by Aimée Thurlo
Poking through the hay debris, she noticed that one of the heavy wire tines of the metal feeder bolted to the wall had broken away from the weld at the bottom and could be twisted loose. That was what she needed. Thirty seconds later she managed to work the latch free, and the door swung open.
Abby hurried outside. Nobody was around. The horses in the pen ahead were moving about nervously, and when she drew closer, she saw Carl lying facedown on the ground by the feeder.
Hank, one of their two resident camels, was in the adjoining turnout. When he saw her, he roared loudly, the distressed sound reminding her of Chewbacca in Star Wars.
“Carl?” Abby scaled the fence and ran over. As she bent down for a closer look, she saw that the back of his head was a wet mass of tissue and blood. No one could have survived that kind of head injury. Outrage and sorrow gripped her.
Abby was struggling for breath when she heard a car door slam in the distance. Wondering if the attacker could have been the driver of the pickup parked on the road, Abby raced uphill. If she could read the license plate, she’d be able to give the police something solid to go on.
Once at the top, Abby saw the pickup and rushed out onto the road for a closer look. That was a mistake. The driver spun the truck around and accelerated, coming straight at her.
Abby stared at the darkened windshield, frozen in terror. The driver’s face was lost to her, but his intent to kill her was clear.
Just then a dark SUV with flashing lights came racing over the hill—a response to Bobby’s 911.
The SUV swerved left, cut around her, then slid to a stop between her and the oncoming truck.
The pickup quickly returned to its lane, then sped past the SUV and continued over the hill.
An officer wearing a dark Hartley police jacket stepped out of the SUV. As Abby went to thank him, her knees buckled.
He was there in an instant, his arms secure around her waist and holding her gently against him. “Hang on, ma’am. I’ll call an ambulance. Your head’s injured.”
“No, I’m fine,” she said quickly, stepping back to stand on her own. She touched the emerging bump on her forehead. At least she wasn’t bleeding.
Abby looked up at him, straight into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. His steady gaze was like the man himself—strong and hard—a rock to lean on. “You just saved my life.”
“I’m Detective Preston Bowman of the Hartley P.D. You’re safe now,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring.
For a moment she felt tempted to step right back into his arms and rest against his hard chest. To forget...
She drew in a sharp breath. “I’m Abby Langdon. You need to come down to the ranch right away. Something’s happened to Carl Woods, my head trainer,” she said, telling him everything in a short burst.
“Let’s go,” he said, hurrying back to his SUV with her. “Hop in.”
“This whole thing...it feels like a nightmare...but it’s real,” she whispered, closing the passenger-side door.
“All I caught was glare off the glass. Did you see the driver’s face or his license plate?” he asked, easing down the hill, then making the turn into the long driveway.
“No, but it wasn’t for lack of trying,” she said.
“All right then. I called it in as soon as he took off. We’ll see what happens now. I’ve heard of what you do here, Abby. Now tell me more about your animal handler.”
“He’s... ” Her voice broke and she brushed away a tear. If she started crying now, would she ever stop? She took a deep breath and held it together.
He pulled up in front of the logs anchored in place to serve as a parking barrier. “Just point me in the right direction. This is a police matter and I’ll handle it.”
His steady voice and calm confidence made it easier for her to trust him. He’d stepped into an unpredictable situation and had taken charge effortlessly, as if it was second nature to him. Something assured her that Detective Bowman was very good at his job.
They climbed out of the SUV, and she led him quickly to the turnout area alongside the barn. As they approached, she saw that Bobby had left her office and was now standing just outside the welded pipe enclosure where Carl lay.
“I need to get Bobby away from there,” she said quickly. “He’s too young to deal with things like this and he’s seen too much already.”
“Bobby’s your son?” he asked, noting that the boy was Navajo.
“No, he’s always my first guest of the day. He’s also one of my regular helpers,” she said. “He found Carl and made the 911 call. Is it okay if I go take care of him?”
“Yeah. This is no place for a kid. Find a place where he can stay, just make sure he doesn’t leave the property. He may have seen or heard something that could help us.”
As Abby hurried to the boy, she could see Carl’s body in her periphery. A silent scream rose inside her, filling her mind and nearly obliterating her ability to think.
“He’s...dead, isn’t he?” Bobby whispered.
He seemed remarkably controlled considering the circumstances. But she’d seen that same look on other faces before and recognized it for what it was. Many would mistake it for indifference, but fear, the kind that clung with razor-sharp tentacles to your soul, often mimicked bravery. She remembered seeing it in her twin sister’s eyes as treatment after treatment had failed to cure her.
Taking a deep breath and forcing herself to focus on the present, Abby turned her head and saw Detective Bowman had ducked through the gap in the welded pipe fence. He had latex gloves on and was now crouched next to Carl’s body. After checking for Carl’s pulse, he looked up and shook his head, affirming what she already knew.
Abby focused on Bobby. “We need to leave. Other officers and medical people will be here soon and will need us to point the way back here.”
Bobby didn’t move, his gaze still locked on Carl. “Do you think Missy or Tracker kicked him?” he asked in a thin voice.
She hadn’t even considered that possibility until now. “I can’t imagine either of those horses hurting anyone. They’re the calmest animals I’ve ever known. I’ve never seen either of them spook, not under any circumstances,” she said, taking an unsteady breath. Somehow her voice had remained steady but her hands were shaking badly. Not wanting Bobby to see that, she jammed them into her pockets. “Carl was their trainer and the animals knew and liked him. They never even flinched or pulled away when he cleaned their hooves. There’s no way they hurt him.”
“Then who did this?”
Abby drew in another unsteady breath. “I don’t know, Bobby. That’s what Detective Bowman is here to find out.” She tried to urge Bobby along, but he refused to move.
“I’m going to miss Carl, Abby. He was my friend and I don’t have that many. The kids at the foster home play a lot of football and baseball, but I can’t. Carl liked the same kind of games I do. We’d pretend we were spies and do a lot of cool stuff.” A tear trickled down one cheek, but he brushed it away instantly.
She wanted to give him a hug, but she knew Bobby would think she was babying him and would hate that. “It’s okay to be sad. I am, too, Bobby.”
He nodded but didn’t answer her directly, avoiding the subject altogether. “The detective’s Navajo, like me. Did you notice? He has to work around the body and that’s dangerous, but he knows how to protect himself so he’ll stay safe,” he said. “See that leather bag on the cord around his neck? That’s not jewelry, and he’s not just trying to look Indian. That bag protects him.”
“From what? I don’t understand,” Abby said.
“Spirits stick around and like making trouble for people. Mrs. Nez—she cooks for us back at the foster home—told me that,” he said.
Abby hesitated, unsure what to say. “Carl would never hurt either one of us, not when he was
alive or now that he’s passed on,” she said. “Bobby, you may not need a hug, but I do.” She bent down and held him. As she did, Abby felt the tremor that shook his small body.
After a moment she stepped away and Bobby refused to look at her, almost as if embarrassed. “Tell the detective that I followed the rule of three, okay?”
“The what?”
“He’ll know,” he said. “We better go. The sirens are coming closer.”
She nodded. “You’re right. We’ll need to stay out of everyone’s way.”
They walked back up the path away from the barn and the enclosures. Abby set a slow pace, but not so much that Bobby would think she was deferring to him. Bobby faced many difficulties daily, but he had a lot of pride, something that helped him endure.
Hearing Hank the camel roar loudly, Abby halted. “Bobby, go ahead without me. Make sure the other officers and emergency people know where to find the detective. I need to get the horses out of the turnout area and move Hank to another pen so the police can work in peace.”
“Okay, but if you get scared or something, shout out or whistle. I’ll hear you.”
“Thanks,” Abby said and smiled. Bobby was as loyal as could be. It was one of the many reasons she was so fond of him.
Abby jogged back to where she’d left the detective. Though the horses were clearly upset by the stranger in their enclosure, they were still acting in a predictable manner. Both stood as far away from Detective Bowman as possible, at the innermost corner of the enclosure, watching him, their ears pinned back.
“Detective, let me put halters on the horses and lead them to another pen. They’ll be out of your way then.”
“No, stay put. This is a crime scene,” he said. “I see a hoof pick over there and a coffee can with some traces of grain. I’ll dump that out then check their hooves, scrape off any dirt and debris into the can and then bring them out to you.”
Preston looked around for a rope and halter but, finding neither within arm’s reach, decided to forego using them. He bent down and checked each of Missy’s hooves. Using the pick, he collected dirt and what could be blood and hair. Once finished, he grabbed the mare by the mane and led her over to Abby, who immediately opened the small turnout gate.
“You know horses,” Abby said.
“Yeah. It was part of life where I grew up.”
Abby grabbed Missy’s mane as he’d done and led her out to another corral. By the time she returned, Detective Bowman was waiting with Tracker.
Abby grabbed the horse but as her gaze strayed to Carl, a lump formed at her throat. How could this have happened? Nothing made sense to her anymore.
“Was he a close friend?” Preston asked, as if sensing the turmoil inside her.
“We weren’t close, but I considered him a friend. He was a good, loyal employee and a man who’d believed in my dream for Sitting Tall Ranch.” She wanted to keep her voice steady, so she paused for a moment. “Do you know how...he died?” she added in a strained whisper.
“Not yet, but I’ll find out. You can count on that.”
Detective Bowman walked away from her and crouched by Carl’s body once again. This time he looked around slowly, taking in the setting, not the victim. Although the gesture had seemed almost casual, she had a feeling he didn’t miss much. Then, surprisingly, he looked back at her. His gaze was penetrating...and unsettling. She wanted to look away but somehow couldn’t quite manage it.
To her, he represented the unknown...and that scared her. Would he be an ally, or would his appearance mark the last days of Sitting Tall Ranch? She’d made her mistakes—well-meaning ones, but if they came out now... Determined to guard her secrets, she moved away.
“We’ll be blocking off several areas with yellow tape,” he called out while taking photos with a small camera. “It may take a day or two before we’re ready to take the tape down, so be prepared.”
She tried not to give in to the unadulterated panic rising inside her. This wasn’t just about Carl, not anymore. If the ranch became synonymous with danger, no parent would want their kids here. She’d lose her funding and have to shut down.
Sitting Tall Ranch was a place of healing and hope. There was no other place like it in the area. What they offered kids was something worth fighting for, and she intended to do whatever was necessary to keep the ranch’s doors open.
“I’m going to need access to the animals,” she said as Hank let out another loud bellow. “Please try to keep that in mind when you put up the tape.”
“No problem. I’ve got you covered.”
“And please,” she said softly, “work quickly. We need donations to survive, and with the economy, those have become harder and harder to get.”
“You need closure, too, and finding answers is what I do best,” he said. “Trust me.”
She looked at him and blinked. She normally hated it when anyone said that. The words were usually empty and, if anything, meant she should do exactly the opposite. Yet there was something about Detective Bowman that assured her he was as good as his word.
Hearing another vehicle approaching, he turned his head to look, then glanced back at her. “Here comes Joanna Medina, the medical investigator,” he said. “I’ll need to speak to you and the boy as soon as I can, and when I do I’ll let you know what we’ve found.”
“Okay, thanks,” she said. “I’m going to move Hank, the camel that’s being so vocal right now. After that I’ll be in my office, the casita behind the main house.”
“One more thing,” he called out to her. “The kid, Bobby, he didn’t move or touch the body, right?”
“No, I think he would have been afraid to. He told me to tell you he’d followed the rule of three. He said you’d know what that meant.”
Preston nodded. “Don’t touch them, don’t look at them, get away from them.”
“The ghosts of the dead—that’s the source of worry, right?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” he said, meeting her outside the corral. “The chindi is the evil side of a man that remains earthbound waiting for a chance to create problems for the living. Our traditionalists believe that contact with the dead or their possessions is a sure way to draw it to you.”
“You’re an officer, so you’re not...a traditionalist?”
“I’m a detective who does his job,” he said, waving at a woman wearing a lab coat and carrying a heavy-looking medical case. “I have to get to work now. I’ll come find you once we’re through here and we can talk about what you saw before I got here.”
As he strode away, a cold shudder ripped through Abby. She’d known anger, worry, love and ultimately loss. Yet she could count on one hand the times she’d experienced pure, unadulterated fear. Now as she watched the detective meet the medical examiner, she felt its icy-cold touch clawing into her again.
Carl was dead, and someone had attacked her here twice. No matter how hard she wished it wasn’t so, the truth was that the ranch was no longer a safe haven.
Trying not to look back at Carl’s body as she passed by, Abby returned to the pen that held Hank. Sensing that she was upset, the tall, gawky but somehow elegant animal nuzzled against her.
“Come on, old friend.” She placed a halter on him, opened the gate and led him away.
As she walked, tears gathered but she blinked them away. She wouldn’t fall apart now. She’d do what had to be done. Carl had shared her dream. He’d loved what they did here at the ranch daily: giving kids a chance to be kids again. He would have expected her to fight to keep it alive.
One way or another she’d see to it that Sitting Tall Ranch weathered the approaching storm.
Chapter Three
Preston considered the information he’d already gathered while the medical examiner worked. At first glance it had looked like an accident, a tramp
ling death, but there were some inconsistencies. The wound to the back of the victim’s skull showed no trace of sand, something sure to have been left by a horse’s hoof, especially in this churned-up stall.
There also weren’t any deep impressions or hoof marks near the body that would indicate the vic had been trampled. In fact, the only fresh prints near the body appeared to be from the vic’s own boots.
He’d seen plenty of cowboys injured by horses at rodeos, but the way Carl’s body lay seemed posed somehow. A cowboy kicked by a horse usually landed askew, not neatly on his face with arms laid out flat by his side. The fact that someone else had been on the premises and had attacked Abby, then tried to run her down, supported the likelihood of foul play.
That’s when he’d taken another look at the ground by the body and discovered that someone had methodically obliterated the footprints along a strip of ground leading to and from the enclosure’s gate. It had been skillfully done, but Preston was an experienced tracker and had spotted the signs.
Dr. Joanna Medina glanced up from the body. She was in her late fifties, with short silver hair and blue eyes that looked world weary and a little sad.
“You were right. This wasn’t an accident. The wound on his head appears to have come from a blunt object. There’s a second bruise on his chest, too. It’s elongated, as if made by a stick or shovel.” Joanna stood and handed him a clear plastic evidence bag. “Here’s everything I found in the vic’s pockets.”
“Do you have a time of death for me?”
“All the markers tell me he died last night between nine and midnight.”
As she prepared the body for transport, Preston, still wearing gloves to avoid fingerprint contamination, studied the vic’s possessions. There was a small notepad with feeding schedules, a ranch staff ID and a wallet with five bucks but no driver’s license. Because there was no metro bus service and only one cab company around, it was unusual for locals not to have a license. He’d ask Abby about it.