Dark Horse

by J. Carson Black

  “You’d probably have to sue them, and they can drag their feet for years.”

  Dakota thought of Black Oak, slowly sinking into a morass of unpaid bills. Her father’s legacy to her. If she were ever to restore the ranch to its former glory—hell, even to keep it going—she’d need a lot of money. Already she was scrambling to meet the bills.

  But you’re not keeping Black Oak, a stern inner voice said.

  No, she wouldn’t keep Black Oak. But even so, the thought of people talking about Coke’s suicide was unbearable. “Where does that leave me? If I wanted to pursue it?”

  “Well, if we find out anything new, I’ll surely tell you. Looks like I missed a piece,” he added, nodding to a scrap of retread under a bush. He picked it up and studied it. “That’s it, all right. Some kind of cut, real jagged.”

  A thought occurred to her. “Could someone have run him off the road?”

  “Could have happened that way. But again, why take a chance running someone off the road when you could just shoot him? It’s not a sure method.”

  Dakota persisted. “But if you thought it was murder, what would you do?”

  The deputy handed her the retread. “I’d start by looking for the rest of this tire.”

  By the time Blue had dropped Dakota at her 4Runner parked in front of the closed sheriff’s office, sunset stained the sky red. She waved absently as the deputy drove off, her mind still on the retread and what it meant.

  She unlocked the driver’s side door and tossed the black scrap of tire onto the seat. That was when she noticed the sheet of paper on the windshield. Probably an ad. She slipped it out from under the windshield wipers.

  Abruptly, a chill wind sprang up, flattening the piece of paper against her hands. The sky darkened. Dust shuttled across the dirt lot; debris pelted her legs. She started to ball the piece of paper up, then decided she might as well see what they were selling.

  In the last red light of day, the letters might have been etched in blood.

  Capital letters.

  Short and to the point.

  ACCIDENTS HAPPEN. ASK YOUR FATHER.

  Dakota had to read them twice before her mind was able to grasp the meaning. Dread mounted in the pit of her stomach, and she was suddenly aware of how cold it was.

  The words themselves were harmless, but the message was clear. In her politically correct world, Dakota had never encountered such an overt act of hostility. Even in Hollywood, cruelty and rejection had always been softened by a thin veneer of politeness.

  Dakota prided herself on living life on an even keel. She’d always avoided confrontation. No one had ever hated her this much.

  The idea that someone had slipped this note under her windshield right in front of the sheriff’s office scared her even more. It was as if he were telling her that the sheriff couldn’t protect her.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was the grainy photocopy that accompanied the words. A picture of a wrecked truck, mangled beyond recognition.

  THIRTEEN

  “Looks like this photocopy came from a newspaper,” Clay said.

  Dakota had driven straight out to the Bar 66 Ranch, knowing she had to see Clay. It was pure instinct. “Was it—” Dakota couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “No. Your dad’s truck was a Ford. This is a GMC.”

  Dakota sighed with relief. To see her father’s truck, a jumble of twisted metal . . . the idea of it was unbearable.

  “Let me get this week’s papers.” When Clay left the room, Dakota huddled deeper in the big leather recliner, still feeling cold. She clasped the hot mug of tea in both hands, her eyes fixed on the Anne Coe print on the burnt-adobe, brick wall opposite her. It mirrored her own roiling emotions; a disturbing vision of sly people and animals savagely cavorting and drinking outside a roadside tavern. Painted in dark, stormy colors, the print was entitled “Lust.”

  A nightmare vision of debauchery, drunkenness, and death.

  She thought of Coke, driving home from the Steak Out, a couple of drinks under his belt, maybe thinking about what he would do tomorrow. She thought of his fate swiftly encroaching like a pack of dark, slavering wolves at the edge of his vision, loping alongside his truck, waiting for the right moment to move in for the kill—

  It would make a good T-shirt slogan: I PICKED UP DEATH AT A ROADSIDE TAVERN.

  She looked up just then and got the shock of her life.

  As if it had materialized from her imagination, a wolf stood on the Navajo carpet, not ten feet away. It was enormous—the size of a small Shetland pony. In the light from the fire, its eyes glowed like polished Mexican onyx.

  Oddly, Dakota wasn’t scared. Awestruck, yes. But not scared. She could sense that the animal wished her no harm. He wore dignity like a mantle, like the glorious, bluish-gray pelage that furred his back.

  Dakota felt suddenly guilty. She’d been thinking about wolves—the dark creatures of Anne Coe’s fantasy—and had attributed terrible things to them. And now the real thing stood before her, as majestic as the desert, as remote as the moon.

  “Imagine that,” Clay said as he entered the room. “Azul doesn’t usually let himself be seen by strangers.”

  “He’s a wolf,” Dakota replied, still numbed by the lack of reality in the situation.

  “Mostly. About eighty-percent Alaskan gray wolf is my guess, and the rest is probably Husky. I only know of three people who’ve ever gotten this close to him, and one of them’s you.”

  “Who else?”

  “Coke.”

  Coke, gruff, opinionated, a rancher to the core.

  “Azul must know you’re related. That’s the only thing I can think of. Better not,” Clay warned, as Dakota involuntarily put out a hand toward the wild animal.

  Azul padded over to Dakota and allowed her to sink her hands into his creamy, thick fur.

  “Damn, that’s unusual.”

  “Where’d you find him?”

  “Mexico. He was still a pup, but twice the size of a regular dog. Someone had the mistaken notion he’d clean up at the dogfights. I happened to come across him left for dead in an alley after a dogfight. Took him to the local vet down there, he patched him up, and damned if the vet brought this guy out of the woodwork, said he owned the wolf and I’d stolen it. Didn’t mind selling the pup to me, though.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like him in my life.”

  “Knowing him, that’s what made me take those wolves. Can you imagine a world where these creatures didn’t exist?”

  “No.” She shivered again, thinking how gratuitously violent mankind was. How much of its energy was spent on destruction.

  “You okay?” Clay stood beside her, reassuringly solid. One thing she’d always known: You could count on Clay in a pinch. He might dump you as a wife, but he’d never desert you as a friend.

  Swell.

  She combed her fingers through the soft fur, the sheer tactile pleasure of touching the wolf blocking out her uncharitable feelings toward Clay. She had a feeling she could hug Azul and he would let her, but that she would never be able to truly know him.

  “Sometimes when I touch him, I feel like he takes me away from here,” Clay said softly.

  She understood what he meant, having just discovered that embracing a wolf was to touch the heart of wildness. The trick, she supposed, was to leave the heart still beating. What restraint it must take to play host to the Mexican wolves, yet never see them.

  He handed her a stack of newspapers. “I throw ‘em out once a week. You look through those, and I’ll take these.”

  As if on cue, Azul walked over to the fireplace and lay down, resting his head on his paws.

  Dakota and Clay leafed through the stack of the Arizona Daily Star newspapers, paying particular attention to the front page and the section called “Metro.”

  She found the photo on page one, from three days ago. A man had lost control of his vehicle north of Tucson, and it had flipped over three times.

/>   “Three days,” Clay said. “Whoever it was had to take the trouble to clip it out, photocopy it, and find your car.”

  “Someone really hates me.”

  “Either that, or you’re some kind of threat.”

  “Why would I be a threat?”

  “Did anyone see Derek Blue pick you up?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Maybe someone did have something to do with Coke’s death, and they don’t want you poking your nose in. You never did tell me what Blue said.”

  Dakota told him.

  “So he thinks it might be more than an accident.”

  “To be honest, I think he doesn’t know what to make of it.”

  Clay tapped his fingers against the chair arm. “You think you should tell him about this?”

  “I don’t know.” She tossed the remaining newspapers on the floor. “When you look at it objectively, it seems kind of childish. Just someone playing a prank.”

  “A mean-spirited prank.”

  “Yes, a mean-spirited prank.”

  “Do you think it’s a threat?”

  Dakota shivered. “It feels real to me.”

  “Then tomorrow we’ll see if this thing was photocopied here in Sonoita. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get a description.”

  Cold seeped into her bones, despite the crackling fire. “I hope so,” she said fervently. “I guess I’d better get back.”

  “You could stay here.”

  For an instant, Dakota pictured his arm encircling her, protective and strong, as they sat before the fire. She saw them as if they were actors in a play, talking through the night, unraveling the past. As in a play, their problems would be solved in a couple of hours, and then they would joyously resume their relationship and the curtain would come down. But that wasn’t reality. “I couldn’t do that,” she said.

  Clay stood up, retrieved his jacket from the coat peg. “Then I’ll follow you home.”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  “I want you safe.”

  He did follow her home and looked through the whole house, checking the locks. Logically, Dakota thought he was going to ridiculous lengths, but in her heart, she was relieved. And grateful.

  The following morning, as Dakota prepared Shameless for her gallop, Clay came by. “I should be done around one o’clock,” he said. “We could get a bite somewhere, then see if we can find out who’s got photocopy machines around here. If you still want to.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Dakota replied as she rolled up bandages, which she would unroll again in a minute when she wrapped the filly’s forelegs. She was glad he’d kept his word. It felt natural to be with him, as if they had been together all their lives.

  “She’s looking good,” Clay said.

  “I decided to aim her for the Santa Cruz Futurity.”

  He didn’t say anything, but she could tell he was pleased she’d taken his advice.

  “I thought that those races—the trial and then the Futurity—could be a dress rehearsal. Get her used to the crowds. Like a fast work, but in a race. I don’t expect her to win, but it would be nice if we got through the trial and made it to the Futurity. Then she’d have two races under her belt before going to Ruidoso.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all thought out.”

  “She won’t be ready for the Ruidoso. Even though it’s run later, it would be her first race, and I don’t know if she could run in company like that. Not with that layoff after Dad died.”

  “How’s the trainer search?”

  She knelt and started wrapping the near foreleg. “Not good. With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had time to look.” She didn’t tell him that she’d gotten another list of possible trainers from a friend of her father’s—or that she’d left it in Coke’s desk, untouched, for several days.

  All Shameless needed was to be galloped every day for a month or so. She was on automatic pilot. Dakota monitored her soundness, made sure she was feeling good. Who needed a trainer? Dakota told herself that she might save the ranch some money by supervising the gallops herself for a month, and then hiring a trainer when the filly started to run in earnest.

  But if she left it too late, she might not find one. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it. “See you around one.”

  “Sure thing, Pearce.” She said it automatically, her mind already returning to the one and only racehorse in the Black Oak stable.

  Over Mexican food at El Vaquero, Dakota and Clay talked about old times.

  “You remember that time we thought the pool was too tame?” he asked. “And we rode over to the stock tank?”

  She shuddered. “It sure was slimy.”

  “That’s not what I remember.”

  The fact that they’d been skinny-dipping—that’s what he’d remember. It had been Dakota’s first summer back on the ranch since she’d moved to California, and it was also the first time she’d seen Clay naked. He was sixteen; she fourteen. Immature, slim, and tanned, Clay had unselfconsciously revealed the mystery of manhood that had intrigued Dakota and her girlfriends for years. When they’d kissed, she had noticed that the little dogie he’d jumped in with had turned into a full-fledged steer—although she had tried not to look.

  Now, skating along the surface of these memories, Dakota felt uncomfortable. The Clay across from her was not a boy of sixteen or even the twenty-two-year-old she’d married. He was a man in every sense now, tempered and shaped by experience. Clay was at the peak of his manhood, and she couldn’t help the ripple of pleasure in her stomach at the thought of what his body would be like now.

  “You okay?” His dark eyes glinted with humor.

  “I’m fine. This salsa is hot.”

  “Have some more water. That’ll put out the fire.”

  She didn’t say that the water would do more good elsewhere. “Remember how we’d try to get someone to buy us beer at the mini-mart?”

  He shook his head. “Not real bright in a small town.”

  “Never did get any beer, just a bunch of lectures.”

  Clay had always been a cowboy. A damn good-looking cowboy, but he didn’t fit with Dakota’s new friends. Sure, he was sexy, and he always looked good in his jeans, but when she’d gone to college, she felt she’d outgrown him—even though he’d gone to college, too. He’d attended the University of Arizona and she, UCLA.

  LA was a different world. Showing off her bikini on the boardwalk. Doing extra work and bit parts on sets and on location, hobnobbing with actors who had made it. Getting her SAG card. Darkened theaters, intense sessions with angst-ridden actors who smoked too much and ate too little. Some of the wittiest people in the world were actors, but there was always a razor-sharpness to their wit. They lived on the edge, something she could never do, because if she got desperate enough, there was always her stepfather’s money to fall back on. After graduation she’d gotten a job as a waitress, lived in the Los Angeles equivalent of a garret, refused to touch her trust fund. Felt vital, alive, important—part of things. She’d come back that first Christmas, and there was Clay. She’d left him, literally, in the dust. He still looked like a hick to her. Still rode bucking bulls. And there had been something else, something he was hiding . . .

  “Could you tell me something, Clay?” She had nothing to lose, not now. When he nodded, she asked, “Did you have a girlfriend? When we were still married?”

  He leveled his gaze on her. “There was someone, yes.”

  “I knew it!”

  He said nothing, but his mouth was grim.

  “Do you know how I knew?” She paused for effect. “I’ve never known a man to step off a boat unless the dock’s in sight!”

  “You must have had a lot of experience with men to know that,” he said.

  “Enough.” Dakota refused to take his remark as an insult. She was twenty-nine years old. Of course she’d known a few men in her time. “Women grieve. Someone breaks up with them, they don’t feel like going out
with anyone for a long time. They face their feelings, get it out of their system. But men . . .”

  “Men just find another boat.”

  “You got it. Was it a girl at the U of A?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you sleep with her? While you were married to me?”

  She knew her tone was still lighthearted, but she was disturbed by the knowledge that suddenly, she needed to know.

  His eyes darkened, and Dakota knew she’d gone too far. “No,” he said at last. “I waited until after we were separated.”

  “Was it worth breaking up our marriage for?” This was going all wrong. What did it matter anymore? And yet she couldn’t help the bitterness in her tone.

  “Our marriage was already over.”

  “So you took the cowardly way out and found yourself a little boat, or was it the dock?”

  “I’m not married to her, am I?”

  “So that was why it was so easy for you to ask for a divorce. There I was in LA, waiting for Thanksgiving, for Christmas, for spring break, thinking you still loved me, and all this time you were in love with someone else!” What was she doing? She sounded like the Grand Inquisitor!

  “You were unfaithful, too.”

  “I was not!”

  “You might not have gone out with anyone, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out you were ashamed of me. You never introduced me to your acting friends. And then you took off for California and said you’d be back for Christmas.” He leaned forward. “I may have been just a cowboy, but I had enough sense to know that if you don’t water something it won’t grow.”

  “I had to think of my career. What did you want, a housewife?”

  “I wanted a marriage. That meant you and me in the same state.”

  “My life is in LA.” She realized she was speaking in the present tense.

  “My life is here. Guess we were right, getting divorced.”

  “I guess so.”

  They ate in silence. Clay got the check. Dakota thought about protesting, then decided not to. If he wanted to pay, let him.

  She’d be needing all the money she could hold on to.