Brayden was up early, pondering his options, which were few, and sorting through his thoughts, which were far too many. His gut told him the snake was linked to Jackson’s death. His head kept asking why—and why Sara. The intended outcome changed depending upon whether or not the snake proved defanged or milked. If it hadn’t been, the intent was murder. Snake venom wasn’t a surefire method, but the distance from a hospital upped the odds. If it had been rendered venomless, the intent was to frighten her but to what purpose. To drive her away? This was her world and she was comfortable in it. Fear wouldn’t drive her away. But did this group know her well enough to realize that? Or did someone hope to make her suspicious of Brayden? Or of Wesley?
His first thought for where to place guilt had been Wesley because…well…opportunity. Wesley had that in spades. Wesley seemed to have no qualms about Brayden searching the tent for structural integrity, but he couldn’t slide completely off Brayden’s radar. He’d erected the tents prior to anyone’s arrival and, as far as Brayden knew, had determined whose bags went where. And Wesley, as easily as any of the others, could have slid the zipper just enough to drop the snake inside—and maybe more so.
When the camp began stirring, Brayden found his canteen and Sara’s and walked down to the stream. In places where the water dashed against the rocks in its path, outflung droplets captured the sunlight creating brilliant prisms of light. He stood for a moment, enjoying the sight. He found himself hoping this was a part of the ranch, but he’d sort that out later.
He stooped to fill the canteens and realized he had far more to sort out in his life than he had in order. He didn’t mind change and he appreciated a challenge, but there was a lot to be said for feeling you had your balance. He didn’t. Shelving that thought for now, he headed back to camp.
Sara sat cross-legged in front of Wesley’s tent with a mug of what he suspected was coffee. The cat was beside her looking regal as only a cat can manage. Sara’s gaze flicked to the canteens he carried and then to his face. Her canteen was a royal blue so he didn’t doubt she’d recognized it.
When he handed it to her, he was surprised to see her smile, brief but real. “I’m not sure those healing properties extend to protection from criminal intent.”
“Can’t hurt.” He hesitated then just went with his gut. “I didn’t put that snake in your tent.”
She studied him for a minute without saying anything. He didn’t even try to read her mind. When she spoke, her answer wasn’t what he’d anticipated. “No. You might think I shouldn’t have what belonged to Jackson, but you respect his right to make that decision. And you might butt heads with me over every decision to come, but you won’t kill me to get your way nor will you try to frighten me away.”
He sank to his heels so that he was squatting in front of her. “Do you think whoever killed Jackson is behind the snake?”
Poised to take a sip, Sara lowered the mug from her lips. “I wasn’t sure you disagreed with the coroner’s finding.”
“Don’t you?” he asked.
“Disagree? Yes. I think he’s wrong and I’m going to prove it.” She looked as fierce as she sounded.
“I guess we’d better talk, sooner rather than later. But first, I need a cup of that brew you’re drinking and then I have an appointment with your tent.”
By the time I join Brayden at Sara’s tent, she has thrown her belongings into a duffle and dumped said duffle on the ground beside Wesley’s jeep. He gives me a look as I join him but doesn’t comment. That’s fine with me. I’m not a chatty sort and don’t prefer chatty sorts as working partners. Not that he yet realizes that’s what we are. He shall.
I stand guard as he crawls inside Sara’s tent. I’ve already checked and there’s no point of access for the snake. However, I realize we’ve not reached the point in our association that he comprehends the great extent of my skill. That’s one of the challenges of the life I’ve chosen. Training one human after another in the art of solving crime and apprehending the guilty is as taxing as training them to fully utilize my abilities. Searching for physical clues is one thing and can often be well done by humans. But those clues must then be pieced together with bits of conversation and sly looks and the merest hint of motivation and opportunity. That process requires deductive reasoning, a talent few bipeds manage to acquire at an early age, and some never do at any age.
After a tedious and painstaking perusal, edge by edge, seam by seam, Brayden rocks back on his heels. As he catches my stare, he sighs. “That snake came in through the zippered opening or he was born there.”
I incline my head graciously to acknowledge his wisdom as well as his acuity in sharing information with me. Not that he discovered anything I hadn’t already discerned for myself. But that takes nothing from his effort, and I choose to be impressed. I’m never entirely sure of the comprehension level of the humans around me, but this one seems to possess a certain depth of perception.
“I suppose I’d better break the news to Sara.”
She’s a tough cookie. She can handle it, and I don’t think she’ll be surprised. We walk toward my charge who is standing at the back of my chariot. Wesley faces her, back propped against the jeep, arms crossed over his chest. The foreman is scowling.
“We’re not turning around,” Sara said flatly.
Brayden took a deep breath, grasping the gist of the argument. He’d have to side with Wesley on this, but the set of Sara’s shoulders told him any argument he made in favor of heading back would be pointless.
Wesley’s gaze flicked to him and back to Sara before he pushed his point. He might recognize the effort as futile, but he wasn’t done trying. “Miss Sara, you’re being pig-headed. Jackson would have my hide if I let you get hurt.”
Brayden winced, but Wesley seemed to realize he hadn’t chosen his words wisely, adding, “And I know it isn’t up to me to let you do anything, but, damn, I don’t want to lose another boss.”
That might be a little better, Brayden thought, but probably not good enough. Nor was it.
Sara was already shaking her head, but her voice was softer when she said, “I’m doing this for Jackson. And so are you.” Brayden heard the slightest of quivers in her voice and she took a deep breath. “Take the snake. See what the vet tells you. If you think we’ve got a problem bring another couple hands with you that you know you can trust. I’ve got this.”
“We’ve got this,” Brayden said.
When Sara spun at the sound of his voice, Brayden realized two things. She hadn’t realized that he and the cat had walked up behind her, and she was more shaken by the rattler and the implications involved than she wanted to admit. Or even show.
He shifted his attention to Wesley. “We’ll make sure you don’t lose either of your new bosses. I’ll watch her back, she’ll watch mine. We’ve got this” he repeated for emphasis. “I agree with Sara, see what the vet tells you, and we’ll know what we’re up against. If the snake was defanged or milked, then someone wanted to scare Sara. They’ll find out we don’t scare easily. If it wasn’t, we’ll figure out a plan from there.”
Wesley gave him a look he couldn’t decipher then shoved away from the jeep. “I’m on my way, then.”
He gunned the motor just slightly on the way out, and Brayden sighed. He would’ve done the same…when he was a decade younger. Feeling her stare, he glanced at Sara who said, “Let’s get this bunch on the trail, shall we?”
Something had eased a little between them. She might not like him, but she seemed to have accepted that they were partners with a common enemy. Teamwork just might keep them alive long enough to figure out what the hell was going on.
I’m liking this arrangement less and less. My place is with my temporary human. It isn’t that I don’t think her capable. Nor do I think it of Brayden. But neither is as proficient as I am when it comes to discerning danger. Neither have the experience nor the training that I’ve had, and a feline’s instincts are far sharper than those of any biped.
Unfortunately, my place isn’t upon the back of a horse, not today. I must hear what the veterinarian has to say about our slithery, dead friend. Besides, there are perks to Wesley’s jeep. With the top down, I get the openness that I prefer and the variety of scenery. This small town, for example, has rather quaint shop fronts, for all the world as if this were the Old West rather than a place of modern commerce. I spot an interesting restaurant or two and begin to think of lunch. Our first stop, however, is the veterinarian, as it should be. Although Wesley was wise enough to place the snake on ice, the natural…ah…aroma of the reptile hasn’t altogether abated with his timely demise.
Wesley parks and hops out of the jeep, grabbing the canvas bag which holds the rattler. I invite myself to join him, slipping through the glass door behind him. We’ve entered through the front, and a young man peers around a stack of folders piled on the counter in front of him. His round face clears as he settles his glasses more firmly upon his nose. “Mr. Wesley. Haven’t seen you in a while. Doc’s in back.” He gives me a glance. “But we’re still not a small-animal vet.” And with that, he returns his attention to his folders. I gather that Wesley and this Doc have an acquaintanceship.
Wesley glances down at me. If he’s startled or disgruntled by my choosing to accompany him, it doesn’t show. He shrugs and starts down the hall. There’s one closed door to our left and another to our right and double doors at the end of the short hall.
As we step through the doubles that Wesley pushes open, I find myself in the sort of surroundings I’ve grown accustomed to seeing now that so many of my cases seem to involve equines.
But that’s not an equine standing stolidly in the stocks. I’m not altogether sure of its species, but a horse it is not. Wesley asks the question for me but not nearly with as much eloquence as I would have done.
“What the hell is that thing?”
The tiny redhead looks over her shoulder and grins with clear delight. “Wes! Good morning to you, too. This is a water buffalo. A few years back the breed was supposed to be the next big thing in meat and dairy. Give me just a minute to finish with this guy, and I’ll be right with you.” Pushing her braided pony tail out of her way, she refocuses on her patient.
What an intriguing looking veterinarian she is. Not pretty in a classic sense but striking, with large eyes and even features and a graceful way of moving that is efficient but not hurried.
She’s true to her word and is soon turning our way with that pleasant expression. I count it good luck that no biped hovers by the water buffalo waiting for a consult so no further time is taken by the creature. An assistant in a monogrammed shirt leads the behemoth to one of the stalls lining the far wall. He ushers the animal inside, fastens the outer latch, then disappears.
The redhead stops by a wide, industrial sink to remove her gloves and scrub her hands before joining us.
“It’s good to see you.” She stops just shy of touching him. “It’s been a while.”
Her smile is all soft violins and strumming of guitars and perhaps the reason we are here instead of closer to the ranch. I thought it might be the proximity of the location to the trail ride, but I can be wrong on occasion. Rare occasion.
Oh-oh. Her smile fades as Wesley shuffles his feet and shifts his gaze from the look in her eyes. “There’s been a lot going on, Lauren. Jackson’s death and all.”
There, now, I urge her silently. A stiff upper lip is what’s called for here. She takes a step back, putting more space between them. Good for her. Dignity is to be prized in a moment such as this. “That was so sad. I hated to hear of it.” Taking a deep breath, she looks toward me. “Is this your cat?”
“No, and he’s not why I’m here.” He thrusts the canvas bag toward her, looking every bit as uncomfortable as I now feel. Humans can be such difficult creatures when it comes to the ebb and flow of passion. Too many emotions and far too many words. “I have some questions about this snake.”
“Snake?” She takes the bag from him gingerly.
“It’s dead.”
“Hmmm.” Crossing to a steel counter, she opens the bag and slides the corpse out onto the shiny surface. Nothing more than a tiny flinch gives her away. I don’t think less of her. Snakes are unpleasant creatures at their very best. “Well, I agree with your diagnosis.” She allows humor to lighten her voice, and I applaud her for that. “The snake is dead.”
“The cat killed it.” I sniff at his words. The ‘cat’ has a name.
“Brave guy.” She looks at me, and I cannot help myself. I sit a bit taller at the admiration in her eyes. “Seven rattles.”
Indeed, seven rattles and a pair of deadly fangs.
“I need to know if it’s been defanged or milked.”
The look she gives Wesley now is far different. She’s every bit the professional. “Give me a moment, and I can answer the question on the fangs. First, how long has it been dead?”
“More than twelve hours. Why?”
“So I know what precautions to take. A snake is a low metabolism creature which means nerves and brain cells die slowly. The right touch in the wrong spot can produce a reflex strike for several hours after death. Any venom in its fangs is going to be injected. I still need to be careful not to make contact with the fangs, but I don’t have to worry about the fangs making strike contact with me—not after that many hours.”
Wesley nods. “I think I knew that.” But he’s a little more pale than he was, and I suspect it’s a point of fact he now realizes he’d forgotten in his own handling of the reptile. “But if it’s been milked, it would be painful but not deadly, right?”
Doc Lauren shakes her head in a thoughtful fashion. “Not exactly. Snakes aren’t milked to make them safe but to obtain the venom. Even if the gland is depleted a snake can recharge enough venom to be deadly within an hour. And, after being milked, some—enough—venom remains in those hollow fangs until the final strike.”
“That’s damned creepy.” My companion may have learned some things he’d rather never have known. “What about under sedation? Would that right touch in the wrong spot still produce a reflex strike?”
Excellent question. Could the snake, still venomous, have been safely transported at the bottom of a someone’s duffle bag? Surely the guilty party would have done all of the appropriate research before attempting such a feat.
“It’s possible at certain points, either when going under or coming out of. There’s a window of uncertainty, which is why the head is held immobile during surgery.”
My man Wesley appears to be out of questions, and Doc Lauren turns to the task at hand. We watch as she reaches into a cabinet and pulls on a pair of gloves—not the disposable kind but a much heavier, protective sort—then stretches the snake full length. With a look of quiet concentration, she presses carefully behind the snake’s eyes on both sides. I feel I should apologize for the head of the carcass being a bit of a mess, but, truly, there’d been no time to finesse the kill. Not while my temporary human was at risk.
I soon console myself that the contraption she uses to force open his mouth is also not one for finesse. She isn’t squeamish about the task, and I camouflage my wince with the teeniest of coughs.
“Not defanged.” She steps back and removes the gloves, laying them aside with care. “But the venom gland has been surgically removed.”
The good doctor props against the cabinet where the snake is lying. “So, want to tell me what this is all about?”
Wesley hesitates. “Not just yet but I promise to come back when I can and explain. For now, I’m going to keep that guy on ice.”
“Not ice. Just cold.” She points across the room to an industrial sized refrigerator. “You’re welcome to leave him here. He won’t be bothered, and it’s not a place someone would think to look…if that’s a risk.”
Cracking suggestion in my opinion. I’m glad when Wesley finally nods his agreement. He needed a moment to mull it over, and I’m reminded this cloak and dagger life is foreign to him. “That’s a possibility,” he admits, proving himself a quick study on the finer points, at least.
Poor lad. I can tell he doesn’t care to be beholden to a woman he’s shifted from front burner to back in the romance department. But I consider he’s done that already, simply by coming here. Unless I miss my guess, which is rare, she’s not going to allow payment for the service she’s rendered.
Doc Lauren waits in silence as Wesley scoops the snake back into the bag and pulls the cord tight before placing it on a lower shelf of the refrigerator.
He turns back at the door to the outer office long enough to say, “I appreciate this, Lauren. More than you know.”
“Always friends, Wes,” she says with a sad little undertone, “and anything for a friend.”
Tsk-tsk. Break-ups are so messy.
We leave the veterinary office and head to see the sheriff where Wesley gives, what seems to me, to be a very abbreviated version of the event. Just the facts, ma’am, nothing but the facts. A rattlesnake was discovered inside the tent of one Sara Anders. No, there was no visible means through which the snake could have entered once that outer zipper was closed. Yes, the tent had been thoroughly examined. Yes, the snake was dead, badly mangled by the cat. Both men look at me, then back at each other. No, no one had made a threat or seemed threatening toward, Ms. Anders.
But not all the facts. No mention of Doc Lauren and her confirmation that the venom gland had been removed.
The sheriff is now free to infer that the snake was discarded along the trail as I’m sure Wesley intended. I agree with the foreman that the carcass is safest with Doc Lauren should that evidence be needed at a later date. The sheriff may also choose to deduce that Wesley has filed a report because his bosses required that of him. No man, particularly a ranch hand, wants to appear unnerved by something so inconsequential as a creature scoping out unnatural contraptions, such as a tent, in his natural habitat. Wesley is careful to mention that this particular snake didn’t appear to be in his natural habitat, but the lawman looks no more than mildly interested and suggests that things in the wild sometimes travel great distances for various reasons.
The sheriff seems content to record the conversation in his notepad, thank Wesley for taking the time to file a report, and shake his hand. I’m left to ponder if this was the best move to have made, after all. Should further mishap occur, deliberate or otherwise, a previous report may ensure a faster response or it may sway law enforcement to view any future reports as greenhorn nuisances. There is no ‘smoking gun’ as it were. Just a dead reptile in cold storage.
From the sheriff’s office, we drive to the ranch where Wesley pulls aside two of the hands. One is built like a wrestler, but the look in his eyes is that of a peaceful person. The other is short and wiry. He crackles with energy and his eyes flash with the fire of a fighter. Interesting combination, I think, as Wesley tells them to saddle up and take their firearms up the mountain to join the trail ride at the next stop.