Bethany woke up screaming. Heart pounding, she lay there in a cold sweat, listening to the sounds of a ranch around her; she struggled to remember her nightmare. A man died, she’d seen the killers, and they would be coming after her. Shit, that wasn’t a dream; it happened yesterday.
Was it only Monday? She felt like years had gone by since she rode Coup at the Indian Territory 50 on Saturday. She wished she had spent another day in that campground or skipped that blasted rest area completely. Well, you can’t go back, you just have to deal with reality on a day-by-day basis, she mentally argued.
What to do next? The old man asked her to get a particular envelope from his PO Box and deliver it to his son. If she moved fast, she could get in, get the document, and get out before the Post Office closed the box due to the box holders’ death.
Climbing down from the bed, she realized she had slept in her dirty clothes. Bethany looked at her jacket hanging on the hook by the door and gagged at the dried blood on the sleeve. Stripping she put her dirty clothes in her laundry bag, adding the nasty jacket. Thankful she had a back up jacket under the sink; she dressed in clean jeans and a sweater before pulling her hair into a ponytail for the day. She slipped on her shoes and left the trailer to check the horses; pleased to see that they were doing well, not suffering from the extended haul yesterday.
Back inside she made instant coffee, grimacing as she swallowed it. Nasty stuff, but warm. She needed to examine the envelope the old man had given her. It dawned on her that she didn’t even know his name. How sad. Pulling out the envelope and dog tag, she tried not to notice the dried bloody fingerprint. The letter was addressed to Richard Meadows, PO Box 1274, Monte Vista, Colorado 81144.
She found Monte Vista on the map, about four hours from the Blackwell Ranch. Mapping out a route to avoid most of the major highways, she finished the nasty coffee. Once she got what she needed at the Post Office, she could visit the library for a good Internet connection. She needed to do some serious research on Meadows and Cole to see if there was an obvious reason for the kidnapping and murder of the old man.
Glancing at her watch she noticed it was early, but light enough to put the horses into the trailer and get on the highway. If she could start within the next hour, she should be done at the Post Office by noon.
While breaking camp, she looked up to see Joshua approaching.
“Good morning. We didn’t know if you’d be moving around yet. You looked beat last night.” He smiled. “You want breakfast? Bacon and fresh eggs,” he asked, curling up her hose and handing it to her.
“Thanks, I appreciate your hospitality, but if I head out now I can reach the ride camp in time for lunch.” She felt badly about lying to him. “I hate setting up in the late afternoon, and lunchtime gives the horses more time to get used to the area before dark; they’re less spooky that way,” she told him. “I’m sure you understand.” She turned over the water tubs and passed them over the fence to Joshua, who stacked them by the storage compartment, along with the grain feeders. She took the halters from him, stepping first to Harley.
Joshua entered the pen, took Harley’s lead from Bethany and led the gelding to the trailer. He waited while Bethany haltered and led Coup into his slot. She shut the divider, making certain the latch caught. He handed her Harley’s lead and she lightly tugged him toward the open door.
She stepped back out of the trailer to let Harley step in lightly and eagerly. She put the butt bar into place and latched it, then closed and secured the outer door.
Joshua stepped around to the open feed doors securing the head of each horse using the attached trailer ties.
“Do you want the feed windows open or closed?”
“Just close the screens. With the horses blanketed, they’ll be warm enough. I’ll stop later to remove the blankets.” she told him.
They finished securing the feed and water tubs when Mary came out from the house. Bethany said her goodbyes to the couple, who stood arm in arm as she drove away.
Making the right turn onto Highway 39, she smiled. If she was finished in Monte Vista by one o’clock or so, she could be at the Coyote ride camp before dark. The ride managers expected to be in residence on Wednesday afternoon. Camping on private land would be wonderful; maybe the killers wouldn’t enter the ranch because it was private property. Bethany always offered assistance in marking or clearing trail; gave her a chance to work the horses and see the country.
The morning was crisp, with high cotton puff clouds that only gave the sky character, not menace. At Taos, she refueled, removed blankets and bought a new T-shirt from one of the many craft and gift shops. Looking around, she vowed to come back to the quaint and artistic little town when she had time and money to spend.
In Alamosa, she stopped at a stockyard, going directly to the office. “Hi, what would be the charge for me to put my horses in a pen for the day? I have to go into town and don’t want to have to deal with parking a rig.” Bethany asked the rotund tobacco-chewing cowboy, sitting behind the desk.
“Well, little lady, if you’re going to leave the rig here, stalls are $10.00 per head for the day; pens are $18.50 for up to three head and include a water trough. You can leave your trailer out back, no charge.” He smiled at her. “If you don’t plan to leave the rig, the cost is $15.00 per day per head and we’d need to have you sign a release so we can sell your horses in case you forget to come back.” He sneered the word forget. “In today’s economy, we get lots of stock that way. Seems people just forget where they left them.” Bethany went green when the cowboy spit a wad of tobacco juice into the nasty-looking can next to his desk. “We lock the gates at six sharp. If you don’t make it back, you’ll have to collect the stock and rig tomorrow and pay a second day.” The cowboy handed her some forms to sign.
“No problem, I plan on being back before dinner to collect my horses and trailer.” She gave the man her license, registration, and the health certificates for the horses for verification. Five minutes later, she was off loading the horses, putting them into a pen and filling the trough. The space for the trailer was behind the barns, which suited her since it was out of sight from the road. Attaching the hitch lock, she secured all doors before leaving the yard.
On her way out of town, she found a DMV office where she gave the Monte Vista address to secure a new set of Colorado plates for her truck. The state would send the final paperwork to the PO Box, but she was thrilled to have the new plates. Anything to replace the Washington plates she currently had.
Feeling less conspicuous, she drove into Monte Vista and parallel parked in front of the library. She spotted the Post Office, just a few doors down. She surveyed the town as she strolled toward the Post Office.
The tag Richard had given her was a “cosmetic” tag with the owner’s name, blood type, and this one had an extra line that read: TAC263. Unless the TAC263 was a code for a medical condition, the combination would be either TAC or 263, depending on the type of lock. She spent time filling out forms in the box section watching several people open their boxes and noting the angle of the security camera. Locks looked like the standard “left around to, back around to, and left a whole turn to the third character” type of combination lock.
Walking to the correct row of boxes, she positioned herself to block the view of the camera. She didn’t want it on tape that she accessed the dead man’s box. Keeping her head down, she bent her elbow to a height for the box above it while managing to reach the combination dial for box 1274. She worked the dial with confidence, opened the box and reached inside. Bethany took out all the mail.
Feeling like a thief, she put back everything except the large envelope and an advertising flyer, closing the box at the same time. Her back still to the camera, she slipped the large envelope under her jacket. Then, turning toward the camera, she looked at the flyer, made a face and pitched it into the closest trash. She hoped she appeared to be just a postal customer handling another piece of junk mail. With that, she walked out of the Post Office and stumbled into the arms of the killers.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady.” The one she’d seen with the gun caught her arm to keep her from falling. She controlled her automatic revulsion and leaned more into him instead of jerking back. She hoped her face didn’t pale or show the distress she felt at his touch.
“Oh, I’m sorry, how clumsy of me.” She shook her head, flipping her ponytail. “Are you new in town? I don’t recall having seen you boys before.” She managed a flirtatious smile with the question while she batted her eyes. Her only thought was to act normal. Yeah, right, normal. Normal for whom? A witness to a cold-blooded murder? Or normal for a local dingbat without a care in the world? She tried for the dingbat role. Thank God for the “power of the ponytail”; she looked about fifteen. It swished while her hips carried an exaggerated sway as she strolled down to the library at an unhurried pace. With any luck, they saw a local flirt, not the terrified witness she was. Her shaking knees barely allowed her to get inside the library before forcing her to grab the handrail to keep from falling.
When her knees stabilized, she walked to the computers, opened her email account, answered mail, and then went to Google to search for information on the Meadows and Cole families. Thirty minutes later, she carefully peeked out the door and noticed the killers leaning against their SUV in front of the Post Office. Ignoring them, she nonchalantly walked to her truck, hopped in, started the engine, eased out of the parking spot and turned south toward Alamosa and the ride camp at Coyote.
Driving to the stockyard, her brain reviewed the information she gleaned from the Internet. Neither of her subjects had Facebook pages, but that didn’t surprise her. Ranchers tended to be independent and self-sufficient; Facebook appealed to those who wanted to be in constant communication with others.
The Cole Ranch had a website for advertising logging leases, its cattle and giving potential clients information on the breeding bulls they offered for lease. The ranch extended into New Mexico from the Colorado home ranch.
The Meadows Ranch had only a single page website, but made the local papers over the years. The disappearance of Richard Meadows, the owner, back in the early eighties garnered interest for a month or so, but the last article explained there had been payment by mail of taxes so the police dropped the search. Lily, his wife, filed for divorce on the grounds of desertion. She received full custody of their only child, Roger. Bethany found an article in a ranching magazine in the late eighties about women who handled ranches in the modern day; it mentioned Lily Meadows as a single mother who ran a ranch and followed the Rodeo circuit. A photo of a woman with a tall boy accompanied the article.
Next Bethany found an obituary for a Lily Meadows in 1999; listing her death from a car crash just north of her ranch. Her twenty-four-year-old son found the wreck in a ravine the next morning. Investigators found no specific cause, but felt that she must have been avoiding a deer. The police ruled it an accident and closed the investigation.
She found the announcement ten years ago that Roger Meadows and Melanie Scripts were to be married at the local Methodist Church in June. The photo showed a tall, good-looking man holding a petite woman. This article spoke of Roger’s recent return to the community from a tour in the Army Rangers. Depressingly, she found an obituary for Melanie Meadows five years later. Since donations to the American Cancer Society were requested in lieu of flowers, it seemed the poor woman died of cancer.
After that obituary, there was little about Meadows other than what seemed to be a yearly note thanking him for sponsoring one of the local Little League teams, and donating a steer to the FFA. Since there was no mention of Cole as a sponsor of anything, she supposed Meadows kept more active in the community.
Eating in a truck stop, she overheard talk about a single car accident on I-40 the night before. Seemed a car had run off the highway and into a concrete pillar, killing the sole occupant. NMHP thought the driver fell asleep, even though it was just after sundown. Bethany said a prayer for the unknown driver; it had to be the other witness. He didn’t get clear of the killers fast enough to save himself.
She bought a bucket of chicken from KFC. A rider can compete the whole day eating chicken and coleslaw at the breaks – lots of miles in those calories. It was past one when Bethany hitched her trailer and collected her horses from the stockyard. She signed them out at the office and headed south for Coyote.
The drive was beautiful with tight curves and a couple of zigzag climbs just for the fun. About the time that she began to think that one more mountain and she would scream, she saw a sign that read “Coyote 10 miles.”
Bethany rotated her shoulders, shook out her arms and knew the end of this drive was in sight. She mourned the fact that she was beginning to enjoy the end of each day’s trip a lot more than the drive.
When she started this quest, she enjoyed being on the road again after each competition, looking forward to the next place and competition. Now, only the scenery on the drive to the next venue was enjoyable. But, even so her life was happier since the day her then husband had shown up with his pregnant girlfriend and demanded a divorce. While she had been shocked and surprised, she didn’t mourn the end of her marriage.
The last few years her husband had become more and more demanding and nothing she did could please him. Now, she only had to care for her animals and please herself. Her divorce settlement gave her a fat alimony check and Bobby bought her the new truck and trailer on top of paying her full value of her half to get the house. Now she just needed to find a place to settle and a person to settle with, if the Lord was willing, maybe someday. She smiled.
Arriving at the Coyote ride camp just after four, the handsome foreman showed her where the vetting and the in-gate would be for the competition. Using her trailer to buffer the horses from the activities, she set up close to both water and vetting stations. She put Harley in the portable pen and Coup on the Hi-Tie. At night they would be penned together so she could sleep without the jerking of the Hi-Tie; but her camp was safer with them separate during the day.
When her camp was completely set up, she started her generator, went inside, and set the brown envelope she pulled from the Monte Vista mailbox on the table. Afraid to open it, she steeled herself for the chore. She needed to know if the contents were worth a man’s life.
Richard Meadows had sent himself this envelope to keep it out of the hands of his kidnappers. Whatever the documents inside, they held the key to his kidnapping and death. Her hands shaking, she reached for the envelope; she knew holding the documents could be a death sentence for her. She breathed away the fear--or was it common sense--and slit the end of the ten by thirteen envelope.
Several pages made up the first document, obviously a deed; most of it was the legal description of a property. It was a wordy rural property description, with sections and quarter sections in place of city lots and feet from a property line. Following the description was the notarized signature of Richard Meadows. The second document was a standard “Quit Claim” document in which Richard gave up any rights or ownership to the property described in the deed.
Small wonder Richard didn’t want this to fall into the wrong hands. Anyone who took this to the county courthouse could legally have the property put into their name. This was the deed to the ranch, literally. That must why he wanted it kept away from Cole. She wondered about Richard telling her to keep the deed if she felt his son was involved.
As the importance of these documents sank in, Bethany felt her knees go weak and she sat heavily on the bench at the table. Boy, was she in trouble. If the killers thought she might not only have seen them but might have gotten the deed from the Post Office, they would never give up trying to find her. CRAP.
She plugged in her laptop and hot spot and Googled “Horse Camping in Colorado”. She would need a place to camp while she checked out Roger Meadows and made a decision about the deed. There might be competitors from that area this weekend who would know a place to camp.
She expected by this time the killers had her name and hacked her Facebook page, so she left a note that she would be in transit for some time and unable to respond to friends. With this done, she felt better about this weekend. She should have the whole week and weekend to devise a plan.
She Googled herself and found links to the articles she was writing, a photo of Coup and her was published with each. The fact she was covering the Mountain Region next had been mentioned in her last article. She noticed that no mention had been made of specific events she planned on covering. From the internet information, the killers would be looking for her somewhere in the Mountain Region. Giving them credit for brains they might not have would be safer than expecting them to be ignorant. They possibly worked for a person with resources to find her, and that was a scary thought.
Bethany took a deep breath and cleared her head of the worries of the moment. She had an article on her last ride to finish and post to the editors. She was committed to one piece a month during the summer months. She tried to write about each event within the following days and send the articles off. Often, the editors would have their choice of two different events since she was riding about every other weekend.
Bethany knocked out the article about the Indian Territory 50 quickly and sent it off. Then she looked again at the photo of herself, studying it. The killers would be looking for a woman with honey-blonde, shoulder-length curly hair, hazel eyes and utilitarian glasses. She needed to both change her looks and cover up the stripe on Coup’s face. As a chestnut, he was already different from all the grey Arabs in camp.
She should be able to find a salon to give her a new look and some reddish brown shoe polish for Coup. She also needed to get money from her bank accounts. She knew she couldn’t chance using her credit cards. By tomorrow, the killers could be watching her accounts. She would need to drive to a large city to get the funds and makeover. Damn, she should have done these chores today, but then she wouldn’t have made the Post Office before the kidnappers had arrived.
Her computer showed Albuquerque, New Mexico was two hours away. In a city that size, she could be just another face in the crowd. She would go first to the bank, then clothes shopping and the salon tomorrow. If the killers managed to get any photographs from the bank, provided they were that well connected, she would be a different person when she left the salon. Parking at a large mall would help her disappear into the crowd.
With her day tomorrow planned, she cooked her dinner with more peace of mind than she’d felt since the murder. Heating water, she took a quick shower, then turned off the generator and climbed into bed. Long days and traveling made for early bedtimes and good sleeping. Her trailer was snug and warm with her little heater on and the outside sounds were limited to the occasional cow and the coyotes that gave this region its name.