by Lakota Grace
Table of Contents
FIRE IN BROKEN WATER
DEDICATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Sample Chapter
About the Author
OTHER PEGASUS QUINCY MYSTERIES
FIRE IN BROKEN WATER
by Lakota Grace
DEDICATION
To two of the best beta readers out there, Linda Henden and Kay Henden (who also writes, using the pen names Allyn and Ellen Keigh), who have jointly kept me out of the weeds, spotted all of those trees in the forest I've missed, and waved me off those disastrous detours. Thanks, guys!
Chapter 1
The radio crackled to life. “Dispute in progress, lethal weapons involved.”
My partner, Shepherd Malone, grabbed the mic and claimed it for us. We took the Middle Verde Valley exit off I-17, heading toward the river. Turning left, we bounced along a dirt road for about a mile, through gray-green hills of mesquite and catclaw acacia trees.
The spring bloom had faded and dust blanketed the sparse leaves. Heat waves shimmered at the end of the valley. I squinted at the cloudless June skies and hoped for rain. It was the age-old problem here in the Southwest—we needed the water, just not too much of it all at once.
My name is Peg Quincy and in addition to being a newly appointed sheriff’s deputy, I'm a volunteer Family Liaison Officer, a FLO. I’m usually one step behind the firemen and the EMTs, smoothing the way for those in need. I gather information for the law, too, when a tragedy involves murder. I hoped this current call wouldn’t involve that.
The dirt track leveled out into a graded gravel throughway. On each side of us, the desert scrub made way for fields of manicured grass, bounded by a white-painted fence. In one pasture a herd of thoroughbred horses grazed, some with frisking colts. Money here. We passed under an arch labeled “Spine Horse Ranch” and under that in smaller letters, “Black Onyx at stud”.
At the small gatehouse, Shepherd lowered his window. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked the security guard.
“The ranch manager, Gil Streicker, told me to call you. We got a trespasser down by the first barn.” He pointed to a deep red wooden structure with a peaked roof.
Shepherd pulled into a parking area and we got out.
My stomach tightened as I readied for what lay ahead. The problem could be a homeless person with a psychotic break, a domestic dispute, or a burglary in progress. Even in our quiet rural community, violence was often only a step away.
We rushed past the corner of the barn to see a stout, middle-aged woman dressed in overalls, her long, black hair pulled into a knot. She held a pitchfork and jabbed threateningly towards the tall man standing in front of her.
“Damn you, Gil Streicker, I’ll make you wish you were never born.” Her voice was strong, and she accented each word with a push of her pitchfork.
“Yeah, well tell that miserable cripple brother of yours to stay the hell off our property.”
“He’s just claiming what’s ours,” she said. “You're stealing our water.”
“Your water. Prove it,” the man yelled.
She tilted the pitchfork closer to his waist, the tips of its sharp tines gleaming in the sunlight. “You stay away from what’s ours or I'll kill you!” she exclaimed.
The ranch manager backed a step and his boot heel stubbed against the barn wall, halting farther retreat. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, and his hand dropped to a revolver on his hip.
“Get back, Serena. So help me if you don't, I'll—”
My partner drew down his weapon and I clasped mine as well.
“That's enough folks.” Shepherd’s deep voice cut through the conflict. “Miss, drop that pitchfork and step away.”
She hesitated.
“Drop it, now.”
She released the pitchfork, and it tumbled to the ground.
“Sir, hands in the air,” Shepherd ordered.
The man did so, and I breathed out the breath I'd been holding. If we’d gotten here minutes later, this dispute could have turned deadly. And it might still not be over.
“Peg?” Shepherd gestured toward the man’s gun, a six-shooter. I walked over and drew it from his holster. I emptied the bullets and dropped them in my pocket. I checked the gun’s chamber and then stuck the empty gun in my waistband for safekeeping.
“I need my gun back,” Streicker protested. “I keep it handy for varmints.”
“You'll get it back when we figure out what's going on here,” I said.
Gil Streicker was a man in his early forties. He wore a sweat-stained cowboy hat, a denim shirt, and faded blue jeans. The jeans settled around his lanky hips like they’d been molded there. He was taller than me, too. At my six-foot height, I notice these things.
Shepherd holstered his own revolver and propped the pitchfork against the barn, away from Serena. “Now, folks, time to calm down a bit. Peg, take Mr. Streicker over there and get his story. Serena, let's you and I walk in this direction.” He took her arm and led her away.
Standard policy. Separate disputants to get both sides of the story. But Shepherd called the woman by her first name. Did he know her? Not surprising. Shepherd, close to retirement, had called this rural valley home for most of his life. I’d only moved here recently from Tennessee and was still learning this western environment.
The ranch manager huffed a breath and held out his hand. “Call me Gil.”
I took it in a solid handshake.
“Why don't we sit over there?” I pointed to a picnic table under the shade of a big cottonwood tree. The air was cooler in the shade, a light breeze rustling the leaves. A gray-and-white barn cat brushed against my leg and then drifted away.
Gil Streicker scowled, ready to make his case. He was breathing heavily, too, and I understood. Confronting an angry woman, an armed angry woman, could get the juices flowing better than a cliff side of rattlesnakes.
“Take a breath, Mr. Streicker, and tell me exactly what is going on here.”
He shifted his attention to me, gave me a direct blue-eyed stare. “Peg—can I call you Peg?”
The man radiated unexpected sexuality, a physical heat perhaps heightened by the recent argument.
“Sure glad you showed up when you did,” he said. “I might have had to hurt that woman.” He touched my arm.
Standard approach for an alpha male—make first contact.
I leaned back out of reach and lowered my voice an octave “You can call me Deputy Quincy.”
He shrugged. “Serena Battle’s brother—” Here, he turned and spat on the ground in disgust. “—destroyed our irrigation ditch. Cost a bundle to repair it. I sent my man over there with a bill and she tore it up. Now, this. She has no right to threaten us. Next time either one of that clan shows a face around here, I'll...”
“You'll what?”
“Never mind.” He gained control of himself with ob
vious effort. “I know you're just doing your job.” He gave a rueful grin and hitched at his trousers. The man was determined to be his own version of charming.
I wasn’t impressed. “Serena and her brother live close?”
“Work this run-down plot of land south of us,” Gil said. “We use the same irrigation ditch. With this drought, water has been scarce. Serena claims we been taking more than our share.”
“Have you?”
He blustered. “You saw the pastures coming in. Maintaining that grassland for our horses takes water.” He swept a hand of dismissal. “Hell, Serena's just growing a few vegetables down at her place. What does she need that much water for?”
I tried to remain neutral, but it was hard. My family came from farming background. They didn’t have a lot of money either, but they were hard workers and honest as a clear shaft of water.
“So you're stealing it.”
“That's what she says. Anyway, if she thinks something's wrong she can always sue us.”
His easy manner seemed to indicate she wouldn't. Lawyers can eat up a lot of money in a hurry. On that battleground, this expansive ranch property probably had already won.
“You own this ranch?” I asked. He seemed overly involved and I wanted to check.
“No, not yet.” He gave me a peculiar smile. “I'm the ranch manager.”
“Then I'd like to talk to the owner.”
“That would be Heinrich Spine. Let's see if he's available.”
He rose in a loose-limbed way and strode toward the barn, perhaps assuming I wouldn't keep up with him. No problem. I matched him stride for stride.
The earthy scent of big animals filled the dim barn. We passed several empty stalls, and then one containing a magnificent black stallion. Big, with a long flowing mane. He hung his head over the door, his alert ears tracking our progress toward him. Gil paused to stroke the horse’s cheek, caressing it gently like he might a woman's face.
We entered an office at the end of the building, and Gil waved to a girl behind the desk. She looked to be about twenty and had brown hair slicked-back in an unbecoming ponytail. The pungent odor of stable manure drifted from her clothing.
“Gil, are you all right?” She looked up at him with shining eyes.
“I'm fine, honey, nothing for you to worry about. Call the main house and see if Heinrich is accepting visitors.”
She talked on the phone for a few moments. Then she hung up and addressed Gil, ignoring me. “I'm sorry. The nurse says he's sleeping. He's not feeling well.” Her voice had a little-girl tentativeness, as if she were seeking approval from him.
Gil flashed her a smile and turned to me. “Sorry, Peg. That meeting will have to wait for another day.” He raised his hands, palms up, in a see-how-reasonable-we-are gesture.
The hair on the back of my neck rose. “Sooner or later, I'll have to speak with him. This matter needs to be resolved.”
Gil shrugged, conversation over. As we left the barn, he bumped into me and I felt a secondary rush of heat.
At the end of the drive, Gil took my hand. Held it. Gazed into my eyes for a long moment, his invitation clear. Then he dropped my fingers, and held out his own palm, all business: “You've got something that belongs to me.”
I gave Gil back his revolver. “Don’t be threatening people with that again or we’ll have to…”
“Got to protect what’s mine,” he said, unrepentant. He wriggled his fingers in a give-me motion.
“I’ll leave the ammunition at the gatehouse.” I straightened, my voice formal.
Gil turned on his heel and left me standing there feeling as if I'd gone ten rounds in a welterweight boxing ring. The man was a primal animal, no doubt about it. And what did that make me?
Serena Battle had left by the time I reached the squad car.
“What did you think of our resident Lothario?” Shepherd asked.
“Heavy.”
He chuckled. “Thought you might appreciate the experience. Brighten your morning.”
“You didn’t arrest Ms. Battle?”
“No cause. She’s got enough on her hands with her brother, Hank. She promised to stay away from the ranch.”
“And you believed her?” I asked.
“I’ve known Serena for years. Her daddy and I went deer hunting every fall until that stroke killed him. She’ll keep her word.”
“An arrest would emphasize the seriousness of what she’s done…”
“Peg!” His tone held warning.
Shepherd didn’t like to be second-guessed by anybody, least of all a junior partner. I was still finding my way on the uncertain ground of our working relationship.
We stopped by the gatehouse and I surrendered the bullets, warm from their stay in my pocket. Then we jounced along the dirt road, back to I-17 to resume our regular patrol.
Shepherd was quiet for a while and I asked his thoughts.
“Considering Serena Battle.”
“Feisty lady,” I commented.
“She's had to be, ever since her Pa died. She's sole guardian for her brother.”
“Guardian?”
“Accident.” He touched his head. “No motorcycle helmet.”
In four words my partner summarized a life gone terribly wrong. I hoped it never happened to me that sudden. But being a cop, it could. Part of the risk that we took every day.
“What's with this water feud of theirs, anyway?”
“Serena might actually have a case,” he said.
Shepherd let a sedan come up behind us and then slowed the patrol car to three miles under the speed limit. Sometimes he played games like this. Cars would follow behind the squad car like obedient ducklings, not risking a pass. Kept them honest, Shepherd said.
He shifted his attention back to the subject of our conversation. “In Arizona, water rights transfer with the property. And that land has been in Serena’s family for generations. Since they used the water first, she'd have senior rights to the Spine Ranch, even though it flowed through there first.”
“You warned her about trespassing. Think she'll stay away?” I asked.
“She better. Gil's a charmer, but that ranch is his life. He’d not hesitate to take drastic measures.”
“He good at what he does?”
“The best. A wizard at handling horses. Heard they started a dressage program for their Friesian stock. You see the stallion?”
“That black in the stable?”
He nodded. “Nothing prettier on a misty morning than to watch that big stud running across the meadow, mane and tail a-flying.”
A late-model red Porsche Carrera passed us going about ninety.
Shepherd flipped the light bar and sirens and we rammed to speed. The driver spurted ahead for a moment and I thought we'd have a chase. Then he turned on his blinker, edged to the side of the road and stopped.
“Cover me,” Shepherd said, getting out of the squad car, “and call in the plate.”
I did. The plate was clear, but the guy was giving Shepherd lip about something. Shepherd took the license and registration and walked back for me to check those, too.
“Trouble?” I asked.
“Nothing I can't handle.”
But after he returned the documents to the car, Shepherd had the guy get out and do some sobriety tests. The man walked the line nice and straight, hit his nose with his finger, eyes closed.
Would my partner pull him in anyway? Always a judgment call. After more discussion, he wrote out the ticket, tore it off the pad, and gave it to the driver. Then Shepherd walked back to the squad car.
“Made our quota for the day on that one,” he said. “Guy was high on something or just bullheaded. Maybe the size of that fine will quiet him down some. Hope so.”
Shepherd was breathing hard from the adrenaline rush. I understood. Sometimes a routine traffic stop turned into more. This time it didn't.
The red sports car signaled properly and merged into the traffic lane, keeping to the speed
limit as we passed him.
“Can't place that guy,” Shepherd said. “But I've seen him before, someplace.”
Often a life-defining event isn't clear until you look back on it later.
We’d just had two.
Chapter 2
The next morning Shepherd waited for me in the station parking lot when I drove up. “More trouble at the Spine Ranch,” he said. “They just called it in.”
I transferred to his squad car and buckled up. He squealed out of the lot.
“The water problems again?” I asked.
“No. Fire in the stables.”
A horseman's worst fear. Horses weren’t the smartest of animals in an emergency. Even if stable hands led the horses out, sometimes the animals bolted back into the chaos of the fire, seeking the safety of their stall. I remembered the black stallion. Had they got him out in time?
Shepherd punched the patrol car to speed on the freeway. It didn’t take long before we’d turned onto the rutted dirt road leading to the Spine Ranch. Then we slowed, Chahe sky, and a ranch hand banged a palm on the hood of the squad car, stopping us.
“This way,” he yelled, pointing to an open area.
Shepherd parked the car, and we followed the man at a jog. My cheeks burned from the searing wind. I coughed as debris from the fire fouled the air. The stable was fully engulfed in flames, and beyond, a herd of horses bunched nervously in a nearby paddock.
The stallion was there. They'd saved him, at least. He lifted his large black head in a challenge bugle. The mares around him fanned and then pushed together, wide eyes intent on the fire. Somewhere a dog barked. The smoke billowed in rough, white clouds when the water attacked it.
I tripped over a jumble of hoses crisscrossing the ground like a spider web torn asunder.
Shepherd grabbed my arm to steady me. “Slow down,” he cautioned. “Firemen got it under control.”
Streams of water arced into the center of the inferno. Flames crackled as water hissed into steam. A nearing siren signaled the arrival of another engine company. A fire like this could explode in our dry summer weather, igniting tinder-dry brush into a raging wildfire.
An oily black cloud burst upward, and the intense light from the fire blinded me. A timber crashed to the ground with an explosion of sparks. My foot slipped in the mud created from the defensive sheets of water, and my eyes smarted as we neared the fire.