Chapter 4

FOUR-WHEELER WATCHED ME AND EXHALED. “OKAY, how about this,” he said. “How about I take you to the house. You can use the landline, and there’s easy access to get you on the main road from there. We’ll get you sorted out. Okay?”

So, we were going to act like those screams and gunshots didn’t just happen? I swallowed. “I want my dog back.”

“You can’t stay here. We’ve got a party fanned out over those low hills. They’ll be at it all day unless they score early.”

“Party?”

“Hunting party.”

It was February. “What’s in season?”

“Pigs.”

I didn’t like the idea of Charley being lost in the ranch’s oak woodlands while some city-folks-who-think-they’re-hunters types took potshots. Not that my gold Aussie looks like a wild pig, but there’s people who take what they call sound shots, meaning they fire at sounds in the woods.

“There’s an active hunt going on, and you have to be escorted.”

“A pig hunt?”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re standing in one of the top pig-hunting areas in the entire state of California.”

“Dandy.” I scanned so hard against the horizon for my Charley, my vision blurred.

“Look, are you okay? Can you follow my four-wheeler back to the house? You have to stay with me. Don’t stop. We’ll find your dog later.”

“I don’t want him out here when there’s people shooting.”

“You against hunting? Eating meat?” His jaw stiffened. “People have to be careful when they shoot. They have to be sure of the target and what’s behind it.”

I shook my head, stopped, grabbed my skull with both palms, sickened by the swimmy vision. “I just want to find my dog.”

He fired up his four-wheeler and looked at me over his shoulder. “You stick close, okay? Get in your truck, follow me, and I’ll take you to the house.”

My stomach flipped, and my mouth tasted terrible. There’s toothpaste and a travel brush in my glove box, but I didn’t feel coordinated enough to clean up and drive. I was ready to retch any second anyways. I didn’t like driving away from the place Charley might associate with the truck, assuming he’d been in Ol’ Blue when it was abandoned.

***

The horse was a powerful Appaloosa mare, black with a white hip blanket and a decent mane and tail for an Appy. Picked up a lope on cue and covered the sand arena in jig time. The rider had a lot of long blonde hair with more wave and big curls than she could have come by without a fair bit of styling time this morning. The western shirt and jeans fit tight over her Barbie body. One of the beautiful people and probably knew it. She wore red leather chinks with fringe that must have been over a half-foot long. Every one of those long thin strips of leather lifted in the air and swirled in slow motion up her thighs and around her knees when she reined the horse in.

The four-wheeler angled toward the arena gate and shut off within thirty feet of the white wood rails. We probably hadn’t driven a mile, but the two-track ranch road was so windy and I was so woozy the route was disorienting. Climbing out of Ol’ Blue, I stumbled on a stone and leaned on the front fender. The hard, rocky ground would have been murder to put those posts in, which is why most arenas in this part of Northern California are portable panels, just setting on top of the dirt.

“She’s doing great, Gabe.”

“Yes, ma’am, I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Picks up either lead with a whisper from my leg.” She swung off the horse and draped the reins over the top rail where her stylish leather and denim jacket hung. One of those women who’s probably old enough to be my mama—mine was barely legal when she had me—but takes attentive care of herself.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She hooked one perfect boot heel on the bottom rail. “And what’s going on here?”

Gabe pointed at me. “This girl was on the property near the perimeter.”

“We have a hunt.”

“That’s why I stopped her. She’s kind of out of it. Says she got turned around and needs to use the phone, needs help to get back to town.”

“Like, needs someone to go with her?” The woman looked at me. “You want someone to go with you? I’ll send Gabe. I can spare him for an hour or so. Actually, that would work out wonderfully.”

He started to raise a hand and shake his head, but the woman was already turning away and didn’t see his protest.

She called over her shoulder, “Gabe, you go with her. Give us a call afterward and Oscar or I will come get you.”

She pulled a Bible-sized brown package from her jacket on the fence and flounced toward Ol’ Blue. I’d left the driver’s door open, I noticed now. Maybe Gabe and I both couldn’t believe it when she put her goodie on Ol’ Blue’s bench seat. “Drop this at the shop for me while you’re in town, okay?”

Gabe set his hat just right and spoke a little loud. “You said Eliana was going to do that.”

“Well, she’s not around or busy or something. I think she’s making dinner.”

He took a step toward the four-wheeler like they all had better things to do. “Stuckey’s not answering the radio. Oscar’s been asking me to check on him.”

Swiveling on my feet, oddly woozy, I looked around and took in the two houses and a barn behind me. I felt like I was wearing out my welcome, though I’d no real notion how long I’d driven to get here and only sort-of noticed the buildings while tailgating the four-wheeler. Tunnel vision isn’t like me except when it comes to studying horses’ feet. I blinked at my surroundings. The farther house was fancy-big, new, with an arched flagstone entrance on the close end, a triple garage on the other. The other house was nearer us, a good sixty yards from the fancy place, right close to the long wooden barn. Probably the original farmstead house. A beat-up green Ford Bronco with out-of-state plates sat near the farmhouse. I watched the houses blur in and out of focus. My right hand went to the back of my skull. It had felt good to get out of Ol’ Blue, I realized, because the big goose egg under my ponytail was tender and had been rubbing on the truck’s headrest.

“Honey,” the woman addressed me, the wobbly statue between the four-wheeler and the arena, “are you okay?”

“My dog’s missing. I want my dog back.” My knees went of their own accord, and I swooned like some girl in need of a fainting couch.

“Gabe, grab her!”

She berated him for letting me drive, and he defended himself, saying he didn’t realize I was that bad.

“I’m not bad,” I protested.

Things grayed out, maybe just for seconds. Powerful hands on my upper arms kept me on my feet then started walking me out of the sun toward the shade of the older, closer house. Hadn’t realized the fellow was so strong. He sat me down in a glider on the porch, and I planted my heels on the wood planks because I could tell the rocking motion was going to make me seasick. This north side of the whitewashed house’s clapboard rested in the shade and practically exhaled coolness. I realized I’d been out way too long in the sun. Who knows how long I’d been lying on the roadside before I’d come to? Back home, it’s a sight cooler than most of California, and this seemed to be turning remarkably hot for early spring.

“Do you need to lie down?” The woman’s voice came from some tunnel I couldn’t see. “She needs a cold drink. Is Stuckey back from escorting that group? Or is he checking the flock?” Her voice doubled in decibels. “Oscar!”

“Oscar’s doing the group,” Gabe put in.

“Oh, right. Oscar’s turn. My bad. Eliana! I think she’s up at the house.”

The footsteps on wood I heard were Gabe’s, crossing into the farmhouse, running the tap, returning with a large plastic tumbler of water that she took from him and forced on me.

“Flock?” I asked before and after big gulps of water. These people had sheep. My Charley would be called to sheep like an ant can’t resist a picnic. “You got sheep on this place?”

The woman laughed like tinkling bells, ridiculously pretty. “Oh, that woke her up.”

“Wait,” I asked, “do you have a guardian dog?”

Like herds, flocks have to be protected from predators. These days, more and more, ranchers use livestock guardian dogs. Every European and Near East country has a great white breed, the Pyrenees from the French-Spanish borderland, the Komondor and Kuvasc from Hungary, the Maremma from Italy, the Polish Tatra, the Anatolians and Karabash from Turkey. They’re all giant, fierce, flop-eared dogs that live with a flock and protect it from wolves.

And here in California, a guardian dog would kill a strange herder as quick as they’d take down a coyote. My Charley might be swooping toward this ranch’s flock while I sat in the shade sipping water. I started to push myself up. The glider was a lousy push-off surface, and I fell back on my butt.

“What’s your name, honey?” the woman said. “Mine’s Ivy, and I think you still need to sit down.”

My escort from the four-wheeler and general man-handler, Gabe, asked, “You mean a livestock guardian dog?”

I nodded. Made my head swim. Didn’t like nodding.

Gabe said, “She’s worried we have a big dog that’ll take hers out.”

“Oh, I see. No, we had a shepherd—”

“We’ve used the collars,” Gabe said. “Lots of different things.”

Ivy nodded. “But I think we’re going to go with that guardian dog idea and get a couple of those big boys. We used to have a real shepherd. A man.”

“Mmm … shepherd’s name …” I croaked.

Ivy narrowed her gaze at me. “Um, Vicente. Vicente Arriaga. Why?”

“He moved on,” Gabe said.

Arriaga. I rubbed my head as hard as my headache allowed. “Mine’s Charley. He’s an Australian Shepherd.”

“Oh!” Ivy waved and smiled. “You were talking about the dog. Oh, honey, I know Aussies. I used to have one of the top working stud dogs in the country.”

I tried to raise my voice enough to make a difference above their nattering. “I need to call …” But then, who did I need to call? I wasn’t home in Butte County, and, even if I had been, Guy was up in Seattle today. I wiped my eyes. “Please radio whoever’s out there hunting to be careful of my dog.”

“Look, nobody in the hunt is going to shoot your dog thinking it’s a pig,” Gabe told me, then spoke like an aside to Ivy, though I was right there. “She said someone dumped her out on the boundary road.”

“Oh. Oh! You were assaulted? Are you okay? Do you think you need to see a doctor? I could get you a doctor.” She paused after I declined, asked if I was sure, and made me nod before she continued. “So, you need to talk to the police? I didn’t realize. Okay. Okay, let’s see, where did it happen?”

“I was at the Black Bluff bull sale.”

Ivy turned to Gabe. “Isn’t that …”

He was looking at her horse, still standing in the sun, reins looped over the fence. The mare cocked one beautiful hip, looking like she’d wait all day and then some.

Ivy said, “You need to go back to the sale grounds to report it to the police.”

“Can’t I call from here?”

She shook her head. “There’s a whole jurisdictional thing. It has to do with whether you’re in the city limits, which we’re not, or the county or what. Like, this ranch is in two different counties. So, you should go back to the sale grounds to make your police report.”

“Getting my dog back is my priority. He ran off or something when I got hit and they took my truck. I want my dog back.”

“Oh, you poor thing. Being worried about your dog is something I completely understand. I’m still not over mine and he’s been gone—” She waved and shook her head, long hair flying around her face. “Sorry, off topic. You know, dogs usually turn up.”

I nodded with as little motion as could convey the idea of yes, somehow unable to form the syllable.

She turned to Gabe. “Where exactly did you find her?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder the way we’d come. “Walking from the east gate. Her truck was near there. Like she’d locked herself out.”

She patted my shoulder. “Well, what if the guys put dog food and a bucket of water over there? Leave us a number where we can reach you if your dog turns up.”

There didn’t seem to be a better option, so I got up. Gabe passed me by and was away with a roar on the four-wheeler. The big Appy flicked an ear and held steady. Good horse.

Ivy walked with me to Ol’ Blue where she took back her package. “Getting to town from the front gate is easy. Just follow the road, you’ll see signs. You cannot miss it. You’re okay to drive?”

“I’m okay.” But I wasn’t. The blonde vision and her perfect Appaloosa blurred in and out of focus. Still, I gave her my business card, which has the house number in Cowdry, same as Ol’ Blue’s door, but also my cell number.

I felt worse as I drove away, ever farther from my dog.