Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery)

For Gunner and Flanigan, two good horses

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With thanks and love to Andy and Zachariah, my husband and son, and all the animals and plants that share our home.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Santa Cruz County is a real place and is much as described, but various local landmarks have been changed and rearranged to fit the purposes of the story. All the human characters are entirely imaginary; the animal characters are drawn from life. For more information about this mystery series, go to lauracrum.com.

FORGED

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

 
ONE

I drove up my own driveway, mad as hell. He'd better be there; I found I was saying the words out loud. "He'd better be there or this time he's had it. If that bastard pulls a no-show on me one more time, I’ll kill him."

Rounding the comer at the bottom of the hill, I looked apprehensively in the direction of the barn. Damn. I heaved a sigh of relief. There it was-a white pickup truck parked in my driveway. He was here, after all.

Parking my own truck near the house, I got out and walked back down the hill toward the barn. Perhaps I would say a few kind words to the man. My horseshoer had, for once in his life, shown up when he said he would.

Being a horse vet myself, I was more than familiar with the typical client complaint: "You guys charge an arm and a leg and you always show up late." Horses were unpredictable, and it was nearly impossible to keep a strict schedule when you were dealing with a dozen or more of the beasts in a day. But even allowing for the inevitability of delays, Dominic Castillo was notoriously unreliable.

There were plenty of horseshoers on the central coast of California, some of whom were quite dependable. I put up with Dominic for one reason: He was a master farrier and my horse, Gunner, had a tricky foot problem. Thus I dealt with Dominic's legendary tardiness and absenteeism.

Dominic had failed to show up for the appointment I'd scheduled last week; naturally, he had an excuse. Swallowing the angry tirade I longed to deliver, I'd rescheduled for today. As I approached his pickup truck, I schooled my face into a quiet, composed mold-not friendly, not hostile. Dominic had one more annoying fault-he was an incorrigible flirt.

No matter how often I declined his offers, advances, and invitations, if I so much as gave him a warm smile, Dominic was certain to come on to me once again. None of this was particularly flattering; Dominic was known to come on to any woman he met who was roughly between the ages of twenty and sixty. It seemed of no matter to him that he'd gone through two wives and numerous girlfriends already. Nor did he seem to care if the objects of his various flirtations were married or otherwise involved themselves. Any woman who would respond to his charm was fair game, apparently-at least in his estimation.

And he had considerable charm. Despite everything, Dominic Castillo was difficult to dislike and easy to smile at, and there you were-with the man's arm draped around your shoulders and his eyes smiling into yours as he asked you out yet again. Thus I composed my face to remain in a neutral frame.

Gunner was tied to an oak tree in the spot where Dominic usually shod him, and looked at me inquiringly. I walked up to my horse and rubbed his forehead. Gunner, my big bay gelding with his white blaze, high socks, one blue eye, and friendly nature, had been my buddy for many years now. I was more than willing to pay the top dollar that Dominic charged in order to keep my good horse sound.

Shoeing tools lay on the ground, the forge was chugging away in the back of Dominic's pickup, but I could see no sign of the man anywhere, which was odd.

I looked around the barnyard, fearing yet another contretemps. Would I find him sitting in the barn drinking whiskey? I was, after all, his last appointment of the day, and Dominic was known to like a drink. My friend, rancher Glen Bennett, always said that Dominic could shoe a horse when he was drunk better than most men could sober, but my preference was not for a drunken horseshoer.

"So, where is he?" I asked Gunner.

The horse pushed his muzzle into my face and I blew gently into his nostrils-a typical horse-greeting mannerism. Gunner's breath smelled warm and sweet, and I rubbed the underside of his neck, where he liked to be scratched.

"Dominic," I called out.

No reply. Now this was truly odd. Usually if Dominic did show up, he worked. Yes, he would flirt and chat, but he still got the job done. So, what in hell was going on?

Maybe he WAS drinking in the barn.

"Dominic," I said again, looking in the direction of my hay barn.

It wasn't much of a building-a small, high-roofed pole barn suitable for storing a load of hay; that was all. There was a good-sized stack of wheat hay filling it now, delivered a week ago by my local feed merchant. Walking towards the stack, I called Dominic's name again.

Still no answer. But I stopped dead.

Something not right. Boots . . . boots sticking out from behind the haystack. I took a cautious step forward and peered around the high wall of hay bales.

"Oh ... my ... God." I could hear my own voice; it didn't sound like me, though.

Dominic lay face-up in the litter of chaff on the floor of the barn. There was a bloody, wet spot in the middle of his stomach, pulpy and dark. His eyes were closed.

"Dominic!" I stepped toward him and reached for his wrist. His eyes stayed closed, but the pulse was there, barely. Even as I took it I was digging my cell phone out of my pocket. "Oh my God," I said again, my gaze riveted to Dominic's body as I dialed 911.

"I need an ambulance right away. A man's been shot; he's still alive," I said without preamble, knowing that the operator would have my address already.

"Is the injury serious?" the voice on the line asked.

"Very. He's gut-shot."

"And you are?"

"Dr. Gail McCarthy. I found him here in my barn."

"An ambulance and police will be right there."

"Thanks," I said. As I ended the call, Dominic's eyelids flickered.

"Dominic," I said, reaching for his hand.

The eyelids lifted. Dominic's brown eyes looked straight at me.

"Gail." I could barely make out the whisper.

"I'm here," I said. "I'm with you, Dominic. The ambulance is coming." I squeezed his hand gently. "What happened?"

A long, long silence. Dominic's lids dropped back down; I thought he was out again. But in a minute the eyelids slowly lifted and once again I looked into Dominic's eyes. I couldn't fathom their expression.

His lips twitched. Faintly, very faintly, the words came. "I was cleaning the gun. An accident." Then his eyes closed.

I pressed his hand to comfort him, hardly believing what I had just heard. Why would he be cleaning his gun in my barn in the first place?

Scanning the littered hay around us quickly, I saw it. Sure enough. Half-buried under his thigh; I'd never noticed it in my haste to get help. A pistol, looked like a large caliber. My God.

"Dominic," I said again.

No response. I thought his breathing sounded more labored. In the distance came the thin wail of sirens.

I sighed with relief. "Just hang in there, Dominic."

The minute or so that it took the ambulance to pull in seemed like an hour. Dominic grew perceptibly paler as we waited. But eventually the flashing lights were in my driveway, and I was waving the paramedics toward the barn. A dark green sheriff's sedan was right behind them.