Wesley grows anxious and that deduction required no great detective work on my part. For the past hour or so, his driving has displayed an increasing sense of urgency to reach the next trail stop as soon as possible. He’s careful not to send the jeep, and us with it, careening over the mountainside, but he gasses the vehicle at every opportunity. I, too, don’t care to dawdle but would prefer fewer hair-raising maneuvers.
The sun is sinking but not gone as we reach our evening’s destination. It’s a quaint place of rustic cabins scattered about a long pavilion. I spy Brayden feeding logs to a large fire at one end of that structure. We’re right on time with one huge cooler filled with steaks for grilling and corn for roasting and another with just enough beer for each rider to have one, just one. We also bring a couple bottles of very nice wine, one white, one red. I saw and approved the labels as Wesley eased the white into the cooler and nestled the red between the duffle bags.
I don’t see Sara among the group. Before I have time to feel any alarm at her absence, she steps from the largest of the cabins with an armload of plates on one side and a basket hung at her elbow on the other. Maggie rushes forward to help her and I pin my ears at the laggards who sit and watch. I’m not a fan of slothful behavior.
Wesley parks near the firepit Brayden is tending and jumps from the jeep. Sara unloads her arms and walks toward us. It’s time for a business discussion. It doesn’t take long for Wesley to disclose Doc Lauren’s summation of the reptile. He doesn’t, of course, share the…ahem…undercurrents of that meeting.
“So, the snake was meant to frighten Sara,” Brayden states the obvious.
Wesley nods his head. “Even if the venom gland hadn’t been removed, I doubt murder would have been the intent.” He turns from Brayden to Sara. “We could’ve landed a medical helicopter close enough to lift you out. You would’ve been sick as hell and hospitalized for a while, but it isn’t likely you would’ve died.”
“But what would scaring me accomplish?”
He shrugs. “Make you change your mind about making a living in the wild west, maybe. Anybody try to buy you out?”
Uh-oh. I see her eye Brayden, but, if I’m the judge of nuance that I believe myself to be, that is a gleam of mischief in her gaze.
“Well, hell,” Brayden admits. “I did.”
Sara smiles, but the smile soon fades. “If I wanted to convince someone to sell, even if I were willing to cause harm to do it, I think I’d wait and make an offer in a spirit of helpfulness after the fact.”
“So, we assume the attempt to scare you off was opportunistic, someone capitalizing on Jackson’s death and a possible weak link?” Brayden looks dubious.
Sara frowns, perhaps at being considered a weak link. Not wisely spoken, but I’ll give points for good intentions.
Wesley rubs the back of his neck. “How willing are you to believe the two are unrelated?” He’s asked a solid question in my opinion.
Sara shakes her head decisively. “They’re connected, I’m sure of it.” Good girl. I’m confident of that as well. “There may be another incident that ties in as well.” She hesitates but only a moment. Scowls darken their faces as she describes, in briefest terms, the episode of gunshots fired toward the cabin as we attempted to leave. I understand her earlier hesitation, the difficulty to trust, but we’re past that point now. I think it wise that she’s shared that event as well.
“They’re connected,” Brayden echoes her words with a growl in his voice. “But…what is the end in mind?”
That is a question none of us can answer. Yet.
I stroll the perimeter of the pavilion, contemplating possibilities as Wesley unloads both coolers. In the distance, I see the two wranglers standing guard, one at either end. I wish I felt more reassured by their presence. I don’t foresee this case turning into a gunfight. The guilty party has twice proved unwilling for a face-to-face.
Did our murderer covet Jackson’s ranch? His wealth? Or is it something of which we have no knowledge? Something which mattered only to Jackson and now to his killer? It had crossed my mind early on that his death was somehow associated with his novels. Perhaps someone offended by a truth revealed about the state’s early history? Hard as it is to believe, there are those who have killed for less cause. But with the advent of the snake upon the scene and with Sara the target, that seems dubious, to say the least. She had nothing to do with Jackson’s writing endeavors.
Before long, the scent of steak sizzling and corn roasting on an open grill fills the air and pulls me from my contemplations. Jackson’s compadres begin to look a little more lively, and I graciously concede that exhaustion rather than indolence could have gripped them earlier when there was work to be done. I doubt they’re as fit as my two temporary humans, and they’re nowhere near as young.
As the group stirs, Wesley speaks in an aside to Ned who is soon offering a beer to each of the group. If any decline, that beer is not returned to the cooler but is surreptitiously placed in the back of the jeep. Jasmine, the mysterious daughter, and Wilson Pearce accept a suitably small serving of wine in the tumblers that were part of the basket contents. Wilson is a quiet man and not bad looking by human standards. Of medium height, he’s slightly overweight but carries it well. I do like his skin tone, a nice sable, not quite as striking as my covering of fur but nice nonetheless.
Once I finish my grilled-to-perfection steak, I begin to grow restless. We’ve a murder to solve, after all. Before I make a move to nudge my humans, I notice Brayden casually walk to the far end of the pavilion and stretch his back and nod at Vance Hardeman, he of the boyish but aging features, in a friendly manner. As men are wont to do, Hardeman stirs and joins him.
I almost miss the subtle glance Brayden sends Sara’s way. Within a moment, she rises and carries her plate to sit beside Ms. Hardeman. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Divide and conquer. Now I’ve only to deduce who is most likely to provide a real revelation.
“May I?”
Nina Hardeman gave a look Sara could not quite decipher. “Of course.” She gestured at the spot on the bench her husband had just vacated.
Almost before Sara could take a seat, the black cat leapt to the space between them. He purred as he brushed his head against Nina, who said, “I guess he knows a cat person when he sees one.”
“Most do.” Sara took a breath and added, “I came to apologize for earlier.” Apologetic was the last thing she felt, but she needed an opening. The incident between them, unfortunate and unintended, could not have been more perfect.
“Please don’t. There’s no need,” Nina said and she looked as if she meant it. “I would’ve screamed bloody murder at anyone who was that careless with one of my horses. Dropping a pair of knotted reins is inexcusable, and you had every right to be upset.”
The admission surprised Sara. “I’m usually not so tense. It’s been…difficult.”
“For all of us,” Nina said with a sigh. “I know you’re grieving. I miss Jackson, too. We all do.”
“Thank you for understanding. You knew Jackson a long time, I guess.”
Nina laughed softly and a little sadly. “He was my first crush. I was in fourth grade, and he was a senior about to graduate, but we rode the same bus to school. I thought he was more handsome than any movie star.”
“And somehow you grew up to be friends.” Sara said. She wanted to like this band of friends. Almost more than anything, she wanted to like them. Almost. The only thing she wanted more at this point was to find Jackson’s killer.
“That came much later. Jackson graduated and went away to college and I moved on to my next crush who brushed me away as well. He was in ninth grade. I was a lowly junior high schooler. Things changed when I made it to high school.” She rolled her eyes. “By then I almost had a shape worth noticing—which Vance did.” She laughed lightly. “We’ve been together ever since.”
The cat brushed against Sara’s arm and those green eyes held hers. She could almost imagine his thoughts. Get her back on track, lady. Of course, that was just the influence of his owner’s belief in him. Sleuth, indeed. But she did have to give him credit for killing that snake.
“So how did the poker night come to be? I’d just always thought they were school pals, same age and all. Jackson talked so much about them.” That was fudging the truth, more than just a bit. Jackson didn’t talk a lot about anything. But needs must, she reminded herself.
Nina gave a huff of wry amusement. “Politics, of all things. A governor’s race, years ago.”
Sara smiled. “Well, I’m confident Jackson wouldn’t have been running for governor or anything else at any point in his life.”
“True,” Nina agreed. “Jackson was always least likely of any of them to put himself in the spotlight. None of them were running but all six were key figures in the campaign committee for re-election of the incumbent. They’d huddle for a planning session several times a week…either after a round of golf or before a few hands of poker. By the time the campaign ended, their group had become pretty solid and the golf and poker continued.”
“Did they ever fight over politics or were they always on the same side?”
“Oh, I don’t think any of them cared enough about politics to fight over it.” Nina tilted her head. “Did you think Jackson did?”
The cat laid his paw upon her thigh. She glanced down at him. He stared back at her. A warning for caution? “I never had the impression that he cared about politics at all, but so many people these days do and can’t seem to discuss it without quarreling.” She stood. “I need to check on the horses, but I appreciate you sharing with me about Jackson. Every day I feel him slipping away a little bit more, and I’m not ready.” That was painfully true, and she blinked at the tears that gathered in her eyes, unbidden and unexpected. She hated crying, and she never cried in front of others.
Nina’s gaze softened. “We can talk again anytime. Jackson was one of the good guys. I know Vance misses him a lot. I do, too.”
Interesting lady. At first glance, I took her for a prickly sort, maybe even selfish. When faced with Sara’s very controlled wrath, those baby blues glittered like ice in a highball glass. I may, perhaps, have been hasty in that judgement. She sounded contrite in her admission that she’d been wrong and careless with the knotted reins, even so far as to say she would’ve been quite vocal with that anger in Sara’s shoes—er, boots. Of course, Sara’s boots aren’t nearly that pricey nor does she sport designer jeans, but I shan’t hold the flaunting of wealth against Mrs. Hardeman. I sense a true sadness in her over Jackson’s death. I don’t think I’m wrong in that. Of course, there’s been many a murder committed in haste with true regret at the outcome.
And, in the words of the great bard, ‘All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.’ Was the lady acting one part or the other? We shall see.
Nina Hardeman stared as Sara walked away from her. Brayden couldn’t read Nina’s expression, but he could read the set of Sara’s shoulders. When she disappeared into the barn, he disengaged himself from the unproductive conversation he’d been having with Vance Hardeman and took a circuitous route to follow her.
He paused just inside the barn to give his eyes time to adjust from the moon and star lit night. Her form was little more than a shadow against the stall front. She didn’t make any sound, at least nothing audible above the occasional stirring from any one of the dozen or so horses enjoying their rest.
“Sara.” He spoke her name to let her know he was there, saw her shift positions in response. He didn’t notice the cat sitting on the upended barrel until he was halfway down the hall to where she stood.
She didn’t say anything until he was beside her. “Learn anything from Mr. Hardeman?”
“Not a lot. You?”
“Nothing that helps.” She took a step back from the stall to face him. Not that he could see much of her in the dark either way. “She talked about old times. How they came to be a group. Nothing but good memories between them all, according to her.”
“Vance seemed uneasy talking about Jackson, about how he’d died. Didn’t get much out of him beyond that. Mostly talked about how I should take the time to do some fly fishing now that I owned some of the best stream beds in the state.”
“Maybe hoping for an invite.” Her voice less taut.
“Which I extended.” An urge to touch her face surprised him. He put it aside to think about later. “He said maybe someday so I’m not sure it was a push in a certain direction as much as a push away from a topic he found unpleasant.”
“I don’t think many people care to talk about the death of a friend.”
“Most men don’t for sure. It reminds us of our own mortality.”
“So, neither of us got anywhere with the Hardemans. Any suggestions on where we go from here?”
“Eventually we need to talk with each of them. Just strike up a conversation wherever you can, and we’ll compare notes.”
“That’s not much.”
“No,” he admitted, “it isn’t.”
“But…I’ve been thinking, trying to start with what we know and add to it things we don’t know but would help us if we did.”
“For example?”
“Well, I believe whoever killed Jackson was following him up the mountain or was there ahead of him and the reason he stopped where he did.”
She took a steadying breath and Brayden knew it sickened her as much as it did him to imagine Jackson’s final moments. But her logic was easy to follow. “Which leads us back to the probability that it was someone at the poker game that night.” He paused. “Unless we want to throw someone from the ranch into the mix. Someone who knew where he was that evening and what time he was likely to be home.”
“That would have been Wesley or Maggie. Maybe Carter,” she added on a sigh. “I just don’t see it.”
He agreed. “So, we’re right back where we started, thinking it had to be one of his friends or one of their wives.”
“If we knew who left before Jackson…”
He caught up with her reasoning in an instant. “Because anyone else would’ve made themselves obvious or delayed long enough they had to chase him down, risk being seen, risk Jackson being on guard if there had been an argument we don’t know about.
“And going along those lines, it wouldn’t be Kennedy Burns or his wife because that was who hosted the game that night. I remember Jackson saying as much on his way out.”
“That’s a logical deduction. Now if we can determine if Jackson had argued with any of them recently…”
“Or even not recently…maybe something far back but big enough that it’s been festering and something triggered bad feelings again.”
She sounded excited at the possibility of actually getting somewhere, and he smiled in the dark. The smile vanished along with the ease of the moment as a thump from the back of the barn had the black cat leaping from his perch atop the barrel and racing in that direction.
“Quick,” he whispered, “see if you can tell who’s missing from the pavilion.” Then he followed the cat as quickly as he could in the dark.
Bugger and blast! I’ve lost him. Moments such as these are why humans so often resort to less than erudite language. I won’t sink to the depths of cursing as some I’ve heard, but it’s difficult to speak politely when I let some bounder creep up on us. I should have been alert and send the cad arse over elbow.
The bright side of the evening is that my temporary humans are beginning to think like the pros they aren’t but that I need them to be. Of course, they can’t match my wits, but they did draw some logical conclusions which may prove of benefit.
Behind me, Brayden expresses his frustration with some Americanisms that might give a wee bit of satisfaction but aren’t half as colorful or satisfying as British expletives.
I turn to lead him from the barn. Perhaps Sara will discover who went missing more readily than we can determine who attempted to join us on the sly, as it were.
Brayden hurried back, wishing he’d thought to tell Sara not to be obvious about scanning the crowd. He realized soon enough that he needn’t have worried. She stood motionless in the dark with her back against the barn structure.
“Anything?” They stood far enough away he didn’t have to keep his voice low, but he did anyway. His concern in all of this was the knowledge that Sara was next on someone’s list. The rattlesnake had made that clear. They needed to be careful not to give that someone reason to act in haste.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure what. All three men, Hardeman, Pearce, and McNair, walked back toward the pavilion at the same time, all three from different directions, none in a hurry. None from this direction but it’s all close enough it wouldn’t have taken long for any of them to circle around to come from another side.”
Brayden scanned the pavilion. “The women?”
“I haven’t seen any of them since I stepped out. If they don’t show up soon, we can assume—or are meant to assume—they retired for the night.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.” She sounded discouraged as she shoved away from the barn. “I’m going to bed.”
The cat followed.
When Brayden passed her cabin a few moments later, the cat sat on the top step at the front door. The window closest to the door was raised, and he fought an urge to stop and ask Sara to close it. For her safety. And for his peace of mind. He’d have to trust the cat to give warning if needed.
Jackson’s friends amble toward their cabins. McNair is last at the pavilion. I watch as he lifts the half-empty bottle of chardonnay from the cooler and pours the contents into his presumably-empty beer bottle. Tsk-tsk. Poor sod. He’s already more than a bit squiffy. He’ll be much the worse for wear by morning.
I thought I recognized the look to him, the broken capillaries across his nose and cheeks, the gray and sunken skin under his eyes. Tall and thin save for the slight paunch of too little exercise coupled with too little nutrition. Many who over imbibe often over eat and suffer the twin damnations of alcoholism and obesity. Others, like McNair, slake their hunger-pains with slow and steady nips, keeping themselves just sedated enough they don’t feel the pain of their addiction. Humans create a sad world for themselves, but substance abuse is one evil I cannot defeat. They must emerge by making different choices. Choices only they can make.