Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries)

by Laura Crum

  At least I was done for the day. I headed for Lonny's place, wishing I had time to go home and take a cool shower. But I had promised Lisa I would go to this practice roping, and Lonny had agreed to haul the horses up there. I needed to hurry.

  It was six o'clock when we drove into the Bennett Ranch. I looked carefully at the colorful tangle of trucks and trailers parked in the field next to the arena. About a dozen rigs. A few I recognized; most I didn't.

  Lonny parked and we got out and unloaded Burt and Gunner. As we saddled, I smelled the familiar roping arena smell. A summer evening smell. Horses and cattle and dust. People stood in little clusters by their rigs, talking, roping a dummy steer, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer. A few kids ran around. And everywhere there were horses. I smiled to myself. A roping arena felt like home.

  Getting on Gunner, I rode over to the barnyard. Glen, Tim, and Lisa were saddling up.

  "Hey." Glen gave me his straight look, a smile that was more the intent of a smile than any perceptible motion of his facial muscles. He pulled the cinch tight on Smoke. I looked at the horse a minute, admiring him.

  A registered Quarter Horse, Smoke was as good-looking as a stud gets, his dark blue-gray color a perfect complement to his little head, his massive, powerful rump, his strong shoulder and curved neck. Even with his ears pinned as they were now, annoyed at the pressure of the cinch, he looked noble, a horse straight out of an old painting.

  Glen caught my gaze and I smiled. "He sure is a nice-looking horse." Glen smiled back.

  "He's a good one." He slapped Smoke's neck with affectionate pride.

  The stallion stood quietly for this, as he did for most things. Glen used him just as if he were a gelding, which was good, if you could get away with it. I'd heard it said that stallions were either lazy or crazy, which was as handy a description as I could come up with. The bottom line was that there were stallions you could ride and rope on and treat like a horse and there were those you had better never take your eye off if you wanted to live to a ripe old age. Smoke was in the former category.

  I saw that Lisa was saddling Chester and said, "I take it he's OK?"

  "He passed the oil this morning, and he's seemed normal all day. I'm just going to rope a couple on him."

  "Sounds good." Turning Gunner, I rode back toward the arena, taking a look around to see who was there. Mostly local ranchers, it seemed, several of whom I recognized.

  Pat Domini rode by on her big, high-headed gelding, a horse she called Dragon, an immensely powerful beast who was one of the best head horses I knew of. His color, a solid dark red, technically called liver chestnut, combined with his size, gave him an oddly imposing presence, added to which he was a high-powered, snorty sucker with a way of looking at people as though they were insignificant ants to which he was personally indifferent. Dragon seemed a particularly fitting name.

  Though Pat was a tall woman, she looked small on Dragon's back. I smiled a greeting at her, and she smiled back -absently, I thought. Immediately afterward she looked over her shoulder, toward the ranch entrance, and I saw her face get tense. I turned my head to find what she was looking at.

  A small silver Mercedes was pulling into the field, one of the sporty two-seater type, with the top down. It looked like an elegant little toy next to the large trucks and trailers. Sitting in the driver's seat was Charles Domini.

  I glanced back at Pat. She didn't exactly look glad to see her husband. Her eyes narrowed sharply, but then her face smoothed out. "Charles is here," she said to me, with a shrug in her voice.

  I didn't say anything. Charles seldom roped but occasionally came to Glen's to lean on the fence and watch. I thought myself he was mostly interested in hearing the gossip.

  He unfolded himself out of the Mercedes and strolled toward us. As always, he looked subtly overdressed, though he wore jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved shirt, like virtually every other older man there. It was the sheen of the shirt, the gleam of the polished boots, the flash of gold around his neck and on his wrist. Charles didn't look like a roper.

  Pat rode in his direction. I turned Gunner and went the other way, missing whatever scene Charles and Pat were planning to play out. Threading through the parked rigs in the field, I headed for the gate to the arena, intending to warm Gunner up.

  Walking past an unfamiliar rig, a truck with a large camper on the back, hitched to a battered stock trailer, I glanced idly in the window of the camper-and met the eyes of a face looking out. The impact was sudden and startling, like walking around a comer and finding someone with their pants down. I jerked my eyes away and moved on. But I recognized the face, all right. It was Sonny Santos in that camper.

  I rode into the arena and kicked Gunner up into a lope, my mind spinning. Should I tell Glen or Lisa that Sonny was here? What good would it do? Surely I would only start a brawl.

  I saw Lonny loping Burt and rode up beside him. "I need to talk to you," I said.

  Before I could get any further, Lisa hailed me from over near the chutes. She rode in my direction, smiling. "We're roping together this weekend, right?"

  "I guess so," I said. "If I can get Saturday off."

  "So we'll practice together tonight? You don't mind me stealing her?" Lisa flashed a smile at Lonny.

  "He's just got his head horse, anyway," I answered for him, "and I need a heeler. It'll work out just fine."

  "How's the heel horse doing?" Lisa asked.

  "He's lame," Lonny said sadly. "I think he's done."

  "That's too bad. This one's for sale, if you're looking." She patted Chester's neck.

  Lonny ran his eyes over the horse and nodded. "I'll watch him," he said.

  "He's a good one," Lisa told Lonny. "Smart as a whip, and he wants to be a rope horse."

  We all smiled in understanding and Lonny nodded again. "How much do you want for him?"

  "He belongs to Dad. He's asking six thousand. Chester's by Smoke."

  All of us looked over to where Glen sat on Smoke, talking to Al, who seemed to be complaining about something. He was a big bull of a man with a voice to match his bulk, and we could all hear his querulous tones. I couldn't catch the words, though.

  Suddenly Lisa's gaze shifted from Glen and Al to the parking lot. Her eyes had a look of intensity that made me wonder if she'd spotted Sonny Santos roaming around. I followed the line of her vision and saw a blue Cadillac driving into the field, looking as incongruous as Charles's Mercedes. It parked near the arena, and after a minute Joyce got out carefully and walked up to the fence.

  I stared. Joyce was turned out. Her immaculate sky blue pants were topped by a billowing snowy white blouse with silver sequins, and her cowboy boots and purse were white. Her ash blond hair was carefully arranged, and no doubt if I'd been close enough to see it, her makeup would be equally detailed. She looked like a TV version of a rancher's wife, totally unsuited to the dusty arena where she stood.

  As we watched, Glen's jaw got a little squarer and he rode Smoke up to the fence. Lisa said, almost to herself, "What's she doing here?" Obviously Joyce was not a regular at practice ropings.

  Glen sat on Smoke a while, talking to Joyce, then dismounted and walked off toward the barn, leading the horse. Joyce went with him. I watched Lisa follow them with her eyes until they disappeared behind the barn.

  The cattle were standing in the chute, ready to go, and the ropers were looking impatient, but Al was nowhere to be seen. Lonny and Lisa and I all turned our horses in a unanimous motion and began loping them around. Time to get warmed up.

  Galloping Gunner, feeling the warm evening wind in my face, I forgot the tensions of the moment and began to relax. Maybe we would just have a good time here. It was only a roping, after all.

  Five minutes later there was a light sweat on Gunner's neck and all his muscles were loose. We were ready. On the thought, I saw Glen riding toward the box on Smoke; Al stood by the chutes. "Clear the arena!" he hollered.

  We all rode out the gate. Out of the comer of my
eye I saw Joyce's Cadillac inching out of the field. I looked around for a glimpse of Sonny Santos, but he was nowhere in sight. My roaming gaze caught Charles Domini, leaning on the fence. He gave me his slow, unpleasant smile, the smile of a conspirator.

  I looked back at Glen, riding Smoke toward the box. Even from a distance it was apparent something had upset the horse. He was tossing his head, skittering, and spooking, and his neck was wet with sweat. Glen's face was set hard and looked angry; if I hadn't known better I would have guessed that Glen had been beating on the horse. But Glen wouldn't have done that. He knew how stallions were-whipping them only caused trouble.

  Still, something had happened. Smoke, usually calm and reliable, looked frantic. Glen rode him into the header's box and got him turned around by main force. Smoke wouldn't stand still; he reared up again and again. Gradually the arena got quiet as everybody focused on the man and the horse struggling in the header's box.

  Smoke seemed to be getting wilder and wilder; the look in his eyes was close to panic. I didn't understand it. Smoke was a broke head horse. This much agitation was bizarre.

  I could hear Lisa's voice, thin and scared. "Dad, just walk him out of there. He's freaking out."

  Glen's jaw was hard. He snapped a look at the whole arena. "This son of a bitch is going to stand in this box if I have to go 'round with him all night," he said flatly.

  He backed the horse up and took a firm hold of the reins.

  Smoke froze for a split second, unnaturally still. Suddenly he rose up again in a rear. Only this time it was different; this time the horse went up and back all in one motion, with no hesitation, the whole weight and momentum of his body thrown backward in a last-ditch effort to escape the situation.

  It happened so quickly there was hardly time for thought. First the horse hanging in the air, then dropping over backward, a flash of Glen's body moving as he threw himself sideways, then the ominous crash of Smoke falling into the fence behind the header's box.

  The horse was down. I couldn't see Glen. Then the horse was scrambling to his feet and galloping off at a dead run; he looked OK. Glen slowly raised himself to a sitting position as several people converged on him. I could hear his words: "I'm all right."

  Climbing off Gunner, I handed the reins to Lonny and went after Smoke. The stallion was charging up and down the back fence of the arena frantically, looking as if he might try to jump out. I walked in his direction, talking quietly in an attempt to soothe him while I assessed his expression. He looked scared to death.

  Eventually he ran into a comer and stopped for a minute. His eyes were wide, his nostrils huge and puffing, and his forelegs were trembling. His coat was so wet it was dripping. He stared at me apprehensively, as though I'd come to eat him, rather than catch him. I thought his behavior totally uncharacteristic.

  I advanced toward him quietly, murmuring meaningless words. He was shaking where he stood. Gently I reached up and pulled the reins over his head and started to lead him off. He scrambled backward against the pressure, looking like he might flip over backward again.

  I dropped the reins and let him go. He ran a few steps and stopped, still trembling. I just stood there and watched him. A voice from the sidelines broke into my attention: "What's wrong with him?"

  It was Susan. She stood by the fence, staring at me and Smoke, her eyes sharp and suspicious.

  "He's just scared," I said quietly.

  Susan looked unconvinced.

  Shifting my attention back to Smoke, I spoke in my most reassuring tone. "You'll be OK," I told him. "Just relax. That's a good boy."

  Smoke was still trembling. White foam dripped from his mouth. Another voice cut into my concentration: "So, why don't you catch him?"

  Janey's voice. She stood by Susan, and both their eyes were fixed on me and the horse.

  "He needs to think it over," I said. "He's still pretty upset."

  I watched Smoke for another couple of minutes. He finally seemed to let down a little. Once again, I reached for the reins and asked him for a step forward. He tensed up a little, but he took one. Then another. Then he was following me, shaky and still nervous, but controllable.

  Glen was standing in the header's box, surrounded by Lisa, Tim, and Al. I could hear Lisa's voice, sharply raised: "Dad, enough is enough."

  More talk and then Al bellowed out, "Everybody go home! We're not gonna practice after all. Glen's going down to the hospital." Al looked grimly satisfied, I thought, like an Old Testament prophet of doom after disaster had struck.

  I did a quick reconnaissance. Charles Domini's silver Mercedes was gone. The rig with the camper on it was just bumping out of the parking lot. I couldn't see who was driving it. Couldn't see any faces peering out of the camper windows, either.

  People started loading their horses, getting ready to go home. Lonny still sat on Burt, holding Gunner. Pat Domini was next to him, on Dragon. Both of them watched Glen hobble slowly across the arena, leaning on Tim's shoulder.

  Tim helped his father into the passenger side of his green Sixball truck, and they drove out. On the way to the hospital, I presumed. I led Smoke over to Lisa. The horse was still nervous, but he no longer seemed irrational.

  "We need to talk," I told Lisa. "Right away."

  Lisa looked pretty distraught. "I've got to get these horses unsaddled and fed," she said.

  "I'll help," I told her. "Will you drive me home?"

  "Sure."

  I let Lonny know what my plans were; he agreed to take Burt and Gunner home and wait to hear from me. Then I helped Lisa unsaddle Smoke, Rosie, Roany, and Chester. I watched Smoke for another few minutes after I turned him out in his pen; he seemed a little restless but basically all right. He was willing to put his head down and eat his hay, anyway.

  Eventually we were done. I got in the pickup with Lisa, and she drove it up the hill, past the big house, dark and quiet. I could see no sign of Joyce's Cadillac. Lisa made no motion to stop.

  We made the trip to Lisa's house in silence. We didn't arrive there in silence, though. I could hear the sharp barks of the two Queenslands over the noise of the engine as Lisa pulled into the yard. Brisk, happy barks, barks of greeting.

  Lisa called to them to hush as we got out of the truck and I followed her into the yard. Joey sniffed my leg; Rita aimed a soft, fake nip at my heels.

  Lisa walked into the house, disappeared into the kitchen, and reappeared with tumblers of ice and amber liquid. "Brandy and soda," she said briefly.

  I nodded, accepted a glass, and sat down on the couch, breathing in the warm, familiar smell of dog. Some people would have said the room stank. To me, it smelled pleasant and comforting.

  Lisa sat down in one of her fat chairs, her movements jerky and abrupt. She stared into space for several seconds, holding her drink but not drinking it. I took a long swallow of mine.

  Joey sat down next to Lisa's knee, and she stroked him with an absent hand, not looking at me or the dog or anything else that I could see. Rita walked up to me humbly, head down, ears folded back, as though apologizing for her suspicious nature. I held my hand out. She rubbed her head against it, petting herself. After a minute I stroked her forehead and scratched her behind the soft, pointed ears.

  Lisa finally looked at me. "It wasn't an accident, was it?"

  "No," I said. "Somebody gave that horse something."

  "You're sure?"

  "Pretty sure. There was a small mark on his neck that could have been an injection site, and I don't think there's any other reasonable explanation for his behavior."

  "What could cause that?"

  "Anyone of a number of things. Epinephrine, amphetamines, prostaglandins. They could all cause agitation and excitement."

  "How could somebody manage to give it to him?"

  "Glen led Smoke away right before the roping. He went off to talk to Joyce, it looked like. Smoke was out of sight of the arena, behind the barn, for several minutes. When Glen came back, he looked mad and the horse looked cr
azy. Something happened. "

  "Could somebody really give him a shot that quickly?"

  "Sure they could. I could. You sort of palm the shot in your hand so the horse, or other people, can't see it. You reach up to the horse's neck like you're going to pet him and just slip the injection in the jugular vein. It doesn't take three seconds. I do it all the time on difficult horses." It was the method I used on Thunder, for instance.

  "And the shot would take effect that fast?"

  "You bet. A shot in the jugular vein takes effect in a matter of minutes."

  "So, what do we do now?" Lisa sounded confused.

  "Tell the cops," I said promptly. "I've got a bad feeling about all this."

  "Okay. But we have to tell Dad first," Lisa said. "He'd never forgive me if we went to the cops without telling him."

  "All right. Where is he? Down at the hospital?"

  "Yeah. I made him go down there to be checked out. His ankle was swelling up. It got caught between Smoke and the fence."

  "I guess I can call him in the morning," I said doubtfully. "I wouldn't talk to the sheriff's department before then. In which case, I ought to get going, Lisa. I've got to be at work tomorrow."

  It was black dark as we left Lisa's house; stars were white pinpricks in the steady sky. No man-made glow diminished the emptiness, and I had the vivid sense that I could see those other galaxies spinning through space.

  We drove out of Lisa's little valley without incident, but Lisa braked as we approached Glen's house. Lights were on. Tim's truck was parked in the drive. "They're back," she said. "Should we go in?"

  "Might as well."

  I felt hesitant, though, as I followed Lisa through Glen's back door. I was an outsider, an intruder in this strange family conference. I didn't belong.

  Glen's huge living room was dim, lit only by the cold light of the TV. The flickering blue-white glow showed Glen and Tim sitting in two armchairs in front of the set. They appeared to be watching some sort of sitcom; I could hear the sound of canned laughter.