by Lisa Preston
“You should talk to the cop about that when he gets here.”
“What’s the story with that Arriaga dude?”
“He pops into town now and again, pisses people off, leaves.”
“That’s his job, huh?”
“Seems to be.”
“How long’s that been his thing?”
“Oh, a year, year-and-a-half now. It’s getting old.”
I nodded. It had gotten old with me in a lot less than a year. “He’s missing someone?”
“So he says.”
“This place seems to be a Bermuda Triangle of sorts.”
“Begging your pardon there, young lady. I don’t know of any aircraft down in the area.”
“No, I was thinking of my dog and my tools and, for a while there, my truck. And someone in that Arriaga dude’s family.”
If only the rent-a-cop had more enthusiasm. If only someone else at the sale grounds stepped forward as a witness to what happened to me. If only I’d taken note of exactly where Ol’ Blue had been. If only the rent-a-cop hadn’t muttered in Spanish to a man who walked up and interrupted.
After they had said their piece, He-Who-Hadn’t-Helped-Me gave me one order as he moseyed off to watch steers or dogs or drink a soda and enjoy a hot dog or four while I hadn’t had so much as a Milk Dud all day.
“You wait here,” he said, holding up his palm for me to fully comprehend his stay command. “Don’t leave. Wait by your truck.”
I reconsidered the cluttered bulletin board. Just a thick cork veneer glued onto the plywood sheets. Some of the ads were yellowed and tattered, some leafed over each other and some were spanking new, laminated. Business cards were pinned all over, too.
Horseshoeing. Reasonable rates. Call now. Robbie Duffman.
The notice was fresh, handwritten on a plain sheet of paper. I wondered if Robbie Duffman was a new shoer.
New shoers need tools.
Only a shoer or at least a horseman handy with the tools of my trade would have stolen tools out of Ol’ Blue. And whoever did that had first conked me in the head and stolen my truck and dog.
My morning sounded like a bad country song. Felt like one, too.
I wrote Duffman’s number down and told myself to check on every single shoer I could find for however long I had to be here. And then I looked more carefully at the old photo of the missing man. Middle-aged, grinning in a meadow, a dog leaning against his leg. I wouldn’t have remembered the name of the fellow who’d tried to show me that picture, but the same name was there, on the poster.
Arriaga.
Vicente Arriaga was missing, and any information would be rewarded.
I put my fingertips on the picture of the missing man, let my thumb slip off the photo. Swallowed and stared.
Charley sat beside him, leaning against Vicente Arriaga’s leg, smiling up at him, ready to work woolies. My Charley.
No way was I going to stand here waiting for a cop.
***
A California Highway Patrol officer flipped on lights and siren as soon as Ol’ Blue rolled within sight of the ranch.
The cop did not come up to the window like normal.
His PA squawked orders.
“Driver, exit your vehicle with your hands in the air, facing away from me.”
Really? I sat there for a second, thinking about the unlikeliness of pretty much everything that had happened today. The cop repeated the command over his PA and added, “Do it now.”
I unbuckled my seat belt, creaked Ol’ Blue’s driver door open, then stepped into the sun, making shadow puppets with my arms extended as ordered. Behind me, the black silhouette of a cop came up, gun in hand.
Chapter 6
ALARM ROSE IN MY CORE. THE sound of the cop holstering his weapon competed with my breathing. I’d never before had this experience, but I didn’t move a muscle as he patted me down.
“What’s your name?”
“Rainy Dale.” Man, my head hurt.
“What’s your real first name?”
“Rainy.” I wondered if I should spell it for him.
“I.D.”
A pause drew on while I ran his last comment around in my brain, then I happened upon the notion that he meant to be requesting my driver’s license. I fished my Oregon state license from Ol’ Blue’s visor under the cop’s close observation.
Right away, he impressed me by showing he could read. “Rainy Dale. No middle name.”
When I said nothing, he added, “I stopped you because you have a taillight out.”
Even in my dulled state, my hackles rose. His approach on a bad taillight was way too aggressive.
The cop stepped away back toward his patrol car and talked indecipherably to his radio while I waited to see if this was going to turn into a fix-it ticket or one with a fine or if he was having the kind of day where I got to drive away with a promise to deal with Ol’ Blue’s old wiring.
When the cop came back, he said, “Do you have any objection to permitting my dog to sniff around your vehicle?”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, what I’d like to do is leave your truck doors open and just let my dog walk around to check it out.”
“I guess that’s all right. Is this usual?” I waved a hand in agreement.
But he was walking sideways back to his car, which was when I noticed the bouncing, pointy-eared dog in his back seat. He leashed it, all the while talking in a girly-high tone about what a good boy the dog was.
Tears for Charley flooded my eyelids, so I had to open them like saucers to not drip. “You want me to just stand here?”
“If you’ll wait right on that line, ma’am.” Twenty-four years old, I am, and the cop called me ma’am. I toed the white-painted line on the shoulder of the road where he pointed, right in front of Ol’ Blue’s open door, since the cop’s dog apparently liked to sniff vehicles with the doors open.
The dog looked like a pared-down German Shepherd, yellow-bodied with a black face. From the way its tail was going, snuffling around Ol’ Blue was the best part of his day so far. Absolutely no traffic came by in either direction, which was a shame, ’cause I thought we made quite a spectacle. The dog sped around Ol’ Blue’s tires and took a good long pause in the cab, wagging like crazy while the cop peered and frowned at the dog and my truck cab.
“He smells my dog,” I said.
“My dog does not give a flip about other dogs.”
Working dogs don’t. They honor another when it’s the other dog’s turn to work, and they want their next chance to work, that is all. I started to say this aloud but skipped it for what mattered.
“As long as you’re here rooting around my truck, I need to talk to a police officer about a theft and an assault. It happened this morning at the Black Bluff bull sale grounds.”
The dog and cop both looked at me.
“Go on.” The man waved to Ol’ Blue’s wheel wells and the space between the cab and the truck bed. The police dog shoved his nose everywhere the fellow pointed, wagging all the while, moving on, and sniffing.
I raised my voice unsure if the cop was listening. “A-couple-three hours ago, I was at the Black Bluff bull sale grounds, way off to the side, and someone hit me in the head. When I woke up, I was just outside that ranch.” I pointed. “But didn’t know where I was, ’cause I’m not from here. I was way over near the ranch’s east side. A fellow said my truck had been driven onto the ranch, and that’s where I found it. My dog was missing. Still is. I found my truck not too far onto the ranch.”
“Your truck was jacked, driven onto the ranch, and abandoned there?” His eyebrows were up with surprise and interest.
“And some tools and my dog’s gone.”
He put his dog back in his patrol car and then came forward with a question. “What kind of tools?”
As I named the track nippers and nail cutters and crease nail pullers and whatnot, the uniformed cop repeated the words and wrote, but asked, “What is this stuff?”
“Tools of my trade.” I cleared my throat so it was strong and sure when I said, “I’m a horseshoer.”
His face did the surprise expression parade all over again. He muttered toward his dog like that was the only person he talked to in his day. “Tools. Track nippers?” His mind seemed to really be spinning.
I admit sometimes to a little part of me getting a kick out of the surprise most men show when they find out what I do for a living. I offered to show him my big nippers for comparison, but he said he didn’t need to see them.
The cop asked to look at the back of my head, posed me more questions about what happened at the sale grounds and when I’d woken up and if I wanted medical help. “Why didn’t you call the police from the ranch house?”
“They said there was a jurisdictional thing. That I had to go back to the sale grounds where it happened.”
He snorted. “I bet they did. Any law enforcement officer can write an informational report that gets forwarded to another agency.” Then he gave me a card with a case number that he said would help me file a claim with my auto insurance, and the case wasn’t likely to go anywhere since they had nothing to go on at this point. But he hoped I’d find my dog.
I couldn’t go home without Charley. How long would I live out of my truck, calling and waiting for him?
And I’d miss my wedding in a few days.
“So,” the cop said, “you don’t work for the ranch or have any dealings with them?”
“Right,” I agreed.
He left me with a verbal warning to fix the taillight. When I could no longer see him, I fired Ol’ Blue up and drove on to the ranch through the main gate.
***
Barbie-Ivy was walking toward her showcase home when I pulled Ol’ Blue up a respectful distance from the big house, next to the beat-up Ford Bronco, Nevada license on its bumper, resting close to the bunkhouse. The Appaloosa had been moved to the oak-shaded side of the arena, but waited patiently, still tacked up. And this time, I noticed several fancy, shaded, empty kennels by the triple garage.
“Back already?” Ivy called. “Did you go to the sale grounds?”
“I’m back.” My voice sounded so weird. “What matters to me is my dog. I really need to look for him. I’d like to walk—”
“Gabe or Oscar or Stuckey could take you out on a four-wheeler.”
Sitting sounded nice. I was beat, which isn’t like me in the middle of the day, especially when I haven’t done a single shoeing. But, no. I shook my head, just enough to communicate. Dang, this headache was making me sick to my stomach. “It’s pretty hard to hear and to call a dog from those machines. I’d better walk.”
The much faster way to get around this ranch would be ahorse-back, but I couldn’t ask Ivy to put a good horse under me. If I were home and some stranger asked to borrow my Red to go look for a lost dog, I wouldn’t exactly hand my horse over.
“Dale’s Horseshoeing,” Ivy read aloud from Ol’ Blue’s truck door. “I didn’t notice before. Is your husband a horseshoer?”
“I’m a shoer.” And I wouldn’t have a husband until the middle of the week, assuming I could find Charley and go home.
“No way! For real?” Ivy stared as I nodded, then she reread Ol’ Blue’s door. “A woman horseshoer. Imagine that. That’s so cool. But it must be hard. Oh, you must be strong.” She reached for my shoulder and bicep, fondling away. “You are a hardbody. Like you do weightlifting.”
I don’t work out, but I tested the headache with half a nod and a shake. It wasn’t getting worse, but a couple of aspirin might be helpful.
“It’s Ivy Beaumont, by the way. My husband Milt and I own this place.” She waved in every direction, her voice the music of someone who’s never had a bad day.
“Rainy Dale.” I shook hands, which sort of seemed to surprise her. “I’ve got to look for my dog.”
“So, you need to drive around to the east side? You were on the boundary road?”
I shook my head. “I think he’s here, on this ranch somewhere.”
“Wait, why would you think that? Gabe said they noticed you wandering by the back gate. The east gate.” She peered hard at me. Maybe I was wavering on my feet.
“My truck was dumped on this ranch.”
“Your truck was dumped on the ranch? Why? Oh, some people. That’s a hell of a thing. I hate that. We’ve had people throw trash over there, old refrigerators, junk. Someone even abandoned an old car over on that edge of the ranch. I’m sorry I didn’t get the whole story before. Look, the pig hunt is finished, so you go ahead and look for your dog if that’s what you’d like to do. I’ve a few ranch workers out there. If anyone stops you, tell them Ivy said it’s okay for you to be here.”
***
Glad I’d slugged down that water they gave me earlier, I struck off, farther and farther from the houses and barn, through one cross-fencing gate after another. The ranch had scrubby native grass that would be nothing but brown and dead-looking come summer, I knew, but greened the hills nicely now. I grew hoarse and thirstier from calling for Charley, saw pig sign, heard sheep. Scattered oaks gave shade, and there were plenty of little hollows in the hills. The ground was the kind that’s good for horses’ hooves, sandy, some rock, well-drained. One giant hill crowned the whole of the rolling land and would give me the best view, so it was my lot to climb and climb. After I’d been afoot a good hour and a half, I didn’t have much spunk left in me, if I’d ever had any since it got knocked out of my head that morning.
A perfect vertical stack of rocks, maybe two dozen or more, marked the summit. Past that cairn lay a small, flattened mound of gold fur.
At a glance, it could be him.
I stared, swayed and stared some more, trying to focus. It couldn’t be him. My Charley would come to me, wouldn’t he?
If he was able.
But that body on the hilltop looked like my Charley, and he looked dead.
Chapter 7
IT WASN’T RIGHT THE WAY CHARLEY lay, his head and throat pressed into the ground, his whole body unmoving.
“Charley?”
No wiggle of greeting, no pushing himself to his feet as I called. “Charley!” I ran to him, slid on my knees, ending up right in front of his nose and paws. “Are you okay?”
He crawled onto my lap. I stroked him all over, looking for a gunshot wound or fur turned red and wet with blood.
Nothing.
I caressed more gently, searching for the unstable crunch of broken bones.
He was whole. I lifted him from my lap, placed his body on the dirt at my knees, rose and stepped five feet away.
“Charley, come here.”
He lifted his golden body, oddly, stiffly, head low, then slunk forward with a reluctance born of indecision. When he reached me, I stepped back again, ten feet, and called him. He followed. Again, twenty feet, then thirty. He wagged as he re-approached me each time. Hiking backward made me trip and stumble, but I kept this up until Charley trotted to me and whatever was broken inside his head got restored.
By the time we staggered back to Ol’ Blue at the ranch house, I was beyond whipped. I wanted to crawl into Ol’ Blue and sleep, snuggled with Charley. My best plan was to drink the water I carried in several old half-gallon jugs Guy buys apple cider in, sleep on the roadside, and get back on the interstate after some rest. I’d have to make the hundreds of miles home in spurts.
A four-wheeler came up behind me with a careful hum, raising no dust as it passed, shutting off and gliding in under momentum beside Ol’ Blue. The driver wore a white full-face helmet and sunglasses. His black jeans and checked shirt were dusty. He was a smaller fellow than the one who’d escorted me from the far east of the ranch, probably shorter than my five-six.
He removed the sunglasses and addressed Ivy as she stepped out of her castle. “They only wanted the head and cape.”
“Oh, nice. That’s lucky for us—” She noticed me there and shrieked, then covered her mouth with both hands. She came around t
he four-wheeler staring at Charley, then froze. “Flame?”
Charley wagged and headed toward her. My guts clutched hard.
“Charley, wait,” I said.
He stopped.
“Flame! Oh, my God! For real?”
Charley wiggled his whole body, muscles vibrating to Ivy’s excited, “Flame, Flame Flame, where have you been, darling?”
I cleared my throat hard. “He’s been with me. He’s mine now. Charley, come.”
“I can’t believe it,” Ivy squealed. “What do you mean, he’s been with you? How is it that you have him? How long have you had him? Do you know Vicente? What happened?”
Her questions were way too much for me. I blinked and opened my mouth, gears whirring in my head, but couldn’t think where to start. Couldn’t think.
Ivy grabbed my hand and jostled. “Where was he?”
“On the hilltop, near the rock cairn.”
“He was at the stone boy?” Ivy’s voice brimmed with wonder. “But, God, where’s he been all this time?”
“I just lost him this morning.”
“But I mean, wait, so you’ve had him with you, as like, your dog? No way! For how long?”
“Two years. He’s been my dog for the last two years.” I needed her to realize that whatever prior claim she’d had on Charley had evaporated, or I was going to be crying again. “He’s seen me through a lot. He has a good life with me up in Oregon.”
The man on the four-wheeler swung one short leg over and took a seat sideways as he watched the volley of conversation between Ivy and me. He looked to be a lot closer to Ivy’s forty-something than my age. With the white helmet resting in his lap, he pulled a black baseball cap from his waistband, donned it, and cocked his head. Behind the four-wheeler seat, an open-topped cargo box held a grisly load. I smelled blood.
Really, blood has a stink all its own. I was way too young the first time I wandered into the slaughter barn on the west Texas ranch where my daddy had been working at the time. Excessive spilled blood makes a smell that stays with you, and it’s not nice.
A sick feeling of dread banged on my brain, demanding to be recognized even as Ivy shrieked.