “At least I could pat them.”

  I was almost as excited as the boy. Johnny led a second horse to the trailer, a chestnut mare, and tied her to a second ring. I wondered if that was mine. She seemed much calmer than the snorting, fidgety bay.

  Alex almost burst out of his skin when Johnny reappeared with a pinto.

  “I bet that’s mine,” Alex shouted.

  “Indoor voice, Alex, indoor voice.” Will the boy ever learn? “Hey there, Captain Chaos, where’s your jacket?”

  Captain Chaos was one of our extended family’s nicknames for Alex. He earned it—he was more likely to bolt in front of a
n angry bull or a giant earthmover than to sit on a fence rail and watch in safety. This one might live on a bit longer, but with him growing older, we had to retire my favorite nickname: holy-crap boy-child.

  “Ah, Mad Max, can’t I go just this once without a jacket?”

  “No.”

  I’d had an ongoing argument with my daughter, Merry, over what name the kids should use for me. She wanted them to call me Grandma. No way did I feel like a grandma, a name I equated with blue-haired, doddering old ladies smelling of lilac talc. I hated Nana, Grams, Noonie, or any other cutesy name. My granddaughter, Emilie, told me not to be mad, thereupon forever anointing me Mad Max.

  “As we say in New York, I’m having a Jewish-mother-sweater alert.” I pointed toward his bedroom.

  “You’re not Jewish.”

  “News flash. All mothers are Jewish. It comes with the territory.” I chucked Alex on the chin before he dodged away. He’d reached the age when any display of parental affection was humiliating, even in the privacy of a living room.

  Boots scraped the mat on the worn wooden porch. The old screen door squeaked open, and Johnny entered. He looked every bit the real-life cowboy—broken-in, dusty jeans, black ropers covered with a veneer of corral dust, plaid shirt, jean jacket, and a Stetson. With his black hair graying at the temples, tanned skin, and dark eyes glinting with humor and warmth, he had never looked more handsome. Even with a smudge of dirt across his nose.

  “What’s a Jewish-mother-sweater alert?” he asked.

  “If I’m likely to be chilly, you’re going to take your jacket.”

  Alex stomped toward his bedroom. When he returned, he folded and stuffed his jacket into a half-empty backpack. He jammed on his ball cap.

  I looked up at Johnny. “What? No sombrero?”

  Johnny shot me a dark look. “You were expecting the second coming of Pancho Villa, maybe? Have you ever tried to ride in one of those damned things? Even with a chin strap, I’d spend the entire day chasing it if a gust of wind came up. My horse would buck and snort.” Johnny removed the Stetson and slapped the dust off on his thigh. The sweat-stained hat had seen better days. “They’re okay for festivals but not for real work.”

  I threw up my hands and quit while I was behind.

  “Are you ready, Alex?” Johnny’s question uncoiled Alex and sent him rocketing out the door, his backpack hanging over one shoulder and banging against his hip. He whooped and charged toward the three horses.

  “Stop!” Johnny yelled.

  “Don’t run, Alex!” I cried out.

  “Alex, I said stop!” Johnny’s voice drowned out mine.

  The bay mare tossed her head, flattened her ears, and snorted at the commotion approaching her blind side. She swung her hindquarters toward the noise and kicked.

  My impetuous grandson skidded to a stop, inches out of range. Hooves flashed again. The bay kept her ears pinned; the whites of her eyes gleamed against the dark brown face. The other two horses snorted and tugged at their halter ropes.

  I ran toward Alex; Johnny grabbed my arm and stopped me.

  “Leave this to me,” Johnny said.

  “He’s my grandson.”

  “My ranch, my rules. I’ll handle it. Wait here.” Johnny took Alex aside. I couldn’t hear what he said, but Alex hung his head and nodded.

  Johnny led him over to meet the horses, approaching from the left. Johnny showed him how to hold out his hand so that each horse could smell it, and how to reach up slowly to pat their necks. Johnny handed him several peppermint candies. After a sniff or two, each horse accepted Alex and lipped up the candies. Johnny nodded at me. I went through the same routine. Crisis abated.

  “Which one is mine?” Alex was still wound up, but he used his indoor voice.

  “You’ll ride the little pinto. He’s very gentle and fun to ride.” Johnny fastened Alex’s backpack behind the saddle, untied the black-and-white pony, and walked it into the trailer. “His name’s Loco, but he’s not.”

  Next in the trailer went the chestnut mare. “You’ll be on Cherokee, Max. She’s an easy mover, great gait, and responsive. I rode her for years until we retired her from ranch work. She’s sweet and easy to handle.”

  Last to load was Johnny’s dark bay. “This bad girl needs a lot of work. I ride her whenever I’m at the ranch, which is never enough to keep her in shape. Her name’s Belle.”

  “Like Taco Bell?” Alex asked.

  “Belle Starr, for the mark on her forehead.” Johnny shut the back of the trailer and walked to the truck. “Although Taco Bell might be more appropriate. She’s a handful, a real salsa gal.”

  “Gotcha,” Alex said.

  “Hey, wait a minute.” I sped back to the house and returned with saddlebags filled with our lunches and a riding helmet.

  “What the hell is that?” Johnny doubled over with laughter.

  “Just what you think it is, funny man—my riding helmet.” I drew myself up to my full height, all five feet four inches of it, and jammed it on my head. “I never get on a horse without it.”

  “You’re not going to wear that. I’ll be the laughingstock of the ranch.”

  I tossed the helmet in the backseat and climbed in front. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Okay, is everybody ready? Anyone think we’ll see an eagle today?”

  Alex started to shout yes but caught himself. He settled for a head bob before he climbed into the back.

  The dirt road unrolled beneath the truck’s wheels. We left the ranch, turned onto a county highway, and climbed toward the mountains. Johnny kept a running commentary about the history of the area—the Native American nations that lived here; the Anasazi, who built pueblos in Mesa Verde and Taos; the national parks; the early settlers that came west along the Santa Fe Trail and built ranches around Albuquerque; and ranchers like Johnny’s family, which had come up from Mexico and settled around Santa Fe. I glanced at Alex, who was texting as fast as his thumbs could move. I took his phone before he could howl in protest.

  “Listen to Uncle Johnny. You might learn something.” This vacation was supposed to be a way for Alex to relax. Texting and playing electronic games wasn’t going to broaden his knowledge of anything. He needed to unplug, to disconnect.

  Alex grabbed for his phone, but I held it out of reach. “I was telling everyone what Uncle Johnny’s saying. Look at the phone if you don’t believe me.”

  I scanned the messages. Indeed, many were to Emilie about what she was missing, about the horses and the Native Americans. A couple were to his father, Whip, and his teacher, Mr. Ducks, as well as to some friends back in Richmond, Virginia. More than a few were to Charlie, his first real crush. That fiery redhead had stolen all of our hearts, particularly my son-in-law Whip’s.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” I handed his phone back. Alex surprised me by putting it on the seat next to my helmet and looking out the window.

  “Hey, what’s that?” Alex pointed at a large bird riding a thermal high in the bright blue sky. “Is it an eagle?”

  Johnny squinted. “No, too small. Probably a red-tailed hawk, or maybe a Ferruginous hawk. If it’s hunting, you’ll see it swoop down on a mouse or vole. One second it’s in the sky, the next it’s on the ground with breakfast in its beak.”

  Alex craned his neck to keep the circling bird in sight. He sighed when it didn’t dive bomb an unsuspecting varmint. I had no interest in watching a hawk kill breakfast. It might be the natural state of things, but I’d rather not see it.

  “The way a hawk eats is fascinating. Not very pretty, though. They literally peel the mouse, eat the insides, and then finish off the skin,” Johnny continued.

  I groaned.

  “That’s so, like, way cool,” said Alex.

  I was outnumbered. Two men, one woman. I shut my mouth and watched the dusty land fall away as we climbed through sage and greasewood toward tall pines in the distance.

  “Are we going up there toda
y?” I jerked my chin at the dark green horizon inching closer.

  “Maybe some other day. That’s too far, but we have some wonderful trails up ahead. We’ll have a good ride and be home in time for dinner.”

  That would sit well with Alex. This boy never missed a meal. Neither did Johnny.

  We passed a few small towns, dirt roads leading to Native American reservations, several roadside vendors with silver and turquoise jewelry, and a modern-looking building atop a hill in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Alex was keeping a lookout for more wildlife, the phone no longer his concern. The building passed on his side. He couldn’t help but notice it.

  “What’s that? It looks out of place.”

  “It’s a hospital, part of the Indian Health Service. The federal government built several on or near reservations to improve care and treatment of Native Americans. When this one was finished around 2000, it was supposed to be state of the art. I’m sure changes have come in since it opened, but it’s so much better than the old hospital it replaced.”

  I hoped never to see the inside of it. I’d had enough of hospitals since I all but lived in an ICU for weeks when my daughter was in a coma following her auto accident.

  “No reason for any of us to go there. We’re going to have an easy ride for Alex’s first time out, eat lunch, and return to the ranch.”

  “Works for me.”

  Johnny flipped his turn signal on, even though we hadn’t seen a car in nearly half an hour, and pulled off the road. “We’re at the head of the Navajo Springs trail. We ride from here.”

  He offloaded the horses, tightened the cinches, and exchanged halters for bridles. I knew how to put on English bridles, but Western tack was different. For one, Johnny wasn’t using a martingale or tie-down strap. I recognized snaffle bits and the way the headstalls went together. The reins were different, because there were two of them rather than a single loop. Alex dogged Johnny’s every move, listening to the running narration.

  I reached into the backseat for my helmet, but at Johnny’s glare I put it back.

  “Good girl,” he grinned.

  “If I fall off and bump my head, it will be all your fault.”