by Blair Merrin
“That’s a sure sign!”
“It was on sale!”
“Hello?” Dash cuts in. “Hey, I’m still here, you know.” He waves at us.
“Right. Sorry,” I tell him. “We were talking, weren’t we?”
“Yup.”
“Okay. Uh, you said sorry, and I said not accepted, and you were gonna say—”
“Let me take you to lunch today,” he offers. “We’ll go to Tank’s, and talk about this while we eat. I have to get to the office now,” he glances at his watch.
“Sure.” I shrug. “I’ll meet you there at one.”
He looks a bit hurt. He always comes to the store to pick me up when we go places together.
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
Once he’s gone, I go back to my grueling endeavor of price stickers. At first, I think about what I’m going to say to Dash at lunch, but soon my thoughts wander to the horse statue, and what sort of price it would fetch, and from there—and I’m not proud of this—I find myself thinking about what it might be like to date the horse whisperer. You know, if Mom is right. Which she’s probably not. Right?
“Oh, poo,” Mom blurts out, pouting. “In all that kerfuffle, pawn_king267 outbid me.”
CHAPTER 3
A few minutes before one o’clock, I leave Mom to man the register with the promise that I’ll be back in an hour, and I pilot my SUV down Main Street toward Tank’s Diner. Even though I’ve lived here all my life, I still admire my little town. When someone says that a person or place is “stuck” in an era, it’s not usually a compliment, but Bandit Hills is firmly stuck in the fifties and we like it that way. Everything is classic, and anytime anyone does any renovating or remodeling, there’s an unspoken agreement to stick to that timeless charm by which we all abide.
Of course, that’s not why the tourists come.
I probably don’t need to mention any of this; most folks have at least heard of Bandit Hills, Tennessee, or maybe even seen our quaint town on America’s Most Haunted or Paranormal Hunters or whatever they’re calling those TV shows these days. No one really knows why, but Bandit Hills is like Burning Man for the supernatural, and people flock in droves, especially in the fall, to have an authentic paranormal experience. They come with cameras, or infrared gadgets, or digital recorders, intent on getting something recorded that definitively proves ghosts are a thing. We don’t have the heart to tell them that, while our spirits love showboating, they’re not terribly interested in making anyone famous. People that come around with all the fancy equipment rarely get the goods, while anyone who just sits still long enough in any one spot will likely experience something that they’d call otherworldly.
Seriously, the only places I can name in town that don’t have at least one resident specter are Tank’s Diner and my shop, and even I had a ghost-guest for a short while, until I solved her murder and she moved on to wherever it is that ghosts go when they’re sick of hanging around the living.
Usually the ghost experiences are fairly simple; for example, our former mayor Charlie, who died more than sixty years ago, likes to hang out near the gas station and give lost tourists directions. He’ll send them Tank’s way, with the message to “tell him Charlie sent you.” When they do, Tank just shakes his head and mutters, “That’s Bandit Hills for ya.”
Sometimes they’re a little more intense. Over this past summer we had a group of tourists who decided that they “ain’t afraid of no ghosts” and set up tents in the campsite where a trio of horrible murders took place back in the forties. Well, those nasty phantoms went all Blair Witch on the poor campers, rattling their tents, howling like banshees, and even attacking one guy with a stick. The terrified mortals ran all the way to the motel—on the other side of town—banging on the door at two in the morning. But like I said, if you live here, that’s all pretty much status quo.
Tank’s is on the edge of town, close to the road that leads out to the highway. Besides the motel, it’s one of the first things tourists see, and frequently the first place they stop—which is why Tank put in a gift shop. He’s probably getting richer off Bandit Hills keychains than he is from burgers and milkshakes.
By the time I get there, the lunch rush is in fuller-than-full swing. Out-of-towners clog the foyer waiting for a table, chatting excitedly about their evening plans, because if you’re not used to hanging around ghosts, you think they only come out at night for some reason. Now, I don’t think I’m better than anyone, let alone tourists, but I’m kind of impatient, so I scan the diner for a familiar face. I spot Penny Harrigan at a small two-person table by herself. She catches my gaze; I smile; she waves me over. That’s just another unspoken bond between us townies.
I scoot into the seat across from her. “Thanks.”
“No prob, Cassie. How you been?”
Penny is the proprietor of the Bandit Hills Motel, the fifties-style motor court that marks the entrance to Bandit Hills proper. When most people think of a fifties-style motel, they probably think of the Bates Motel, but Penny takes a lot of pride in her work and keeps the place looking sharp. Some of the décor is a bit too authentic for my taste—like the pastel furniture and checkered tile floors—but hey, it brings people in. I don’t actually know if she ever remodeled the place, or if it was just kept in pristine condition through the years, but it still looks brand new.
Penny herself is a quite the dichotomy. She wears flannel shirts with the top few buttons undone, rocking a bit more cleavage than I would ever feel comfortable with, and wears a ton of makeup. Her frizzy red hair is a big, teased bubble on the top of her head, an obvious dye job that fits her personality. Few male patrons are able to pass the motel office without a wolf whistle or a catcall, but Penny isn’t interested. She’s actually quite the bookworm, and mostly keeps to herself, but plays the part of “motel-running bimbo” to the hilt. I think she secretly enjoys pulling the wool over the tourists’ eyes.
“I’m good, Penny. We don’t normally see you around here in the middle of the day.”
“Ugh,” she says in response. “I had to escape for a few minutes. That fella from New York is still here.”
“What fella would that be?”
April, Tank’s wife and the diner’s best waitress, comes by in her pristine white apron with a coffeepot in hand.
“Didn’t you hear?” she says in her southern lilt. “That guy wants to buy up Bonnie’s ranch.”
Penny nods with a disapproving air, and April refills the mug in front of her.
“Yeah. He came into town three days ago in a cream-colored suit and a belt buckle the size of Wyoming. Like he’s a cowboy or something,” Penny shakes her head. “He hasn’t stopped hitting on me since he got here. ‘You’d love New York,’” she drops her voice a few octaves in a not-so-flattering imitation. “‘It’s the best. Greatest city in the world. Know how I know? ‘Cause I live there. Got myself a big penthouse. You should come. Girl like you? You’d love it.’” She shudders a little.
“Okay, but why does he want to buy Bonnie’s ranch?” I ask.
Penny rolls her eyes up toward April and purses her lips.
“Don’t look at me!” April protests. “It’s Mom’s fault. After she helped the cops with that murder case, it was all over the news. Seems this guy is some kind of land developer. He wants a big chunk of Bandit Hills to turn into a tourist attraction or something.”
April is Marla June’s daughter, and before the influx of tourists due to Marla’s newfound fame, April would frequently charm diner patrons out of information and then send them along to her mom for a “psychic” reading.
“All I know,” Penny continues, “is that Bonnie said no a million times now, but he keeps pushing. Said he’s not leaving until she sells. Heck, he even offered to buy the motel.”
“What’d you say?”
Penny smiles sweetly. “I directed him to the nearest bridge so that he could jump off.” Her smile fades, “I hope Billy steals his wallet.”
Billy is the nickname we’ve given to a thieving ghost that roams the motel. He likes to nab watches, jewelry and the like. They always turn up eventually, though.
April taps me lightly on the shoulder. “Looks like your date is here.” She winks and sashays away as Dash approaches our tiny table, frowning as he tries to figure out the logistics of three people and two chairs.
“Hiya Dash!” Penny says brightly. She looks at me, and back at him, then spreads her fingertips out on the table so that her long fingernails clack against the veneer. “No way,” she grins, light dawning. “Are you two a thing?”
I cock my head toward Dash. “I don’t know. Dash, are we a thing?”
He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I thought we were going to talk.”
“Nowhere to sit,” I shrug.
“Here, take my seat,” Penny tells him as she stands. “I gotta get back to the motel anyway.”
“Thanks,” Dash says.
“Good luck,” I tell her. She waves to us as she leaves.
Dash lowers himself into the chair. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Sure.”
“This is kind of our first fight, isn’t it?”
“Hopefully not our last.”
“Come on,” he says, exasperated. “Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?”
If he thinks that’s dramatic, it’s a good thing I didn’t say what’s actually on my mind. Getting involved with someone is scary, but it’s even worse when you’re not sure your expectations are on the same page as theirs. Of course, I don’t say any of that. Instead I say the dumbest thing that comes to mind.
“Look, neither of us is getting any younger…”
He scoffs. “See, that’s what I don’t like to hear. I don’t want to be…an item, just out of convenience. We’ve known each other a long time. Why now? Why not before?”
“Well, there was that whole murder case we solved together.”
“Yeah,” he says, “and if it takes a murder to bring us together, that’s kind of messed up.”
He’s got a point there. We both sit in silence for a while—or relative silence, since the din of the diner and the other customers surrounds us on all sides—when a woman nearly crashes into our table. Dash sees her first, and he jumps up from his seat and rushes forward to catch her.
“Bonnie! Are you okay?”
The strapping blonde woman, in her early fifties, wearing a flannel shirt and cowboy boots, catches her breath beside us. “Sorry! Tripped over my own two feet. I’ve been running all over town, swimming through tourists…” she wheezes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“I’m looking for Xander. Have you seen him?”
“He was in my store just this morning… Why? What’s up?”
Bonnie helps herself to my water glass, taking a long sip. “The horses over at my ranch, they’re acting really strange. They won’t go near the barn. Daisy almost broke her leg trying to get out. They won’t eat, they’re not listening to me… It’s becoming a real mess.”
Suddenly I remember the slip of paper in my pocket. “Here, he gave me his number. Give him a call.”
“Oh, thank you!” She takes the paper from my hand and rushes out of the diner.
I raise my eyebrow at Dash. He rolls his eyes.
“What?” he asks, as though dreading my reply.
“You want to go see?”
“No,” he answers flatly.
“Hey,” I tell him, “Bonnie’s my number-one customer. She might need me for emotional support.”
“You just want to watch Xander whisper at horses.”
“…Maybe.”
He grunts. “Fine.”
“Awesome. Let’s roll.”
“No one says that.”
“They do in the movies.”
Dash groans in exasperation as I follow him out to his car.
CHAPTER 4
Bonnie’s ranch lies just beyond the northwestern part of town, where the trees give way to gently-sloping farmland. Her place is the very edge of Bandit Hills; on the other side of her property line is the boundary to our neighboring town of Arborton. Bonnie’s driveway is a gravel road about a quarter-mile long, and I can feel the suspension on Dash’s classic midnight blue El Dorado wincing at every bump and pothole.
There are three other vehicles parked in Bonnie’s wide lot at the entrance to her ranch: Bonnie’s pickup truck, her son’s car, and a saddle-less horse, waiting patiently and stalwartly for his friend to return. “Master” just doesn’t seem fitting for a guy like that.
“Huh. He got here fast,” I note.
I can already hear the noises coming from the barn—the horses whinnying (I think horses whinny. Or neigh. Something like that). Either way, the horses complained loud enough for us to hear from a distance, so we both trot over to the barn to see what’s going on. Just outside the entrance to the barn, Bonnie and Xander chat as we approach them.
“…all night last night too,” she tells him. “I don’t know what’s up with them.”
“Let me take a look,” Xander says. He sees us and smiles. Maybe Mom was right; I could swear there’s a special glint in his eye when he sees me that wasn’t there at first. “Cassie, Dash. Nice to see you again.”
“Just came to offer our moral support,” I tell him, and to accentuate my point I grip Bonnie’s shoulder reassuringly.
She pats my hand. For the record, I am a great friend. It just so happens that I also kind of want to see what happens. I’ve heard a lot about what Xander can do, and it all sounds sort of magical, but in a good way.
He slides the wide barn door open. Inside, it appears that Bonnie had managed to contain at least a few of the horses, and they are not happy about it. A trio of stallions huddle in the far corner of the barn, shaking their manes wildly, stomping their hooves, and neighing loudly.
Now, I don’t know a lot about animals. I remember seeing on some nature show that they can smell fear, or sense energy, or something along those lines. All I know is that I would not just walk up to three clearly agitated horses. Shows what I know, I guess.
Xander walks right up to them, slowly but confidently. They quiet down immediately. One of them huffs; Xander puts a hand gently on its neck and it stills. I can’t hear the words from outside the barn, but I can tell he’s speaking to them. A moment later he comes out, followed by all three of the troubled beasts.
As we watch, he leads them to the pasture and opens the gate so that they can join their fellow horses. Their herd? Their pack? I need to watch more Animal Planet. Their demeanor is completely different out in the open; their tails swish, they munch on some hay, they frolic. Xander spends a few minutes out in the pasture with them, speaking softly, and then—I’d never believe if I didn’t see it myself—occasionally cocking his head slightly to one side, as if he is listening to them. It occurs to me then that I have no idea how old Xander is; I assume he’s around my age, or at least he looks it, but as he’s interacting with the animals his eyes exhibit this deep wisdom that reminds me of someone who’s lived a lot of life.
Dash leans over to me and whispers, “A group of horses is called a team.” Like he’s reading my mind… or, more likely, just feels the need to flaunt some knowledge of his own.
Xander trots over to us with a concerned frown creasing his majestic brow.
“What is it?” Bonnie asks anxiously.
“They’re afraid,” he says simply, staring at the horizon. “I don’t know what’s prompting the fear, but I can sense it,” he shakes his head.
“Sense what?” I ask, kind of awed.
He looks me square in the eye. “They’re afraid of death.”
Bonnie scrunches up her face in confusion. “We haven’t had any animals die here in ages, and we don’t get predators around here. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Franklin is the alpha, yes?” Xander asks.
Bonnie nods. Xander returns to the pasture and speaks wit
h Franklin, a huge brown American Quarter with a white diamond on his forehead. He strokes the horse’s neck gently, and after a moment or two, retreats to the barn, Franklin following close behind him. When they get to the entrance of the barn, Franklin pauses and kicks at the dirt with his massive hooves.
Xander doesn’t scold or force him to go in; instead he goes inside himself and sits on the floor of the barn, in clear view of the horse, never breaking eye contact. After a moment or two of hesitation, the horse follows. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to, but he clearly trusts Xander. The horse whisperer stands, strokes the horse again, whispers some encouragement, and walks backward toward the entrance.
