Forging Fire

by Lisa Preston

  “I know,” Stuckey said. “I ain’t stupid.”

  Duffy honked a laugh. “We putting that to a vote?” He dropped the horse’s leg when he was done with it, nothing gentle to the motion, and Chromey threw his head up in response.

  “I’m not dumb,” Stuckey said, defensiveness rising in his voice. “It’s just a joke, calling him Vincent.” He lifted his chin to Duffy and pointed at me. “She’s marrying a guy who’s got an Ay-rab.”

  “Bah, Arabs,” Duffy said. “They’re so narrow-chested, both front legs come out the same hole up.”

  “What you got for horses?” I figured he’d say he owned Quarter Horses, but the answer surprised me.

  “None. They’re hay burners.”

  I’ve heard this weird thing in some people’s voices before, that they don’t like horses. I heard it now.

  “Why’re you a shoer?” I’d wanted to ask why he was trying to be a shoer, but a little diplomacy might make the middle of my day smooth out.

  “Why’re you?” Duffy asked.

  “I get a kick out of it.” Getting quizzed on why I’m a shoer is pretty common, but it’s a bit weird from a baby-shoer who doesn’t like horses. And wit like mine is mighty sad to waste, but I fear it was unrecognized in the present circumstances. I turned and asked Stuckey, “You got a Shod Wand we could bonk this Chromey colt on the head with?”

  He frowned and answered slowly, “I don’t think we have one of those.”

  Speedy on the uptake, Stuckey wasn’t.

  Duffy laughed. “Stuckey’s so green he hardly knows which end of a hammer to hold.”

  I tried again. “Fellas, the shoe fairy ain’t going to show up and finish this horse for us. You want to gab or shoe something?”

  “Oh, um, shoe something.” Stuckey gave a game smile that showed he knew he’d been ribbed hard and was used to taking it. “Yeah, let’s shoe.”

  And I felt like a bully, probably ’cause I’d been acting like one. I got nicer, talked about getting efficient with motion to go faster, when to put a shoe in the fire, when to get it out and fit it.

  Now and again, we could hear someone—Gabe, I figured—pushing a wheelbarrow from one paddock to another, apparently picking up manure, but we stayed on task.

  “The anvil is a heat sucker,” I told Stuckey. “Keep that shoe off it ’til you’re ready to shape it.”

  I gave them all the time we needed to get Chromey shod. It was good for the horse and the humans.

  “I’ll finish him,” Duffy said when the second shoe was needing just one more nail to be ready to finish the clinches.

  Duffy’s clinching was ugly—too long and unevenly folded.

  He noticed the difference, too, eyeing the foot I’d finished. “Maybe yours come out better because of how you squint or bite your lip or something.”

  “That’s probably it,” I agreed.

  There was no way Robbie Duffman was making a living as a shoer.

  ***

  By the time we finished Chromey, Duffy said he was going to blow off. That wasn’t a speedy process—male voices did a good deal of loud jaw-jacking and revved engine sounds at the open end of the barn aisle while I hauled my gear out to Ol’ Blue through the cinder-block end of the barn.

  The police vehicles were mostly gone, and the beater green Ford Bronco was back, pulled up beside Ol’ Blue. When I brought my anvil to my tailgate, I paid enough attention to hear the Bronco’s engine crackling with the sound of cooling metal. It hadn’t been there long. I looked around after I pushed the anvil in.

  Gabe was striding across the bunkhouse porch. I hurried after him. The back of his shirt and jeans were dirty, like he’d been rolling around in the barn aisle or some such. Maybe he’d been around a while and he’d helped unload the hay delivery. Or maybe not.

  “You and Stuckey go at it again?” I asked, just loud enough, right behind his dirty back and butt.

  “Beg pardon?” Gabe turned, took in how I’d been looking at the dirt on the back of his clothes, and brushed at it with one leather-gloved hand.

  I stood a good ten feet from him and didn’t come any closer. “I know you hit Stuckey this morning.”

  And I knew the police were watching this place for drugs and someone had put Vicente Arriaga in the ground and Stuckey didn’t seem like the brains of whatever underhanded business was going on at this outfit.

  Gabe looked me square in the eye without flinching. “And I know he hit you the morning before.”

  My jaw dropped. “You think Stuckey’s the one who went after me at the Black Bluff bull sale yesterday?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Gabe tugged on the front of his hat and gave me a nod. “I’m sure of it. Stuckey jumped you.”

  Chapter 17

  AS I’D HEARD MY TEXAN RANCH-HAND daddy say a number of times, timing has a lot to do with the successful outcome of a rain dance. Confirming a few things would sure help clarity. I gawked at Gabe on the bunkhouse porch, then all around us. Quiet up at the big house. Lawyer’s fancy car still there. Fewer cop cars around, no cops in sight. A truck powered up over near the barn behind us, which made me pretty sure Duffy was finally, truly heading out.

  “Charley, come,” I ordered my good dog, who’d gone back to Ol’ Blue when I’d gone to chat with Gabe. Couldn’t blame him. I was more than ready to head for home myself, but I joined Gabe on the porch, wondering where exactly Stuckey was. “You got proof?”

  Gabe spread his hands wide as though the truth was obvious enough to read on a billboard. “He admitted it.”

  “He admitted to you that he’d hit me, dumped me, took my truck, all that?”

  “Near enough.” Gabe nodded and looked for all the world like he’d been satisfied with whatever mini-investigation he’d conducted.

  I wasn’t near satisfied. “Please tell.”

  He pointed behind me and I turned to look. There was only the ranch road leading past the barn, running toward the east end of the property. It was the road he’d guided me in on when I’d been following his four-wheeler in Ol’ Blue just the morning before.

  “I figured when he disappeared for too long yesterday morning,” Gabe said, “that he was playing hooky. He’d wanted to go to the sale. His license got suspended, and he’s got no car anyway. He’s got no way to get to town unless I take him or Ivy takes him. Turns out, he got a ride from Robbie Duffman.”

  “He got a ride from Duffy …” I considered this.

  “And Duffy said Stuckey didn’t need a ride back. That’s because Stuckey drove your truck back. Like an idiot. That moron saw your dog and freaked.”

  “Why would he have hit me?”

  “He overreacted. I’m telling you, he saw Flame, got grabby. He swings before he thinks sometimes. It’s been a problem. He must have been scared shitless after he hurt you. And he probably didn’t mean to hurt you, but after he did, he didn’t know what to do. He panicked. Drove onto the ranch a ways to get clear of your truck, went back to checking the flock and all that. What an idiot.”

  And he had to go hide the tools he stole from Ol’ Blue, I thought. Stuckey being the one to truck-jack me would sure explain why he’d acted uncomfortable around me the day before, I thought. He’d created an awkward situation. I said as much to Gabe now.

  He nodded. “What are you going to do? You told the police about it, right? Man, that’s why I thought they were here this morning. That one cop was talking about you being jumped at the bull sale. I’d just woken up and saw all that. I was so pissed at Stuckey, for being so stupid. Are you going to press charges on him?”

  “I …” I didn’t know what I was going to do. I needed to think. I needed to get out of here, get home where I felt good and grounded. Things were mighty muddy here in this desert.

  “Gabe?” I stepped close and looked right into his eyes for the truth.

  “What?”

  “Would Stuckey tell me the same thing you’re telling me?”

  “Ask him. And ask Robbie Duffman. He picked
Stuckey up at the east gate yesterday early morning. Gave him a ride to the stupid bull sale.”

  I twisted my ponytail hard enough to turn my hair into a stick. “And you hit him this morning because ..?”

  “He had it coming. I knocked some sense into him. Discipline, it’s called. You follow?”

  ***

  The fancy Lexus SUV that Ivy had said was her lawyer’s car was still parked right close to the flagstone. Standing there knocking on the big house’s double doors, Charley and I waited a good while. Gave me time to note the remaining police cars better. A hearse-like vehicle was parked behind the remaining marked SUV from the sheriff’s department. Their four-wheeler had apparently been ridden back down the hill, loaded up in its trailer, and hauled away. The unmarked sedan, the other marked police cars, and even the crime scene van were gone.

  The cops just about had the mess I’d uncovered cleaned up.

  Eliana let me in, a dish towel in her hands, her smile missing.

  I’d figured Oscar was keeping quiet inside the spare bedroom where I’d slept Saturday night, or maybe in Milt’s office, but no, there he sat in a white leather chair in Ivy’s living room, as silent and out of place as a bucket.

  Ivy and a short, round bald fellow in a sport coat, dress shirt, and slacks stood at one of the dining tables, a platter of sandwiches before them. Bread in multiple shades, screaming red tomatoes dangling out, thick with roast beef and ham, bright yellow cheese and lettuce of the deepest green. I could have stuffed it all in my face with both hands. It was past noon, and I’d skipped breakfast and been shoeing, which makes a girl hungrified. The other two empty tables had again been arranged into a nice spacing of diamond shapes across that end of the great room.

  They looked up at me. Baldy asked Ivy, “Is that her?”

  Ivy gave a sideways smile that quickly fell off her face and was replaced by a stony expression. “That’s her.”

  He slid his palms into his slacks’ pockets. “That’s the dog?”

  “That’s him,” Ivy said. A hint of her smile came back as she eyed Charley.

  Baldy merely gave Charley a hairy eyeball and turned sideways as though discouraging any approach lest the dog hair factory that my good boy is got too close and risked contaminating the city-man slacks. Ivy pointed at Baldy and performed introductions in a way that sticks to my brain cells like air.

  After she’d said his name and mine, she told me, “He’ll go with you if the police interview you again tomorrow.”

  “And we’ll be talking privately beforehand. Soon.” Baldy the Lawyer offered me a brief nod, looking with some measure of distaste at my dirty jeans and mussed ponytail.

  Yeah, I don’t look or smell awesome after shoeing.

  “Um, Ivy—” I began, but got cut off.

  “Because they will,” Baldy said.

  “Who will what?” I needed clarification because he was not discussing horses and that’s when I kind of quit paying attention.

  “The police will want to talk to you again. I’ll be there with you.” He said it like a man in charge, a man who knows plenty about what the police do and how he can smooth things over.

  “And with everybody,” Ivy announced. “The police are going to interview everybody tomorrow. Lie detector tests and stuff. Even Oscar and Eliana. It’s all arranged. Cooperation looks best, is best. And they’re not going to go after Oscar and Eliana right now for being undocumented. We can get their paperwork started, and it will probably all be okay, their status here. Oscar was able to go out and clean the stalls and all. I had him lock the east gate, too.”

  “Um, that’s good,” I said. I wanted to tell her what Gabe had told me. She should know that Stuckey was enough of a loose cannon that he’d just haul off and conk a stranger in the head when he saw Flame—I mean, Charley. And they should all know that he gets sticky-fingered. Ivy had been the one to say we women have to look out for each other, lift each other up. But I didn’t want to belittle the discovery of Vicente Arriaga on her land with my comparatively minor assault yesterday. I’d tell her, privately, within the hour, right before I drove out, I decided, clinging to the ponytailed cop’s words about how the police couldn’t order me not to leave town, yet it seemed wise to keep my exit plan unspoken.

  Ivy nodded, and I realized I’d lost the thread of whatever she’d been saying. I was still thinking about Gabe saying it was Stuckey who’d jumped me Saturday morning at the bull sale. I remembered writing down Robbie Duffman’s phone number at the bulletin board. Maybe I could call him and have a private chat. I cleared my throat. “I was thinking maybe I could take a quick shower. Can I use the bunkhouse?” I wanted to hit the road and figured the police wouldn’t be thrilled with my heading back for Oregon this afternoon. I had shoeing clients scheduled for Monday afternoon, and my own wedding to attend on Wednesday. Guy and I had picked the date for the number, before we consulted a calendar and found it was midweek. And then we stuck to our guns. I wanted to talk to Guy and was about to ask Ivy for the favor of her phone again.

  “They understand now,” Ivy said, a bit of a blush slipping across her high cheekbones. Her skin glowed with perfection, the rosiness of whatever embarrassment she was explaining just made her look healthier. “The police understand why I reacted the way I did. I’m all about my peeps, you see. I was protecting Eliana and Oscar, and now that Leonard is here and handling things—oh, I wish Milt would get here already—it’s going to be a lot better. Leonard’s looking after our rights. He’s talked to the detectives, and it’s all out in the open.”

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I shod—that is, Stuckey and Duffy and me—we shod your Appy mare and that chestnut colt. Decker and the buckskin weren’t due. They’re looking good. Everybody’s looking good now.”

  “You put shoes on Flyer? Wow. That’s great. Was he good? He’s never been shod before.”

  Would have been nice if Stuckey had told me that. “He’s a real nice horse.”

  “Maybe you’ll shoe Joe, then. He’s ready for his first set. And he needs to be ridden. Do you want some lunch?” She pointed at the platter and I slinked up like a stray dog offered a full bowl of kibble.

  The sandwiches looked fantastic but tasted even better. I stuffed my face.

  Baldy cleared his throat and spoke to Ivy in a voice loud enough for me to understand, “If it is who we think it is, the police will be asking about his personal property. Do you have any retained? Anything stored? That could give them grounds for an additional search warrant.”

  “Just because someone’s died, the police get to look through their stuff?” Ivy sounded outraged on behalf of dead people everywhere.

  A coldness clutched my chest, my throat, and I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. I’d sized things up wrong, which is not unusual for me, but the risk is not usually such a deal-breaker. I closed my eyes, trying to think.

  “Commonly,” Baldy replied.

  “Well, he didn’t have anything anyway. Vicente lived with the flock, like a real shepherd. I know the police find that unusual. It is unusual, except for with those herders. They stay with the sheep. It’s their way.”

  “He never stayed in the house?” Baldy asked.

  “Certainly not in here. But the bunkhouse, well yes, sometimes. He came down about once a week. Took a shower, ate. Sometimes I’d take him to town for a day off.”

  Baldy seemed to be getting tired of Ivy not getting to the fine point, but asked again with the practiced patience of a man who gets big checks from his client, “Would Arriaga have personal property in the bunkhouse?”

  “Oh!” Ivy leaned back in her chair. “I wouldn’t think so. It’s been so long. I don’t know. We should check.”

  Baldy folded his arms across his wide frame and appeared to be considering things. If this had been my fire to poke, I’d have wanted to run things by my buddy Melinda, who could give me a solid police perspective on pre-searching things for the police and whatnot.

  But this was not my fire
to tend. I could exit and leave things smoking.

  Ivy leaned forward, her voice different enough to indicate a whole new angle as she talked to Baldy. “About the shop.”

  He pushed back from her, flicked a glance at me.

  “Close it?” she suggested, waving the cordless phone at him. “I can call Solar now and we’ll just close it up.”

  Baldy puffed a lot of air when he muttered something I didn’t hear. Ivy called to the kitchen. “Eliana?”

  Eliana appeared in an instant and Ivy told her, “Please see if Rainy would like something to drink.”

  “I don’t drink.” I said. Or get waited on, in a natural setting. I don’t get having servants.

  “Everybody drinks,” Baldy chuckled.

  The phone rang and Ivy looked at it, announcing, “My doctor, finally,” before she answered it and started in about what she wanted and when she wanted it.

  “Right away.” Ivy told the person on the phone to hang on then called out, “Eliana, would you bring me my meds?”

  Eliana swept out of the kitchen down the left hallway past Ivy’s office and was back in a minute carrying a two-tiered purple wooden tray full of enough prescription bottles to tranq a herd of fit horses.

  “Xanax, fine,” Ivy said into the phone. “No, I think I’m out of Halcion. I need something good or I’ll never sleep tonight.”

  I needed to take my leave, that was all. The police weren’t going to make me stay; they’d as good as said so.

  Across the room, Oscar seemed to catch motion behind him. The blinds were only half open, but he was right close to the big windows. Realizing he might have a partial view of the driveway and watching him rise, I moseyed my way to the fireplace side of the room as well.

  Charley thumped his stub tail at Oscar, who obligingly rubbed my good dog’s head but did not look down, just stared out the window. Made me look out, too.

  A couple of hundred feet away out there sat the hearse and the last deputy’s SUV. Above those cars was the hill. Ponytail and one of the jumpsuits were working a single-wheeled stretcher down the hill. The knobby wheel, the size of a small bicycle tire, was centered under the stretcher. It was a backcountry evacuation device that enabled the load to be balanced at each end by the jumpsuited man and Ponytail, her uniform now all dirty.