I opted for apologizing.
My SUV’s navigation system informed me I’d reached the Lukasik Ranch and still had a stretch to go to reach the home ranch.
I finally spotted a handsome ranch house by a creek bed, with a cluster of working buildings well to the side and behind a screening of trees in the distance. That view also informed me the distance would take considerable time to traverse, with all the bends and curls in the road ahead.
But I was fortunate.
After a few bends and curls, I came into a long valley. Straight ahead as the crow flies, but not as the road went, was the home ranch, seeming no closer than it had at that first glimpse.
On my left, at the far side of a pasture greener than most I saw in this area, I saw a distant cowboy on horseback. Too far to call to. Past a couple of roadside cottonwoods, however, I came to a cowboy off his horse, doing something to a cow I preferred not to focus on too closely, all near to the fence that divided the pasture from this road.
I pulled over and got out, taking my time until the cow rumbled away and the man turned toward me.
By his movements, I’d expected a much younger man. By the creases in his face he could have been well into his eighties.
“Hi. I’m looking for Kesler.”
“You found him. Who’re you? What do you want?”
I extended a hand over the fence, hoping he took off the decidedly unlovely glove he’d been using with the cow. “Elizabeth Margaret Danniher. KWMT-TV.”
He took the glove off and shook my hand — crunching the bones slightly.
His expression did not convey delight or even neutrality at discovering my identity.
I pulled out the big guns fast.
“Penny from the supermarket—”
“Penny. There’s a good woman.”
“She is.” Over his shoulder, I saw the rider across the paddock watching us. “She sent me to talk to you.”
“Penny did.” A statement, not a question, and filled with skepticism.
Justifiable skepticism, I had to admit, considering Penny’s indirect mode of communication.
“Not that succinctly. But that was the gist.”
“Gist.”
Bolstered by the mildness of this repetition, I said, “She said you could fill me in on a few things. In fact, she said you were the best possible person to give me background.”
He spit. “You mean blabbing all over about people so you can figure out who killed Furman York and make another one of those TV programs? Why would she think I’d want to do that?”
Skipping arguments about truth and justice and how one person’s murder going unsolved hurts us all, I said, “So that the wrong person isn’t charged.”
That caught him. But he approached it sideways. “Like who?”
A gamble to guess whom he might be worried about without more guidance.
But how much time did I have to be subtle? He hadn’t exactly welcomed me. As much as I wanted to push Kesler, that risked he’d close the door completely. Plus, I feared my alone time with him was running out. The other rider turned toward us, advancing at a slow trot.
“Hard to tell who might catch the attention of the authorities. Say, someone known to have argued with him shortly before he was killed.”
His face hardened. “Furman York was forever arguing with somebody. Pure chance of who was the last one when he got himself killed. Cottonwood County Sheriff’s Department should be able to figure that out.”
Too bad Shelton or Sheriff Conrad, wasn’t here to hear that.
Agreeing with him, though, wasn’t a good tactic for what I wanted.
“Maybe. But once something like that points in a direction, they’re bound to dig deeper. Find out things otherwise innocent people might not want found out.”
He squinted at me, not giving an inch.
There had to be a way in with him. Time to toss spaghetti against the wall and see what stuck.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Long time.”
“The same long time Norman Clay Lukasik has owned this ranch?”
“Pretty close.”
That meant a lot of overlap with Furman York.
“Did Lukasik bring you here from somewhere else? Did you already work for him?”
“No.” His tone said No way in hell.
One piece of stuck spaghetti.
“Did you know Furman York before coming here?”
“No.” And didn’t bother to hide that he hadn’t wanted to know York at all.
“Who were his friends on the ranch?”
“Hell if I know.”
“You must be aware of who he spent time with, went for a beer with after work. Or friends outside of the ranch.”
“Didn’t keep his social calendar.”
The approaching rider slowed his horse to a walk. Kesler didn’t turn, didn’t shift his eyes, or betray any overt indication awareness of the newcomer’s presence.
I was sure he knew, though.
Now he’d braced for more on York. Time to switch gears.
“Penny said — indicated—” I corrected the word with a smile. “—the Lukasiks’ son basically grew up here, works on the ranch now. Not just being the owner’s son. Good worker?”
“Yep.”
“Some say he — Gable — is getting more and more valuable when the ranching community works together. Roundups, branding and such.”
“As long as he’s not mooning after that girl.”
Jessica Stendahl, Penny, and now Kesler. This must be some romance.
“Growing up, he spent a lot of time with his mother here at ranch, right?” A silence was as good as a yep with this man. “Penny told me about Mrs. Lukasik being a very nice woman.” No need to spell out Tom’s interpreter role. “And her tragic accident.”
“Real nice lady. Nobody better say different in my hearing. Real shame about her dying. Especially for her boy.” He shifted, recognizing he’d given away more caring than he’d intended. “Didn’t know a lick about ranchin’, but a nice lady.”
“Kesler?” the rider said from half a dozen yards away.
He didn’t turn. “Nothin’ for you to worry about, Gable.”
The rider came on anyway, and swung out of the saddle, taking his cowboy hat off as he did.
I employed a friendly, harmless smile while I studied him.
Gable Lukasik had his father’s height, with flesh on his frame.
Despite the cowboy attire, including working boots, gloves, and hat, he had a vaguely preppy look. It might have been the hair — shiny brown, it came away from a peak at the top of a thoughtful forehead and did a smooth side sweep. A bit longer on top than a lot of Wyoming men, but trimmed on the sides and back.
He had a round face. Not pudgy, soft. Like a layer of cushioning between him and the outside world. An attractive face, prevented from lapsing into cute by the gravitas of dark brows over deep brown eyes.
I widened my harmless smile. “Gable Lukasik? I’m Elizabeth Margaret Danniher, from KWMT-TV. Came out here to your ranch at Penny’s suggestion. You know Penny, right? So, you’ll understand I’m terrified that if I cross her, she’ll cut off my cookie supply. She’d never let me starve, but she might torture me by limiting my chocolate access.”
Kesler muttered, “Foolishness.”
Gable smiled. “For me, it’s tortilla chips. Cut off my chips and I’d fold at the knees.”
“Exactly.” We were compatriots. Fellow travelers in the wicked world of carbs.
“I’ve seen you on the news,” he said. “I pay attention when you’re on.”
“Thank you.” I meant it. A modest compliment, yet genuine. “You work here on the ranch, right?”
I could try to ease him into talking about the operation of the ranch, and from there, possibly, to an indication of whether he knew of York’s rustling activities. Though the latter probably would have to wait until we were away from Kesler’s clam-like influence.
“I do. Not sure how much help I am, though.”
“You’ll do.” That, I suspected, qualified as an extravagant compliment from Kesler.
Gable’s eyes warmed an instant, then went flat. “Suppose you’re out here about York?” he said to me.
“I am. In fact, I was just about to ask Kesler if he saw Furman York yesterday morning. I’ll ask you both now.”
“Nope,” Kesler said.
Gable frowned slightly. “He must have gotten up earlier than usual. The truck he uses wasn’t here when I left to check out some fence a little before nine.”
“Alone?”
“Yep.”
“How about you, Kesler? Where were you yesterday morning?”
“Doctoring cows.” He jerked his head north. “Next pasture up.”
“Alone?”
“’Cept cows and my horse.”
“We’re not much help.” Gable looked faintly apologetic. Kesler didn’t. “What other kind of information are you after?”
“Background. Get a feel for where he’d worked so long. Those who worked beside him and—”
“Heads up.”
My first inclination to be irked at Kesler — bad enough he’d been no help, but now to interrupt my foundation-laying with the alternate — faded as I followed the jerk of his head toward the road from the home ranch.
A green pickup with the same logo as the one I’d seen at the grazing association barreled toward us with a plume of dust boiling behind it.
With neither Kesler nor Gable scrambling out of the way, I felt honor-bound to hold my ground, too. But I was grateful the truck had good brakes when it nose-dipped to a stop a yard from us.
Norman Clay Lukasik sat behind the wheel.
Not for long.
He seemed to catch hold of the top of the door frame and swing out with it, as if he didn’t have time to exit the normal way.
It brought him among us startlingly fast, never even disturbing his cowboy hat.
“Don’t leave on my account, Gable.” His words mocked, rather than extended an invitation.