Saddles & Sabotage

by Nellie K Neves

  One of them raised his hand and asked, “Can I rescue her next?”

  Dallas only continued to clear his throat and laugh nervously. “No, I think it’s time to go back to the ranch.”

  It took a few minutes, but we managed to get the entire family back on and pointed for home. As we skittered and slid down the granite steps, I tried to convince myself that the accelerated pulse was from the way Toby’s hooves slipped. I didn’t need a relationship, whether it was a fling, a rebound or something else. I had a job to do, and I decided right then that I needed a closer look at Tumbleweed’s cabin.

  Chapter 14

  We arrived back at the ranch an hour early, which bought me a quick nap in my opinion. I swear the second I spread out on the mattress and my head relaxed into the pillow, Dixie stuck her head in the door.

  “Isabelle has been asking for you. She said to go to her cabin ASAP.”

  The groan was involuntary, my normal reaction when someone interrupted my sleep. I knew better than to argue though and I kicked off my blanket and pulled my boots back on so that I could walk to the main house. The afternoon air was warmer than normal, and I hoped we weren’t headed for a heat wave. Because of MS, my body didn’t function in the heat.

  My first summer after my multiple sclerosis diagnosis was spent in Central California where the temperatures soared well over 100 degrees through the majority of the summer. Despite my best efforts to stay cool, the nerve pain set in early. It started with pins and needles in my neck and shoulders, then joints that ached when I moved. It culminated in bone crushing pain all over my body, as if my entire skeleton had been trapped inside a vice that had tightened down with vengeance. There was no way to hide or explain away that sort of pain, even if my cover story depended on it.

  My feet echoed against the porch. I took a deep breath and shoved the door open to Tate’s cabin because Cassidy never knocked. Tate and Isabelle whipped around as the door opened. I stepped through the entryway into tension thick as a muddy swamp. Tate’s jaw pulled tight, lips drawn to a thin line of anger and frustration. Isabelle’s hands clenched into tense balls, knuckles white from the pressure. I could see Ryder’s temper within her, the fury and words that remained trapped behind the eyes. It was the damage that Charles Harrison had inflicted on his family, the guarded feelings, and the words they dared not say, so they lay secret, trapped to fester and rot where they were hidden away.

  Tate looked at me, then back at Isabelle. “We can finish this later.” He turned and took the staircase two at a time.

  Isabelle’s shoulders slumped the second he was out of the room. Like a sail without wind; she was drained of her fury. She glared at me and said, “Don’t you know you should knock?”

  I wanted to remind her that Cassidy never knocked, but she was already gone into the hallway that led to the living room. I followed behind her, hopeful that it was my duty to do so. As I arrived in the main room with the panoramic views of the aspen trees, Isabelle pulled a file from a drawer. She extended it to me and waved it with an abrupt impatience. I took it and flipped open the newest case file.

  “They found the body about eight miles from here, but it was a dump site,” she said quietly. She waited for me to read the first page before she said, “The lead detective thinks the killer is evolving. They can’t keep it under wraps anymore.”

  I could hear the strain of guilt in her voice. She wasn’t the inferno of fury that I’d come to expect, instead she appeared exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. The weight of the most recent death had come to rest cleanly on her shoulders.

  The pictures were hard to look at. Bruising around the victim’s face showed that she’d fought back. It was new as well, none of the other victims had sustained those types of injuries. The medical examiner had noted that the blood had been drained from her body while she was alive. There were three major incisions, the wrist, the joint of the elbow, and last, the throat.

  “He targeted major arteries this time, brachial, radial, and carotid.” I was talking to myself more than I was talking to her. I could see something in the muddled mess of evidence, but not clear enough to form a thought. I sank onto the plush couch and spread the file on the coffee table. Without looking up I asked, “Do you have the other files?”

  As I scoured the pictures for indications of his intent, the thicker file slapped down on the table. I ignored Isabelle’s distaste of me and removed the pictures and medical examiner’s reports from each separate incident. Lining them up chronologically, I listed the injuries in my mind. The first two murders were men, but the blood was drained only partially and all post mortem. The third kill was a man as well, but smaller in build than the first. There were no defensive wounds, and the incisions still showed signs of hesitation, jagged tears around the edges. The fourth victim had been the first woman, and the first victim to be drained of her blood while she was still alive, but no defensive wounds.

  I tapped the gruesome photo of the fourth victim. “Can you ask if this woman had a toxicology screen? I think she was drugged.”

  Isabelle nodded and sat in the chair across from me. Questions played across her features, but she held back and observed instead.

  The fifth victim fought back. Whatever had been used to subdue the others had failed on her. She wore ligature marks on her wrists and ankles from being bound. She was the first victim who had been cut at the arteries, and it begged the question why, especially when the tiny incisions still riddled her body as well. My eyes drifted from photo to photo, and after staring for a full minute, I saw it, hidden among the tiny cuts of the first victim: a single rectangular burn mark.

  Once I knew what I was looking for it was easier to find. The second victim had the same burn on his lower back. The third victim was burned on his neck, one inch under the earlobe, and the fourth woman was burned on the back of her neck, near the brainstem. I picked up the fifth victim’s photos and narrowed my eyes to increase my focus. I saw no burn mark on the fifth victim.

  “Did you find something?” Isabelle asked eagerly.

  I picked up the third man’s crime scene photograph and pointed to the mark. “See this? It’s from a stun gun. Normally there are two circles, sometimes bruising, but this is a rectangle, and probably why the medical examiner brushed over it. I’ve seen this before though, a new type of weapon, a stunner built into brass knuckles, so that the punch will deliver the voltage.”

  She stared at the picture as if she wanted to see the connection I’d made. “Why is this significant?”

  I took the picture from her and set it down. “Well first, it tells us that our attacker isn’t confident in his strength, for whatever reason he, or she I suppose, needs a weapon to bring the victim down. Second, because the fifth victim wasn’t burned and had to be restrained, I would wager she knocked the stunner from the attacker and fought back.” I looked at her auburn hair matted against her forehead with dried blood from blunt force trauma. “She was athletic, and probably stronger than she looked.” I pointed to a tattoo on her shoulder. “See this K.O. on her shoulder? It’s probably referring to ‘knock out’, a boxing term. She was a fighter.” I looked away from the picture before I could feel an emotional connection. “If we go to the scene of the crime, I bet we would find the stunner.”

  “But the cops said they couldn’t find the original scene. They found her at a dump site.”

  My sarcasm got the best of me. “It’s a good thing I already know where it is then, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she realized what I was saying. “Where you beat up Tim? You can’t think he’s involved in this, can you?”

  I listed my reasons off on my fingers. “He was there, with blood still wet on the foliage. He attacked me and could’ve killed me too if I hadn’t fought him off. He’s old enough that a stunner would weaken his victims so that he could drag them off to one of the secluded cabins by the lake.”

  Isabelle shook her head in
defiance. “Not Tim. I talked with him. He said he was out tracking and he saw the blood. He tried to stop you from alerting the killer in case he was still nearby, but you attacked him.”

  “Talked with him?” I asked skeptically. “I thought he was mute.”

  She let out an aggravated growl that reminded me too much of Ryder. “He wrote it down. It’s how we speak to each other.”

  I didn’t buy it, but with Isabelle more cooperative than normal and no proof of his absolute guilt, I let it go. “Tell the cops to search along the river trail, about a half mile from the trail head. I don’t know how much will be left, but it’s worth a shot.”

  “We have rides planned over the next couple days. We can’t shut down a trail—”

  “Do you want to catch this guy? Do you want to exonerate Tim? If you do, then figure out a way to make this work, or more people will die,” I snapped.

  Her full lips clamped shut and pulled into a tight line. She rose slowly from her chair and pulled open a drawer of her desk. “I intercepted this before anyone saw it. Please tell your friend to use your cover name in the future.”

  She handed me an envelope with the name ‘Lindy Johnson’ scrawled across the front. It was strange how comforting I found that simple gesture. It was nice to know that I still existed outside the Rockin’ B.

  “Thank you.” I noted the return address and said, “It’s my friend Kip. He’s been working on a side project for me.”

  The ice queen was clearly uninterested. “Fix the issue with your name.”

  I rose and started for the hallway, but paused to ask, “Why do you hate me so much?”

  Isabelle didn’t hold my stare for very long. She turned and peered out into the forest. “I don’t hate you, but I certainly don’t trust you. I don’t trust many, so you shouldn’t take it personally.”

  “Because of your husband?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  From her side profile I could see the tension slip over her features.

  “Ex-husband,” Isabelle corrected me.

  I had a habit of talking when it was ill advised.

  “I found your gun under the loveseat in your room, the dagger in the nightstand, and the pepper spray in the dresser.” I took a timid step forward. “I don’t trust you either. The house staff at the manor thinks you’re bi-polar or something. Your son has a very tenuous opinion of you. Everyone here calls you a fire breathing ice dragon.” She actually smiled a little at the last description. “Ryder said Charles never got physical with either of you, but everything I’ve seen from you tells me another story.”

  The smile faded, and I could see the painful memories through the features of her face. Still, she didn’t talk, and why would she? I wasn’t a friend, not a confidant. I was nothing to her. I turned to leave, but her voice caught me off guard.

  “He beat Ryder as a child, quite frequently, and told me it would turn him into a man. I feared it would leave him brain dead if it continued.” I froze in my place as she continued to speak. “I’m glad he doesn’t remember, at least not all of it. The measures I took to keep him safe…” her voice trailed off, edges laced with her regret. “I should’ve left Charles decades ago, but I was proud. I didn’t want to admit to my father that he was right. And Ryder was afforded the best schooling and the most privileges this way.” She was talking to herself, trying to convince herself that it had balanced out in the end.

  “What’d you do to keep him safe?” I asked after a moment of silence.

  Her eyes closed with a heavy weight. “I took his place.”

  She stared out into the forest again. “Charles’ wrath had to pour out on someone, so I threw myself on the pyre every time.” Her voice betrayed the hatred she held for her ex-husband. “He was very careful for the most part, hidden bruises so that I could still attend functions and fundraisers, but occasionally he got out of control, and that’s why I hid my weapons. You never know when you might need something lethal to save your life.”

  I could feel her pain and remorse as she continued. “I never wanted Ryder to see me in pain, so I was absent a great deal of his formative years. I left him in the hands of very capable nannies while I nursed my wounds in the prison Charles had created for me.” Her bitter chuckle dispelled the tension, but like a heavy fog, it settled back in. “If I ever cried out he simply told the staff I was having one of my fits. They all assumed he was a loving husband who kept an office two doors down to watch over his ailing wife. In reality, he was my warden.”

  It was exactly what I’d suspected, though far worse than I’d feared. “Isabelle, I’m not going to tell you to trust me, because I’m not sure you’re capable of it, but I do want you to know that I would never hurt your son. Ryder saved my life. He’s very important to me.”

  Her lips pressed forward as she considered my words, but she said nothing more. The conversation was over, her walls of ice were back up, and I was no longer invited in. Without another word I left the cabin to join the others at the dining room.

  With dinner and feeding directly after, I almost forgot about Kip’s letter in my back pocket. Before my nightly routine of showering, I found a quiet bench along the lodge and tore open the envelope.

  Dear Lindy, I tried to call you last week, but your cell goes to voicemail every time. Finally, I called your Uncle Shane and he said you were headed to a ranch in southern Idaho. He didn’t know the name, but it didn’t take long for me to find you. I followed the trail of dead bodies. I’m sure it won’t be long before you come asking for help from your genius carrot top friend, right?

  I had to smile at his accuracy. I needed backgrounds on each of the victims, but with nothing but a dial up connection and no civilization for miles, I was limited.

  I’m writing because I cracked the code in St. Anthony’s files. I found your sister.

  I reread the sentence four times to be sure I’d understood it correctly. He’d found Jackie.

  Or at least the family that adopted her. Her name is Jocelyn now, her friends call her Josie. She’s unmarried, and she has one sister.

  I had to pause to take it in. I’d hoped. I’d prayed that she was still alive, but he’d found her. Kip had found my long lost sister.

  There’s a chance that I’m wrong and she’s not Jackie, but the dates match up darn near perfectly, and the adoption paperwork is shady enough that I assume it was a backroom deal.

  I could feel the pause in his letter, even if there wasn’t one there.

  Last time I gave you a phone number and a name, you took off and got shot, so I’m sure you can feel my hesitance to do it again. Here’s what I propose. My wedding is at the end of this month, and I want you to be there. Dana’s family is from Blackfoot, Idaho, and the wedding is two hours from your ranch. Come for the wedding, let me see that you’re rational, and I’ll give you the contact information for your sister.

  It was Kip’s own version of emotional blackmail, and he knew he held all the cards. I’d proven over and over again that when it came to Jackie, I wasn’t capable of rational decisions. It didn’t take long to pen my response, a quick explanation of what I was doing and how to address any future mail. I also asked him, as he had suspected, to gather any background he could on the victims and connections to the ranch or each other. I sealed it, adhered a stamp, and took a long walk to the mailbox near the front of the property. As I lifted the red arm of the mail indicator, I felt a rush of excitement.

  Jackie was alive.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The hardest part of my routine was the mornings. After two weeks I expected to wake up with ease, but it was still on sheer willpower alone that I pulled myself from my bed every day. The next morning was no different, with the bitter smell of coffee that reminded me of a pudgy, control freak of a teacher, swirling all around me. Wiley never failed to place a steaming cup of coffee at my seat every morning. Most mornings I passed it to Dixie, but I was less than chipper and pushed it away from me to ignore it. Tate’s voice boomed l
ouder than normal.

  “Dixie, you’ll be going with Phoenix and Shorty on a two night trip. Alexis, you’re with Wiley Fox and Dallas on an overnight.” I felt his stare before I looked up. “That means you’re holding down the day rides, Cassidy.”

  I nodded with confidence, though I felt none. I caught Dallas’ eye from across the table and noted his sly smile. He could see my nerves through my disguise.

  “The forest service is working on the river path today, so take the long way around or change your destination.”

  It was Tate’s explanation for the trail closure, but I knew it wasn’t the forest service. I felt privileged to the information, that is, until Tate left.

  “You know it isn’t the forest service,” Two-Bit said in a hushed tone. “It’s the maniac who’s hiding out in the woods and picking people off one by one.”

  Dixie shoved him. “Stop talking like that. It’s bad mojo or something. The cops say it’s an animal. Carry that twelve gauge and we’ll all be fine.”

  Dallas shook his head. “You know it’s not an animal, Dixie. Animals don’t leave all those marks.”

  She frowned. “Sure they do. They have little claws and they tear at things. That’s all it was.”

  Wiley narrowed his focus on me. “You came screaming off the river trail the other day, Cass. What’d you see?”

  I weighed how much I should share in order to stay in their inner circle. “I saw some blood on the bushes, so I followed it.” I watched the faces at the table. If I was wrong about Tumbleweed Tim then it was likely one of them were involved. “I was about to leave when Tumbleweed grabbed me from behind. He scared me real bad, so I fought back.”

  Dallas’ eyes betrayed his concern. “He was waiting back there? Near the blood?”