three

When Summer said that a dozen sheep were AWOL, I was sure it must be a misunderstanding. “They’re down there,” I said, waving a hand toward the pen where I had watched Ray and Bonnie do their jobs.

Before anyone could respond, the Sheltie burst into sight, barking and spinning and doing her best to speed Ray along. He wasn’t far behind her, and when he turned the corner, Summer shouted, “Ray! Did you move the sheep from this pen?”

“No ma’am, I did not.” His voice was borderline surly, but that seemed normal for Ray, at least from my limited exposure to him.

Summer flung her arms out and turned her gaze to the pen, as if she might have overlooked the flock somehow. “Then where the hell are they?”

Ray showed Bonnie the palm of his hand. The barking and spinning stopped and the dog fell into a trot beside him, but the wag never left her tail. Ray fixed a hard gaze on Summer and said, “You have a problem.” His intonation made it a statement, but Summer replied in the affirmative as if he were asking. Ray pulled a bandana from his pocket, took off his hat, mopped his shaved head, and replaced his hat in what looked like a well-practiced sequence.

“If you didn’t move them, where in the hell are the sheep that were in this pen!” Summer’s voice had a rough edge, as if it might turn to a scream with the tiniest push. I’d been around Summer and Evan enough to know they loved their animals, and although they used the sheep for herding lessons and harvested their wool, for the most part they treated them like pets. I had been to their farm and knew how well they cared for everyone in their charge. They even had one elderly ewe named Rosie who slept in their screened-in porch.

Evan was bent toward the metal latch, his head cocked and his fingers pulling something from the latch handle. “Summer, did you open this gate last night? After we—”

“No, of course not,” Summer said. She reached for my phone, poked it three times with her finger, and turned toward Evan. “You know I always … What’s that?”

Evan held whatever it was toward Summer. From where I stood, he seemed to be holding thin air. Summer took a step toward Evan’s hand, then turned away and spoke into the phone, so I took up the slack.

“What is it?” I asked, and moved closer. A clump of wavy dark hair fluttered between Evan’s thumb and forefinger. “Hunh.” I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to make of the find. So someone got a strand of hair caught in the latch. So what?

Evan grasped the waving end of the hairs and stretched them to their full six or seven inches. “Weird,” he said.

Summer was still talking into the phone, and getting louder. “Ewes and wethers. You know, girl sheep and boy sheep … No, not rams. They’re castrated … Very funny, but no, I don’t think that’s why they ran away.” She looked at me and rolled her eyes.

I spoke to Evan. “You brought the sheep last evening, right? So—”

He cut me off, held the hair toward me and stated the obvious. “It didn’t come from any of us.” Evan had dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and Summer’s fiery braid hung past her waist.

Ray stepped up beside me and, when we both looked at him, he lifted his hat and said, “Ain’t mine.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t there last night,” said Evan. “I checked all the latches to be sure they were all sound. I would have noticed that.”

Summer handed me the phone and said, “Sheriff’s on the way. I’m going to get Nell and take a look around.” She started away at a trot, and I thought I heard her say “catch whoever” and “hang rustlers.” She stopped and turned around. “Maybe someone should stay with the rest of the flock until we figure this out.” And then she was gone, her long braid spilling down her back like a stream of molten copper.

Ray mumbled something that sounded like, “Right,” and spat. I was starting to wonder how often he had to refill his reserves to keep from dehydrating. He turned back the way he had come and whistled for Bonnie, who was sniffing the gateposts and the ground between them, but Evan said, “I’ll go. You have a long day ahead. There’s hot coffee and some donuts at our trailer. Help yourself.”

Ray left without another word, and I walked to the gate for a closer look. A voice in my head whispered stop that right now, and I knew she was right, “she” being my pesky voice of reason. Truth be told, she does occasionally keep me out of trouble, but she’s not nearly as much fun as that other little voice. You know, the one who counters, Go ahead, followed by those five little words that have come to make the back of my neck tingle. How bad can it be?