Can't Stop Believing (HARMONY) (17 page)

A
PRIL
7

M
ARTHA
Q P
ATTERSON
HEADED
UP
TO
HER
STUDY
ON
THE
second floor Saturday morning before anyone woke. She had a house full of paying guests who were keeping her from doing any writing. Stories bounced around in her head like Ping-Pong balls, and she planned to get a few of them on paper before they dribbled out.

On the third step her left sock stuck to something. She wasn’t awake enough to investigate, but when her right foot stepped on something that pushed through the wool to her toe, Martha Q decided to sit down and check it out.

Mud. There was mud on her stairs. Not dirt, but mud. Because she locked the doors after everyone had retired to their room, and she was the first one up, she saw only one answer. One of her boarders was sneaking out. And worse, tracking in mud.

Pulling off her socks to hold the evidence, she tiptoed upstairs. The three widows were on the second floor, but the mud droppings continued up the next flight of steps. Reason told her Mr. Carleon, with his neat habits, would never commit such a crime. That left Bryce Galloway, the well-dressed snob who didn’t bother washing his whiskers out of the sink. He was guilty as sin in her mind, and she didn’t plan to stand for it.

Thirty minutes later she was waiting when Mr. Carleon came down the stairs. “Morning,” she managed with a nod.

“Morning,” Mr. Carleon answered with a polite smile.

Martha was so angry she couldn’t return his smile. “Is Mr. Galloway awake yet?”

“I didn’t hear a sound. I like to be up and out of the bathroom before he wakes.”

“I don’t blame you. My housekeeper tells me what a mess he leaves. I wouldn’t want to be in there after him.”

Mr. Carleon smiled. “Sharing a bath is only a slight inconvenience for being so close to Marty. I enjoy the walk over and back every day as well as your company and conversation each evening.”

She led him into the breakfast nook, where he and the widows usually took their morning coffee while Mrs. Biggs prepared the dining room breakfast buffet.

“I’ve something to talk to you about while we’re alone, Mr. Carleon.”

He waited until she wiggled into the nook, then sat down across from her. “I hope there is no problem with my lodging here?”

“Oh, no, but you may find my question a bit personal.”

“Ask away, dear lady. I’ll answer if I can.”

Martha Q had to fight down a giggle to remain in her innkeeper mode. “May I ask if you left the house last night after I locked the door? I know you might be called back to attend to Marty at any hour.”

He frowned. “I did not, but if I’d been called, I would have gone, of course. If that happens, Mrs. Patterson, I assure you I’ll lock the door behind me.”

“I know you would, Mr. Carleon. Just as I know you would not leave mud on the stairs.”

He nodded in understanding. “I stopped to pick up a few chunks that were not quite dry on my way down a few minutes ago.” He leaned closer, obviously enjoying the conversation. “You think Galloway went out last night and didn’t come in early enough to have his muddy footprints dry before dawn.”

“That is exactly what I think. I also think that it is strange for a man to go out after ten at night and not take his car parked in my drive. Bryce Galloway doesn’t strike me as the type for midnight walks.”

Mr. Carleon took a slow drink of his coffee. “The man wears Italian loafers. A man who wears that kind of shoes doesn’t walk in mud.”

“Good point. Just as a man who goes for a walk at night would be most likely to stay on the sidewalks or even in the street, where the lights would be bright enough to show any mud holes.”

They both sat in silence. Martha Q wiggled her eyebrows at him, loving that they were sharing something so intimate together. A conspiracy, maybe. A plot perhaps.

Finally, he said, “I’m sure there is a simple explanation for this.”

“So am I, but I got a feeling it’s not one we’re going to like.”

She made up her mind. “If he goes out tonight, I think one of us should follow him. I noticed a scrap of paper he carries has times in and times out. I’m guessing he’s watching someone who doesn’t know he’s watching.”

“Agreed. But who?”

“Maybe his ex-wife? I heard rumors that she didn’t play fair in the divorce. ’Course, that was from someone who played golf with Bryce when he was married to Nevada.”

Mr. Carleon shook his head. “Surely he’s not bothering her. She’s remarried to a nice guy. Cord McDowell’s been by the duplex a few times. Judging from the measure of the man, I think Bryce Galloway would be a fool to mess with him.”

Martha Q laughed. “It’s been my experience that ex-husbands turn into fools quite easily, and you’re right—if Bryce steps in Cord’s way, he won’t be the last one standing.”

Mr. Carleon reached across the table and laid his hand over Martha Q’s. “What is our plan, dear lady?”

Martha Q almost giggled, and she hadn’t giggled in years. At that moment she really didn’t much care what the plan was or what Bryce was up to. She loved the game they were playing at the breakfast nook, and she planned to make sure it continued. Her blood hadn’t been this warm since the summer it reached 107 and half the air conditioners in town seemed to break at the same time.

“I think we should think all this out. I’ll ask my hairdresser. She’ll know all the gossip on Bryce Galloway. If you’ve no objection, I suggest we meet tonight over hot cocoa on the porch.”

Mr. Carleon raised one eyebrow. “Should we include the widows in our discussion?”

“Not just yet,” Martha Q answered with a sly smile. If she had anything to do with it, the widows would be out for the evening.

As if they’d heard their names called, all three of the women hurried in. Before the good mornings were said, Mrs. Biggs opened the door to the dining room and announced that breakfast was served.

Martha Q closed her fingers over the hand that Mr. Carleon had held briefly and decided she’d have not only her hair done, but a manicure and pedicure as well. She might even have a facial . . . all in the name of gathering information, of course.

A
PRIL
9

“Y
OU
MAKE
HER
HAPPY
, C
ORD
,
YOU
KNOW
THAT
,
DON
’
T
you?” Galem said as he poured coffee while both men stood in the bunkhouse kitchen. Dawn was just turning the sky. The ranch hands were already gathering around the table for breakfast.

Cord had come over early to check out the day’s work schedule with the cook. He looked over at the man who was quickly becoming more a friend than an employee of the ranch. “Who?”

Galem smiled. “Nevada, of course. You make her happy.”

“Maybe.” Cord hid a smile behind his coffee cup as he remembered the pleasure they’d shared less than an hour ago. “She seems to like the changes around here.” He tried to get his mind on the ranch and not the way his wife’s body had felt against his in the shower. “I think we’ll finish all the roads on the Boxed B today, and I’ll send the crews over to work on my farm for a week or so. The crop’s coming in, so a good road would help with moving the equipment we’re going to need come harvest.”

Galem frowned. “She does like the changes, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Little Miss has got her share of problems at work, but it does my heart good to see her light up every time she sees you.”

Before Cord could comment, the cook added, “Hell if I know why. You never say more than a few words to her. Let me give you some advice. They like that. A woman also likes to be complimented now and then, talked to, even when you don’t see a need. They’re funny creatures that way.”

“I’ll work on it.” Cord had given up suggesting Galem stop offering him advice. It seemed to come with breakfast, and Galem, having been married for years, thought he had all the answers.

Galem smiled. “Good. Now, next time you see her, be sure and tell her how nice she looks. With all the time she spends shopping, it’s bound to be important to her.”

Before Cord had to swear he would, the back door of the bunkhouse flew open and a ranch hand, covered in mud, bolted in at a full run.

“We got trouble, Boss.” Jackson gulped for air as he took off his hat. “One of your wife’s horses is down in the front pasture. I tried to get her up, but . . .”

Both men grabbed their hats and followed the messenger out as he kept talking. “I drove past a few minutes ago and thought the black mare looked strange. I might have just thought she was resting if I hadn’t seen the fence down. White wooden planks scattered all over the road.”

“Nevada’s horses are boarded in stalls at night. Never left in the field.” Galem voiced what both Cord and Jackson already knew.

They all three grabbed anything they thought they might need from the tack room as they moved toward the truck. “What happened?” Cord shouted over the noise they made.

“Looks like someone rammed the fence.” Jackson picked up a couple of gallons of water and climbed into the bed of the truck. “I could see tire tracks in the mud by the road.”

“The horse?” Cord would worry about the downed fence later. He tossed in blankets and a toolbox along with a few ropes and a first-aid kit. Nevada wouldn’t be happy if he had to rope one of her horses, no matter how crazy the mare might be acting.

“The mare’s alive, but barely moving. I couldn’t get her to raise her head, much less stand. When I saw how bad the horse was, I figured running for help was the best thing I could do.” Jackson looked tortured. “Man, I hate like hell to see a horse in pain.”

Cord glanced at Galem. The cook had read his mind; he was already talking to the vet as he climbed in the passenger side.

Taking the curves toward Nevada’s private horse barn and pasture at sixty with rocks flying everywhere, Cord ordered Galem, “Have him meet us there as fast as possible. Then try to get ahold of the trainer who cares for her horses. Nevada won’t want us touching the horse without the trainer there.”

“He’s usually there by now.” Galem punched numbers on his cell. “She likes to stop by on her way to work now and then to talk to him. Joey comes in early, but he seems to think as soon as he finishes, his eight-hour day is over. He’s never around when she comes past there after work. But he wouldn’t have let the horse out this early. It’s not part of his routine.”

Pulling his phone from his vest pocket, Cord punched two and waited for Nevada to answer. She’d gone in before dawn, saying she had a meeting over some big problem at one of the drill sites.

No answer. Maybe she hadn’t made it in to the office yet. Cord left a message for her to call him, then tried to remember her general office number. He hadn’t bothered to key it into his phone, thinking that if he needed her he could always call the cell.

Cord was parked and walking toward the downed mare when Galem got Nevada’s secretary on his cell. The cook passed his phone to Cord.

“This is Cord McDowell. Tell my wife to call me,” Cord shouted into the phone.

When the secretary stuttered, he added, “Now!”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he handed Galem’s phone back and knelt down beside the beautiful star-marked black mare laboring for every breath.

Jackson had been right. Something was very wrong with the horse. Cord pulled off his gloves and slowly moved his hands over the animal. Huge wild eyes watched him as she fought for air. The powerful muscles of her hind legs jerked slightly as if longing to run, but the horse didn’t get up.

“It’s going to be all right,” Cord said, more to himself than the mare. “We’re here now. We’ll take care of you.”

Galem hauled blankets and water. He tried to pour water into the horse’s mouth, but she wouldn’t take it. “She’s burning up,” he said.

Cord spread one of the blankets over the horse’s head and wet it down with water. He had no idea if he was doing the right thing, but he knew that the dark would calm the horse, and hopefully the cool wet blanket would help.

“The doc’s on his way,” Galem said as his phone chimed. “He’ll be here in five.”

Jackson, the rough cowhand whom Cord had rarely seen say more than three words without one of them being a swear word, now sat patting the horse’s neck and whispering softly as if he were talking to a baby.

Cord stood, feeling helpless. He didn’t know horses. He only knew if something happened to one of Nevada’s beautiful animals she would be crushed. For some reason they seemed to mean more to her than people.

The vet drove over the downed fence and hopped out of his truck running, bag in hand. His clothes were wrinkled and he was at least three days away from his last shave, but Doc Freeman was a welcome sight.

Cord felt so relieved he almost hugged the man. Within minutes the doc was shouting orders to everyone and working with the skill of an emergency room specialist. He might look like a down-on-his-luck cowboy, but the vet knew what he was doing.

Other hands arrived, circling around the animal, watching, worrying, whispering guesses of what might be wrong. Cord sent a few up to the barn to check on the other horses, fearing that the mare might be the first to be coming down with something deadly.

But as he paced, he knew no illness had caused what was happening. It hadn’t taken much to figure out that the fresh tire tracks had come from the barn, crossed the pasture, and broken out. The shattered remains of the fence had been scattered on the road, not in the grass. Whoever did this was in a hurry to get away.

“Maybe we should call the sheriff?” Galem asked.

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with first. We take care of the animal, then call. When I worked at Parker Trucking I used to pass the sheriff heading for work a little after seven thirty. If we wait a few minutes we’ll get her and not some deputy who’s been up all night.”

Whoever did this knew the property, and he knew how much the act would hurt Nevada. Cord could think of only one man who might have done it. Any fired hand could have slashed the tires on his car, but hurting a horse would cut deep. Bryce Galloway crossed his mind, and he decided that whether Nevada liked him in her business or not, he planned to find out more about the trouble between his wife and her last husband.

Moving among the men, Cord asked each one what time he’d driven by the fence. Was it down when they passed? Did they see lights heading toward town?

A few didn’t remember noticing because it was dark, but three swore the fence had been intact when they turned onto the road about fifteen minutes before Jackson had discovered it. He’d been running late. He was the last cowhand to head in from the main road. If he hadn’t overslept, they might not have found the horse for hours.

Cord also knew the fence had been up when Nevada drove past to go to work. She would have noticed. He’d seen her look toward the barn every time they passed, no matter the hour.

As Cord walked back, the doc stood. “No maybe about it. This horse has been poisoned. If we’d reached her ten minutes later, we’d be looking at a dead animal right now.”

“But that barn is kept locked with the horses inside every night,” Galem said. “Since the day it was built, I don’t ever remember a single horse left in open pasture.”

The vet lifted his bag. “If someone will stay with the mare, I’ll go check the other horses. By the time I get back, the shot I gave her will be working and she’ll be in less pain.” He walked toward Cord, scrubbing hair that hadn’t been combed in days. “Someone needs to notify the sheriff, and Cord, I’d appreciate it if you’d get a trailer up here for me to transport the mare to my clinic. Pad the sides as heavy as we can. I’ve got a strap in my pickup that will keep her standing once we get her in.”

Cord nodded at the doctor as he ordered several men to follow the vet. Galem and Jackson went for the trailer.

When all were busy, he walked back to his truck and spread his hands out wide on the hood, trying to calm down. Nevada hadn’t called, but she would. When she did, she’d panic at the news.

Several minutes passed as he waited for Nevada to call and the sheriff to arrive. The vet reported that no other horses seemed to have been poisoned, and the mare had managed to stand on her own. When he helped Dr. Freeman load the mare, he realized the trainer was late. As the vet drove away, Cord pulled Zeb and one other man he trusted aside.

“Either of you have any idea where the trainer lives?”

Zeb nodded. “I was working here when he first came. Nevada wanted him to live on the ranch, but he insisted she rent him a house in town. Her husband at the time sided with the trainer. Me and another fellow were ordered to go help him move in. I think I can find the place without much trouble.”

“Good. Go find out why he didn’t show up for work this morning. If he’s not sick, he’s fired.” He paused, then added, “Check his car for damages by a fence.” Cord doubted the trainer would run the fence; whoever did this must have known he had little time before being spotted where he didn’t belong.

When Zeb was out of hearing distance, Galem said, “I’ll wait for the sheriff.” Everyone knew Cord hadn’t called in a crime when his tires had been slashed.

“All right,” Cord answered. “You stay, but right now, I’ve got to get to Nevada before she hears about this from someone else. Tell the sheriff I’ll be happy to give a statement. She’s welcome to investigate anywhere on the land she needs to, and she’ll have full cooperation from every man.”

Galem walked with Cord toward the door of his truck. “If Nevada’s not in her office, you might try the rig site out by Rattler Creek. Ora Mae said she wore her boots this morning.” Galem frowned. “She always wears her boots when she heads out there. She’s hated snakes ever since her big brothers used to tease her with little garden snakes.”

“I’ll do that.” Cord climbed in his truck. “Keep me informed on anything here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He headed toward town, trying to think how he could break the bad news to Nevada. She didn’t have to tell him how she loved the horses; he knew. He’d seen the way she patted them and cared for them. They were her children, her family.

When he pulled into her office parking lot, he’d decided telling her straight out would be the only way.

He walked in beneath a six-foot-tall gold plaque bearing the Boxed B brand. This was her world, all business and professional. The day he’d picked her up for lunch, it had taken her ten minutes to relax and talk at a normal speed. She might complain about it, but her father had groomed her to take over this business. Cord couldn’t help but wonder what the old man had done to make sure she knew oil. He must have thought she was his last chance after failing to make any of his sons ranchers.

Cord rushed toward the main set of offices. Her office door stood dead center among them. The huge double doors had the Boxed B brand burned into the wood. Everything reminded him that she was a Britain, yet when they’d married, she’d insisted on taking his name.

A receptionist jumped in his way with the look of a startled rabbit. “May I help you, sir?” she said, near panic when he didn’t slow. “These are private offices.”

“I’m here to see my wife. I’m Cord McDowell.”