“If you want to, you could call the phone company. But I don’t think it’ll do any good. Looks like random vandalism to me. Or maybe you made somebody mad, like cutting them off in traffic or something.”
“My father was harassed. And then he was killed.”
“We’re pretty sure that was an accident.”
“What about this?” She showed him the note.
“Someone has a mean sense of humor.”
“That’s all you can say?”
“Look, I wish I could help you, but there’s only three of us holding the fort down here, and there’s no way to tell when or if this guy’s going to strike again. If any of your stock had been killed, then we’d take it more seriously. It sounds like this guy didn’t have the guts to do anything that mean. You should count yourself lucky.”
After he’d gone, she debated calling Clay. She remembered the last time she had run to him. When he asked her to spend the night, she’d been tempted. What could he do that the sheriff couldn’t, except seduce her?
Suddenly, she realized that the man on the phone could have gotten to Shameless, too. She drove out to the track, fear clawing at her insides. She glanced at the truck phone. She could still call Clay. Maybe he could meet her there—
No.
The filly was fine, but Dakota wasn’t taking any chances. She’d brought a sleeping bag, water, and candy bars. And her gun. It was a Smith & Wesson nine millimeter. Her father had given it to her for her twenty-seventh birthday, to protect herself in that “Sodom and Gomorrah” of a city she lived in. Dakota had grown up with guns of all kinds, but she liked this one best of all; it was light and the grip fit her palm well. Although she hoped never to use it, she’d been taught to shoot to kill.
The following morning, still sore, Dakota supervised the filly’s gallop, then went home. She showered, changed, and was making herself a quick lunch when the phone rang.
Dakota reached for the phone, but didn’t pick it up. She really didn’t want to hear that ugly, muffled voice. Didn’t want to think what he might do next.
The phone kept ringing. It could be anyone. Owners were always calling, checking on their mares. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she picked up the receiver.
“If I can get close enough to cut their manes, I can cut their throats. I’m not going to tell you again. Go home before someone gets hurt.”
SEVENTEEN
“Three owners have pulled their mares,” Dan told Dakota.
“Word gets around fast.”
Dakota, patting her dogs absently as she watched the broodmares, tried to stem the feeling of panic rising in her chest. It had been a rough couple of days. Every time the phone rang she thought it would be that obscene muffled voice, telling her he had cut the mares’ throats. She was a package of raw nerves. Whenever Dan sought her out, she expected to hear bad news. Maybe it was a good thing for people to take their mares—at least then they’d be safe. But it would mean disaster for Black Oak.
The mares—thank God—looked healthy and well-cared for, their coats glistening in the sun, but even from here she could see one of them trying to switch her short tail at the flies.
Beside her, Dan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Are you really going to send out that letter?”
“What else can I do? Tell them that hacking off their manes and tails is part of the service?”
Dan shrugged, his face blank. His shrug seemed to say, it’s your funeral.
Dakota paused, trying to think of something friendly to say. She wanted Dan on her side. “They look good, though.”
One of the golden retrievers, who had been sitting patiently at her heels, suddenly darted into the field. “Alydar! Come back here!”
He loped up to one of the mares, his tail wagging furiously. To Dakota’s surprise, the mare didn’t spook, but pricked her ears and touched noses with him. Alydar licked at the mare’s muzzle, and she blew through her nostrils at him. He ran around her in circles, and she followed ponderously, obviously fascinated by him. They had an instantaneous affinity for each other.
The sorrel mare, heavy with foal, had an almost perfect white heart on her forehead. “Look. They’re practically waltzing. That’s a Black Oak mare, isn’t it?” Dakota asked.
“I think she’ll drop her foal soon. I’m gonna look at her in a little while.”
Dakota whistled, and the dog returned, looking guilty. She’d heard about horses and other animals getting along, to the point that the horses couldn’t bear to be parted from their companions. ‘That’s one of the Shawne Bug mares, isn’t it? Her name’s Shawnes something—Shawnes Secret? No, that’s not it.”
“I’ve got to unload the hay,” he said, brushing past her. Dakota watched him go, thinking how angry he looked. She supposed he had every right to be, considering his personal problems. Marie Bolin was getting worse. Alice had told Dakota that before Marie could get on the list for a heart donor, Dan would have to come up with a lot of money. The kind of money most people didn’t have and couldn’t get.
As Dakota drove out, headed for the track, she saw Dan leaning on the fence, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He stared bleakly at the mares, his anguish plain on his face.
She stopped for gas in Sonoita. As she reached into the glove compartment for the tire gauge, her hands touched rubber—the tire scrap. She’d forgotten all about it.
She remembered what Derek Blue had told her, and her own hazy conclusions. If Coke had been murdered, the most likely explanation seemed to be that someone had run him off the road. The blown tire could have come from the other vehicle.
Dakota realized that she didn’t have to look at every car or truck in the county to try and match the chunk of tire. The only person she suspected of being involved in Coke’s death was Jerry Tanner. She understood why the sheriff couldn’t just go over there and compare treads—it wouldn’t be legal— but she could.
When Deputy Blue had given her the tire scrap, had it been with his tacit approval to snoop? She’d be happy to oblige.
Suddenly, she had to know. The need to take control, do something, was overwhelming. She had been helpless to prevent the mares from being mutilated. She’d been impotent to stop the phone calls with their insinuating, slimy tone. Here, in her hands, was her chance to fight back.
She took the tire slice over to Tanner’s truck. The shedrows pretty much concealed her from view of the track, but there were always people and vehicles in the rear portion of the track area. When no one seemed to be looking her way, she slipped around to the far end of the truck so that its bulk hid her from view, then knelt down beside the tire.
The truck’s tire was almost bald. Ol’ Jerry would be driving on his rims before long. But the faint tread did not match the blown retread. She was surprised at the deep disappointment she felt. She had been so sure.
Damn! She stood up, brushed her hair out of her eyes. No one paid any attention to her. Horses walked in circles. The mournful sound of a radio, tuned to a country music station, drifted on the air.
Suddenly, she realized that a man like Tanner, who was too lazy to buy a rebuilt starter for his truck, wasn’t the type to replace all his tires at once. More likely, he’d buy new ones only as each tire wore out. No doubt he’d pick the cheapest brand at the time. All four tires could be different makes.
Dakota walked along the truck to the left front. She pretended she was looking at it with an eye to buy it, although the thought of the California Rich Bitch buying this heap wouldn’t make much sense if anyone thought about it.
A guy was taking his horse off the hot walker nearby. He glanced at her as he led the horse to the barn. She waved, trying to look innocent. Her smile felt pinned to her face.
She looked around. A thin wedge of racetrack peeked out between the two closest shedrows. Squinting, Dakota tried to pick out a white shape on the track. Lucky for her the white mule Jerry used to pony his horses was easy to spot. Time slowed to a crawl. At last she saw the mule go b
y, way out on the backstretch. Even if Tanner was coming back, it would take him a good long time to get to the gap.
She knelt quickly and compared the tire treads. No match.
She’d have to go to the other one. It was closest to the track, and if Tanner happened to look over . . .
Taking a deep breath, Dakota bent down. As she stared at the tire, the certainty that she would be caught crept into her mind. Logic told her Tanner was far away, but her gut feeling didn’t agree. It felt as if someone had pulled a wire in her stomach, setting off a chain reaction of heart-fluttering fear. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, making every extremity tingle.
Concentrate, dummy! She grabbed at the far-flung tatters of thought, jerking herself back into the present. Stared hard at the tire, trying to make sense of the pattern there.
She couldn’t tell. The tire was in shadow, the tread so faint it was difficult to see. She stood up, looking over at the track. Jerry must be on the turn, out of view. Dakota knelt down again, more nervous by the moment. The sliced tire in her hand was slippery with sweat. The flies around her were driving her crazy. She held it against one part of the tire, and then another. So hard to—
“What are you doing?”
Her thoughts froze. She was still staring at the tire, unable to fathom the reality of Tanner’s voice.
“I asked you a question.”
Galvanized by the anger in his tone, Dakota straightened up, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer. She’d had the presence of mind to let go of the tire scrap as she stood up, letting it fall in the shade of the wheel well.
“What did you think I was doing? I was looking at your truck,” she said, shielding her eyes against the bright sun. Offense was the best defense.
Tanner held the halter to a scrawny thoroughbred with bucked shins. It was still wet from a bath. Someone else— Lucy?—must have been riding his mule.
“Why?”
“Lucy told me the shocks were bad. We happen to have some—they were on my dad’s old truck. Brand new. I thought she could use them, since it’s dangerous to drive with bad shocks.” Not a bad lie, except Coke’s truck was in an impoundment lot in Tucson. No doubt Tanner knew that; he wasn’t stupid.
“Now why would you wanna do that for me?”
“I wouldn’t do a thing for you,” she said, forcing her tone to be calm. “But I don’t want to see Lucy get hurt.”
His eyes narrowed. “We don’t need your charity.”
She felt like saying that they’d lived off her father’s charity for years.
Tanner leaned toward her. Hamburger with mustard and onions. “Just because you hired my daughter doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. You got that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saved your father’s life, that’s what I’m talking about. It’s plain as day, ain’t it? You owe me, lady!” He waved his arm. “Now you come along with your la-di-da ways and all your money and think you can make it all up by giving my daughter a shit job. She might fall for it, but I don’t. She knows which side her bread’s buttered on.”
“I gave her the job because she needed it.”
But Tanner was on a roll now. “I know what’s really going on. You think I’m blind? Your kind only care about yourselves. First you McAllisters took my livelihood, and now you want my daughter.”
“Your daughter? I don’t want—”
“It’s hard enough to make ends meet without her gallivantin’ all over the place with you.”
“I offered her a job. That’s all,” she said as coolly as she could. “If you’d rather she didn’t work for me, that can be arranged.”
He backed down at that. He certainly wasn’t going to turn down the money Lucy was bringing in. He glared at her for a moment, then yanked the chestnut around savagely and walked away. “Stay away from my truck,” he yelled back at her.
Dakota decided she’d better leave the piece of retread where it was and pick it up later, when Tanner was gone. Still shaken from the encounter, she walked back to her shedrow.
One thing was certain: Tanner had a whole lot of hate, and it was all directed at her. Could he have hated Coke that much? He felt Coke owed him. In his mind, Coke had thrown him out on the street. What would a man like Tanner do about it? Would he be mad enough to kill?
She was pretty sure the tire she’d checked last wasn’t the same, which left one more to look at. As she’d suspected, all three of the tires had been different brands and had different degrees of wear. It was feasible that the fourth one could match.
But later that evening, when Dakota went back for the tire scrap, it was gone. She looked over the whole area, but there was no sign of it. Either the maintenance man had picked up the trash, or else Tanner had found the tire tread and removed it—which would mean that he knew what she’d been doing.
That thought gave her chills.
EIGHTEEN
Clay hooked one knee over the pommel and absently slapped his pants leg with one of the saddle ties as he stared at the track. His palomino mare, Goldenrod, pricked her ears as the sound of hoofbeats came closer. To the west, the Patagonia Mountains gleamed silver-blue above the surf of grassland, peaceful and aloof.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Clay glanced behind him, where Rita stood at the rail. He nodded to her, then returned his gaze to the track.
“Did you see the last bulletin on the wolves?”
He shielded his eyes against the sun, trying to block out her voice as Straight Eight, another of his All American hopefuls, came around the turn. Just before reaching the stands the exercise rider asked him for more, and the colt stretched into a run.
“Are you listening, Clay?” Rita had been talking all this time, but he hadn’t heard a word. “There’s going to be a meeting in Phoenix—”
“Rita, I’m busy right now.” He’d been able to tell how fast the horse was going in his head—that was, until Rita had distracted him.
“One of these days you’ll want me to pay attention to you, and I’ll be too busy.” Rita turned and walked away, her hair lifting off her neck in the breeze.
Clay watched his horse slow to a walk on the backstretch, turn around, and walk back up the track.
He’d have to talk to her.
Clay realized he’d been a fool to believe that no-strings-attached crap, although at the time, her act had been convincing. When she arrived last year, Rita cruised through Sonoita like a shark, flaunting her sexual prowess with reckless abandon. Her surface sophistication had fooled him into thinking she was the kind of woman who could handle a casual sexual relationship, that they would both move on when the attraction waned. Those had been the ground rules—rules she’d insisted upon. Too late he’d realized that her wildness was skin deep. About a month ago, he noticed that she started making demands on his time, encroaching more and more into his private life. It wasn’t a lighthearted fling anymore, if it ever had been.
He’d underestimated her—and himself. The moment he saw Dakota again, Clay had lost his appetite for sex with Rita. It wasn’t fair to her, but he couldn’t help his feelings. It was as if a light switch had been turned off.
Clay berated himself for putting off the inevitable. He should tell her that their relationship could go no further—today. He owed it to her. But what was he going to say? The minute he saw his ex-wife, he knew that Rita didn’t fit the bill? There was little hope of reconciliation with Dakota—in fact, he wasn’t sure he wanted one. But seeing her again, the kind of person she was—it was enough to show him that he could never seriously consider a woman like Rita.
They were too different. Rita hated to be alone; she needed people around to entertain her. Clay liked his privacy. Rita had to possess things, as if owning something expensive filled the void inside. Clay would rather involve himself in doing something—like training his horses. Rita wanted to be the focus of attention; she was always wondering what people thought of her. Clay didn’t care for the frenet
ic level of Rita’s life. He liked small pleasures, as Dakota did. If he had any ambition, it lay in becoming a better racehorse trainer. He loved the challenge of figuring out what went on in each horse’s mind and how to get the best out of him. Finding the horse’s level—the class of horses he should run with and the distance that made him happy enough to win. Keeping him sound, eager, and strong. That was something that could take a lifetime to perfect.
Rita had a lot of good qualities. She cared passionately about certain injustices. She could run a fundraiser like nobody’s business. And yet she was a frightened little girl at her core, terrified of being abandoned. She’d told him she’d been adopted as the last resort of a childless couple. Ironically, soon after the papers were signed, her adoptive parents had two children in quick succession. They always compared Rita unfavorably to their natural offspring.
Maybe that was why she needed people so much. Clay sighed. It wasn’t his job to psychoanalyze Rita. He was only qualified to psychoanalyze racehorses.
But it couldn’t wait any longer. He’d have to talk to her today.
Hoofbeats sounded behind him. Up on Shameless, Ernesto Acevedo stood in the stirrups, gathering reins. Dakota rode beside him on Tyke.
They turned left and walked up the track, stopped near the far turn, before Dakota unclipped the pony shank from the filly’s bridle. She rode over to Clay.
“This is it,” Clay greeted her.
“This is it,” Dakota agreed, her voice strained.
He glanced at her. Her face looked drawn and faint shadows nested under her eyes. She did not look like a person who was eagerly anticipating watching her All American horse run for the first time. “You nervous?” he asked.
“A little, maybe.”
They watched in silence as Ernesto eased the filly into a gallop. Shameless went around once, nice and easy. She looked good. The second time, as they reached the homestretch, Ernesto let the reins out a notch. Not really asking her, just letting her run if she felt like it.
She felt like it.
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