The Horseman

by Anna Jeffrey

  Sal reached for a hot biscuit. “A couple of our guys are taking off for the holidays. New temporary people coming in. Marcus didn’t think it was a good idea to have someone new doing that job.”

  Trouble? A squiggle of apprehension passed through Troy’s stomach. “Why? Is he worried?” He slid into the booth, his knees bumping Sal’s. “Tight quarters, eh?”

  “Worse than shipboard.” Sal slathered his biscuit with butter and jam. “Marcus is always worried. He was upset about those three horses getting shot, especially because it happened on our watch.”

  “If you recall, the vandalism at the old Lockhart homestead happened on your watch, too.”

  “Believe me, we know. But there aren’t enough of us to be everywhere all the time. That ranch is a big place.

  “Nobody’s blaming you.”

  Not yet anyway. But did Redstone Partners management realize who they were dealing with? Troy’s big brother, William Drake Lockhart, III, the keeper of the family treasure, was a results-oriented individual. Even to someone as wealthy as the Lockharts, Redstone Partners’ bill added up to a hell of a lot of money and Drake expected to get his money’s worth at all times. It did no harm to remind them of that.

  Troy dug into his own breakfast. “Those three ranch horses plus my sister’s four makes seven good horses gone in three years and nobody’s got a clue who did it or why.”

  For a few seconds, Troy’s memory zoomed back to the barn fire and the horses that had succumbed. In a breathtaking irony, Kate had once been offered quarter-million dollars for Proud Mary. She had turned it down because she couldn’t bear to part with her.

  “My sister was a mess after that fire. It was more than her injuries. She grieved for months. The whole family worried about her. She still tears up sometimes if the horses come up in conversation. Too bad your outfit wasn’t around back then.”

  Sal nodded, swallowed and wiped his mouth. “We know the details from the arson investigation. We know the ranch’s horses are high-value. That’s why we’ve got somebody watching them twenty-four-seven.”

  These security people were efficient, Troy had to admit. After Drake hired them, no doubt somebody briefed them about every incident, including Drake and Shannon’s hit-and-run car accident.

  “I wonder how long we’re gonna have to live with this,” Toy said.

  Sal shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m not in law enforcement.”

  Troy stared at him a few beats. “So, tell me something, Sal. They know Kate’s fire was set from inside the barn. If your bunch had been guarding her and her horses that night, how would you have prevented that?”

  “First of all, we would’ve been routinely checking locks. We would’ve made sure that sprinkler system that didn’t work did. With an asset like those horses, we would’ve had a perimeter set up around the barn so we could see who came and went. Even if the bad actor had been able to sneak past us and get inside the barn, we might’ve caught him in the act and put out the fire.”

  All of that made perfect sense to Troy. No question Kate had been careless and so had he. “Is that what you’re doing now at the Double-Barrel’s barns?”

  Sal nodded, continuing to eat.

  “I’m still pissed off they’ve got Kate and me both on a persons-of-interest list,” Troy said.

  “They took Miss Lockhart off,” Sal replied.

  “It blows my mind that they think I set my sister’s barn on fire. Do they think a million-dollar payout means that much to me? We could buy that fuckin’ insurance company. The Double-Barrel self-insures most of its assets except for liability. But since Kate paid the premiums on an insurance policy for years, she thinks they should pay up.”

  Sal glanced up. “Someone surely has told you their reasoning. You were a familiar figure. Free to move around your sister’s place without arousing suspicion. They’re squeezing you, Pee-Wee. They believe you know the answer to some of their questions. Why don’t you tell them and be done with it?”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like my brothers. What the hell are the questions that I haven’t answered? How the hell do I know if I know the answers? They know everything about me, down to the color of my shorts.”

  “It’s the company you’ve been keeping, dude. That’s who they’re after.”

  “You mean Dorinda Fisk? Hell, you’ve been around Dorinda. She’s clueless. I’ve never discussed anything related to my family with her. I know her husband hates my dad. But he’s a United States Senator forgodsakes. I don’t believe he’s a criminal.”

  Sal stuffed his mouth with heaps of scrambled eggs balanced on his plastic fork. “Mph. Don’t bet on it. As for your girlfriend, she’s got friends.”

  Troy heaved a sigh. “Dammit, Sal, she’s not my girlfriend.”

  Finished with his meal, Sal got to his feet and started for the door. “I’m going to take a look around. I couldn’t get the feel of where we are last night in the dark.” He left the trailer.

  Well, that conversation hadn’t gotten Troy far. Though he knew the answers to most of what they had talked about, he still pumped Sal and Dixon for information every chance he got, hoping to hear some new piece of information.

  He straightened the tiny kitchen then shrugged into his down coat. Coffee mug in hand, he clapped on his gimme cap and stepped outside. The elevation here was higher than North Central Texas, so the temperature was cooler and a man felt a little closer to the sky. The crisp air struck him and a small vapor trail spiraled up from his mug. The temperature was forecast to rise later. Typical Texas December. He would not need a coat. Once the sun came up, a vest would be warm enough.

  He gazed at his surroundings. The Beckman ranch was the epitome of the mythical wide-open spaces. Not even an oak tree in sight. Roughly fifteen miles outside the town of Roundup, it was an endless expanse of pasture broken up by barbed-wire fences and brush growing along fence lines and coulees.

  The Double-Barrel’s pastures were greener and lusher, but, according to his brother and Dad, both of whom were experts in range management, the grass in the arid West Texas pastures was hardier and healthier for cattle.

  Drawing the quiet of early morning into his soul, the clean, fresh air into his lungs, the earthy smells into his psyche, Troy zipped up his coat, unfolded an aluminum chair and took a seat to watch daylight’s opening show. He spent most of his daytime hours outdoors. He liked witnessing nature’s wonders.

  Soon Sal ambled back. “Looks like everything’s okay.”

  Troy looked up at him. “Can’t imagine that it wouldn’t be. This is a calm part of the world. Not too many bad guys hiding in the weeds. Help yourself to a chair.”

  One-handed, Sal unfolded another aluminum chair and placed it with the back to the trailer just as a mourning dove called across the distance. “There’s that bird again.”

  They sat in silence for minutes, listening to the plaintive birdcalls as the rising sun brightened the landscape. Finally, Troy spoke. “Clear this morning. Look at that sunrise.”

  “Nice.”

  “How many countries have you watched the sun rise in?”

  “A few.”

  Most likely, the correct answer was more than a few. “What was your favorite?”

  “Besides the good ol’ USA? The South Pacific. From a ship’s deck. Makes you remember what pissants we are.”

  Troy didn’t need to be told that he was a grain of sand in an infinite universe. “Do we need to be reminded of that?”

  “Too many people think the planet revolves around their own little universe. That fucked-up thinking is the cause of most of the conflict in the world. What’s on the ticket for today?”

  No dearth of unspoken information was present in those two sentences, but Sal never shared details. “Same as the other clinics where you’ve been with me. Have one-on-ones with some horse owners, try to fix their problems and teach them a few things. If we have an audience, maybe teach them something, too. Basically, whether they’re in Texas or Ar
izona and California, they all have the same issues.”

  “Lemme see. That would be that most of them are afraid of their horses. A lot of them have spent big bucks for high spirited animals they don’t understand or know how to handle.”

  Sal hadn’t known one end of a horse from the other when he first came to the Double-Barrel. Troy couldn’t keep from grinning. “That’s about the size of it, Grasshopper. No matter how much instruction they take from people like me, they don’t listen. They say they want to know why a horse does this or that, but they don’t take the time or have the patience to learn.”

  He shrugged. “But you can only do so much. I’ve quit worrying about every horse. Now, I just try to help each one as much as I can and hope for the best for it. Friday, we’ll pack up and go home. Nothing but bird hunting and hog hunting with my dad and brothers until after Christmas. You gonna be around for the holidays?”

  “Don’t know. Still waiting to see if I’m going back East. You don’t have to worry though. If I go, someone competent will take my place.”

  “Sal, your company’s competency is not something I stay awake over. Until lately, my safety wasn’t either. I’m in good shape. I’m usually carrying and I usually hit where I aim. I’ve been a hunter my whole life.”

  A rarely seen smirk played across Sal’s mouth and Troy realized he had made a stupid statement. True, he worked out in the ranch’s workout room, keeping himself lean and mean. He had even learned a few self-defense moves from the Redstone guys. True, he had been hunting since the day he came to live at the Double-Barrel Ranch twenty-two years ago.

  He might have years of experience with hunting rifles and pistols, but his amateur skills paled in comparison to these security people. According to Drake, they all had the most sophisticated training with frightening weapons and real combat experience in treacherous parts of the world. What he felt for every one of them was nothing short of awe. What they felt about the Lockhart family members, or any of the wealthy patrons they protected, Troy couldn’t guess. They never criticized and never showed anything but the utmost courtesy and respect.

  “C’mon, dude. You’ve never had a human being in your sights,” Sal said.

  “’Course not. Although I’ve met a few that needed shooting.”

  “It’s not the same as facing down Bambi or Porky. If it should come to that, you’d best leave it to us.”

  “You’re not the only one to give me that lecture,” Troy said. “I’m okay with it. I doubt I’m hero material.”

  Sal chuckled. “You’d be surprised. Everyone’s got a little hero in him if he’s called on.”

  “When you joined the military, did you sign up to be a hero?”

  “I love this country. I signed up to do whatever it took to defend it.”

  Chapter 2

  Sarah Karol floated in half-sleep immerged in the aroma of searing bacon. Jericho was making breakfast. She needed to wake up and get up. Wyatt, her nine-year-old son, would be up and dressed and talking to Jericho ninety miles an hour.

  Dear Lord. What would she do without Jericho Hatch?

  Or more to the point, what might she be without him and his wife? Bonnie Hatch had been the mother Sarah had never had. If Jericho and Bonnie hadn’t plucked her out of society’s trash heap, she might not even have Wyatt. She said a prayer of thanksgiving at least once every day. Thank you, Jesus.

  Bonnie had died from breast cancer a couple of years back. She still lived in Sarah’s heart and her image still loomed large in her mind. Sarah had loved her with primal fierceness. She had taken care of her through her illness, was at her bedside when her ravaged body drew its last breath. God damn cancer. Sarah cussed it every goddamn day.

  She glimpsed at the clock on the table beside her bed. Damn, she was running late. She forced herself awake and groggily sat up. Last night had been another oxycodone night. She had resisted getting up and swallowing the damn stuff though almost every doctor who had taken care of her had urged her to take it.

  Something inside her always cautioned her against swallowing narcotics. She had seen drug abuse and its consequences too many times, had grown up an orphan because of it. Some arcane inner compass she had never understood would not let her become a victim herself. A visual of that egg frying in that anti-drug commercial on TV had put an indelible imprint on her brain.

  She swept her waist-length hair off her face then reached for the yardstick she kept close to the bed’s headboard. She leaned to the side and swept it back and forth under the bed. The ritual was more than a habit. It was a phobia, like never walking near a cluster of plants, never entering a dark barn or an unfamiliar room without first looking around.

  Looked like the coast was clear. She got to her feet and limped down the hall to the bathroom. "Fuckin' snakes," she grumbled.

  In the outdated bathroom barely big enough for a commode, an antique clawfoot tub and a chipped porcelain pedestal sink, she stood for a few seconds staring at her reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet centered above the sink. Light from a single bulb in a small light fixture above the mirror gave her face an amber look. She leaned closer to the mirror and studied the bags under her eyes. These sleepless nights made her look older than her twenty-six years. Hell, her very life made her look older than twenty-six.

  She combed her fingers through her thick hair. Since her friend Tiffany put layers in it, it seemed to be messier than ever. She had shampooed and conditioned it yesterday, a task that took a good part of a morning every other day. Today, she gathered it into a pony tail and stretched a scrunchie around it.

  “Fuckin’ nuisance,” she muttered, pinning it up for her shower. Why hadn’t she told Tiffany to cut all of it off instead of layering it? No busy half-crippled woman needed hair that consumed as much time as hers did. At the same time she conducted that conversation with herself, she admitted she enjoyed hearing compliments on her silky, almost-black hair. Looks like a black waterfall people would say. She needed all of the daisies she could gather.

  "God knows, there's plenty of crap I've got no control of, right Janie?" she mumbled to her reflection.

  Janie. Her imaginary friend from childhood. Oh, the hours she and Janie had spent talking about everything in life. At times, Janie had been Sarah’s only trustworthy companion. Many times, the fantastical Janie had saved her from doing something stupid. Sarah no longer needed her, but she still had talks with her.

  She rubbed some fancy cream Tiffany had given her on her face, paid special attention to the puffiness under her eyes. After that, she dressed in jeans, boots and a long-sleeve turtleneck because it was winter. This morning, because it was the Christmas season, the turtleneck was red.

  In the kitchen, she found Jericho at the old avocado-green cookstove manning a cast-iron skillet. Wyatt sat at the table playing with his phone. "Mornin' y'all."

  Jericho looked up. "Mornin', Sarah."

  Wyatt's eyes and fingers kept dancing over his phone screen. "Hi, Mom."

  She had reluctantly bought him a phone because he rode the bus to school and back every day. The phone was supposed to be used for emergencies only. It was a good idea, but it was also as dumb as it was good.

  She walked over to him and ruffed his unruly hair. His hair was thick and dark like hers. Giggling, he turned his head away from her hand. "Don't, Mom."

  With a growl, she wrapped both arms around him in a tight hug and blew a raspberry against his neck.

  Laughing harder, he twisted and tried to escape her. "Mo-om! You're squeezing me!"

  She freed him, straightened and limped to the Mr. Coffee, her boot heels thudding against the old linoleum floor. "What time did you get up, Son?"

  "Me and Grandpa got up at the same time."

  Jericho wasn’t Wyatt’s grandfather, but he never complained about Wyatt calling him “Grandpa.” He had even said he was happy about it since he had no blood-related grandchildren. Sarah had never seen or met Wyatt’s real grandpa, didn’t even know his name. Je
richo was as close to being a grandparent as Wyatt would ever see.

  She poured herself a mug of steaming coffee and doctored it the way she liked it. Well, not exactly. What she liked was a latte, but the nearest place to get a latte was seventy miles away in Abilene. Paying what a latte cost, especially when it didn’t last all that long, was stupid anyway. She made do with plain old strong coffee heavy on half-and-half.

  "You so busy playing with that phone you didn't have time to run a brush through your hair?" she asked her son.

  Jericho lifted slices of crisp bacon from the skillet. "You're moving a little slow this mornin’ Sarah. Bad night?" He usually diverted her from scolding Wyatt.

  "Not too bad."

  "You sick, Mom?"

  "Not a bit."

  "Wyatt and I are gonna have eggs with our bacon," Jericho said. "Want one?"

  "Sure."

  Soon all three of them were at the table, hurrying through a breakfast of fried bacon, fried eggs basted with bacon grease and Jericho' homemade chuckwagon biscuits, probably made with lard. Nobody made a better cholesterol-laden breakfast than Jericho.

  "Lou called," he said. "She tried to get hold of Tiffany to see if she's still gonna go to that horse clinic. She didn't get no answer, so she was worried."

  Tiffany Fisher had been one of the first friends her own age that Sarah had made after the Hatches had enrolled her in Roundup High School. Sarah was sixteen. Tiffany had followed her around like a puppy, told her she admired her because she wasn’t embarrassed to go to Roundup High School with a big pregnant belly.

  What a well-loved girl like Tiffany would never understand was that after the life Sarah had lived on the Fort Worth streets, pre-Hatches and pre-Roundup, Texas, moving around pregnant among a bunch of small-town high school kids in a small country school had felt like a walk in a park. It sure as hell beat fighting off some drugged-up asshole or getting rousted by the cops and having some social worker take over her life.

  Tiffany had been in a depression since her boyfriend dumped her and left town a few months back. A doctor up in Abilene had given her pills to make her feel better. The girl had a medicine cabinet full of assorted prescription pills. She ran to the doctor if she woke up with a zit on her face. She usually came home from those doctor visits with pain-killers or tranquilizers or anti-anxiety pills or some other potion designed to dull her senses.