Of Hoof Prints and Heartbeats

1 Dark shades tinted the glare of the sun that bounced off scrub and rock that covered the plateau. They couldn’t be seen, but the thunder grew louder, the cloud of dust rose into summer-warmed air as hooves pounded the earth. A sorrel and white paint, the lead mare, led the rest of the herd over the rise and across the acres claimed by the BLM, though the horses had been inhabiting the area since the Spanish explorers brought them in the sixteenth century. He was far enough away to not spook them, nor be trampled by their galloping feet. With hands on hips and a half-smile that graced his face, he envisioned the flow of cash the wild horses would create for his bank account. It wouldn’t be here that visitors would pay a prime price for a vacation home, but to the south, where ranches currently raised cattle and horses. With the proximity to Durango, it would be an acceptable substitute for the missed opportunity in Wyoming. Observing the herd, he understood the majesty and freedom that mustangs evoked in Americans and knew it would be a selling point. And those sales would be important. Convinced that he was correct, and the property was exactly what would fit his needs, he began to refigure the timeline. Climbing back into the rented Cadillac, then making his way to the state highway that constituted the southern border of the BLM land, he made a call. It was unfortunate that the Tanners and Bransons had met with difficulties of late. He would see what he could do to put an end to their troubles. Stuffing his gloves into the back pocket of his well-worn jeans, Joe latched the wire gate linking the small pasture with the summer one, which sported knee-high grass. The cattle would be taken through the gate on Friday. By the end of November, before the first snow coated the ground, they would round up the prime ones that are just under two years old and ship them to market. Others would be taken to auction and sold for breeding stock or the rodeo circuit, while the rest would remain on the ranch. Left foot in the stirrup, he swung up onto Racer’s back. His keen eyes, despite their age, scanned the horizon and the line of trees. He had felt uncomfortable the last two stops, as breaches in the fence showed it was more than pushy cattle that had wandered this way. Nothing moved, but that didn’t squelch the uneasiness. Nudging Racer in the direction of the barn, and his dinner, he urged the gelding into a canter. His tall frame balanced easily in the saddle. Graying hair was covered by a straw Stetson, and his taste for plaid, Western-cut shirts showed in that morning’s selection of one in tan, blue, and white. The ranch work he had done his entire life kept his body slim, his years just beginning to hunch his shoulders. The cracks of the dual rifles were heard a second before they tore through Joe’s back, piercing lung and heart. His jerking body fell to the side, then off the horse to hit the ground. Racer shied away from his owner, now lying motionless in the tall grass. Two riders emerged from the line of trees, passed through the gate, and collected the spooked gelding. The body would be difficult to discover in the overgrown foliage. If things went in their favor, Uncle Joe, ranch manager for Crystal Springs Farm, wouldn’t be found for several days. A short distance beyond the gate, across the paved road and through another gate, three horses were loaded into a trailer and hauled several miles from the sight of the crime. The first set of cattle on the ranch that provided the two cowboys with meager pay, board, and meals would be moved from one pasture to the next within the week. They would be too busy pushing cows to spend the extra funds, given anonymously, to complete the deed. A guilty conscience was of no concern, or else they wouldn’t have accepted the job. They would keep the gelding for now. If they needed more cash, he could always be sold. She thanked Cole for the cup of coffee, then declined the offer that she needed anything else. Watching as her youngest son, who looked like her husband when they had first met, descended the front steps of the veranda and moved in the direction of the barn, Alice sighed. Confidence oozed from Cole, but so did the warning signs that nobody would get too close to him. She understood why he kept others at a distance but had hoped that time and experience would increase his trust and bring down the walls he had erected to protect his wounded heart. She shook her head at her own musings. Her fractured wrist was healed but hurt occasionally when she overdid things. The medication prescribed to ‘Alice Branson, in case of pain’ remained unused. Brackets of discomfort around her mouth eased as the worry and anger caused by the real reason for her broken wrist, ribs, and numerous bruises, all now healed, pushed its way to the front of her thoughts. Four generations of Bransons had lived in this part of Colorado. Drought, blizzards, miners, Native American tribes, and government workers had all tried to intimidate the family to give up their home. But Bransons were tough stock, as evidenced by their survival through the years. They not only refused to pull up stakes but had acquired more acres that allowed them to grow financially and in influence of local affairs. She hadn’t told Cole anything other than she took a tumble off the porch steps. He was a smart man, a criminal lawyer for a prestigious firm in Chicago, and she knew he didn’t buy the story. For now, his life was in the Midwest. This was her problem, and she would deal with it the same way Jack, her late husband of thirty-five years, would have. She would dig in her heels, and if offered the chance, give as good as she got. This was Branson land, and no threatening son of a b***h was going to take it away from her. Instead of keeping track of her lists and all that she had to do when she arrived back home, Sam instead ticked off the hours that the annoying ache behind her eyes had been in residence. Four, and counting. “Please replace all electronic devices in the storage overhead or under the seat in front of you. Bring your seat backs upright and secure the tray tables. We should be on the ground in Durango shortly,” the flight attendant directed the passengers. She powered off her laptop and slipped it into her carryon, then pushed the case under the seat in front of her. Locking the tray table up, her gaze shifted out the window to the blue sky and pine trees that painted a calming picture. Scowling slightly, she realized she had spent more time on airplanes the last year than on horseback. She didn’t mind traveling but could never be the globetrotter her sister is. Was. And the soft smile that graced Sam’s face was in remembrance of the call she had received two weeks ago. Carli, her older sister by two years and former award-winning photojournalist for International Views, recently married to the FBI agent sent to investigate their father’s murder, was pregnant. Apparently, Carli was a bit pissed that Tim, her former long-time coworker and fellow traveler, had won the hundred-dollar bet that a baby would arrive before Carli and Ethan’s first anniversary. The events that transpired to bring Ethan, the FBI agent, and Carli together turned Sam’s smile to a frown. She had traveled to various parts of Texas investigating studs and bulls to improve her stock at Crystal Springs Farm, when Shaun, her brother and Sheriff of Centennial, Wyoming, called to inform her that Bear Tanner, their father, had been murdered on Wolf’s Ridge on the Preserve he owned and operated as a hunting and fishing vacation destination. With the threats to Carli’s life, Shaun put Sam on the next plane back to Colorado, believing she would be safer guarded by ranch hands a state away. Once the suspects were arrested, she had flown back to Wyoming so the three of them could spread Bear Tanner’s ashes on Wolf’s Ridge. Then there was the trip to New York for Carli’s showing at One World Piece, the gallery that netted a hefty income as several of Carli’s prints were sold at the event. That was the end of April. Then it was back to Centennial for Alyssa’s high school graduation, one of the Preserve’s employees who was now living at the lodge full-time with the love of her life, Zach. He, too, worked at the lodge, and everyone who observed the two of them wouldn’t dispute the fact that they belonged together. The last trip to Wyoming had been for Carli and Ethan’s wedding. Though she and Shaun would never tell their sister, they’d had a bet since they were kids that Carli would be the last one to fall in love and settle down. At the time, Carli and Shaun believed Sam would marry Cole as soon as she graduated from high school. But that was before she had been taken. The name of her abductor, which she refused to say aloud, instigated chills that slithered down Sam’s spine. She shifted in her seat and forced those memories away. Counseling and time had helped her to heal from the event that irrevocably changed her life. Not just the relationship with her family, but the one she had with Cole. The bump of wheels on tarmac jarred her away from ten years in the past and brought her back to here and now. “Welcome to Durango. Local time is 3:35, and the temperature is a warm 73 degrees. Thanks for flying with us. If you’re lucky enough to live here, welcome home. Only visiting? We hope your trip is enjoyable.” Lucky, Sam thought, yes, I am. She turned on her phone and called Matt. “We’re at the gate. I should be outside the terminal in about ten minutes,” she said. “Great. I’m in the red truck. I’ll see you out front.” She tucked the phone into her back pocket, grabbed her carryon, then moved into the aisle and off the plane. Hefting her case to her shoulder, she lengthened her stride in an attempt to stretch legs that had been cramped for over two hours. Ease settled over her at the sight of pines and the familiar mountains in the distance. Even though she was raised in Wyoming, this corner of Colorado would always be home. Passing through the door to the single terminal held open by an airport employee, Sam’s friendly comment had him smiling. She glanced at the people waiting in the baggage claim area, glad that her three-day trip allowed her to pack light. Once again outside in the sunshine, she smiled and waved as Matt, her ranch manager, pulled up in one of the farm’s trucks. She put her carryon in the bed, then climbed up into the passenger seat. Clicking her seatbelt, she turned to Matt and asked, “How is everything?” believing that an open-ended question would elicit more information than several specific ones. Two years older than her, and more experience with stock because of his years in rodeos, Matt Anderson would make any woman look twice. Tall and broad-shouldered, long legs and strong hands, and a quick, easy smile that complimented his handsome, clean-shaven face and easy-going manner, he was the number one catch in Durango. Dark hair that curled slightly around his ears and collar matched his expressive chocolate brown eyes. The man was kind, intelligent, friendly, helpful and, Sam speculated, had more feelings for her than an employee should, perhaps, have for their employer. For all of Matt’s qualities, Sam found herself unable to feel anything more for him than that of a trusted employee and friend. Matt didn’t disappoint. He glanced at Sam, then back out the windshield. “I haven’t seen Joe in two days. I don’t think he was dumped, as Racer would have found his way back to the barn. We’ve searched the south pasture and the east and north fence line. Nothing. It’s like he and the horse just disappeared.” Shit, Sam thought and closed her eyes, wondering if the trouble they had been having escalated to something happening to Uncle Joe. Something bad.