Dang Near Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 2)

by Nancy G. West

  With Trey’s dark skin and hair, and Vicki’s fair skin and strawberry-blond hair, nobody would guess they were siblings.

  “My parents stashed him here to spy on me,” Vicki said. “What a joke. They don’t realize what a screw-up he is. He’s the one who needs to get his life straight. When I caught him forging a check on my account, I told him there’d be no more smoking weed and drinking on my dime. I wonder what he does with guests in that river. Maybe he shares his booze and marijuana.”

  “Good grief. Won’t Bertha find out?”

  “Eventually. He’s pretty smooth, but one of these days, he’ll make a guest mad. I’d like to be around when Bertha finds out about his doping and drinking. When our parents shipped him here, he figured he had them fooled, and he could mooch off me easier. He has his own trust fund, what’s left of it. I couldn’t believe they sent the creep to watch me! That was the last straw. How was I supposed to trust him or my parents?”

  She glanced ahead to make sure her charges were still walking toward the stable. Their footprints obliterated horseshoe tracks on the trail.

  Vicki moved over to whisper in my ear. “I told Trey I might take a hike and disappear. I liked it here until he showed up. As far as I’m concerned, he can wallow here forever. If I leave, my trust fund goes with me.” She looked back to make sure Trey wasn’t around. “When I told him that, he got so mad I thought he was going to capsize one of his stupid canoes and hold me under it. He’s always had a temper.”

  This girl definitely needed someone to confide in.

  “Do you really plan to disappear?” I knew what it was like to be without anybody to rely on. The uncle and aunt who’d raised me in Chicago died soon after I turned eighteen. That’s when I got my job at the bank. It wasn’t good to be alone. Maybe that’s why I’d been so eager to latch on to Lester, the first and only boyfriend I’d ever had. I’d been so eager to change everything. Eager to escape. Eager to permanently belong to somebody. Eager to seal a relationship with sex.

  It took me a while to figure out that sometimes it’s better to be alone.

  “Disappearing would be cool,” she said, “like in a witness-protection program. Trey threatened to tell Mom and Dad I want to leave the ranch. If he does, they’ll probably show up and insist I come home.” She lowered her voice so I could hardly hear. “I’ve already transferred some funds. I’ll need untraceable money to support my untraceable self.”

  “You sound serious. What about Bertha and your horse and the people you like?” There was apparently one wrangler she’d miss.

  “I will miss them.” She looked sad but resolute. “But it’s time for me to be free.”

  Why did I sense that, despite her urge to be liberated and her secretive plans, she’d never really be free? She reminded me of myself at her age. Desperate to fly, but clueless about which way to go. She seemed to trust me. Maybe I could help. Somehow.

  “We’re almost to the stables,” she said. “I need to walk on ahead. You won’t repeat any of this?”

  “Of course not. Let me know if I can do anything.” She needed a mother figure to talk to. Even though I was obviously much too young to be her mother.

  Six

  We approached the corrals. A skinny cowboy perched on the top fence rail with his legs bowed around a post. His Stetson dwarfed his head.

  “Welcome, folks. I’m Monty Malone. I worked rodeos afore Ranger Travis said I oughta work here.” He pointed to the lanky, big-shouldered cowboy inside the corral whose hat didn’t quite shade his chiseled face. When the rugged cowboy tipped his hat above his six-foot-four frame, the girls murmured. His half-shy grin and thick lashes stirred even my stomach. Ranger Travis might be the cowboy Vicki hated to leave.

  When Ranger looked at Vicki, his grin widened. She stared pointedly at the horses. Monty watched their exchange with a satisfied expression before he shimmied down from the fence. I sidled his way in case he made any interesting observations.

  Ranger started his spiel about the horses. About that time, Bertha sauntered up. As she watched Ranger, her face softened and her eyes grew round.

  “We have thirty-five horses in this corral,” Ranger said. “You can ride most of them, but we keep a few back for ranch hands. We’ll match you with the best horse for you. They’re all gentle, but some of ’em have quirks. Some don’t like halters, like Scooter over there.”

  He gestured to a dapple-gray mare with a black pigmented circle around one eye. The sun probably reflected differently off that circle from the way it bounced off gray skin around the mare’s other eye. Scooter probably saw things differently from each eye: with a halter coming toward her, she might perceive a misshapen foreign object that looked monstrous.

  “Some of these horses,” Ranger continued, “will take off if you dismount and let the reins drag the ground. You can wrap the end of the reins around the saddle horn or, better still, hand them to a wrangler. Another thing, when you’re trying to get on a horse, make sure you mount from the correct side.”

  Ranger should have specified which side of the horse he meant. Millie’s eyes were like saucers.

  “Sassy over there”—Monty pointed at a short, stocky mare with a stiff mane flopping around flinty eyes—“she blows up like a balloon when she’s cinched.”

  “Then what happens?” Millie asked.

  “You get on and start goin’ good,” Monty said. “Then Sassy farts the air out. All of a sudden, the saddle’s not cinched tight enough to stay on her. You slip off sideways with the saddle.” He slapped his knee and guffawed.

  Millie turned pale.

  A big-boned black horse ambled toward the fence where she stood outside the corral.

  “Don’t feed that one,” Monty said. “He bites.” Millie jumped back two feet. Sam chuckled.

  “Yeah,” Monty added, “and don’t ever rein Dime too hard or he’ll pitch you in the dirt.”

  “Which one is Dime?” Millie squeaked.

  “That paint horse over there.” He pointed to a horse that looked like somebody had doused him with cans of brown and white paint.

  Ranger shot Monty a stern look. “Don’t mind him. He gets a kick out of hasslin’ new riders.”

  Monty pouted.

  “We’ll catch your horses for you,” Ranger said. “It’s not a good idea to walk in here among ’em. If they’re not sure what’s coming up behind ’em, they might spook.”

  “Spook,” Millie said. “You mean snort and look wild, like they do now?”

  Monty gestured toward a tall horse and muttered to Millie under his breath, “You come up behind Marbach—that brown gelding over there that’s sixteen hands high—he’ll kick the crap outta ya.”

  Millie’s hands started shaking. Horses plodded aimlessly inside the corral.

  “They’re just milling around,” Ranger said. “They sense you’re new people and think they’re going to be ridden.”

  The women cringed outside the fence. Sam winked at Meredith.

  “We’ll start slow,” Ranger said, “until we’re all real comfortable. For riders who learn to ride good enough to go on the trail ride”—he eyed each woman, including me—“I’ll make something special for you. A souvenir of the ranch.” He lifted a multi-strand ring of wire. At first, I thought it was barbed wire, but it was thin and without barbs.

  “Since we use a lot of wire on this ranch, I decided to make things with it. I can’t sing country western, so I do this.” Ranger moseyed over to a cardboard box, swaggering like Clint Eastwood. He hummed Brooks and Dunn’s “A Man This Lonely” while he pulled wire sculptures attached to wooden bases out of the box. I recognized one creature as an armadillo. The other sculpture was a bald eagle landing. Ranger’s wire creations were amazingly lifelike.

  The women tittered, except for Vicki. A cowboy built like a fullback who
had an artistic side had probably appeared in most of their dreams.

  “Ain’t he great?” whispered Monty, keeping his voice low. George Tensel gave Monty a look of appraisal.

  “I usually like horses better’n people,” Monty said, “’cept fer Ranger. When I worked that rodeo circuit, I was sleepin’ in one stall and shovelin’ out the rest when Ranger come along.” Monty peered at me from under his hat. “I hope you don’t mind my talkin’,” he said. “We ain’t had many guests for a while.”

  “I understand. I enjoy listening.”

  Ranger passed his sculptures around for everyone to admire.

  “This job is better than the rodeo circuit?” I asked Monty.

  “Best job I ever had. When Ranger said he needed a wrangler at this here ranch, I jumped at the chance. I’ve done ever’ thing from dodging snakes to shoveling shit. This job is easy: no traveling…steady work…having one boss—well, two, countin’ Bertha Sampson. It beats having ever’ cowboy and rancher in a hunnert miles telling you what to do.”

  He lowered his voice. “I’m not countin’ Bertha’s assistant as my boss. Vicki’s nothin’ but a citified twit. Beats me why Ranger cain’t see it. Ever time Ranger eyeballs Vicki, ole Bertha expands like a blowfish. It’s obvious the old bag has the hots for Ranger. If Ranger don’t quit chasin’ after Vicki, he’s liable to lose his job and mine along with it. That snippy girl needs to get lost.”

  I didn’t think Vicki was one bit interested in Ranger. She was probably contemplating her best time to escape.

  Sam and Meredith, bored with Ranger and his sculptures, strolled over toward Monty and me. I told Monty how much Sam loved horses and dude ranches so Monty would keep talking.

  “When Ranger offered me this job, I told him right off about getting drunk and hurtin’ that twerp,” Monty said.

  My ears perked up. Sam moved closer.

  “They said I hurt the guy pretty bad, but I don’t remember nuthin’,” Monty said. “Ranger said ever-body makes mistakes. He gave me this here job in spite of everythin’.”

  Sam narrowed his eyes. “You recently hurt somebody in a fight?”

  “Aw, no. It was a long time ago. Probly ten years. That feller’s bound to be healed up by now.”

  Sam studied Monty and didn’t reply. I glanced up in time to see Ranger smile seductively at Vicki. Bertha frowned.

  “Come on, everybody. Time to go to the firing range,” Vicki said. “Thank the wranglers.” She started the group clapping, let them pass by her and pointed them toward the next stop.

  Monty caught up to George Tensel and started chattering. I guess Monty figured he’d worn the rest of us out. George was probably ready to listen to anybody who didn’t talk about conservation or nag him to exercise.

  “You go on ahead,” I told Meredith and Sam. I was convinced Vicki needed someone to talk to. My feet had started itching ferociously. I wanted to know what Vicki thought about Ranger Travis. I caught up to her and walked alongside. “That wrangler’s really handsome,” I said. “Talented, too.”

  She shrugged. “Ranger’s good looking, but he’s all show. Bertha makes a fool of herself drooling over him in his skin-tight jeans. If he flirts with me, she always seems to notice. Monty doesn’t like Ranger paying attention to me either. He’s not about to let anybody get near his meal ticket. I finally had to tell Ranger to buzz off. He looked mad enough to stomp me with his horse. Monty needs to quit worrying about my latching onto Ranger Travis. I want somebody with brains.”

  Vicki didn’t seem to be interested in anybody at the ranch. She and brother Trey were at odds. She didn’t like Ranger, and Monty didn’t like her. Bertha was usually mad at her. There must be somebody she cared about, somebody she hated to leave. I just hadn’t met him yet.

  “Who’s in charge of the firing range?”

  “Wayne Rickoff,” she said. “He’s a Vietnam vet who spent time in a Wisconsin VA hospital. Once, before shotgun class started, I caught him aiming at one of the horses, then at Ranger. When he saw me looking at him, he whirled and put me in his gun sight. He lowered the gun right away, but he had a wild look in his eyes. He gives me the creeps. What’d I ever do to him?”

  “When your boyfriend took you to the rodeos in Wisconsin, did you see a lot of angry vets?”

  “Not too many. Some of the older vets, maybe in their forties, seemed especially angry. I was told they’d served in Vietnam.”

  Since when was forty old? Vicki was too young to remember, so I told her what it was like for soldiers in Vietnam. “When they came back from combat, many soldiers felt the war provided no resolution of conflict for anyone. Regardless of how they’d responded, the outcome seemed to be an endless stream of casualties with no results. And people booed the returning soldiers.”

  “Wow. No wonder they were angry.”

  “Yes. Regardless of how hard they’d worked, sweated, bled, or how many friends they’d seen die, the outcome was the same. Our GIs were constantly rocketed or mortared, but felt they gained no ground. When they returned to the US, they’d try to put together some positive resolution for that time in their lives. But they found very little support from friends and neighbors at home.”

  “I know that feeling,” she said.

  “I’d see Vietnam veterans at the bank where I worked in Chicago,” I said. “They looked depressed, hopeless, angry. Some were irritable and easily startled. They’d have sudden outbursts of anger. The war affected many of them that way, either from what they’d seen or personally experienced. I read about post-traumatic stress disorder so I’d know how to relate to them.”

  “When Rickoff pointed his gun at me,” she said, “he looked like he was ready to attack.”

  “He might have hallucinated you and Ranger were enemies, that you were Viet Cong. That’s a symptom of PTSD: trauma they experienced in the war comes back, triggered by some unforeseeable event or person, and they’re ready to fight again.”

  “What awful symptoms to live with,” she said. “I hope that’s not what Wayne Rickoff is going through.”

  “So do I.”

  Vicki definitely had a kind heart. But she didn’t seem to have a single reason to stay at this ranch. With all the animosity floating around, I wondered if we should leave. Two unexplained deaths had occurred here, Vicki’s doping brother was trying to steal from her, and she was desperate to escape. Monty had hurt somebody during a drunken brawl. Wayne Rickoff was an unpredictable war veteran who might suffer from PTSD and randomly pointed his gun at people. If I told Sam about Rickoff’s gun incident, Sam would have Meredith and me packed up and back on the highway in thirty minutes.

  I’d counted on this vacation. Sam needed more time to heal. We needed time together without a crime to solve and a slew of cops and suspects around. We needed just enough time together. Not too much time. After my ghastly experience with Lester, I had mixed feelings about everything, including sex. Being loved (or so I thought) and left by Lester had affected so many people: me, Sam, his wife Katy, the child.

  If I could help Vicki, maybe she wouldn’t flee. I knew from experience, after Lester took off, that merely running away wouldn’t help. Instead, I had worked my way up to bank vice-president and earned a business degree at night. But I was desperate to leave my boring job and Chicago’s lousy winters.

  When I moved to San Antonio, I was financially secure for the first time. Free to live anywhere. And young enough to start over. When San Antonio’s Flash-News said they’d run “Stay Young with Aggie,” that cinched it.

  I had thought, when we are all together in Chicago, that I’d begun falling in love with Sam. Single and thirty-nine, it was time for me to go to Texas and find out.

  Now, we had the chance to become reacquainted on vacation. Despite conflicts at the ranch, I decided to wait awhile before telling Sam everything I knew. />
  Seven

  Vicki turned our group around and led us back past the stables. We walked so far, we couldn’t even hear the horses. I guessed the shooting range had to be a good distance from the ranch’s populated areas in case somebody fired in the wrong direction.

  My watch showed it was approaching five o’clock. Scorching sun seared the back of my neck. My dry mouth told me the temperature must be mid-ninety.

  George and Selma Tensel padded behind Vicki. Selma periodically pointed out cenizo, black brush or a red yucca plant.

  “Who cares about plants?” George said. “I need air conditioning, a cold shower and a beer.”

  Our suitemates walked behind Selma and George. Jangles waddled and puffed with sweat dripping down the back of her neck. The Texas rhinestones covering her toes were dirt brown. Stoney strode with by-god determination, whacking mosquitoes. Nobody’d remembered to bring bug spray.

  Millie looked despondent. I heard her talking to herself. “I haven’t seen one activity that looks safe.”

  Sam, Meredith, and I walked far enough behind everybody to avoid their dust. Sam craned his neck around Meredith to peer at me. He raised an eyebrow: “Are we having fun yet?”

  I wrinkled my nose at him and kept walking. I’d cajoled him into coming to the ranch by hinting that, although a dude ranch didn’t appear to be dangerous, two unarmed women traveling alone might need protection in the middle of eighteen hundred remote acres. He couldn’t resist my logic. I hoped my lame excuse didn’t prove true.

  When the firing range came into view, Vicki turned around and walked backward, gesturing behind her. “This is where we learn to trap shoot. We fire shotguns at moving clay targets as though we’re firing at game birds. Our instructor, Wayne Rickoff, is a Vietnam veteran and crack shot who wins skeet shooting competitions.”