Saddled with Trouble

by Michele Scott

  Michaela shrugged. “They didn’t have any problems that I knew of.” She thought briefly about the conversation she’d had the night before with Uncle Lou—the way he’d sounded. She’d meant to get to the bottom of it today. Were he and Cyn having some type of problem, or did he know that someone wanted him dead?

  “Are there others who work here?”

  She nodded. “Dwayne Yamaguchi is the head trainer and is assisted by his cousin Sam, but the truck and trailer are gone. I assume they took horses over to Las Vegas, probably yesterday.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “The National Finals Rodeo begins this weekend and Dwayne will be competing. I think the guys planned on heading out yesterday, and Bean would be the one sort of running things here with my uncle.”

  “Bean?”

  “I don’t know his real name. He’s a tall skinny guy.”

  “What does he do here?”

  “He’s kind of a caretaker and ranch hand, helps out where he’s needed.”

  “You haven’t seen him around this morning?”

  “No. I’m not surprised though. He’s, um, well, he has some mental problems.”

  “What do you mean mental problems, exactly?”

  “Well, it’s not like he’s crazed or dangerous. He’s a bit slow. He had a head injury as a kid. In fact, he really acts like a child in a lot of ways.”

  “Why did your uncle keep him around then?”

  “Bean is good with the animals. He’s very conscientious about them and he looked up to my uncle, kind of like an older brother. I think he’s probably not too much younger than my uncle.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No. I don’t. Cynthia might know.”

  “All right. Thanks. Anyone else work here that you can give me some information on?”

  Michaela sighed. “Well, Summer MacTavish does the books for my uncle. She’s the ranch accountant, but she’s not here daily. I believe she comes in once a week to do payroll and accounts receivable. I’m really not certain of her schedule.”

  Another cruiser pulled up. Michaela saw Cynthia in the back.

  When it stopped she got out and came running to Michaela. “What happened? They said . . . they said that it’s Lou. That he’s . . . Is he, Michaela? Is Lou . . . ? Did someone . . .” she cried. Her taut face lacked its usual olive glow, now appearing almost alabaster against her brunette hair.

  Michaela’s stomach twisted and she closed her eyes, hoping the words would come. Instead, she wrapped her arms around Cynthia. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  Wracking sobs overtook Cynthia and Michaela couldn’t contain her sadness any longer. They held each other for long moments and cried. Michaela didn’t want to let go. Maybe if they stayed like this, she’d wake up and it would all turn out to be a nightmare. It had to be that—some horrible dream—or a joke. She felt Cyn waver and start to lose ground. The detective took her elbow.

  “Mrs. Bancroft, why don’t you come sit down inside the house and we can talk.”

  A shrill whinny sailed through the wind. “Oh, God. Loco,” Michaela said.

  “Loco?” Davis asked.

  “My husband’s stallion. He’s out? Oh no! You have to get him!” Cyn wailed.

  “He ran out when I opened the stall, when I saw . . .”

  “You found him? You found Lou?” Cyn stared at Michaela in disbelief.

  “Ms. Bancroft, why don’t you see if you can find the horse? I’m going to take Mrs. Bancroft inside. There are a few more questions I need to ask.”

  “No. I’m going with her. I have to go with you, Cyn. You can’t be alone right now.”

  Cynthia shook her head. “Go, please. Lou would be . . .” She sucked in a deep breath. “He’d be devastated if something happened to Loco. Please Mick, find the horse.”

  She could see the pleading in Cyn’s brown eyes and knew she was right about Lou. He’d loved that animal probably as much as he loved anything in the world. Still, it tore at her heart to leave Cyn in the hands of the police, with no one to comfort her. Loco whinnied again in the distance. She had to go and find him. He might hurt himself.

  The detective escorted Cyn into the house. Michaela turned and set out to find the horse, avoiding the many officers doing their job. She started for the tack room but thought twice. She didn’t want to disturb what the officers were doing, and more than that she couldn’t bear to see Uncle Lou again. She doubted that the police would allow her through anyway.

  She went to her truck, knowing she had a halter and lead rope in the back, one of those things she always carried. She then approached the house, realizing there was no way she’d be able to capture Loco without some type of handout. She opened the front door. How many days had she entered this house and found Uncle Lou in his den reading the paper or having a whiskey sour, his favorite drink? Today, even though she knew that Detective Davis and Cyn were inside, an eerie silence and a pressure pervaded the air. A heaviness that she’d never sensed before. This place had always felt like a second home to her. Today it just felt empty—a balloon filled with sadness, ready to burst.

  She found the cop seated at the kitchen table and saw Cynthia standing over the sink, vomiting. She placed a hand on Cyn’s back, rubbing it. After a minute, the woman splashed water on her face, then turned and faced her. “Did you find Loco?”

  “I haven’t had a chance yet.”

  “You have to find him. You know that Lou would be beside himself.”

  “I know. I came in to get some carrots and see if I couldn’t lure him back.”

  “In the fridge.”

  Michaela went to the crisper and took out a bag of carrots. She turned again to find Cyn back over the sink.

  Davis motioned for her to follow him to the front door, where he said, “She’s very distraught, obviously. I’ll be here for a bit and I still have some more questions to ask you. We have a lot of work to do. I’ve got all of your information I think, so if it’s fine by you, I’ll come by your home so we can talk.”

  “Of course.” She left the house and went to track Loco.

  She spied him near the back pasture. He stood outside the fence with a mare butted up to him. Both horses were going crazy, stomping their feet, pawing at the ground and squealing at each other. Loco put all his weight into the fence, trying to break through. This was not going to be easy.

  She held out a carrot to him. He sniffed it, snorted, and tossed his head about. The mare arched her neck, reaching for the carrot. Michaela waved her arms at the mare and made a hissing sound to chase her off. If she could get her out of the picture it might be easier to get Loco. The mare pranced about five steps away, tail in the air, and then came back. She flung her arms again. This time the horse took off down the fence, Loco close behind. The scenario went on for several more minutes until Michaela got smart, caught the mare first and led her back to the breeding arena.

  She then put to practice the technique she’d learned from both her dad and uncle—called patience. For several minutes she stood ten or so feet away from the stud. He finally became curious about the handout she had offered and slowly came toward her until he got close enough for her to slide the halter over his face. Patience and persistence paid off—virtues both Dad and Uncle Lou repeated to her time and again.

  It was difficult to lead Loco because he knew the mare wasn’t too far away. She could’ve used a chain right about then, to have laced through the halter—it would’ve helped to control his unruliness. He pulled on Michaela, who felt as if all the strength had gone out of her: despair taking hold and not letting go.

  They made it down to a set of corrals, but a mare and foal were too close by and she knew they’d have to be moved. She released Loco into the corral, not having any other choice, then went about maneuvering the mare and foal out into the pasture. She hoped she’d be able to get a hold of Bean and tell him to get to the ranch ASAP, because Cyn couldn’t take care of the horses. I
f she couldn’t reach him, she’d have to come back over that evening, put all of the horses back where they belonged and feed them.

  After making sure the animals were okay, she walked to her truck. Bean stood there leaning against Uncle Lou’s old green Chevy work truck, which she knew he allowed Bean to drive just around the ranch. He didn’t look well at all.

  “Um, hello, Miss Michaela. A policeman told me I had to stay right here because something bad happened to Mr. Lou. What happened? Do you know what happened?” He wrung his hands. “Why are the policemans here? What happened to Mr. Lou? I got here and they were here. The police. They would not tell me where Mr. Lou is and they won’t tell me where Mrs. Lou is either. Do you hear that?” He pointed to the barn. “The horses keep crying and they sound hungry. I want to feed them. Where is Mr. Lou?”

  She reached out and touched his shoulder. He shrank away from the contact. “Bean, Lou had to go to Heaven today and he’s not coming back.” She nearly choked on her own words.

  “Why did he go there?”

  “Listen, I know this will be hard for you to understand, but Lou won’t be back. Heaven isn’t a place where we go on vacation. It’s a place where we go when . . .” She bit the side of her lip, then sighed and finished what she was saying, “We die. Heaven is a place where we go when we die, and Lou died this morning.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Tears sprung up in Bean’s eyes as Michaela recognized that he realized she was telling him the truth. “I want him to come back.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  He wiped sweat from his graying brow. Bean was probably about fifty but looked a lot older. Hard years in the sun had weathered him with deep crevices on his face, and what hair was left on his head was completely gray.

  Someone cleared his throat behind her. “Ms. Bancroft?”

  She turned around to see Detective Davis. “Yes?”

  “I need to speak with Bean here, now. I’ll be in touch shortly. You can go on home. Mrs. Bancroft is resting, so I’ll be stopping by your place or giving you a call in the next few hours.”

  “Sure. Okay. Bean if you need anything, please ask me.”

  Bean didn’t respond, but rather stared blankly, tears still streaming down his face. She didn’t know if he was going to be all right.

  As she pulled out of the ranch she looked in her rearview mirror to see a distraught-looking Bean talking with the cop. She prayed Davis would go easy on him.

  By the time she made it out onto the road, her tears flowed freely again. She sucked in a breath and drove to her parents’ house. They had to be told.

  FIVE

  MICHAELA’S PARENTS LIVED fiFTEEN MINUTES away. She drove down the long gravel road bordered by barbed wire fence on either side, and overgrown grass and weeds swaying in the early winter breeze. Everything had begun to turn the color of straw, giving it an almost cold, desolate feel. The house she’d grown up in came into view—a cozy stone cottage style—nothing special to most, but to her it was still home. She noticed a piece of the fence was down and figured her dad must have been out mending it earlier because his materials lay across the driveway.

  She stepped out of her truck and wrapped her arms tighter around herself as the wind picked up and bit through her, bringing with it the smells of fresh-cut hay and earth, chilling her further with the reality setting in that she was alive and Uncle Lou was not.

  Her folks obviously hadn’t heard her coming, because as she neared the house she could hear them through the kitchen screen. Her father was yelling, something he didn’t do often. Michaela’s body tensed. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. Could the police have already called? No, her father was definitely hollering at her mother.

  “. . . dammit, Janie. My holier than thou brother is not always right, you know.” She heard her dad say as she opened the door. They stood in the circa 1975 family room with flowered velvet sofas and oversized table lamps on oak end tables set on avocado green shag carpet. Mom with her hands on her hips, Dad with his arms locked across his chest. They turned when they saw her.

  “Michaela?” her mother said concern in her voice. She always knew when something wasn’t right with her daughter. “What is it?”

  Her father, Benjamin Bancroft, uncrossed his arms, the angry flush of red draining from his face, and hurried to her. “You’ve been crying. What in the world is wrong?”

  “I need to talk to both of you. Sit down, please.”

  Dad’s eyes widened. Michaela noticed that his hand was bandaged. “What happened?”

  “Oh, I hurt it this morning, working on a section of the fence. It needed new barbed wire.”

  “Looks bad,” she replied, seeing some blood stain the bandage.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “What is it, honey?” her mother asked. “What’s troubling you?”

  “Sit down, please.” Taking a deep breath, she told her parents everything. Apparently the police had not yet informed them. Her mother cried in disbelief. Her dad just sat there, stunned. No tears, nothing.

  Finally he asked, “What about Cynthia? How is she?”

  “Not well.”

  “I’m going over there.”

  “Maybe you should wait, Dad. The police are investigating and to be honest, I don’t think us being around is such a good idea.”

  He looked down at his injured hand and rubbed it. “No matter. I’m going.”

  “I am, too,” Janie Bancroft sobbed.

  “No. Wait here,” her husband said.

  “Benjamin, you won’t tell me what to do.”

  “I’m going, too,” Michaela insisted. She looked at her father’s hand again. “Dad, that thing is pretty bloody. You sure you’re okay?”

  He nodded, looked down at his hand and back up at her.

  “Go change the bandages, Benjamin. A few minutes won’t matter,” his wife said.

  That was Mom—practical, devoted, and deeply religious. Michaela knew how her mother would get through this: the way she did with every upheaval in her life, through her faith. It always awed Michaela, but Janie Bancroft had to be the strongest woman she knew, and this family would need that strength right now.

  Michaela watched her father disappear down the hall to do as he’d been told.

  Her cell phone rang. Janie was grabbing her sweater from the front hall closet. Michaela was shocked to hear Ethan Slater’s voice on the other end. She’d forgotten that a vet was coming to her place that morning for a routine visit. Ethan had obviously returned from his trip and was on call.

  “I know you’re obviously out and about, but I think you may want to get back over here, Mick.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s Leo, kid. He’s colicing and I need some help with him. I’ve shot him with Banamine and now I need to oil him.”

  “Oh, no. I’ll be right there.” She hung up and told her mother what had happened.

  “Go, honey. There’s nothing you can do right now. Your father and I need time anyway, and we need to get ourselves over to Lou’s, see what happened, what we can do. I think it best if you take care of the colt.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “Go. I’ll call you if we need anything.”

  Michaela hugged her and headed home. God only knew what else might be in store. She was all cried out at this point. Her mind whirled in a mixture of total confusion: her beloved uncle lay dead—murdered—in his prize stallion’s stall, Ethan was keeping something from her—she knew that because of his abrupt disappearance on his rafting trip—her parents were fighting, and if she didn’t know better, her dad seemingly also had something to hide. She could have sworn he’d been lying about how he’d hurt his hand. Benjamin Bancroft never was a good liar, and her intuition said that he hadn’t told her the truth about his injury. Why?