Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries) (7 page)

"No," I agreed. "But I can tell you for a fact, most broken legs occur at home in the corral or pasture, when a horse gets kicked by another horse. And that would happen to horses living in the wild, too. The only difference would be the horse would suffer for days, maybe weeks."

"That horse this morning broke his leg because some dumb person was roping on him," she argued.

"I suppose you could say that. But it's as likely that you'll get killed in a traffic accident on the way to the store as a horse will break its leg in that situation. Are you going to quit driving because of that?" I watched Susan closely.

She didn't say a word, just looked confused. If she knew about the hole, if she'd dug it even, her features gave no clue.

Lisa saw an opportunity in the silence. "Why don't you just leave us alone?" she said to Susan. "Dad and I aren't cruel to animals. Nobody on the ranch is."

"That's bullshit," Susan said. "I see you using those electric cattle prods on the poor cattle all the time."

"Susan, cattle prods are not cruel," I said. "Cattle have to be moved through chutes occasionally, even if they aren't roping cattle. They need their vaccinations; they need to be doctored if they're hurt. Cattle prods are the most humane way to do it. Otherwise, people would have to beat on the cattle with sticks and whips, which would be much harder on them."

"How would you like being electrocuted with all those volts?" she demanded.

"Six volts." Tim's lazy drawl came from behind us. He was sitting at the bar, listening to our conversation, as was everybody else in the room. "Hand me that thing," he said over his shoulder to Janey.

Janey produced a hotshot from behind the bar; no doubt, I thought, it was a handy weapon for a woman to squelch a drunken bar fight.

Tim held the hotshot in one hand and spoke in his usual slow, quiet voice to Susan. "Hotshots are humane, like Gail says. They don't hurt the cattle. Watch." And Tim pressed the prongs into his palm and pushed the button.

The hotshot buzzed audibly in the sudden stillness. Tim sat quietly for five seconds, taking the jolt without a flicker, then put the hotshot back on the bar. "See?" he said evenly. "No big deal."

Even Susan was silenced. We all stared at Tim. I knew what the hotshot would feel like; I'd touched electric fences before-by accident. It wasn't pleasant.

Tim looked unaffected. I had no idea how much was pose and how much genuine toughness. Lisa shook her head at her brother in amusement and exasperation, then turned back to Susan, once again on the fight. "We really aren't cruel to our animals, OK?"

Susan was still staring at Tim. She shifted her gaze to Lisa, then back to me. "Gail, do you really think team roping is a humane, ethical thing to do to animals?" For the first time in the conversation, Susan sounded as if she was honestly asking a question, not just pontificating.

"I think, like most everything else in life, it depends on the circumstances," I told her. "It isn't black or white."

Lisa's eyes shot to my face in protest, and I said firmly, "No, Lisa, I'm not going to say team roping's always wonderful for the animals. I've seen plenty of ropers be cruel to horses and cattle; I've seen unnecessary harm done. But it doesn't have to be that way."

I looked Susan in the eye. "I have problems with some aspects of roping. I hate to see cattle or horses get hurt. I don't like calf roping, for instance; I've seen too many calves break their necks or legs. In the case of team roping, I think it's important what rules the arena has. Glen has the most humane rules of any place I've been. The header undallies when he faces, which means the steers don't get a hard jerk, and there's a no-drag rule, which means if a steer goes down, the header has to let him get up. On top of which, Glen takes really good care of the cattle. He feeds them well and doctors them if they're sick and doesn't rope them too often. All that stuff's important."

"What about the horses?"

"That has a lot to do with who owns them. Some people are kind to their horses and care for them well and don't run too many steers on them, and I think those horses are mostly happy to go roping. Some people are hard on their horses, and those horses are miserable. Some people beat their wives and children, too."

The room was completely silent. "We do love our horses," I said at last. "Lisa and Glen and I, and lots of other people you see out there roping. I think, Susan, if you want to talk about cruelty to horses, you better start by buying a horse of your own and learning what they're like."

"And in the meantime," Lisa added sharply, "Leave Dad alone."

I glared at Lisa. She seemed absolutely bent on antagonizing Susan. For her part, Susan got to her feet, looking pissed off and confused all at once. "Come on," she said to her friend. "We're going home."

Obediently he picked up the protest signs and followed her to the door. Susan turned back to give the room a final comment, but her voice was drowned out by the deeper, stronger tones of a voice from the bar: "Get the hell out of here, you lousy bitch." The speaker stared right at Susan. "And don't come back."

EIGHT

Susan looked about to protest, then whirled and left the room without a word, skirt swirling, companion in tow. Charles Domini took a long swallow of his beer and surveyed the bar. "Good riddance," he said plainly.

Charles looked drunk to me. When Charles got drunk, Charles got mean. This was common knowledge in Lone Oak. Charles Domini owned the only other big ranch in the area; the Domini Ranch had been around as long as the Bennett Ranch.

The difference was that Charles, unlike Glen, was not popular with the locals. Charles was too prone to being drunk and mean, and his ranch was run-down and untended. Periodically he logged a portion of it or sold some more off to developers. This made him rich, but it did not make him popular. I didn't know anyone who liked Charles Domini.

He sat in the middle of a small group of people, which included several rough-looking men and his wife, Pat. The men all seemed pleased at Charles's statement. Pat looked disgusted.

I'd known Pat for years, and I had never figured out what she was doing with Charles. His money seemed the only possible attraction. And yet I would have thought better of her.

A slim, attractive woman somewhere in her forties or fifties, Pat had smooth brown skin, a loose cap of ruffled brown curls, and friendly eyes. She was capable with horses and cattle and roped a good deal better than her husband, who preferred kibitizing at the arena fence. Rumor had it that Pat and Glen were having an affair.

These rumors had been going on for twenty years. I had no idea if they were true. I had never seen Pat and Glen act anything more than polite to each other. I sometimes thought it was just the fact that they were both such attractive people, with spouses who were a good deal less appealing, that had fueled all the talk.

Tim got up from the bar and came and sat down at the table with Lisa and me, putting two draft beers in front of us. "Thought you might need something to cool your throat after all that talk," he said to me with a grin.

"Thanks," I said. "That was quite a stunt with the hotshot."

Tim shrugged. He had taken a chair against the wall, and he leaned back in it. His brown eyes drifted around the room and then stopped. I followed his gaze to where Al Borba sat by himself at the end of the bar, drink in hand.

Al stared at the mirror behind the bar, his face sullen and withdrawn. To all intents and purposes, he appeared unaware that anyone was in the room with him. Occasionally he took a sip of his drink. Janey stood behind the bar opposite him, her chin tilted up, her eyes watchful. Neither of them spoke.

"Why does your dad keep him around?" I asked Lisa. "I've always wondered. It's not like he acts any nicer to Glen."

Lisa had no trouble guessing what I was talking about. "I know," she said. "He gives me the creeps. He never says a word to me if he can help it. But Dad just says he's a good worker and he sees no reason to let Al go. Al and Janey both live in that mobile home by the roping arena. Janey's always lived with her dad." Lisa shook her head. "Al's father worked for my granddad when Dad was a little boy. Al's just kind of a fixture."

"He's an asshole." Tim's lazy tone didn't change, but Lisa and I looked at him cautiously. There was an undercurrent there, something that was hard to place.

Tim's eyes moved on down the bar from Al and rested on Pat Domini in a speculative way. I wondered briefly if Tim was considering going into competition with his father. If so, he was going to have a rough time of it tonight, as Charles stood right next to Pat, his arm resting on the bar beside her. Pat ignored her husband.

A big man with olive skin and dark eyes and hair, Charles was talking loudly in a definite voice, waving one hand with a massive gold ring on it, making some important point. Now Charles, I thought, was an asshole.

He finished his point and, as if feeling eyes upon him, turned to look at the three of us. Lisa and I looked away, but Tim kept his gaze steady, staring straight at Charles. Charles smiled slowly, not a pleasant smile. Then he edged his way out of the group and came walking over to our table.

A long time before he reached us it was clear he was not just a little drunk; he was very drunk. The smile on his face was matched by his unfocused eyes. I sighed. This could be trouble. Glancing at Tim, I saw he looked pleased. Great.

Lisa shot Tim a sidelong look. "Don't get in a fight, Tim, huh?"

Tim didn't say a word, just kept meeting Charles's eyes.

Domini finished the trip up to our table and stood staring down at Tim with the same silly, unpleasant grin. Tim cocked his chair back a little and looked up into the older man's face. Tim wore a bright blue BENNETT RANCH baseball cap, and he tipped it farther back on his head as if to get a better view.

"Howdy, Charles," he said. The lazy drawl was almost an insult in itself.

Such subtleties were lost on Domini. He rocked slightly from side to side as he stood over Tim, grinning down at him. "Howdy, Mr. Big Shot Bennett," Charles said. I sighed inwardly. Charles continued, "Son of the original Big Shot Bennett, who is only the biggest asshole in Santa Cruz County. Maybe in the state of California. I'd have to give it some thought."

Not a muscle twitched in Tim's face. He cocked his chair a little farther back. He looked completely relaxed. I wasn't fooled. "Now why would you say that, Charles?" Tim said in a soft, friendly voice.

"Because it's true." Charles's voice was getting louder. Various people turned to stare at us. Tim looked as unconcerned as usual. Charles went on. "Your asshole of a father thinks his shit don't stink. He thinks he can do anything he wants to do and no one can stop him. Well, he's wrong. He's gonna find that out. He can be stopped, all right. He's just a dumb prick."

On the last words, I sensed the sudden coil of muscle in Tim, like a wound spring, heard the click of his chair legs hitting the floor, tensed myself to grab him. Domini took a step back and cocked his arm; it was clear to him that he'd provoked a fight. In the split second before our motionless group could erupt into a shambles of lunging men, spilled beer, and overturned tables, Pat fairly leaped between Tim and Charles.

She grabbed Charles by the arm and put her body squarely in front of his. I caught a whiff of her perfume, which reminded me of jasmine, and I felt the tension ebb out of Tim. His chair tipped back again. I relaxed. I heard Lisa let out a long breath next to me.

Pat looked at Tim. "I'm sorry," she said flatly. "I didn't notice what he was up to." Then she looked at Charles. "You've had too much to drink, dear," she said with a totally phony sweetness. "I think we'd better go home."

Charles didn't seem to be mentally organized enough to argue. Pat grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door. She gave us an apologetic smile over one shoulder as they disappeared through it.

Tim swiveled his eyes to meet hers. There was a sudden un-Tim-like intensity in them. But he spoke in his usual slow, relaxed way. "Well, Pat might divorce old Charles, I'll agree to that. But Dad will never in a million years divorce Joyce."

The bitterness in Tim's voice surprised me.

"He won't do it because he's more interested in his stupid goddamn pride than he is in anything else. A messy divorce wouldn't make him look good. He'd rather suffer on like some kind of martyr than lose face."

Lisa looked as startled as I felt. "But, Tim," she said carefully, "everybody knows about him and Pat. What's the difference?"

"The difference is that he doesn't think everybody knows. Has he ever admitted to you or me or anybody else that he has a thing going with Pat? No. Do we even really know for sure they've got something going?"

Lisa shrugged.

"We don't," Tim said. "Dad just goes on thinking he looks like the ultimate in upright, moral behavior. The great Glen Bennett, pillar of the community."

Tim's voice was angry and sarcastic, and it stunned both Lisa and me to silence. Tim got up abruptly and walked over to the bar.

"I don't know. I haven't seen much of Tim in years. And we've never known each other all that well." Inwardly, though, I wondered if I didn't understand. Glen had always been larger than life; I wasn't the only one who'd admired him. Rich, successful, handsome, charming with women, respected by men ... almost a king in his little kingdom.

And Tim was supposed to be the crown prince. Tim was almost thirty and had never had a job-just helped his dad with the ranch. At some level, even though he wouldn't show it, he must be fighting out his own terms of adulthood. And maybe finding it impossible to do with this improbable hero of a father always looming over him, making whatever he did seem small and insignificant. Maybe he just needed to find some holes in Glen, chop him down to size, make him seem human. If Tim could make Glen seem small, Tim could feel bigger.