Return to Oak Valley

by Shirlee Busbee

  Shelly nodded. “He did—he practically raised me. I remember more of him than I do my father.” She sighed. “Up until a couple of months ago, I would have sworn that I knew everything there was to know about Josh…but sometimes I now wonder if I ever knew him. It's like the Josh I knew and the Josh who lived here were two different people.” To her astonishment, she found it easy to talk to Sloan about Josh. Maybe it was the intimacy of the vehicle, the blackness of the night pressing in, isolating them almost as if they were the only two people alive, that made the words come forth so easily.

  “How do you mean?”

  Relaxed, slumped comfortably in the seat, the slight buzz from the wine they'd had for dinner loosening her tongue, she told him about Scott, about the deposits, the gambling, Josh's pilfering of her trust.

  Sloan whistled under his breath when she finished. “I'd heard rumors that Josh had dropped some big bundles at the Indian casinos, but I never suspected the extent of his gam-bling—or that Scott had gotten his hooks into him. Mostly Scott is an annoyance, but he's caused some people some serious trouble.” His eyes on the road, he asked lightly, “How bad is it?”

  Shelly sat up and laughed. “Not as bad as it could be. I'm not in any danger of having to sell the ranch or hock the family valuables—yet. There's still enough money to act as a safety net, but between you and me and the gatepost, the great Granger fortune of legend and lore, which I should point out was never as great as local rumor, ain't no more.”

  “Ah, and being a big, bad Ballinger I should now try to work that fact to my advantage, shouldn't I?”

  She glanced at him, his strong features shadowed, his gaze straight ahead, his hands effortlessly guiding the heavy vehicle down the road. “Will you?” she asked curiously. “Take advantage of the situation?”

  Sloan shot her a look. “Honey, if you really think you have to ask, you shouldn't have told me.”

  Shelly bit her lip. “You're right, and though I know that Grangers are turning over in their grave, even with all the old family history between us, I trust you.” She glanced at him again. “Most of the time.”

  He smiled. “I'll settle for that.”

  The Suburban swooped down onto the valley floor, and Sloan stepped up the speed, the vehicle's lights slicing through the night, barbed-wire fences and electrical poles flashing by. They were about two miles from the center of town when they noticed that they were fast coming up on several flashing lights and flares.

  Sloan slowed and as they came closer they could make out vehicles, a fire truck, the volunteer-operated ambulance and a sheriff's office Bronco, all with their red-and-blue lights blazing, and a white pickup truck and a small blue car. Flares were scattered up and down the highway, the car rested drunkenly in the ditch, the driver's side door open, its front end caved in by the carcass of a black cow. In the Suburban's headlights and the lights from the other vehicles, Shelly could see more bulky dark forms moving around and the silhouettes of a half dozen or so men trying to shoo the cattle off the road. Two or three other people stood at the rear of the open doors of the ambulance.

  “Oh, no,” she cried. “Someone's cows have gotten loose. I hope no one was seriously hurt.”

  Cows, or even horses, roaming loose on the roads were not a common hazard, but it did happen from time to time, especially in the fall, when the cattle were driven to the hills. Sometimes the cows would try to come home a couple times before they stayed in the mountain winter pastures, or they got separated from the main herd and wandered around the valley floor until someone noticed and started calling around trying to find out who owned them. With horses, it was usually an unlatched gate or a downed fence. But either animal presented a real danger. There was nothing worse than having a four-legged, half-ton-or-more apparition appear without warning in the middle of the road. In the dark of night, a black animal was almost impossible to see until too late. And as had happened here, it was usually fatal for the cow or horse.

  Sloan pulled the Suburban off the road and parked. He and Shelly both got out and walked toward the fire truck. Spying Bobba's compact frame, Shelly wandered over to him, while Sloan stopped to talk with Doug Simpson, the owner of the white pickup, whose place was just a quarter mile down the road. Bobba was at the side of the fire truck radioing some information back to the firehouse when Shelly walked up. He grimaced at her and finished his call. Putting away the handset, he said, “Good thing you weren't fifteen, twenty minutes earlier—it could have been your vehicle wearing that bull, instead of Mrs. Matthews' car.”

  “Our Mrs. Matthews?” Shelly asked, “The librarian?”

  Bobba nodded. “Former librarian—she retired about five years ago.”

  “Was she hurt?” Shelly asked, concerned.

  “Shook up, but she's OK. The tecs checked her out and once Brannigan, the deputy on duty, got her statement, he sent her home with her husband. You just missed them.” He grinned at her. “For a moment we were more worried about him—old Ted's got a heart condition, and he was pretty upset. We got him calmed down and once he learned that Thelma wasn't hurt, he was fine. They're both fine. Her car is another matter. It looks totaled to me. And as for the bull….” He shook his head, his freckled face angry. “I just hate this sort of thing—Mrs. Matthews is an old lady—she might have been killed or hurt badly.” He glanced over at the blue car. “At least this time,” he muttered, “the bull was killed outright, and we didn't have to have the deputy shoot the animal to put it out of its misery.”

  Of all of her childhood friends, Bobba had always had the softest heart; he had cried the most when in sixth grade the class mascot, a guinea pig, had died. He loved animals—he had even raised a litter of orphaned ground squirrels, considered vermin, to be shot on sight by almost everyone else. All through the years, his shoulder had been there for anyone who needed one to cry on. He just couldn't say no to someone—human or animal—in need. Looking into his guileless blue eyes and open, friendly face, Shelly wondered how he dealt with the tragedies, big and small, that he must see often in the course of his duties. She would never have expected him to become a fireman, much less the chief of St. Galen's volunteer fire department, all volunteer, except for his position, which was paid by the county. And yet if she thought about it, maybe his becoming a fireman wasn't so out of character. Hadn't everyone, at one time or another, seen a picture of a gallant fireman climbing a tree to rescue a frightened kitten? That was Bobba Neal—a hero in his own understated way.

  The slamming of the ambulance doors jerked her attention away. As she watched there was a flurry of activity and then the long white-and-red vehicle pulled away, driving back in the direction of town.

  “Any idea who owns the cows?” she asked, turning back to Bobba.

  “Not yet—we're just now starting to check that out.” She and Bobba walked toward the blue car, where Sloan and Deputy Brannigan were examining the dead animal, looking for a brand or ear tags, something to identify ownership. The other cattle were momentarily being shooed down Cemetery Lane to get them off the state highway.

  Sloan's face was grim as he climbed out of the ditch where the car had landed.

  “What?” Shelly asked. “Can't identify it?” Sloan took her arm. “Let's walk over here.” Puzzled, Shelly let him guide her to the edge of the road, away from the deputy and Bobba. “There isn't an easy way to say this, honey…the dead bull is Granger's Ideal Beau—I recognized his ear tag. I suspect that the others are your cows from Texas.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Shelly blanched. She glanced again at the black shape of the bull, her spirits sinking. Oh, God, if it were Beau…If it were the old bull, a lot of dreams and hopes for the future had died with him. She blinked back tears, watching the dark shapes being herded down Cemetery Lane by a couple of men on foot with flashlights. Sloan had made a mistake, she thought stubbornly. He was wrong. They couldn't be her cows! It wasn't her bull lying dead over there.

  She shook her head, her voice fu
ll of disbelief, and said, “It's impossible!” She pointed to the foothills to the east. “The ranch is up there, four, five, six miles away. I didn't check, but I know that when we left Beau was in his pen; so were the cows—there's no way they could have gotten out.” Desperately, she added, “And if they did get out, they wouldn't have ended up down here on the highway—you know they wouldn't have. They'd still be hanging around the barn or wandering in the foothills.”

  “Shelly, honey, they're your cattle,” Sloan said gently. “I don't know how they got down here, but they did.”

  “It doesn't make sense,” she muttered, almost to herself. “The corrals are brand-new. The gates have new latches, and all of us know to double-check the gates. We just rebuilt the corrals. They couldn't just have gotten out.”

  “I don't disagree with your reasoning,” Sloan said evenly, his big hand rubbing up and down her arm, his eyes compassionate. “But the fact of the matter is that they did end up down here, on the highway, and if it wasn't an accident…”

  Her eyes widened. Almost in a whisper she said, “You think it was done deliberately?”

  He sighed and pulled her into his arms. “It's a possibility, honey—but before we go down that road, let's make certain that we're not jumping at shadows.” He urged her toward the Suburban. “There's probably a logical explanation for what happened.”

  Opening the door of the Suburban, he reached across the seat and picked up the cell phone lying on the console. “Does Acey have a phone in his quarters?”

  “Yes.” And she rattled off the number.

  His eyes on hers, he punched in the number and waited as the phone rang endlessly, no one picking it up. He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. It was after 1:00 A.M. Acey should have answered. He redialed just to make certain. Again no answer.

  “He's not answering his phone.”

  Fear for the old cowboy speared through her. If the cattle had been turned loose deliberately and Acey heard a suspicious noise and went to investigate…“We have to get to the ranch. He could be hurt.”

  “Acey?” Sloan said with a reassuring smile. “I'd put my money on that little old Banty rooster every time. What do you want to bet that if there was any funny business, that Acey is presently holding the culprits at gunpoint? He's probably too busy swearing and cussing at them for interrupting his sleep to come to the phone.”

  Shelly tried to take comfort from Sloan's words. She was, she reminded herself, probably just running down the road to meet trouble. Acey was fine. And if there had been trouble, she had confidence that the old cowboy could handle it. Tonight's events were just one of those tragedies that sometimes happen when dealing with animals. They did get out—even out of the best fences. They did wander where you would never expect. There was a simple explanation, and she needn't go looking for boogey men to discover it.

  She glanced down Cemetery Lane, biting her lip, thinking. “Let me call Nick.”

  Nick answered on the tenth ring, his voice grumpy and thick with sleep. By the time Shelly finished telling him what had happened, including the news that Acey was not answering his phone, and what was needed, he was wide awake and any irritation at being awakened, gone. “I'll be there as soon as I can.”

  Shelly broke the connection, looked at Sloan, and asked, “What about B-b-beau? Isn't there someone I'm supposed to call to get the…body removed?”

  “I'll take care of it. Don Bean runs a lot of equipment in the valley. He'll have a loader and truck to haul it away for you. There's no need to wake him right now—the body's off the road, but I'll get hold of him first thing in the morning.”

  The California Highway Patrol, dispatched out of Lay-tonville, arrived and took in the scene. Sloan knew the officer.

  “Hi, Frank,” Sloan said, walking up to the side of the black-and-white patrol car. “Haven't seen you up here in a while.”

  The young man grinned, his teeth flashing beneath a trim blond mustache. “You guys have been behaving yourselves lately—hasn't been any need. And between you and me,” he said as he exited the vehicle, “I'd just as soon keep it that way.”

  Frank Hilliard's handshake was strong when he and Shelly were introduced, and Shelly liked his open, friendly features. He spent just a few minutes with them, then went in search of Brannigan, the officer who had been first on the scene.

  It took a while, but eventually Nick arrived hauling a two-horse trailer behind his pickup. To Shelly's surprise, Jeb was riding in the truck with him.

  Sliding out of the cab, Jeb smiled at her and said, “Nick called me. He figured you'd need another pair of hands, since Acey appears to be playing hooky, and at this hour of the morning, I was the only one he could think to call who wouldn't hunt him down and murder him.”

  “Thank you,” Shelly said simply, hugging him tightly.

  One of the men who had been herding the cattle down Cemetery Lane walked up. Shelly recognized him: Bill Tanner, a local cowboy who had worked for the Ballingers for years. After greeting everyone and telling Shelly how sorry he was about her bull, he said, “We found a gate open on that vacant 160 acres of Sanderson's at the end of the lane, near the cemetery. That's probably how they got here. I guess they came down out of the foothills, cut across the east end of the airport, then most likely, considering the state of Sanderson's fences, found a break on that side and just ambled on across and out onto Cemetery Lane.” Pushing his brown baseball cap back on his head, he looked at Sloan and asked, “You want me to get my horse and help herd 'em back?”

  Sloan shook his head. “No. Nick brought along a couple of horses, and he and I can drive them. Jeb and Shelly will see to it that the vehicles get back to the ranch.” They shook hands. “Thanks, Bill,” Sloan said. “We appreciate your help.”

  Bill's sun-wrinkled face cracked a shy smile. “No thanks needed—we've all had troubles—glad I was around to lend a hand.”

  Ten minutes later, Sloan and Nick were disappearing down Cemetery Lane on the horses and Shelly was following Jeb in the Suburban as he drove Nick's truck and trailer. It would take Nick and Sloan a while to herd the cattle home—there wasn't much of a moon, just a thin sliver, and they would have to travel slowly to make certain they didn't leave any animal behind in the dark.

  Jeb parked at the back of the house, and Shelly pulled in beside him.

  “You want to check out the house first?” Jeb asked after they had both exited their vehicles and were standing at the rear of the horse trailer.

  “No. I want to know why Acey didn't answer the phone.”

  Jeb shined the big flashlight Nick kept stashed in his truck around the area.

  On the surface the ranch looked serene. There was nothing out of the ordinary, except, Shelly noticed with a start, that the halogen light over the wide double doors of the barn was out. Most ranches had a couple of them scattered around out-buildings—the lights came on automatically at dusk and remained on all night.

  She touched Jeb's arm, whispering, “The barn light isn't on…and it should be.”

  “Could just be burned out,” he said quietly, but he handed her the flashlight and reached behind his waist for his gun.

  “You wait here,” he ordered. “Let me check this out.” He looked at her strained features and smiled. “There's probably a simple explanation for everything. Now don't go getting all hysterical on me, OK?”

  She sent him a watery smile, nodding.

  “Flick off the flashlight and let me see how much of my sneaking and slipping around I remember. And stay here.” He waved the gun under her nose. “This is loaded, and if I have to shoot it, I want to know that it's the bad guys I'm shooting at—not you.”

  Shelly remained rooted to the spot, her gaze locked on the last place she'd seen Jeb's big form. It was eerie standing in the darkness, only the sound of her own breathing coming to her ears, the buildings and trees creating spooky shadows in the thin silvery moonlight. The minutes dragged, but before her imagination had a chance to run away wi
th her, Acey's dogs started to bark and Jeb hailed her.

  “Over here, Shelly,” he called from the shadows near the kennels. “I've found Acey—he's hurt, but not bad. Bring Sloan's cell phone with you.”

  Shelly rushed to the Suburban, snatched up the phone and, the flashlight guiding her way, ran to the end of the barn, in her haste almost turning an ankle because of her dressy heels. Her breath caught in her throat as the light fell on Acey's slumped form, blood staining his white hair red.

  “Acey!” she cried, kneeling beside him. “How bad is it?”

  Fierce blue eyes glared up at her. “Not as bad as the dizzy bastard who did this to me is going to feel once I get my hands on him.”

  With Jeb's help, Acey stood up. He was steady on his feet and seemed more outraged by the incident than hurt. He touched the gash at the back of his head and winced. “At least my hat'll hide it.” Taking in Shelly's anxious face, he grinned. “Glad they didn't hurt my pretty face. Got a date with that redheaded widow woman Sunday night—wouldn't want to scare her.”

  Shelly smiled perfunctorily and pointed to the house. “If your feet are working as well as your mouth, I suggest you march right over to the house. You can tell me all the details of your love life after I've had a look at the wound.”

  In the kitchen, Shelly and Jeb both examined the cut on Acey's head. It wasn't as bad as it had first looked—head wounds always bled profusely. After Shelly had cleaned it out with a mild disinfectant and wrapped a length of white gauze around Acey's head, she admitted that Jeb and Acey were right about the lack of need for stitches—or an ambulance.

  “You're sure you feel all right?” she asked for the tenth time since they'd come inside. “No dizziness? No blurred vision? Are you positive you don't want a doctor or one of the med tecs to look at it?”

  Acey made a face, looking rather rakish wearing his white bandage. “Shelly, I'm fine. I've suffered worse than this, believe me. I know when I'm hurt. Nothing is hurt right now, but my pride.” He touched the spot and winced again. “And maybe my head is a trifle sore, but it's nothing. All I need are a couple of aspirin and that coffee you promised. I figure we're gonna need it.”