Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries)

by Laura Crum

  Lisa didn't say a word, just swung on Chester and rode off. I climbed on Gunner and followed her.

  The roping continued as planned. The two brothers from Watsonville missed their first steer, as I'd half-suspected they would. Sitting second was too much pressure at their level of experience. Then Lonny missed the second steer for Wes Goodwin and put the two of them out. Lonny was pretty unhappy about it, which I more than understood. He had drawn a difficult steer, but still ... Wes was probably the best heeler in the whole arena. It seemed criminal to miss for him.

  Tim and Billy Walsh kept roping cleanly and went to the lead, while Lisa and I managed to catch everything we drew and maintained our position on the average, despite the fact that we both had one eye on Glen the whole time. We were sitting third at two o'clock, when the show moved up the road to eat barbecue at Glen's. Afterward we'd rope the last steer, with the top teams competing for trophy saddles and all the money.

  Sitting in a chair on Glen's patio, I asked Lisa, "So do you get nervous when you have to make a high team run?"

  She shook her head. "No, I don't get scared anymore. The only way I can enjoy going roping is not to care if I win or lose and just go out there and do the best I can. I take the pressure off myself."

  I nodded. My own adjustment to competitive team roping was similar. I was not inclined to the sort of mental torture some ropers put themselves through; I had once told a particularly uptight partner, "It's not that big of a deal for God's sake. It's just a roping, not a religion." Judging by his expression, he thought that particular heresy ought to be punished by burning at the stake, at the very least.

  Lisa smiled. "Tim's the one who's intense."

  We both watched Tim, who was flirting with a blond girl I'd never seen before. Tim had always been an intense competitor, in odd contrast to his lazy, relaxed attitude about life in general. He wanted to win, and pressure seemed to act on him like a tonic; it only added to his focused intensity. Being high team out wouldn't bother Tim at all.

  I remembered Bret had once told me that Tim's childhood dream was to become a professional horse trainer. I thought it too bad he'd never pursued it. Tim might have been a great showman.

  I leaned back in my chair a little and looked out across Glen's wide green lawn. The oak trees on the other side threw dark shadows on the smooth grass. There was a barbecue pit in the middle, with Glen tending the steaks. The lawn and patio were dotted with people, standing, sitting, all talking. I took a long swallow of chilled chardonnay-a nice change from the inevitable beer-and thought that the dusty, rough-looking ropers seemed a little out of place on the brick patio, the big lawn. A crowd of martini-drinking golfers wearing slacks or shorts would have looked more appropriate.

  I watched Joyce setting out bowls of salad on a picnic table. She was dressed in black, which was striking with the silver-ash hair, but which made her face look older, coarser. Her eyes drifted around the crowd, and I wondered if she was picturing golfers, stockbrokers, suntanned men in white linen, men who owned yachts, or, if they had to have horses, polo ponies. You couldn't tell. Her flat, glassy blue eyes rested on me for a second and then moved on. She was looking at Pat Domini.

  Pat stood next to Charles, who was talking loudly to a group of men. She seemed poised and confident in her dusty jeans-at home with the ropers around her. Charles looked like an arrogant bore, at least to me. I wondered, as I had before, what Pat had ever seen in him.

  Lisa broke into my thoughts. "Do you have any more of an idea who's trying to get at Dad?"

  She asked the question casually, but I wasn't fooled. I knew that she, like me, remained intensely aware of the unknown threat that hung over Glen.

  Lisa and I sat more or less by ourselves in one corner of the patio, up against the wall of the house. No one was around us; Lonny had gone over to talk to Wes Goodwin, apologizing once again for the missed steer, no doubt. I watched Lisa's face. "Who do you think is doing it?" I asked her.

  "Sonny," she said slowly. "I guess. If it isn't that damn Susan. Did you see her?"

  "I saw her."

  Susan and her friend had waved their signs all morning and attempted to distribute flyers to the crowd. They were hindered by the fact that virtually everyone there was either a roper or related to one; there were few spectators open to the stated mission of the flyer: "Stop Rodeo Cruelty!"

  I had taken one from Susan's friend and read it. It seemed basically uninformed and inflammatory to me; I thought that Susan and company were lucky that the ropers were inclined to avoid them, rather than argue with them.

  "Susan's not doing anything wrong," I said slowly. "She's just standing up for her beliefs. I may not agree with her entirely, but I suspect she's honest enough."

  "You don't think she's the stalker, do you?" Lisa asked.

  "It doesn't really fit."

  "What fits, then?"

  I looked out across the lawn. Wondered what to tell her. "I don't know yet," I said finally. "I'm waiting."

  "Waiting for what?"

  "For something else to happen."

  Lisa's eyes snapped back to mine. "Shit, Gail. The next thing could kill him."

  "What else is there to do?" I demanded. "What we need is some kind of definite proof-some evidence that will connect a person to the 'accidents.' Then we can either take it to the cops or convince Glen to do something."

  Lisa's lips tightened. "I think Dad's in real danger."

  "I'm afraid so. But I'm not sure what we can usefully do besides warn him, which we've done, and watch him. We could tell the police right now, but I don't think they'd do anything at this point, and Glen would probably shoot us."

  Lisa gave a faint smile. "Agreed. But I wish you'd tell me what you're thinking."

  "I will." We looked at each other. "As soon as I have one single scrap of evidence."

  Tim chose that moment to walk up and sit down. "I've come to put some pressure on Lisa so she'll miss your steer," he said cheerfully.

  Lisa wrenched herself away from our conversation with an obvious effort. She gave me a warning glance, then said, "Not likely, buddy. You're high team out, remember? All the pressure's on you."

  It was clear that Lisa was as reluctant to discuss the threat to Glen in front of Tim as I was. They were talking about roping now. I didn't listen. I was watching people. Watching Charles Domini talking loudly and aggressively to Wes Goodwin. Watching Al Borba standing silently in a group of men, drink in hand. Watching eyes.

  Janey Borba walked across the lawn in another skintight T-shirt and jeans. I saw Tim's eyes lock onto her. Janey was headed for the makeshift bar on the other end of the patio. Tim got up quickly. "Think I'll go fix Janey a drink," he drawled, and went off in her direction.

  I watched Joyce pass a tray of crackers and cheese to a group of ropers a little way away from us. The thought that had been in my mind surfaced, and I turned back to Lisa. "Does Tim ever talk about getting a job or moving out or anything?"

  Lisa looked startled. "You mean leaving the ranch?"

  "Yeah," I agreed. "Leaving the ranch."

  Lisa thought about it. "Not in a long time. He used to talk about going to work for Will George or one of the other big-time cowhorse trainers. Tim could do it, too. He's really talented with a horse."

  "Why doesn't he?"

  "He's lazy, I guess. He'd rather lie around all day and watch TV. Dad doesn't make him work. Tim pretty much does whatever he wants to do. It's an easy life."

  "But frustrating, don't you think?"

  Lisa didn't answer.

  Lonny bore down on us, smiling into my eyes, bad humor apparently forgotten. "Wes forgive you?" I teased.

  "Oh, yeah. I just haven't forgiven myself." Lonny grinned sheepishly, and I had the sudden impulse to put my arms around him and kiss him long and hard, right in front of everybody.

  He must have guessed something of my thought, because his smile widened and he reached for my hand. "You can cheer me up later," he said.

&nb
sp; Lisa shook her head at the two of us. "I'm going to get something to eat."

  We had steak for dinner. Steak and chili beans and potato salad and macaroni salad and green salad and strawberries and garlic bread. With brownies and chocolate chip cookies and homemade vanilla ice cream for dessert. By the time everybody was done eating, the sun was resting just above the bay, filling the air with the mellow golden light of evening. There was a slow, steady drift of people out to the pickup trucks and down to the arena.

  I sat on Gunner next to the arena fence and watched the horses lope around. Glen limped over and stood near me.

  "Nice roping, Glen," I said. "Great barbecue."

  He gave me a faint smile. "Got to do it," he said. "They expect it."

  Lisa loped by and his smile broke free. For a second he looked like the Glen Bennett of my youth. "Boy, she can really rope, can't she?" he said.

  I smiled back at him. "Yes, she can."

  Tim pulled Roany up next to us. "Al wants to know if you're ready to start," he told his father.

  "Sure we are." Glen's voice and face were wooden again.

  Tim trotted Roany back across the arena, and in a minute we could hear Al's voice. "Let's rope!"

  I stood by the fence and watched the ropers file out to stand behind the chutes. The sun was down below the hills, and the peculiar deep stillness of evening hovered just behind the noise and bustle of the roping arena. The sky to the west was blue-green, peacock blue, aquamarine. Let's rope, I thought. The call to the faithful.

  Glen turned toward me. For a minute I expected him to say something, answer the question I hadn't asked. He was as much of a past as I had. I'd admired that stoic, strong presence ever since I could remember. Say something, Glen, I thought. Is it enough, what you are? Would you change if you could? And why does someone hate you?

  Our eyes met. I thought he must have heard me, the questions were so loud in my own mind. But the square, strong face was as quiet and sure as ever, the eyes steady, the voice even. "I guess I better go turn the lights on so you guys can see to rope," he said.

  I watched him turn and limp away.

  In a minute the lights came on, adding their electric daylight to what was left of the real thing. Al was bellowing at the top of his lungs, yelling out the order. The teams would go in reverse; Tim and Billy Walsh, as high team, would be the last to go. Lisa and I were third to last.

  The first team came flashing out under the lights and charged down the arena, throwing dirt clods in the air. They were chasing a brindle steer who could really run. The header never caught up and just pitched his rope at the steer in a no-hope shot somewhere near the end of the arena.

  Lonny rode up to me and parked Burt near the fence. "I'd say he got outrun."

  I nodded. "That gray horse doesn't have enough speed to be a real good contest horse."

  "No," Lonny agreed. "He's pretty honest, though. That was a tough steer."

  I smiled. This was part of it, this endless discussion of horses, this shared assumption that the equine species was infinitely interesting. We watched the next couple of teams go.

  It was getting darker. I scanned the crowd, looking for anything that wasn't right. I could see the white protest signs waving gently about halfway down the arena. Susan and friend were still here, it appeared. They certainly hadn't been invited to the barbecue.

  Lisa rode up next to me. Her eyes met mine-a quick, involuntary glance. Immediately we both looked for Glen. I was relieved to see him located prominently by the chutes, helping Al load the cattle and turn them out.

  "So what do you think?" I asked Lisa.

  Her face was tense; she glanced at Lonny, then flashed me a brief smile that reminded me for a split second of her father. "I think we're going to win this roping," she said.

  "No all-girl team's ever won the Rancher's Days roping." Tim's voice. He'd ridden up on his sister's side.

  "I'll bet you twenty dollars this all-girl team does." Lisa sounded a lot more confident than I felt.

  Tim grinned. "Good luck, big sister. You're gonna need it."

  The sky grew steadily darker. Above the glare of the electric lights it appeared almost black, with a dark blue band glowing over the western hills. Al was calling out the last ten teams. I trotted Gunner around to loosen him up. Al yelled, "Gail and Lisa, get ready."

  Lisa smiled at me. "Here goes," she said.

  The roping wasn't shaping up to be too tough. There was only one good time posted among the teams that had already gone. Lisa and I had twelve seconds to go to the lead. After that it depended on what Mark Brown and Travis Gunhart, who were the second high team, and Tim and Billy Walsh could do with their steers.

  Lisa rode off toward the box, Chester walking relaxed, his head down, his hindquarters shambling from side to side in a loose, rocking gait. His eye was quiet and docile. That was how some of the really good ones were. They'd plod into the box like plow horses and then turn around and outrun anything in the arena.

  I rode Gunner into the header's box, feeling my heart pound. This was it. Backing Gunner into the corner, I gathered him up and felt him come to instant readiness, muscles bunched, body half-crouched. For a second everything stood still, the horses frozen in the moment of waiting, tense and ready. Then I nodded for the steer and the still moment dissolved itself into speed and motion.

  We drew a pup, a little white-faced steer who didn't run much, and I roped him neatly around the horns, turned him off, and took him away perfectly. I could hardly believe I'd done it.

  Lisa came in hard after the steer, rope whirling, and threw. It was a good loop, and the steer's back feet went into it. She pulled the rope tight, dallied around her saddle horn, and I swung Gunner around to face. The flagman dropped the flag. My whole body relaxed. The timers called out an eight-second time and announced that Lisa and I were winning the roping.

  Tim grinned at us as Lisa and I rode back up the arena together. "How 'bout that?" he called to his sister and me. He was tightening the cinch on Roany, getting ready for his run.

  "It's all up to you now," Lisa teased him.

  I got off Gunner and loosened his cinch, then tied him to the fence. Lonny walked up and put an arm around my shoulders. "You did great," he told me. "Your horse worked perfectly."

  I patted Gunner's neck, still too stunned to speak. Glen limped toward us. "Good job," he said impartially to Lisa and me.

  The words were still in his mouth when there was a sudden ominous electric crackle. The big arena lights flickered and then went out. It was like a curtain coming down. Only a couple of smaller lights still glowed by the chutes. We all looked at each other in the semidarkness.

  "God damn it," Glen said. "The girls in the timer's shack must have turned on the heater. They should know better than that. Any time we turn that heater on when the arena lights are on it overloads the whole system. Hell."

  He jerked a flashlight out of the pocket of his jacket and hobbled toward the timer's shack.

  "Does he need any help?" I asked Tim and Lisa.

  "Nah," Tim said. "He's the only one who knows how this arena works. These lights do this all the time."

  I started after him anyway, propelled more by a desire to keep an eye on him than anything else. I saw his flashlight go bobbing into the timer's shack, and I could hear his voice raised inside, half-teasing, half-annoyed: "Now just what do you girls think you're doing, running that heater when I've got the arena lights on? You all know that overloads the system."

  Lots of giggles and disclaimers. I peered in the door. Glen was flicking switches by flashlight. Janey Borba, Pat Domini, a woman I didn't know, and Joyce stood there watching him. The stranger woman was laughing and denying that any of them had turned the heater on.

  Glen stepped back out and hopped down the arena on his crutches. Most of the crowd were sitting quietly on their horses in the half-dark, waiting for things to get started again. I followed Glen. He moved at a surprisingly rapid pace for a man on crutches. I ke
pt my antennae out for trouble, but no one else seemed to be trailing Glen-only me.

  Glen stopped by a power pole; I could see the fuse box partway up it. Glen cursed softly; he appeared to be fumbling in the box by flashlight. He seemed to find what he wanted, and I heard a click.

  There was a brief yellow glow from the lights, but in the same instant an electric crackle and an arcing green-white flash lit the fuse box, illuminating the black silhouette of Glen's stiffened body for the split second before everything went dark again.

  Then Glen's body was falling and I was running to him and he was lying on the ground, ominously still. Somebody was with me and we rolled Glen on his back and I saw that the somebody was Lisa. Her face was desperate. I took one close look at Glen and said, "Quick, you work on his heart. I'll breathe into him."

  I pinched Glen's nose and opened his mouth, tilted his chin back. Took a deep breath. Pressed my mouth over his and blew my breath into him. When I lifted my head, I could see Lisa pumping his chest. One one thousand, two one thousand. . . I said a quick, silent prayer of thanks for the CPR lessons that Lisa and I had taken while we were in high school.

  I could hear people yelling around me with part of my mind, but most of me was quiet and focused. There was only Glen's face and the stubble of rough whiskers on his jaw. Come on, Glen, I thought. Come on.

  I couldn't tell how long we worked on Glen. It seemed like hours. Eventually there was a red light flashing and Lisa and I were pulled away as others took over. Glen was still alive, they said. They loaded him in an ambulance on a stretcher, and Joyce got in with him. Tim and Lisa got in Tim's truck and followed the ambulance. Lonny had his arm around my shoulders as we watched the sad little entourage pull out.

  After they were gone, people huddled together. The roping was over; Al was turning the cattle out. No one seemed very concerned that the fate of the saddles was undecided. The real drama of Glen's near-death was the only topic of discussion. The ropers wanted to talk, to speculate, to reassure each other.