Reining in Murder

by Leigh Hearon

  And what a return he bestowed. As Trooper began his half jog along the narrow path that led to the sheep pasture, she felt on top of the world. The horse’s ears pricked forward in eager anticipation, and his breath was quick. Annie knew he was as excited as she was. She bent over to stroke his neck. She wanted him to know that they were a team, going out on a grand adventure together.

  The pasture was thick and tall with new grass, glistening in the morning dew. There was no question that her sheep would dine well this spring and summer. It was one of the payoffs of surviving weeks of unrelenting rain and occasional snow over the past several months. It also was the reason Washington had earned its epithet as the Evergreen State.

  The fence line predictably needed work. Blow downs from past winter storms had fallen across several fence posts, rendering the electric braid stretched below moot. Stray limbs were strewn everywhere, hazards to horses and sheep alike. Annie also noted a number of water pools inside the pasture, dangerous sump holes that contained filthy water and could break an animal’s pastern with one misstep, or induce disease.

  Annie had brought along a big red marker with her, which she now put to good use. She brought Trooper to a gentle halt to mark the fences that needed mending and the grassy areas that required repair. Not only would this make her first day working the land immeasurably easier, it was an excellent way to test Trooper’s awareness of his rider. She could tell that, given his druthers, he would have cantered, no, galloped the short mile they now took at a leisurely pace. And if truth be told, Annie was just as game to fly past the posts to see what Trooper really had to give. But reason and experience told her that she had several hundred miles to put on Trooper’s back before they were ready for the racetrack. Besides, by asking Trooper to stop every few dozen steps, she was reminding him that they were working together. If he obeyed her commands, she willingly gave him his head when they started again. It was a win-win situation that Trooper intuitively grasped. Annie marveled at the horse’s intelligence. He’d been trained to run, and only run, yet he had a connection with her that was undeniably solid.

  An hour later, they approached the north gate, where the sheep would be unloaded in less than a week. Annie and her next-door neighbor, two miles away, shared an easement between the two properties. Annie used it for sheep loading and unloading; her neighbor used it to get to his private gun range down the road. Fortunately, the sound of shotgun and pistol practice was largely muffled by trees, and the sheep seemed oblivious to the noise each Sunday afternoon, the time her neighbor typically choose to exercise his Second Amendment rights.

  She glanced up at the sky, looking at a sun that was gamely trying to shed warmth on a cold March morning, and stood up in her stirrups for a good long stretch. Trooper sniffed the three-bar aluminum gate, obviously curious about the new scent of eau de ovine. Annie reached down to test the latch. Sure enough, it ominously squeaked, unlike Hilda’s worn-out gate. She wished she’d remembered to bring three-in-one oil with her and made a mental note to do so on her next trip out.

  Annie decided to dismount and reward the bay with a ten-minute grass break. She had just swung one leg over the saddle when an unexpected blast from a shotgun rang out and something whistled disturbingly close past her ear.

  With one foot still in the stirrup, Annie had to make a split-second decision. She watched Trooper’s head rear up and felt his front feet lift off the ground. An eerie scream penetrated the air and for one heart-wrenching moment, Annie was afraid the bullet had pierced Trooper’s skin. Then his front feet pounded to the ground and Annie hurled herself back onto the saddle, grasping the reins with both hands. Gone was the silent empathy that the two had enjoyed on the ride here; now Trooper was hell-bent to get back to safety. He pummeled his way down the fence line, with Annie hanging on for dear life. She knew better than to try to reel him in. She simply wanted to stay on his back and make sure the ride would end before they crashed into the tack room. For two unbroken minutes, all Annie heard and felt were the rapid-fire pounding of Trooper’s hooves on the ground below. From her vantage point, Annie felt as if she were flying. If Trooper had been born with wings, they’d be airborne right now, she thought.

  As the familiar round-pen and stable appeared in sight, Trooper eased his gait fractionally, and Annie tightened up on the reins. They were going to have to stop eventually, and she preferred that her dismount not be over the bay’s head. She was sure her heart was beating as fast as Trooper’s and prayed that she had enough good sense left to think for both of them. It had occurred to her midflight that Trooper could have mistaken the sound of the firearm as the cue to “go.” After all, he had been trained as a racehorse. If that was the case, she was going to have to teach him that “stop” didn’t always occur at the tape line.

  She tugged on the reins hard and released, then tugged again. She had to make contact with Trooper’s mouth, which at the moment appeared hard as granite. The horse simply wouldn’t give. In one fluid motion, Annie slid her hand up her left rein and whipped it outward and around and planted it on her knee. Trooper’s front hooves left the ground again, but he was forced to make a half circle. Annie kept her hand firmly planted on the rein touching her knee, which forced the horse to turn. But instead of stopping, Trooper kept turning in a dizzying circle, his head taut against the reins. Just when Annie was contemplating the possible injuries she might sustain by jumping off, Trooper abruptly stopped, and Annie instantly released the reins.

  She never remembered dismounting. She only remembered sinking to the ground, her legs shaking uncontrollably, and feeling great relief that Trooper was content to remain where he was although he was shaking as much as she was. Annie caught her breath and grabbed the reins before Trooper could run off again. They both walked on trembling legs over to the round pen. Once inside and the gate firmly latched, she fumbled to remove Trooper’s saddle and bridle. She glanced over to the horse pasture to see the rest of her herd cantering toward her, no doubt to investigate their mad-dash return. Setting down the saddle, Annie grabbed a stray lead rope and clicked for Trotter. Throwing the rope over the donkey, she walked him over to the round pen, which Trotter entered without fuss. Trooper was in the corner farthest south, agitatedly pawing the ground. Trotter placidly walked over to him and nuzzled the lowest portion of the bay’s neck—the highest he could reach. After a few minutes, the bay began to nuzzle back.

  If there was ever a time when Trooper needed a soothing companion, it was now. The trouble was, so did Annie. She knew the shot had not come from her neighbor. He might have a lifelong passion for collecting firearms, but he was scrupulously concerned about gun safety. Even if he’d just seen a cougar on his property, he never would have shot off a round without knowing where it would land. No, this was a bullet meant for her. Or Trooper. The knowledge was horrifying.

  * * *

  Annie would have liked to have taken to her bed with a bad case of the vapors, but she hadn’t forgotten that her sheep were being sheared today. She resolved to buck up, but not without taking proper precautions. After thoroughly cleaning her Winchester, she restored it to the gun rack inside her truck and placed a full box of ammo in her glove compartment. Whistling for Wolf, whom she intended to have by her side from here on out, she climbed into her truck and set out for the Thompsons. There was no way to track the shooter unless she found a spent cartridge that fit a very rare gun. But she would be better prepared if there was a next time.

  Annie wheeled into the Thompsons’ and saw her flock crowded into Johan’s front pasture, baaing and carrying on as if they were being asked to board the Titanic and already knew the advance headlines. Leif was kneeling in the middle, quickly and efficiently shearing a ewe that was putting up a pitiful wail against the sound of the electric shears. His cousin stood nearby, ready with the vaccinations that would come afterward. Johan stood beside him, clearly hoping to be called into service.

  It was a relief to observe a traditional farm ritual after t
he trauma of the morning. Annie waited until Leif finished with the ewe, which trotted off baaing plaintively after being released from its undignified captivity. She watched Leif wipe his face and accept a glass of Hester’s lemonade from Johan. Catching his eye, she walked over to where he was working.

  “Leif! How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, Annie, not bad. I swear, your ewes grow more wool every year.”

  “Fabulous. More wool means more money from the co-op.”

  “Yeah, but it takes me twice as long as it did a few years ago. If you’re going to keep treating them so well, I’m going to have to raise my rates.”

  Annie knew he was joking although he had a point. When she’d started her flock five years ago, she’d only had fifteen yearlings that had matured into adulthood remarkably quickly. After a few well-picked rams came to visit, motherhood soon followed, and now Annie was the proud owner of seventy-five fully developed and producing ewes. She’d learned to ignore the pointed suggestions from friends and neighbors that her babies would taste awfully good with a little rosemary and butter. Sheep growing was a smart move, for which Dan constantly demanded full credit, but she’d deliberately decided to breed them only for wool. Annie wasn’t opposed to eating lamb. In fact, she was quite fond of it. She just preferred to partake of the shrink-wrapped variety she found at her local grocery.

  “Charge me whatever’s fair, Leif. I trust you.”

  A flash from his eyes showed that he appreciated the gesture, which also meant that she’d forgiven him for his egregious lapse in judgment at the accident site. Well, everyone made mistakes, she thought, although when she might have fallen short recently momentarily escaped her.

  * * *

  Annie didn’t look forward to her next stop, but she refused to let herself back down. The truth was, she hated meeting new people. She never quite knew what to say, and she secretly believed her small circle of friends was already sufficient to last her lifetime. It had taken all her courage to accept Lavender’s invitation to visit her new home yesterday although that had turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable. But Martha Sanderson’s description of her closest friends, the Truebloods, did little to inspire Annie’s confidence. She realized she was meeting the Truebloods’ offspring, but figured the genes had to be the same. Annie was not a highbrow. She didn’t listen to classical music, and her trip to Travis Latham’s house had proven that she knew nothing about art. Yet she felt compelled to talk to the lumber barons. Just a few weeks ago, their fence line had been the scene of horrible wreckage in which a man was killed. She wondered what Dan had told them about the case since then, if anything. She wondered what she might learn from them today.

  Yet, for once, Annie got the perfect opening line. As she peeled off Highway 3 to turn into the Truebloods’ driveway, she noticed a chip blower off to one side, depositing mounds of rich cedar chips onto the owner’s garden beds. What she would do for that cedar, she thought. The cost of buying bags of cedar chips at the local Cenex for stall bedding was significantly eating into her household budget. Perhaps she could hold the operator at gunpoint and demand that he dump some of the stuff at her barn.

  Or perhaps she could just ask politely. She parked her truck at the foot of the driveway and walked up to the operator, who was oblivious to everything except the task at hand. The sound of the blower was overwhelming, and Annie could understand why he wore ear protection.

  “Excuse me!” she yelled, standing to one side of the machine. The man looked up and turned off the machine, waiting patiently for her to explain why she had interrupted his work.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was on the way to see the Truebloods and noticed all that wonderful cedar that you were spreading. Any chance that we could talk later about the possibility of buying some of your chips?”

  “That’s up to your friends,” was the blunt reply. “It’s cedar from their sawmills. I just come over once a month to spread it on their landscaping. If they’re willing to share it, I’m happy to spread it.”

  * * *

  It turned out that Martha was right: the Truebloods must have been wonderful people, because at least one of their children certainly had married a warm and friendly host. Annie met Mary Trueblood coming out her home, obviously about to work in her garden, her hands swathed in green gloves and a tidy row of garden tools tucked into a skirt pocket. She was delighted to make Annie’s acquaintance. Wasn’t she that lovely woman who took in rescue horses? She was sure she’d read about her in the local newspaper before. And she was a friend of Martha Sanderson? Oh, my, she hadn’t even realized that Martha was still alive. Wasn’t that nice. She and her husband, Fred, had been such good friends of her husband’s parents. Would she like to come inside for a glass of iced coffee? She could make fresh if that’s what Annie preferred.

  Annie was content with iced. And when she asked about purchasing cedar chips for her own use, Mary wouldn’t hear of it.

  “That sawmill produces more than we’ll ever use,” she told Annie. “We’d be delighted if you could take some off our hands. Cal’s out at True Value, but I know he’ll agree. Just give us your address and we’ll make sure Ian—that’s our man you saw coming in—drops off a load on a regular basis. We’re just happy that someone else can put them to good use.”

  A great weight lifted off Annie’s shoulders. She felt confident, then, to plunge into the primary reason that brought her to the Truebloods’ door.

  “You’re too kind,” she told Mary, meaning it. “You don’t know how much this helps me out. You see, I’ve been taking care of the horse that was in that accident on the highway a few weeks ago, and it turns out he’s allergic to straw bedding. It’s been fine for my own horses, but Trooper gets a respiratory infection just by standing in it. I’ve had to change the bedding for all of them, and it’s pretty expensive stuff.”

  “Oh my. So you were there that night. I didn’t go out, but Cal did. He said the truck that was hauling the horse was horribly mangled.”

  “It wasn’t very pretty although I was concentrating more on making sure the horse was safe. We were incredibly lucky that the trailer didn’t flip. I guess we have your good fencing to thank for that.”

  “There are too many accidents on the road,” Mary said emphatically. “People think a straight country road means they can go as fast as they want. They don’t realize that we share it with deer and other wildlife. My own husband refuses to drive with me at night because I insist on going about twenty-five miles an hour just to avoid the deer.”

  “I hear you.” Apparently, Dan hadn’t informed the Truebloods that Wayne’s crash wasn’t caused by an animal trying to leap across the road. Well, why should he? That was protected police work, which only she was privy to.

  Annie hesitated. “You know, I heard that there were some mysterious holes and tire tracks found on your property, close to where the rig crashed. Is that right, or is it just one of those rumors floating around?”

  If Mary thought Annie’s question improper, she didn’t let on. She probably was too well-bred, Annie thought, unlike her, who popped off with whatever was on her mind.

  “Cal did mention something about that. We thought perhaps the county had put up a sign there without getting our permission first—you know, one of the signs that tell people what the risk of fire is that day. But the fire department said they hadn’t. Of course, they would have asked us first, and anyway, it was too early in the season. We still don’t know what was there. It’s a mystery. We don’t recall ever seeing anything posted there before the accident, but then, we usually come in from the other side.”

  “I suppose the police came out and took photos and all.”

  “Well, I know they came out, but whether or not they took photos, I don’t know. I do remember that Cal went down with them to take a look at the tire tracks. It must have been a four-by-four, or a truck with big tires. We had to haul at least a ton of gravel to fill in the holes that were made.”

  Ann
ie’s heart sank. “Do you have any idea how large the post holes were? I mean, how far apart?”

  “I don’t, but I’m sure Cal will remember. Why are you so interested in knowing?”

  Ah. The question that was bound to come.

  “No reason. It just seemed strange, that’s all. I wondered if it had anything to do with the accident, I guess.”

  “Well, if it did, it escapes me. Can I refresh your glass, Annie?”

  Before Annie made her exit, she steered the conversation clear of any controversial subjects and stuck to the tried and true: the Trueblood family. Mary was only too happy to tell Annie about her daughter Camilla’s frequent successes as an environmental law attorney and her high-placed connections in the nation’s capital, but the subject of children stopped there. If Annie hadn’t already known, she would have assumed Camilla was an only child.

  At 4:00 P.M., Annie said her good-byes, continuing to offer profuse thanks for the gift of cedar chips and promising to stay in touch. Climbing back into her truck, she noticed Wolf in the back, straining to get out of his crate.

  “Sorry, buddy. I didn’t realize I’d be gone so long.” She opened the crate and waited for Wolf to take advantage of the nearest tree or jump into the front seat, his favored spot. Instead, Wolf bounded down the driveway, close to oncoming traffic.

  “Wolf! Come, Wolf! Come!” Annie ran pell-mell down the asphalt. What was the dog doing? Honestly—first running after the Belgian puppies and now this. It was time for remedial dog training if Wolf didn’t improve his response time to his mistress’s commands.

  She found him at the end of the driveway and grabbed his collar.

  “Wolf! What were you thinking! Bad dog!”

  Wolf ignored her. He was staring at a truck parked across the road, a black Ford pickup with dark tinted windows that nearly matched the color of the truck. Annie looked up, and saw a man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, emerging from the driveway on the other side of the road. He wore jeans and a stylish leather jacket. Annie watched as he walked around the back of the truck and opened the front passenger door. Wolf lunged forward and gave a low, menacing growl. Annie, whose hand hadn’t moved from his collar, shook him to make him stop, but the sound had not escaped the man’s notice. He turned and looked at Annie. He was not a big man, perhaps Annie’s height, nor particularly well built. In fact, there was not a lot that distinguished him from the rest of the male population of Suwana County. Except for extremely bushy eyebrows that grew together in the middle.