Fatal Burn

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Fatal Burn Page 8

by Roxanne Rustand


  She rolled down her window as he approached her truck. “This is the place?”

  “Yep. You were right about the puppy mill tip. The Bascombs are gone, far as I can tell. But they’ve been served a warrant. They knew we’d be coming.”

  Uneasiness crawled up her spine as she looked down the narrow, gloomy lane. There were tire tracks through the snow, but thick brush crowded both sides and even in broad daylight it seemed dark and menacing. “Someone actually lives back there?”

  “Harvey Bascomb and his son.” Sam surveyed the area, his stance wary. “He’s actually a second cousin of mine, and I know he isn’t gonna like this—not at all. But I’ve got my orders, and I’d guess there’ll be lawyers hashing it all out later. Come on.”

  He turned on his heel, climbed back in the cruiser, and drove slowly ahead of her down the lane.

  Stiff branches clawed at the side of the truck, and deep ruts hidden by the snow grabbed at the tires. A half mile in the lane opened into a small clearing with a house and several long kennel buildings that had seen better days. A dilapidated old Chevy Mustang was parked by the house, its tires gone and hood raised. Snow filled the engine cavity.

  The deputy pulled to a stop by the closest kennel and waved her over to the door. From inside the building rose a cacophony of frantic barking.

  She stepped outside and rubbed her upper arms, feeling a sudden chill despite her jacket.

  “Well,” the deputy growled. “Let’s get to it.”

  He led the way into the building, felt along the wall and flipped several switches. A single bare bulb flared to life in the center of a long aisle. The stench of filthy cages and—perhaps infected flesh—assaulted Kris’s nose, and she retched.

  Dozens of dogs, some of them two and three to a narrow run, barked and jumped at the wire mesh doors of the pens. But though she’d expected them to be fierce, most seemed desperate, as if struggling to escape. From what she could see, at least half a dozen had been nursing pups recently.

  “But there aren’t any puppies! Where could they be?”

  “Got me. Maybe he sold ’em.” The deputy shoved a handful of leashes into her hand, his expression filled with doubt. “Let’s get moving on this.”

  She swallowed and nodded, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. If Bascomb’s own blood relatives were leery of him, what kind of man was he?

  “This place was once known for champion field-trial dogs,” Sam added. “So these animals were probably handled quite a bit. We should be okay. But let’s get out of here fast as we can.”

  She gingerly moved down the aisle until she found a pen holding two emaciated dogs that were less crazed than the rest. “Let’s start with you two,” she murmured softly. She waited until they warily approached the front of their pen and let them cautiously sniff at her hand. “See? I’m a good guy. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Unlocking the gate, she reached in and snapped leashes onto their collars. Whining, they both pulled back, their eyes rimmed with white. She sweet-talked them until they tentatively edged forward. At the front of their cage they jerked back again, as if terrified to leave, then finally followed her, their heads low and tails between their legs.

  It was only when she got them out to the truck that she realized part of the stench had followed them outside.

  Both dogs were crusted with filth, both had weeping sores over their jutting hipbones. She fought back a wave of nausea. Oh, dear Lord…how can this be? And what about the puppies—had they been just as bad?

  But surely not. If Bascomb had raced off with them, hurrying to sell them, he’d hardly have much success unloading them at reputable pet stores if the puppies looked ill. Her stomach pitched. Unless they were headed for far worse circumstances.

  The deputy followed with two other mature dogs, and they worked together to gently lift the animals into the individual cages built into both sides of the truck.

  “This is just…just unbelievable,” she murmured, listening to the four dogs scrambling to escape their new enclosures. “I saw some terrible things when I worked for another shelter, but nothing like this.”

  Sam’s face was ruddy with exertion. “The Bascombs are good people. They just hit hard times.”

  “Good people?” Aghast, she stared at him. Even if they were his relatives, how could he excuse their deplorable care of these animals?

  “There’s more to the story than what you see, but we’ve gotta follow orders.”

  It took over an hour to search all of the outbuildings and rescue the remaining dogs. By the time the last one was safely secured, the odor of filthy kennels and festering sores hung like a miasma around the truck.

  Over at his patrol car, the deputy tapped the microphone clipped to his shoulder, spoke into it, then he reached into the vehicle and withdrew an envelope.

  “Here you go,” he called out. “This is a copy of the court documents on this seizure, in case you need proof.”

  She accepted the envelope. “A thirty-day hold before they can be adopted, right?”

  He nodded. “Board and vet costs paid by the county. The owners can go to court and contest the order…or clean up their facilities and reapply for a kennel license. Everything is down in black and white.”

  “Some of those animals are going to need significant veterinary care, from what I see.”

  “I think there’s a ceiling cost per dog, unless you apply in writing for additional funds. In other words, no major surgery bills without approval.”

  “And in an emergency?”

  “Call the vet. The sheriff tells me she worked with the old shelter. She knows the ropes.”

  The deputy shot an uneasy glance toward the driveway, and Kris took a closer look at him. Beneath his veneer of authority he was much younger than she’d first thought…and if he was uncomfortable about a potential encounter with the Bascombs, then she wanted to be on her way, as well.

  She nodded her thanks and returned to the truck.

  “I expect Harvey will come by to check on his dogs, but you shouldn’t have any trouble,” Sam called out to her. “Like I said, he was given notification about the complaints, and was also served with the court order. He’s too smart to risk any more legal difficulties.”

  Kris climbed behind the wheel of the truck and locked the doors, then surveyed the property as she turned on the ignition. Did people really live in that spooky, dilapidated old house? And how could they allow such neglect of any animals—much less field-trial dogs that were probably worth a mint?

  Shivering, she shifted the truck into gear and followed the deputy. She sighed with relief when the patrol car stopped at the highway, then turned left. Home free.

  She turned on her right blinker, waiting for several cars and a pickup to pass. The cars whizzed by.

  The pickup swerved as the driver slammed on the brakes and veered sharply into the driveway. The rear of the truck partly blocked her path. She blindly hit her door locks and rolled up her windows, her heart in her throat, as she stared at the burly, late-middle-aged man behind the wheel.

  He shoved open the driver’s-side door, stepped outside and stalked over to her window, where he leered at her, his fleshy lips parted to expose tobacco-stained teeth.

  He signaled her to roll down her window, but she shook her head and fumbled for the cell phone she’d laid on the seat of the truck.

  “You know you can’t get away with this,” he growled, his voice muffled through the glass.

  The dogs in the back of her truck had been quiet, but now they set up a round of crazed barking that drowned out the rest of his words.

  She shrugged, waving a hand at her ear, and mouthed the word, “Sorry.”

  His face deepened to a dark red. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers—mark my words,” he shouted. “And you’ll be begging to apologize. Begging on your knees—did you hear me?”

  The noise of the dogs scrambling around in their cages and their frantic barking rose to an explosion
of fear.

  She motioned with both palms up, then gripped the steering wheel and eased around his battered pickup, careful to avoid his bumper and the mailbox. Glancing quickly to the right and left, she pulled out onto the highway and stepped on the gas, her heart beating madly against her ribs.

  Court orders and assistance from the sheriff’s department or not, Bascomb wasn’t happy, and he wasn’t just going to let this go. She could feel it in her bones. And meeting him again on his own, secluded turf—or anywhere else—was the last thing she wanted to do.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  Trace shook some slack out in the reins and nudged the colt into a lope, forcing himself to concentrate on the gelding’s easy three-beat cadence and headset as they traversed the indoor arena from one end to the other.

  His thoughts still kept veering back to Wind Hill Ranch.

  He had plenty to do at home: several two-year-olds that he was just starting under saddle. And older horses that he’d been training for cutting and reining performance classes next summer.

  Foaling and calving plus the usual chores that kept him busy from dawn until dusk no matter what the season. With the changeable March weather, feeding livestock could mean being buried in mud one day and tromping through snow the next. It was enough to keep a man’s mind busy, just staying ahead of everything…

  Except for his recurrent thoughts about the blonde at the neighboring ranch, who had clearly tackled more than she could handle with her fool idea about running an animal shelter…and the pervading sense of unease that filled his thoughts whenever his mind wandered back to her.

  He’d been so careful to avoid emotional entanglements during the years since the accident at the Denver rodeo. The thought of complications and responsibility for someone else made his blood run cold. Sure, Carrie was here at the ranch now, but she was spunky and independent and had her own life as a teacher…and woe to anyone who got in her way if she was on a mission to help someone.

  Kris Donaldson was another story.

  She was a woman who needed protecting, but he wasn’t the man for the job. Even if he ever could finally come to peace within himself over his failures, how could anyone else?

  Yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. And it made him…edgy, somehow, though his lingering feeling that she could be in trouble was crazy. He’d seen some of the traffic pulling into her lane when he drove past on his way to Lost Falls yesterday, and she sure didn’t lack company. With all those people around, how could anything go wrong?

  Carrie appeared at the far end of the arena and waved to him, so he settled the colt into a walk and headed over to her.

  “Nice,” Carrie said, smiling up at him when he pulled to a stop next to her. “He’s coming along really well.”

  “Shows promise.”

  Her eyebrows drew together as she canted her head and studied him for a minute. “Something wrong?”

  “Nope.”

  “You seem…distracted.”

  He shrugged. “Just tired. There was a fire call last night, and we didn’t finish up until almost four.”

  “Anyone we know?” Her voice filled with worry. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, thank goodness. It was an abandoned house out in the country, on the other side of town.”

  “Were you able to figure out the cause?”

  “Too dark last night, but I went back this morning and sifted through the debris. There weren’t any scents of accelerant or the typical char pattern for that type of arson. It looks like the fire started in a rusted wood stove. Accidental, not arson.”

  “But someone must’ve been there.”

  “I’m guessing some teenagers were having a little party, or maybe a vagrant was holed up there. There was quite a pile of beer cans inside.”

  Carrie shook her head. “What a shame. Some historic old home….”

  He laughed. “A crumbling shack of a house at best.”

  “Still.” She pursed her lips and gazed across the arena at a pair of cats chasing each other in circles, and then he knew she hadn’t just idly stopped by. “Since you’re tired and all, maybe you could use a break.”

  He rested a forearm on the saddle horn and waited.

  “I got busy with lesson plans and grading papers, and haven’t been over to see Kris for a while. Don’t you think we ought to go over and say hi?”

  “I was just there on Wednesday.”

  “Really.” Her eyes twinkled. “That’s good to hear.”

  He stifled a groan at her transparent delight. “So you can go on over and visit awhile. I need to stay here and work these horses or they’ll forget everything they ever knew.”

  “Please?”

  She was an eternal optimist, but she was wasting her breath if she thought she could play matchmaker and fix his life. He reined the colt toward the center of the arena. “Sorry.”

  “You work too hard, Trace,” she pleaded. “You’ve got to slow down. At least let that investigator job go.”

  “I can’t. You know why.” But even as he cued the colt into an easy jog, the hint of worry in her voice hit him square in the gut. Things hadn’t been easy for her lately, either. The least he could do was try to be fair.

  “Maybe tomorrow?” He glanced over his shoulder at her and saw a hint of a smile.

  “I’m taking dinner over there. Today.” Her soft voice drifted across the ring like a siren’s song. “Fried chicken…red potato salad…coconut cake. And I’m leaving the leftovers there.”

  At a slight lift of the reins, the colt dropped into a neat sliding stop. Trace shifted his weight, and the animal executed a 180-degree turn to face Carrie.

  “Coconut cake?”

  “Gooey seven-minute frosting with loads of toasted coconut. Three layers.”

  The vision of supper heading over to the neighboring ranch, leaving canned soup and sandwiches as Trace’s usual fallback plan, made the decision a little easier. After all, he could simply view Kris Donaldson as another pesky sister, and it would make things easier for everyone.

  Already knowing his answer, Carrie turned toward the house, her fingertips raised in fluttery farewell. “I’m leaving in an hour.”

  “Maybe she won’t be home.”

  “Don’t count on it, cowboy. Whether you like it or not, we’re gonna socialize.”

  Veterinarian Gina Lang looked up from the emaciated dog she’d just finished examining. “Have you heard from the owner yet?”

  “Not a word. The sheriff says he hasn’t heard from the Bascombs either, so he stopped by their place and it looked empty, so maybe they left town. Honestly, I’m glad. I hope they just stay away and don’t fight the county on this. I’d love to re-home every one of these poor dogs and give them a decent life.”

  The veterinarian gently ran her hand over the knobs of the dog’s spine. “I’m with you a hundred percent. Believe it or not, the Bascombs were once well-known in this region for their champion field-trial dogs, but that was a while ago.”

  “If this is how they cared for their dogs, I can hardly believe it.”

  “Harvey is—or was—a certified field-trial judge, and his dogs were once high in the regional standings. I understand he’s had some considerable problems, though.”

  Kris held her hands out in frustration. “Nothing that could warrant this.”

  “I don’t like gossip.” Gina hesitated. “But I guess it’s common knowledge because most of it was in the court reports section of the paper. There were some domestic abuse and DWI charges, then his wife divorced him. There were also some legal issues involving the sale of several dogs. Not, mind you, that any of that is an excuse for neglect. Maybe he got in so far over his head that he just didn’t care anymore.” Gina held the dog’s head gently between her hands and peered into its eyes. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You’ll be feeling better in no time.”

  “He’s the last one for you to see today. Thanks so much for coming out.” Kris took the leash and l
ed the dog out of the examination area of the kennel office and back to his pen. “Can you send the county a bill and send me a copy, too?”

  “You bet.” Gina turned to the counter and began gathering her supplies. “I’ll leave you bandaging materials and antibiotics that ought to hold you for a few days. Can you stop by the clinic to pick up the rest?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She looked at her watch. “Guess I’d better run. I have a few more calls, and then the kids from the church preschool are coming to the clinic for a tour.” She grinned. “I love it when they come. Everyone is absolutely thrilled.”

  From outside came the sound of a truck pulling to a stop.

  Bailey, who had been curled up on his bed in the corner of the office for the past hour, raised his head for a single, welcoming woof.

  “That has to be a truck from the Rocking R,” Kris said with a laugh. “He’s much more energetic if he doesn’t recognize the vehicle.”

  Gina hesitated and looked back, her hand on the doorknob. “You’ve met Trace and Carrie?”

  “They’ve been over several times. Nice people.”

  “They go to the Community Church here in town. Carrie lights up the place like fireworks when she gets excited about something. She just took over the Sunday School program, and she really has people revved up. Everyone just loves her.”

  “And…Trace?”

  “A great guy. I’m glad he’s back in town.”

  “Carrie and I have hit it off pretty well, but I think Trace wishes I’d never shown up here. He’s so…distant.”

  Gina nodded. “He’s quiet, but then, with all that happened…well, it hasn’t been easy.”

  Kris felt her heart catch. “What?”

  Gina’s cheeks colored. “I guess you’d better ask him or Carrie. It isn’t my place to say.”

  NINE

  Kris watched Gina go outside and talk to Trace and Carrie, then she turned back to check all of the dog runs, looking in on each animal as she went down the line.

 

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