A Killing in the Valley (59 page)

“You are now an official cowboy of the female gender,” Juanita anointed her. “How does it feel?”

“Really good,” Sophia answered. “It really felt right to be here.”

“The first of many, I hope,” Juanita told her. “That would make me very happy.”

“That’s what I want, too.”

Sophia had survived the physical part of being raped better than she and Juanita had feared. The morning after, Juanita had taken her to a private gynecologist. The doctor, a family friend and confidant, had cleaned her up and took cultures and blood samples to make sure she hadn’t contracted any disease. A few days later, the lab report came back—a clean bill of health. Although the penetration had been painful, and was still uncomfortable, she knew it would pass.

The emotional and psychological scars would last longer. She couldn’t bury her rage at Steven for having violated her, but he was dead now, so there wasn’t a living presence she could vent against. And she knew that Juanita was suffering terrible pain for her part in what had happened, a pain she would always carry with her. So the two of them were bonded that way, too. She didn’t tell anyone, not even her mother, about Steven’s deathbed confession, and she still wasn’t completely willing to believe that it had been a true confession. Maria’s being anally raped was common knowledge, so he might have been referring to the circumstance, not that he was the direct cause of it. But that was trying to give the benefit of the doubt to a man she had fallen in love with, her first love. In her heart, she was sure she knew the truth.

Kate and Luke had lunch on the patio of a new restaurant near the Art Museum. It was a glorious spring day. As usual, Luke’s caseload was larger than he wanted it to be, and as usual, he had a hard time turning down clients.

“How’s school going?” he asked Kate.

“Good,” she answered. She picked at her Cobb salad. “I’ve got a torts class and an environmental law seminar. I’m thinking of making that my specialty. You can do good without having to deal with killings and maimings and mourners. It seems more civilized than rubbing elbows with drug dealers and homicidal maniacs.” She broke off a chunk of focaccia and dipped it in olive oil. “I’m getting weary of blood.”

“I hear you,” he answered. “The trouble is, it gets in your own blood. And sometimes you actually make an honest-to-God life-and-death difference.”

“Like with Steven McCoy,” Kate said ironically.

“Yes,” he answered heavily. “Like Steven.”

Steven’s murder had been stunning. Everyone who had been involved in the case felt betrayed. Why go to all that trouble, all that time, all that anxiety, as well as money, to see it end like that? It was the ugliest example of vigilantism Luke had known, let alone been involved in. Even Alex Gordon, who had been convinced of Steven’s guilt, was enraged at the usurpation of the process.

There were no suspects in Steven’s shooting. Hector Torres, the obvious candidate, had a firm alibi. The police found no footprints, no tire tracks. The bullet that killed Steven came from a 30-30 rifle, one of the most common in circulation.

Rebeck and Watson weren’t getting anywhere. They had interviewed Sophia, but she stonewalled them. She insisted she had seen and heard nothing. It was as if the shooter was a ghost, or as Rebeck ghoulishly characterized it, an avenging phantom, a dark angel who for once had been on the right side. Kate had tried to question Sophia, but she had to go gingerly. Her daughter hadn’t been as traumatized by the experience as she had feared she could be, but it was clearly an open wound on her psyche. After Sophia had rebuffed her a few times, Kate left the subject alone. If she ever wanted to talk to her about anything, she’d be there.

It would be hot later today, but now, just after sunrise, the temperature was mild and inviting. Sophia had spent the night at the ranch, so she and Juanita could get an early start. It would be their last ride of the summer. Tomorrow, Sophia and Kate were driving up to Palo Alto for the start of Sophia’s freshman year. Wanda, who was already deep into her second year of medical school, would come down from San Francisco to join them. Sophia was excited, nervous, apprehensive, jittery, eager—all the emotions Kate remembered Wanda had felt when she had started college.

Sophia had invited Juanita to join them on the drive up, but Juanita had graciously declined. This should be a special occasion for the three Blanchard women to savor among themselves, she explained. She would come up in a couple of months, for Homecoming. They would spend the weekend together, when Juanita could also get reacquainted with whichever remaining classmates she had who were still alive and kicking. She didn’t expect there would be very many.

On the night of Sophia’s high school graduation, when the three of them and Wanda had gone out to dinner, Juanita had pulled Kate aside. She was going to pay for Sophia’s college education, and she didn’t want any argument about it from Kate. She knew that Sophia had a generous financial aid package, so it wasn’t like she would have to pay full freight, but she insisted that she make up the difference.

Kate had been stunned by Juanita’s offer, and had tried to dissuade her, but Juanita was adamant. Sophia was like a granddaughter to her now. They all knew that. She could easily afford it, and Kate couldn’t. She not only wanted to do this, she
needed
to, she implored Kate.

It was a relief not to have to worry about the money, and Kate knew how important this was to Juanita. Sophia had replaced Steven in the old woman’s heart; they were as close as blood kin, except literally. As close as Sophia is to me, Kate thought with some ambiguity. But that was her own jealousy, her possessiveness—Juanita and Sophia truly loved each other. The building of their relationship had been a long and arduous journey, yet it was just beginning.

As the sun was breaking over the low mountains to the southeast, they mounted up and rode out into the open range. The winter rains had brought an end to the drought, and there was an abundance of water in the springs. They followed a wide trail that passed by a grassy pasture. The cows, heavy in their pregnancies, grazed and drank and shooed flies away with their tails. In the next few months they would begin calving, and by Thanksgiving there would be the beginning of the new herd. Sophia would come down on the weekends when the cows started dropping their calves. Ranching was in her blood now, and she wanted to take part in all of the operations.

A month earlier, Juanita had revised her will. She was leaving Rancho San Gennaro to Sophia Blanchard, to be held in trust with her mother, Kate Blanchard. She did attach a condition: it was to be Sophia’s as long as she was alive and actively worked it, once she had graduated from college and pursued whatever occupation she chose. If Sophia decided ranch life was not for her, it would revert to Juanita’s heirs. Juanita was certain the ranch would remain in Sophia’s hands for a long, long time.

High above, a red-tailed hawk floated in the thermals. Sophia reached into her saddlebag and took out a digital camera, her graduation present from Luke and Riva. She sighted the bird and took a picture. Riding alongside Juanita, she showed her the image.

“That’s a keeper,” Juanita told her approvingly.

Sophia pointed the camera at Juanita. They looked at the picture on the screen. “This one’s a keeper, too,” Sophia said with a smile.

The trail rose at a gentle slope, leading them toward a grove of pines, eucalyptus, and live oak. They could feel the sun warming their backs. The hawk drifted away with the wind.

Thanks to Markus Wilhelm, Gail Hochman, Carole Baron, and Kathy Kiernan for their encouragement and support. I also wish to thank Michael Galvin, Joyce Dudley, Terrence Lammers, Dr. Robert Anthony of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff-Coroner’s Office, Lt. Chris Pappas of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department, and Rick Dodge of Dodge City Gun Shop, for their help.

J. F. Freedman is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
Against the Wind
,
The Disappearance
,
House of Smoke
, and
In My Dark Dreams
, among other titles. He is also an award-winning film and television director, writer, and producer. He lives in California.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by J. F. Freedman

Cover design by Angela Goddard

978-1-4804-2414-2

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