Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (7 page)

She smiled an affirmative and I let myself out of her room, wondering if this was how all relationships died, worn out and feeble. Would Lonny and I eventually come to this point? It struck me that I was singularly ill prepared to answer that question. I wasn't sure I knew what real intimacy was, let alone how, or whether, it always ended.

SEVEN

I left Tahoe the next day. Lonny and I managed to achieve a sunny morning of perfect skiing on the storm's fresh powder, then followed each other home across the Central Valley in the afternoon. He peeled off in San Benito County to have dinner with a rancher he knew; I'd refused his invitation to go along on the grounds that I was already exhausted and needed to be up well before the crack of dawn on the following morning.

Exhausted was the right word. I was mentally and physically beat. Between skiing, and then driving for five hours with Jack's murder constantly on my mind, I felt like a vegetable.

Knock it off, Gail, I ordered as I took the Soquel exit off the freeway and headed up Old San Jose Road toward home. You haven't come up with one useful new idea. Forget this obsession with that damn murder. You're not doing anyone any good, least of all yourself.

It
was true. Watching the dark redwood clumps and open meadows of the Soquel Valley slip by outside my windows, I felt like a person slowly waking up from a bad dream. This was home, this was Santa Cruz County, where I'd been born and raised, where I now lived and worked. Tahoe, Joanna, Jack's death, were all part of a strange other world, one that began to recede as I started to focus on my own life again.

In another mile I pulled up in front of my house and smiled. It
was still there. A small cabin on the bank of Soquel Creek, the house was built of redwood half rounds; I'd painted it red brown with dark green trim, and it had a little-home-in-the-woods look to it. The "homey" look was enhanced by the tabby cat sitting on the front porch-my most recent animal acquisition.

I'd first seen this cat six months ago, a fluffy tabby with a white chest and paws and a lynxlike face, meowing at my front door. When he'd hung around for two days, meowing steadily, I bought a box of dry cat food at the grocery store and left some on the front porch for him. He ate the food, but continued to meow at the door.

I was absolutely certain I did not want a house cat. Blue was more than enough in the way of animals shedding on the furniture. I left the food out because I felt sorry for the tabby, who was obviously a stray or lost, but I definitely did not want him in the house.

The cat had other ideas. Despite the fact that I kept food in his bowl at all times, and there was a creek full of water right next to the back door, he screamed and screamed in an ever increasing crescendo. He could screech like a Siamese-raucous, loud wails that were starting to drive me nuts. Two weeks into the siege I'd reached the breaking point.

Sweeping my front porch as he wove between my legs and yowled at me, I lost my temper and swept him off the porch with the broom. The distance from porch to ground was all of two and a half feet, but the cat hobbled off on three legs, packing his right hind foot.

I caught him, of course, and hauled him into the small-animal clinic in Soquel, and, sure enough, he'd broken his leg. So much for cats falling from three-story windows and landing unharmed. Motivated largely by guilt, I'd had the leg cast, had the cat neutered and given his shots, then kept him in a cage (in my bedroom) for the two months it had taken him to heal. After that, there wasn't much point in arguing; he was my cat.

I'd named him Coleman Bonner, after one of my favorite Guy Clark songs, and now, though I might pretend to be resigned, I actually couldn't imagine not having a cat, I'd grown so used to his presence.

He opened his mouth in a loud meow as I got out of the truck; apparently he was convinced that sufficient noise would get him anything he wanted, a not unreasonable point of view, considering his history.

"I'm coming, Bonner," I told him, as I reached back into the cab to lift Blue out. The old dog's stiffness (always worse in the winter) had increased so much in recent months that he could no longer jump in or out of the truck; he had to be carried. He growled softly as I set him on the ground, a ritual complaint at the indignities of age, then licked my hand to show he meant nothing by it.

I watched him snap at the cat, and smiled. It was a token snap, with no intent to damage, more for the fun of it and to show he was boss. Bonner seemed to understand, merely fluffing his tail and scooting out of the way. He wasn't afraid of Blue, and sometimes allowed the dog to maul his neck in a mock "attack," something Blue delighted in.

Following the cat's loudly shouted directions, I let myself into the house, Bonner scampering ahead of me and Blue stumping along behind, and was pleased to see that everything looked intact. I'd just finished redoing the interior (I
was hoping to sell it and buy a place with room for horses) and the brand-new sand-colored carpet set off my few pieces of antique furniture nicely. I'd painted the walls and ceiling a soft cream, and stained the old-fashioned window and door frames red brown. Some new bathroom fixtures, and another stain job on the handmade cabinets in the tiny kitchen, and things were looking pretty good.

Pouring myself a glass of chardonnay, I sat down on my preferred end of the couch, Blue at my feet, Bonner in my lap, and stared out my west-facing window. There wasn't much of a view, just a line of trees on a nearby ridge, but I could see that the short winter day was already settling into its early evening. The narrow strip of visible sky was an unsettled dark gray, with a chalky white band just above the horizon. Black, lacy tree branches moved restlessly in the cold light; the radio had predicted a chance of rain for tomorrow. That would make the endurance ride I was scheduled to work a miserable son-of-a-bitch. Nothing I could do about it, though. The ride would go on, rain or no rain.

Considering that Bonny Doon State Park, where the ride was being held, was very steep and the trails could be slippery, rain was going to make it miserable for the competitors, too. Another thought followed. Bonny Doon Park bordered the Hollister Ranch, Jack's family home. Also the place where Bronc Pickett and Travis Gunhart lived.

I stroked the cat and sipped my wine and found my mind right back on the same old track. Bronc had been friends with Jack for more years than I'd been alive. Trav had been with him for as long as I could remember. These were the people who knew who Jack Hollister really was.

I took another swallow of wine. Jesus, Gail, you are a cold-hearted bitch. Did you ever think you ought to be offering them your sympathy, rather than picking their brains?

Dumping the cat off my lap, I went into the kitchen to find dinner. Chili and rice, it looked like, my old standby. At seven-thirty I walked Blue, got my coffee pot ready for the morning, and turned in with my alarm set for three
A.M.
Tomorrow would be coming awfully soon.

EIGHT

It was two hours before dawn and the sky was flat black, no moon or stars visible through a thick layer of cloud. The wind whipped sharply across the blank open ground of the field where the endurance ride was scheduled to meet. In my headlights I could see campers, trailers, and tents scattered across the grass; horses were tied to trailers or corralled in little portable pens nearby. Lights glimmered here and there and moving human shapes indicated activity. I parked my truck on an empty strip of grass by a lamp standard and got out.

I almost got right back in. Despite my long underwear and three layers of turtleneck, sweater, and jacket, the icy wind seemed to cut right through me, causing me to shiver instantly. Damn. I'd forgotten my wool beanie, left behind in the bag of unpacked ski gear on my bedroom floor. Small, cold knives of wind were already making my ears ache.

Two women, who had obviously seen my truck with its white plastic multi-compartmented bed and drawn the logical conclusion, were leading their horses up. One asked if I was ready to do pre-race exams. I nodded my head yes and she handed me her card. Race day had begun.

The pre-ride check, which I was beginning, was an attempt
to ascertain that all horses scheduled to compete were sound and healthy. Each contestant gave me his or her card, and in the pre-race column I marked the categories with a grade of A to D. Categories included soundness, dehydration, mucous membranes, and capillary refill. All of these were indicators of a horse's health and general well-being.

I'd checked about a dozen horses and my hands and feet had gone numb-my ears felt as if someone were drilling into them with a very sharp drill-when I heard a "Hi Gail, you look cold."

Smiling, I turned to greet Kris Griffith, the one person here today that I knew well. Kris was a client of mine and a friend; she'd boarded my horse, Gunner, the first year I owned him, and she and I had lunch together on the rare occasions when I had some free time.

She was also one of the primary contenders in this race; she and her ten-year-old gelding, Rebel Cause, had won the legendary Tevis Cup two years ago and were, from the scraps of talk I'd been overhearing this morning, a good bet to win today.

Kris handed me her card, and I began the process of checking Rebby over. A dark brown gelding, 15.3 hands and a registered Quarter Horse, Rebby was bigger and heavier than most of the other horses, who were predominantly Arabs. In actual fact, Rebby was more of a Thoroughbred than a Quarter Horse; he'd been bred for the track, and his Thoroughbred ancestry made his excellence as an endurance horse a good deal more understandable.

He stood quietly while I felt his legs, checked his gums, and listened to his heart and gut sounds, but danced and cavorted playfully next to Kris while she jogged him out for soundness. Like most of the horses, he was "up"; the early hour, the other horses, the cold wind, and general pre-race excitement made a thrilling blend.

Handing Kris her scorecard with all As marked on it, I said, between chattering teeth, "He looks good. Will you win?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. I've got a chance. That's my main
competition." She pointed at a man leading a gray Arab in our direction. "Jared Neal and Jazz. They've beaten us a couple of times in the past."

"Well, good luck," I told her.

"Thanks." She turned and led Rebby away; I was struck, as I often was, by the intensity of her composure. She seemed calm and poised, yet with an inner fierceness just beneath the surface, a glow that illuminated her pale, plain face.

Joanna had had that quality when I'd known her in college, I thought; it was what had drawn me to her initially. In both women a formidable combination of will and intelligence was masked by a quiet facade. I had no time to speculate on what aspect of my character attracted me to such people, or why two equally strong women had allowed themselves to be undermined by men-in Joanna's case, her ill-advised love affair, in Kris's, an overly dominant husband-as the man pointed out to me as Jared Neal was handing me his card.

Kris's main competition had shoulder-length brown hair in a ponytail, wore black Lycra tights and tennis shoes, and looked as if he could run fifty miles as easily as his horse. The gray Arab packed a lightweight neoprene saddle and a nylon bridle, and both horse and man were hard-muscled and wound tight. Jazz, too, received all As, and Jared Neal led him prancing away.

Two hours later, a cold dawn light suffused the sky, and thanks to me and a fellow vet, Craig Collins, all sixty-odd competitors had been checked in.

I listened to the race organizer-a woman in her sixties who had won every big endurance event there was at one time or another-give the competitors instructions and rules, then grabbed a brief cup of coffee and climbed into my truck to hustle off to the first checkpoint.

Fifteen bumpy minutes later, with the sun coming up over the southeast ridge behind me, I pulled into a level picnic area on the top of Gray Whale Hill. Getting out of my truck, I stood facing the wind, looking down wide, grassy slopes interspersed with brushy areas to the Hollister Ranch headquarters. Jack's family home, just outside the park boundary, was completely visible from my vantage point on the hill. Cupped in a hollow beneath me like a toy farm in a giant's palm, a low, V-shaped adobe house, two smaller houses covered with weathered wooden shingles, three large barns, a shop, a pump house, several sheds and many stout-looking wooden corrals formed a grouping that was deeply reminiscent of an earlier time. A time before tract houses, I thought bleakly.

The ranch and its hollow sat at the end of a gully that emptied from the hills to the sea, the channel of a stream that I could see meandering through the meadow behind the barn. Just below the hollow, the ground dropped off gently, until, not a quarter mile from the ranch yard, the scrubby pasture melted into the sandy verge of a beach.

And beyond that-I lifted my eyes-stretched the endless reach of the ocean. Blue-gray-green today, spattered with whitecaps, shifting and changeful under rapidly moving clouds and sudden rays of thin, early sunshine.

Turning my gaze back to the barnyard, I saw a small figure in what looked like a denim coat and white straw cowboy hat emerge from one of the shingled houses and start across the yard toward the largest barn. Bronc, I thought. Even at this distance he had a certain way of moving-brisk, energetic, a little stiff-that I could recognize. I would go down there and talk to him, I promised myself, as soon as the race was over.