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He pulled up in front of the logs anchored in place to serve as a parking barrier. “Just point me in the right direction. This is a police matter and I’ll handle it.”
His steady voice and calm confidence made it easier for her to trust him. He’d stepped into an unpredictable situation and had taken charge effortlessly, as if it was second nature to him. Something assured her that Detective Bowman was very good at his job.
They climbed out of the SUV, and she led him quickly to the turnout area alongside the barn. As they approached, she saw that Bobby had left her office and was now standing just outside the welded pipe enclosure where Carl lay.
“I need to get Bobby away from there,” she said quickly. “He’s too young to deal with things like this and he’s seen too much already.”
“Bobby’s your son?” he asked, noting that the boy was Navajo.
“No, he’s always my first guest of the day. He’s also one of my regular helpers,” she said. “He found Carl and made the 911 call. Is it okay if I go take care of him?”
“Yeah. This is no place for a kid. Find a place where he can stay, just make sure he doesn’t leave the property. He may have seen or heard something that could help us.”
As Abby hurried to the boy, she could see Carl’s body in her periphery. A silent scream rose inside her, filling her mind and nearly obliterating her ability to think.
“He’s…dead, isn’t he?” Bobby whispered.
He seemed remarkably controlled considering the circumstances. But she’d seen that same look on other faces before and recognized it for what it was. Many would mistake it for indifference, but fear, the kind that clung with razor-sharp tentacles to your soul, often mimicked bravery. She remembered seeing it in her twin sister’s eyes as treatment after treatment had failed to cure her.
Taking a deep breath and forcing herself to focus on the present, Abby turned her head and saw Detective Bowman had ducked through the gap in the welded pipe fence. He had latex gloves on and was now crouched next to Carl’s body. After checking for Carl’s pulse, he looked up and shook his head, affirming what she already knew.
Abby focused on Bobby. “We need to leave. Other officers and medical people will be here soon and will need us to point the way back here.”
Bobby didn’t move, his gaze still locked on Carl. “Do you think Missy or Tracker kicked him?” he asked in a thin voice.
She hadn’t even considered that possibility until now. “I can’t imagine either of those horses hurting anyone. They’re the calmest animals I’ve ever known. I’ve never seen either of them spook, not under any circumstances,” she said, taking an unsteady breath. Somehow her voice had remained steady but her hands were shaking badly. Not wanting Bobby to see that, she jammed them into her pockets. “Carl was their trainer and the animals knew and liked him. They never even flinched or pulled away when he cleaned their hooves. There’s no way they hurt him.”
“Then who did this?”
Abby drew in another unsteady breath. “I don’t know, Bobby. That’s what Detective Bowman is here to find out.” She tried to urge Bobby along, but he refused to move.
“I’m going to miss Carl, Abby. He was my friend and I don’t have that many. The kids at the foster home play a lot of football and baseball, but I can’t. Carl liked the same kind of games I do. We’d pretend we were spies and do a lot of cool stuff.” A tear trickled down one cheek, but he brushed it away instantly.
She wanted to give him a hug, but she knew Bobby would think she was babying him and would hate that. “It’s okay to be sad. I am, too, Bobby.”
He nodded but didn’t answer her directly, avoiding the subject altogether. “The detective’s Navajo, like me. Did you notice? He has to work around the body and that’s dangerous, but he knows how to protect himself so he’ll stay safe,” he said. “See that leather bag on the cord around his neck? That’s not jewelry, and he’s not just trying to look Indian. That bag protects him.”
“From what? I don’t understand,” Abby said.
“Spirits stick around and like making trouble for people. Mrs. Nez—she cooks for us back at the foster home—told me that,” he said.
Abby hesitated, unsure what to say. “Carl would never hurt either one of us, not when he was alive or now that he’s passed on,” she said. “Bobby, you may not need a hug, but I do.” She bent down and held him. As she did, Abby felt the tremor that shook his small body.
After a moment she stepped away and Bobby refused to look at her, almost as if embarrassed. “Tell the detective that I followed the rule of three, okay?”
“The what?”
“He’ll know,” he said. “We better go. The sirens are coming closer.”
She nodded. “You’re right. We’ll need to stay out of everyone’s way.”
They walked back up the path away from the barn and the enclosures. Abby set a slow pace, but not so much that Bobby would think she was deferring to him. Bobby faced many difficulties daily, but he had a lot of pride, something that helped him endure.
Hearing Hank the camel roar loudly, Abby halted. “Bobby, go ahead without me. Make sure the other officers and emergency people know where to find the detective. I need to get the horses out of the turnout area and move Hank to another pen so the police can work in peace.”
“Okay, but if you get scared or something, shout out or whistle. I’ll hear you.”
“Thanks,” Abby said and smiled. Bobby was as loyal as could be. It was one of the many reasons she was so fond of him.
Abby jogged back to where she’d left the detective. Though the horses were clearly upset by the stranger in their enclosure, they were still acting in a predictable manner. Both stood as far away from Detective Bowman as possible, at the innermost corner of the enclosure, watching him, their ears pinned back.
“Detective, let me put halters on the horses and lead them to another pen. They’ll be out of your way then.”
“No, stay put. This is a crime scene,” he said. “I see a hoof pick over there and a coffee can with some traces of grain. I’ll dump that out then check their hooves, scrape off any dirt and debris into the can and then bring them out to you.”
Preston looked around for a rope and halter but, finding neither within arm’s reach, decided to forego using them. He bent down and checked each of Missy’s hooves. Using the pick, he collected dirt and what could be blood and hair. Once finished, he grabbed the mare by the mane and led her over to Abby, who immediately opened the small turnout gate.
“You know horses,” Abby said.
“Yeah. It was part of life where I grew up.”
Abby grabbed Missy’s mane as he’d done and led her out to another corral. By the time she returned, Detective Bowman was waiting with Tracker.
Abby grabbed the horse but as her gaze strayed to Carl, a lump formed at her throat. How could this have happened? Nothing made sense to her anymore.
“Was he a close friend?” Preston asked, as if sensing the turmoil inside her.
“We weren’t close, but I considered him a friend. He was a good, loyal employee and a man who’d believed in my dream for Sitting Tall Ranch.” She wanted to keep her voice steady, so she paused for a moment. “Do you know how…he died?” she added in a strained whisper.
“Not yet, but I’ll find out. You can count on that.”
Detective Bowman walked away from her and crouched by Carl’s body once again. This time he looked around slowly, taking in the setting, not the victim. Although the gesture had seemed almost casual, she had a feeling he didn’t miss much. Then, surprisingly, he looked back at her. His gaze was penetrating…and unsettling. She wanted to look away but somehow couldn’t quite manage it.
To her, he represented the unknown…and that scared her. Would he be an ally, or would his appearance mark the last days of Sitting Tall Ranch? She’d made her mistakes—well-meaning ones, but if they came out now…Determined to guard her secrets, she moved away.
“We’ll be blocking off several areas with yellow tape,” he called out while taking photos with a small camera. “It may take a day or two before we’re ready to take the tape down, so be prepared.”
She tried not to give in to the unadulterated panic rising inside her. This wasn’t just about Carl, not anymore. If the ranch became synonymous with danger, no parent would want their kids here. She’d lose her funding and have to shut down.
Sitting Tall Ranch was a place of healing and hope. There was no other place like it in the area. What they offered kids was something worth fighting for, and she intended to do whatever was necessary to keep the ranch’s doors open.
“I’m going to need access to the animals,” she said as Hank let out another loud bellow. “Please try to keep that in mind when you put up the tape.”
“No problem. I’ve got you covered.”
“And please,” she said softly, “work quickly. We need donations to survive, and with the economy, those have become harder and harder to get.”
“You need closure, too, and finding answers is what I do best,” he said. “Trust me.”
She looked at him and blinked. She normally hated it when anyone said that. The words were usually empty and, if anything, meant she should do exactly the opposite. Yet there was something about Detective Bowman that assured her he was as good as his word.
Hearing another vehicle approaching, he turned his head to look, then glanced back at her. “Here comes Joanna Medina, the medical investigator,” he said. “I’ll need to speak to you and the boy as soon as I can, and when I do I’ll let you know what we’ve found.”
“Okay, thanks,” she said. “I’m going to move Hank, the camel that’s being so vocal right now. After that I’ll be in my office, the casita behind the main house.”
“One more thing,” he called out to her. “The kid, Bobby, he didn’t move or touch the body, right?”
“No, I think he would have been afraid to. He told me to tell you he’d followed the rule of three. He said you’d know what that meant.”
Preston nodded. “Don’t touch them, don’t look at them, get away from them.”
“The ghosts of the dead—that’s the source of worry, right?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” he said, meeting her outside the corral. “The chindi is the evil side of a man that remains earthbound waiting for a chance to create problems for the living. Our traditionalists believe that contact with the dead or their possessions is a sure way to draw it to you.”
“You’re an officer, so you’re not…a traditionalist?”
“I’m a detective who does his job,” he said, waving at a woman wearing a lab coat and carrying a heavy-looking medical case. “I have to get to work now. I’ll come find you once we’re through here and we can talk about what you saw before I got here.”
As he strode away, a cold shudder ripped through Abby. She’d known anger, worry, love and ultimately loss. Yet she could count on one hand the times she’d experienced pure, unadulterated fear. Now as she watched the detective meet the medical examiner, she felt its icy-cold touch clawing into her again.
Carl was dead, and someone had attacked her here twice. No matter how hard she wished it wasn’t so, the truth was that the ranch was no longer a safe haven.
Trying not to look back at Carl’s body as she passed by, Abby returned to the pen that held Hank. Sensing that she was upset, the tall, gawky but somehow elegant animal nuzzled against her.
“Come on, old friend.” She placed a halter on him, opened the gate and led him away.
As she walked, tears gathered but she blinked them away. She wouldn’t fall apart now. She’d do what had to be done. Carl had shared her dream. He’d loved what they did here at the ranch daily: giving kids a chance to be kids again. He would have expected her to fight to keep it alive.
One way or another she’d see to it that Sitting Tall Ranch weathered the approaching storm.
Chapter Three
Preston considered the information he’d already gathered while the medical examiner worked. At first glance it had looked like an accident, a trampling death, but there were some inconsistencies. The wound to the back of the victim’s skull showed no trace of sand, something sure to have been left by a horse’s hoof, especially in this churned-up stall.
There also weren’t any deep impressions or hoof marks near the body that would indicate the vic had been trampled. In fact, the only fresh prints near the body appeared to be from the vic’s own boots.
He’d seen plenty of cowboys injured by horses at rodeos, but the way Carl’s body lay seemed posed somehow. A cowboy kicked by a horse usually landed askew, not neatly on his face with arms laid out flat by his side. The fact that someone else had been on the premises and had attacked Abby, then tried to run her down, supported the likelihood of foul play.
That’s when he’d taken another look at the ground by the body and discovered that someone had methodically obliterated the footprints along a strip of ground leading to and from the enclosure’s gate. It had been skillfully done, but Preston was an experienced tracker and had spotted the signs.
Dr. Joanna Medina glanced up from the body. She was in her late fifties, with short silver hair and blue eyes that looked world weary and a little sad.
“You were right. This wasn’t an accident. The wound on his head appears to have come from a blunt object. There’s a second bruise on his chest, too. It’s elongated, as if made by a stick or shovel.” Joanna stood and handed him a clear plastic evidence bag. “Here’s everything I found in the vic’s pockets.”
“Do you have a time of death for me?”
“All the markers tell me he died last night between nine and midnight.”
As she prepared the body for transport, Preston, still wearing gloves to avoid fingerprint contamination, studied the vic’s possessions. There was a small notepad with feeding schedules, a ranch staff ID and a wallet with five bucks but no driver’s license. Because there was no metro bus service and only one cab company around, it was unusual for locals not to have a license. He’d ask Abby about it.
As he walked back, Preston glanced over at the parking area and saw that the ranch’s staff was starting to arrive. They all wore dark blue T-shirts with a special logo. Yet the animal handler was wearing a plaid shirt.
The door to Abby’s office was partially open, and as he approached he felt a touch of cool air coming from inside. Preston stepped into the room, and Abby, who’d been sitting on the sofa next to the Navajo boy, came to meet him.
Now that he finally had a chance to take a closer, leisurely look at her, he realized that Abby Langdon was a stunner, with shoulder-length honey-brown hair and big hazel eyes. The loose clothing she wore didn’t hide the fact that she had curves in all the right places.
“Did you figure out what happened?” Abby asked.
He shook his head. “It’s much too soon for that, but I’ve got some more questions for you.” Even as he spoke, he saw her expression turn from hopeful to disappointed. He softened his tone. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, but these things take time. All I can tell you is that it wasn’t an accident.”
The color drained from her face. “This couldn’t have had anything to do with our ranch. It has to be random…craziness.”
“What do you know about the deceased?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “You think Carl provoked this somehow? But that just can’t be. He was a gentle man. He caught spiders and relocated rather than killed them.”
“Relax. I’m just gathering information,” he said.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Sorry.”
He saw her lips tremble but she quickly brought herself under control and turned her head to smile at Bobby.
Preston liked her. It was a purely instinctive reaction, but he trusted his gut. Just past those beautiful hazel eyes and that shaky smile beat the heart of a warrior. Yet hers was a gentle toughness.
The boy rose to his feet and came over. “I’m Bobby Neskahi,” he said. Honoring Navajo ways, he didn’t offer to shake hands. “I knew…him,” he said, avoiding the name of the deceased, also according to Navajo custom. “Probably better than almost anyone,” he added.
Preston wondered if the kid had been raised a traditionalist or was simply showing him the proper cultural respect.
“I’m Diné,” Bobby said.
“We both are,” Preston said, trying not to smile. Diné meant The People and signified those of the Navajo tribe.
Bobby moved back to the couch, and as he walked, Preston realized that the kid was no stranger to pain.
“Can we talk alone—Navajo to Navajo?” Bobby asked.
“Of course,” Preston said, then looked at Abby.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said, giving Preston a wary look.
“We’ll keep it informal, not official.” At her hesitation, he met her gaze. Looking someone in the eye was considered rude inside the Navajo Nation, but he’d learned over the years that those outside the tribe found it a sign of honesty, not disrespect. Though it hadn’t come naturally to him, over time he’d adapted to the custom.
“Okay, but I’m staying right outside.”
As Abby left, Preston sat down on the couch and gestured with a nod for Bobby to do the same. “Abby told me that you were the one who found the body this morning,” Preston said.
He nodded and swallowed hard. “Yeah, but I stuck to the rule of three.”
