Going, Gone Page 7

  Bret put the Jeep in gear and inched it forward. “See you, Joe.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked, as we drove on.

  “Joe Evans, the brand inspector. He doesn’t care for me much.”

  “I could tell. Why’s that?”

  “Oh, our work overlaps a bit. He was born and raised up here; his dad owned one of the biggest local ranches. He thinks his shit don’t stink. He also thinks I’m a little pipsqueak of a recent hire that should lick his boots.” Bret shrugged.

  The Jeep moved down the road more slowly than usual. Bret’s eyes were on the hills to the left, where the old stone house was visible. As we drew even with it, I could see a woman riding a horse in the arena, schooling the animal around some blue oil drums in the classic cloverleaf pattern of barrel racing.

  “Donna Wells,” Bret said. “Mind if we stop and say hi?”

  “Go ahead,” I told him. For all my desire to be back with Blue and Mac, I had enough curiosity about the woman who was said to be dating Cole Richardson to want to meet her. And I had an idea that Bret had something up his sleeve.

  Bret turned the Jeep down the graveled driveway and drove up to the arena, where a blond woman was bending a sorrel horse around a barrel at the walk. Over and over again she took the horse’s head and made him give. All nice and easy and gentle. The woman looked about my age—mid-forties. Judging by the snaffle bit in his mouth, the horse was relatively green.

  Bret and I got out and walked up to the fence. Donna Wells stopped bending her horse and rode to meet us.

  “Hey, Bret,” she said, and regarded me with mild curiosity.

  Bret made introductions and I mouthed a polite greeting, while covertly studying the woman.

  Donna Wells looked tough. That was my first impression. From the lean, whip-hard body to the too obviously dyed blond hair to the bright makeup, she had that hard, western cowgirl aura that I was only too familiar with. On closer inspection, though, her eyes were intelligent. Her expression was stern, though.

  Donna Wells didn’t mince any words. “I heard you guys arrested Lonny Peterson.”

  “That’s right,” Bret said.

  “John Green sure he did it?” Donna sniffed.

  Bret shrugged. This, I reminded myself, was the woman who’d been dating Cole.

  Bret’s eyes were still on Donna’s face. “What do you think?” he asked quietly.

  Donna continued to meet Bret’s eyes. Her colt mouthed his bit, and she reached one hand down to stroke his mane. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I have a hard time believing it was Lonny.”

  “Any ideas?” Bret asked.

  More silence. Then Donna shook her head. “Not exactly. But Cole was worried about something. I could tell.”

  Bret studied the ground and took his time. “Any thoughts on who or what Cole was worried about?” he asked, looking up and meeting Donna’s eyes again.

  Donna stroked the colt and sighed. “Cole was a really private person.” For a second she looked like she would tear up, but then blinked and went on steadily enough. “We were talking about getting married, but there was still a lot I didn’t know about him. He never told me exactly, but the last time I saw him, he was upset about something, I could tell. I asked him what was wrong and he said it was a business deal. I asked him if I could help, and he switched on the charm, which was his way. Just said I could come with him to the coast next week. And then acted like it was no big deal. But next week never came for him.”

  Bret took this in. “Do you think he was killed over this business deal?”

  “I have no idea,” Donna said, and looked down at her colt’s mane.

  “What about Lorene?” Bret asked quietly.

  “Lorene was a good person,” Donna said. “Everyone liked her. Unlike that ex-husband of hers.” She sniffed. “I know she and Lonny were fighting because she was seeing Kevin, and I still can’t imagine why the hell she wanted to start things up again with Kevin. She was well rid of him, in my opinion. But I can’t picture Lonny Peterson killing her or Cole.”

  Bret nodded. I stood silently by the fence and mentally seconded this statement.

  Donna looked like she’d had enough talking. She blinked her eyes and tightened her jaw. I saw her hand shift on the reins and the sorrel colt edged sideways.

  Bret straightened up. “Thanks, Donna,” he said. “We’ll see you.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Donna turned her horse away and Bret and I climbed back in the Jeep. “I wonder what all that means,” I said as we bumped slowly down the driveway.

  Bret was following some track of his own. “Blake,” he said, half to himself. “Blake must know. Or have some idea, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked him.

  Bret turned back onto the dirt road before he answered. “I’ve heard rumors,” he said slowly, “that Cole was involved in some underhanded stuff. I think that’s what Donna was talking about.”

  “What sort of underhanded stuff?”

  Bret shrugged, the same one-shoulder twitch I’d seen earlier. “Cole had too much money,” he said.

  “What is that supposed to mean? Cole was a livestock auctioneer, right? Are you trying to tell me he was a drug dealer on the side?”

  Bret didn’t answer me, just drove down the road, his eyes on the middle distance. “I’d heard he had a house on the coast,” he said, again as if he were talking to himself, “but he kept pretty quiet about it. And that’s odd, too.”

  I was getting frustrated. I didn’t understand any part of this conversation. Grabbing onto a phrase that made sense, I demanded, “House on the coast? Where on the coast?”

  Lonny’s pasture gate was approaching, and Bret brought the Jeep to a gentle halt. For the first time, he met my eyes. “Where?” he repeated. “Why, right near you. Or so I’ve heard.”

  Chapter 9

  By the time we got back to camp, I’d pried a few more answers out of Bret. Not many, but a few. He’d heard that Cole had a house in the hills behind Monterey Bay, in my very own neighborhood, in fact. And that there had been rumors before that Cole was making more money off the livestock auction than he had a right to.

  When I asked how, Bret declined to comment. Since we were nearly back, I didn’t press him. Besides, I knew from long experience that getting Bret to part with information he didn’t care to part with was as difficult as mouthing a recalcitrant pony.

  “I’ll let you know when I know more,” was all he would say.

  “All right,” I said. “When will I see you?”

  “If they set bail on Lonny, I’ll bring him back home. That’ll be day after tomorrow. I’ll talk to you then.”

  “All right,” I said again. “Anything I can do in the meantime?”

  “Yep.” Bret grinned. “Stay out of trouble.”

  “Will do.” I smiled back and got out of the Jeep. “Right now I’m off to go swimming. See ya.”

  As soon as Bret was gone, I climbed into the camper and put on my bathing suit. Tying a sarong around my waist, I stuck out my tongue at my ample self in the mirror, grabbed a towel, slipped my feet into huarache sandals, and started down the path to the swimming hole.

  It was midafternoon and the sun was high and warm. The path followed the creek and the soft, silky-looking water was inviting. I could hardly resist wading my way along. But I stuck to the path and hurried, eager to reach Mac and Blue.

  I heard them long before I saw them. Mac’s shouts and laughter and Freckles’ barks echoed off the granite-strewn banks of the gully. I followed the path as it wound down the steep slope and emerged behind a large rock on the side of the biggest pool. Blue sat on a smooth piece of granite that sloped down into the water, his legs immersed to his knees. Mac, wearing a life jacket, floated about the pool in an inner tube, laughing at Freckles, who paddled after him.

  “Well, hello there,” I said.

  “Mama!” Mac shouted in delight.
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br />   “Hi sweetheart,” Blue greeted me.

  In a second I was engulfed by family life once more; my odd afternoon trailing Bret around as he engaged in some sort of faux-investigation vanished from my mind almost as if it had never been. Almost. Periodically, as I alternately dipped myself in the (quite chilly) water of the creek and sunned on the rocks, a face would reappear in my mind. Blake Richardson, Kevin Moore, Justin Roberts, Joe Evans, Donna Wells. And Bret’s idea that Cole had been up to something nefarious stuck in my mind.

  I tried to decide if any of the people I’d met struck me as a killer, and found that I honestly couldn’t picture it. And yet I knew enough of life to be sure that many unlikely people had been moved to murder under extreme circumstances. And after all, wasn’t that just what the local detective was theorizing about Lonny? That he’d killed his girlfriend while in the grip of jealousy? Such things had happened throughout history, as I very well knew, and yet I did not believe, not for one second, that Lonny had done this.

  But if Lonny was innocent, someone else was guilty, and it seemed entirely possible that it was one of the five people I’d met today. If so, which one? What had Bret said? “Blake must know?” I pondered on that awhile. Had Bret meant that Blake must have known about whatever Cole was up to? And did that mean that Bret thought Blake was the likeliest suspect? I found that I wanted to see Blake Richardson again, wanted to use whatever intuitive skills I possessed to sense whether I was facing a killer.

  But there was nothing to do about it now. I sunned myself on the gray rock shelf and watched a redtail hawk make circles in the sky above. Faintly his scree scree scree, echoed down into the gully.

  Eventually Mac wearied of paddling in the water—although not until he was almost blue with cold and his fingers and toes were as wrinkled as prunes—and we all trooped down the path through the green fields toward camp. The stream splashed and sparkled along next to us, gurgling a spring song. Back at the camper, after a snack, Mac and Blue stretched out on the bed to nap, or wrestle, depending on the moment.

  I settled myself in a chair outside in the shade, with a book in my lap. But I didn’t read. Instead I stared out over the meadow, watching the silvery, serpentine curve of the creek, listening to the meadowlarks trill. I watched our three saddle horses in their corrals: particularly, I watched Gunner.

  When the pasture horses ambled in an hour later for a drink, and to socialize with their new neighbors, I was still watching my old blaze-faced bay buddy. I studied him, and then turned my eyes to little palomino Sunny, who regarded me right back with his steady, quizzical gaze.

  Why not? What moment would be better?

  Fetching a halter, I walked up to Sunny. The horse took a halfhearted step away from me, but stopped when I said whoa, and I walked into the space to the left of his shoulder, patted his neck, and flipped my leadrope around his throatlatch. Haltering him, I led him over to the corrals and opened Gunner’s gate.

  Gunner’s ears came up and he stepped out of the pen smartly, trotting over to the herd of pasture horses. I listened to the nickers and occasional squeals as Gunner got acquainted with his new buddies; at the same time I shut Sunny in Gunner’s corral.

  “Your turn to be my saddle horse,” I told him. “Gunner gets a vacation.”

  Sunny regarded me imperturbably, ears forward, eyes on my face. An intriguing horse.

  For his part Gunner was loping a wide circle in the meadow, head up, tail flagged, as Smoky galloped along with him. Twister, Danny, and Chester watched the play with calm eyes, their tails switching lazily.

  I smiled. Gunner looked about as happy as a horse could look. I couldn’t see any bob in his stride; he appeared completely sound. Adrenaline and joie de vivre were definitely doing him good. Pinning his ears, he nipped playfully at Smoky, who scooted away. No doubt in my mind that Gunner was going to enjoy his time in the pasture.

  I could see Mac’s face peering from the camper window. “Mama! You turned Gunner loose.”

  “That’s right,” I called back. “Gunner’s gonna live out here with Twister and Danny for a while. I’ll ride Sunny.”

  Mac took that in. “I’ll miss Gunner,” he said.

  “So will I. But doesn’t he look happy?”

  Gunner loped by the campsite, throwing in a buck for good measure.

  Mac laughed. “He does.”

  “This will be good for him,” I said firmly.

  “All right,” Mac said, and I saw his face disappear back into the camper.

  I watched as Gunner took a long drink of water from the trough and then joined up with the other pasture horses as they fanned out across the meadow.

  Plumber nickered plaintively after him, and I sighed. Plumber and Gunner had been companions for many years. Walking to the fence, I stoked Plumber’s cocoa brown neck.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I told him. “You’ve got Henry and Sunny.”

  And in a minute, Plumber did turn his attention to snuffling Sunny over the fence, checking out his new comrade. A few squeals and nips indicated that Plumber meant to be boss. Sunny, I noticed, did not respond in kind and seemed content to move away, not arguing with Plumber. Looked like my new horse had no need to be dominant.

  My new horse... For a moment I gazed at the stocky palomino gelding in mild confusion, wondering how this had all come about. I hadn’t meant to acquire a new horse. Had I? And yet, here he was. And here I was, taking him on. Sometimes life seemed to move me in ways I hardly understood. In theory I was in charge of whether I acquired another horse. But in practice?

  The sun was sinking low in the sky when I finally quit watching the horses and went back to the camper.

  Blue and Mac had built a campfire and were sitting around it. Mac poked the flames from time to time with a long stick and Blue was pouring marinade over some pieces of chicken in a dish on the wooden table.

  “Care for a drink?” Blue asked, smiling at my approach.

  “Sure,” I said, and settled myself in a chair.

  In a minute Blue emerged from the camper, margaritas in hand. “Cheers,” he said.

  I took the first sharp, strong, lemony-sweet sip and sighed, staring out over the quiet meadow at the distant shapes of the pasture-horse herd.

  Blue followed my eyes. “To Gunner,” he added. “Your old buddy looks pretty happy.”

  “He does,” I agreed.

  “How about you?”

  “I’m happy for him. But like Mac said,” I smiled at my little boy, “I’ll miss him. At the same time, I’m interested in Sunny. A new horse is fun. And I think we’ll all have fun riding together, now that we have three sound saddle horses. We’ve given up a lot of rides because Gunner was too sore to go.”

  “That’s true.” Blue’s eyes creased humorously at the corners. “And you can actually get on this one.”

  “Right you are. He’s just the size for a stout middle-aged lady.” And I smiled back at Blue.

  I took another sip and my eyes wandered over to the corrals where Sunny’s bright gold shape stood calmly, one hind leg cocked in a resting pose. Clearly he wasn’t stressed about being penned up. I had the impression this horse didn’t stress about anything much.

  I smiled at Blue and lifted my glass again. “Here’s to Sunny. And the future.”

  Chapter 10

  The next morning passed in the quiet way of a leisurely vacation. We hiked and read and went for a ride. I struggled to forget the reason for our host’s absence and just have a good time. It wasn’t easy.

  About noontime, Blue suggested we go to town for lunch.

  Carson Valley didn’t turn out to be much of a town. A small café perched on the corner where two roads met, with a bar across the street. The saleyard sat up on the hill behind the café. Next to the bar was a simple playground with swings and a slide.

  The playground immediately caught Mac’s eye and he demanded to go “check it out.” Blue insisted on having lunch first, and the promise of French fries was suffi
ciently alluring to quiet Mac’s protests.

  We parked in front of the café and the three of us filed in the narrow door. The place was tiny and crowded with red leather booths. I could see a few guys at the counter, every single one of them wearing a ball cap and Wrangler jeans. Male voices sounded from a few booths over. I glanced quickly in that direction and away. Surely these were the same men I’d seen yesterday at the saleyard. I tried to remember all the names. Blake Richardson, Kevin Moore, Joe Evans, and Justin Roberts. None of them was looking my way. I was mostly hidden behind Blue’s tall frame. No doubt they’d spotted him as a stranger and gone back to their conversation.

  Hastily I tugged Blue and Mac into the booth next to theirs, positioning myself with my back to the men. I could hear them clearly. But they couldn’t see my face.

  The whiny, sing-song voice belonged to the brand inspector, I thought. “Goddamn that Lonny sure looks stupid now. Why the hell did he think he could get away with this? Damn. I bet you’d like to have a go at him, huh, Blake.”

  Some silence. Then the quiet, somewhat somber voice of Blake Richardson. “What would I do? Kill the guy? It’s up to the courts.”

  “Hell, no.” The mocking, slightly slurred voice I associated with Kevin Moore. “If the courts don’t do their job, I’ll do it for them. That bastard won’t be running around here. Not after he killed Lorene.”

  More silence. Then a calm, in-charge voice. This must be Justin Roberts, the neighbor. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. There’s no use worrying about it. We need to help Blake to keep the sale going. You have any ideas, Blake?”

  “Not really. I still can’t believe this is happening, to tell you the truth. But I do need to keep the sale alive. Otherwise I’ll starve.”

  “No problem.” Joe’s voice. “We’ll just find you another auctioneer to cover for a while. And somebody to do the books.”

  “Do you know anyone?” Blake again.

  And a cheerful, gray-haired waitress showed up at our table. The subsequent ordering of lunch drowned out the conversation behind me. Mac decided he wanted a hot dog with his French fries. Blue wanted chili. I hastily ordered a salad and tried to eavesdrop some more, but the men seemed to have moved on to talking about cattle.