With a screech of brakes, he spun the truck around and headed for the hospital. On the way, his phone rang.
It was Rita.
Clay detoured to the hospital gift shop, bought some flowers, and jogged through a maze of corridors to Dakota’s room.
She’d taken several stitches in her scalp, and her fractured ankle was reset, but other than those injuries, had survived the ordeal well. When she saw him, her face grew radiant as a sunrise. “Clay!”
He wanted to take her in his arms, but was afraid he might hurt her. And so he stood there like a fool, holding the flowers in front of him like an offering.
She reached up and tugged on his sleeve. “For Christ’s sake, Pearce, I’m not made of china. Hold me.”
He did as he was told. She clasped her arms around his neck and held on for dear life. They remained that way for a long time, just holding each other, shutting out the world. He couldn’t believe the goodness of it, the joy that filled him, knowing he might never have had the chance to enjoy this simple pleasure again. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and he stroked the soft spill of honey-gold hair, marveling at its silky texture. Marveling at everything about her, the solid feel of their bodies pressed together, the beat of her heart against his.
Thank God.
He would never let her go again. “You scared me, McAllister.”
“I know.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do.”
“You know, you could thank me,” Rita said behind him. She walked into the room, carrying two cups of steaming coffee. For an instant. Clay saw a bone-deep sadness in her eyes. And then she smiled. “I missed my nail appointment because of her.”
“I’ll buy you your own salon. How’s that?”
Rita gave Dakota her coffee and sat down on the chair by the window. She looked tired. Tired and resigned.
Dakota grinned under her pallor. “Clay, she saved my life.”
“I know.” Clay smiled at Rita.
“First time I shot a gun in my life,” Rita said. “And I hope to God it’s my last.” She sipped the coffee and made a face. “Invite me to the wedding. I just might come.” And with that, she walked out of the room.
“You know, she kind of grows on you,” Dakota said.
“I think we should invite her.”
“Oh? And when will this spectacular event take place?”
“As soon as you’re off your crutches. If we’re inviting half of Arizona, I want it to be esthetically pleasing.”
“The first one was nice.”
“Too bad it didn’t work out.” He pulled her to him. “It will this time.”
“There are no guarantees in this life, Pearce.”
“I thought about that. You might wonder if I’m marrying you for your money.”
“My money?”
“Didn’t you hear? You just won the All American.”
EPILOGUE
Dakota rose early, although the appointment with her lawyer was for ten o’clock. The cast wasn’t due to come off for another two weeks, and she needed to schedule in maneuvering time.
Dakota had decided to stay on in Ruidoso for a while and rest up after her ordeal. She still didn’t completely understand why Lucy had done what she had, although one of the detectives had explained it to her. Sociopaths, as a rule, were governed by one appetite, an overriding desire. Some—the serial killers—desired power over life and death, or to possess a person before they killed. Lucy’s desire was to be supported all her life. She wanted security. Lucy had killed to protect her father, not because she loved him, but because he represented security. Apparently, the better the lifestyle, the more secure she would feel, because she transferred her allegiance first to Dakota, and when that didn’t work out, moved on to Rita.
It was a naive way of thinking, but to Lucy it made perfect sense.
Lucy had killed Jerry because he tried to blackmail her. He thought that Rita would adopt his daughter, and as Lucy’s family, he wanted some financial compensation. Lucy must have thought that Jerry’s demands would cause Rita to have second thoughts, so she killed him.
It was still hard to believe that Lucy would have the audacity to run Coke down with her own father in the truck. Sociopaths acted on impulse, Detective Sykes had told her, and they didn’t think about the consequences of their actions. Lucy wanted Coke dead and saw an opportunity to kill him, and so she acted. As she had acted in the White Sands, puncturing Dakota’s tire and waiting at another turnout for the yellow fog lights she knew set Coke’s truck apart from the rest.
Well, Lucy was dead, and Dakota need never fear her again. Too bad her other problems wouldn’t go away so easily.
Dan Bolin had turned himself in to the authorities, but for the moment he was out on bail and was helping her contact the owners. He had agreed to implicate Jared Ames, who had fled Arizona, and Dakota believed that Dan wouldn’t serve much jail time if any.
Dan didn’t care, one way or the other. He was a shadow of himself now that his wife was gone. But he did try hard to untangle this mess and had spent hours on the phone with Dakota, probing his memory and his records to sort out just which horse belonged to which sire.
Clay had managed to track down four of the colts Dakota had seen that day at Dan’s. He had bought them back for her, and she was hopeful he’d find the rest. For her part, Dakota had contacted most of the new owners from the dispersal sale and offered restitution. Some were angry and threatened to sue, some sold their animals back at the same price plus the feed and board they’d paid out, and others, it seemed, thought their horses were good enough to keep, requesting only new papers with Darkscope’s name as sire. Darkscope was a good stallion; as a rule, he’d produced better runners than Something Wicked. Dakota had decided to stand him at stud.
It might take years, but she would find a way to make restitution to everyone. And as things stood now, Dakota had the money from the All American and the Rainbow to offset the tremendous financial problems she faced.
Although she doubted she’d have that money for long.
Rumors were flying. If the other horses at Black Oak were fakes, didn’t it stand to reason that Shameless was, too? Already, some of the owners whose horses ran in the All American were talking lawsuits. After that would come the lawsuits from the owners of the ten horses who ran in the All American First Consolation, because the fastest horse in that race had missed the tenth slot in the All American, and then there were the horses in the Second Consolation . . . any day now, Dakota expected the stewards to summon her for an explanation.
She checked her watch. She was meeting Clay and Norm at the office of Clay’s lawyer in twenty minutes. Clay said there was some news that she really needed to hear.
She arrived at the office of James, Monroe, and Brady right at ten, knowing that she would have to end this charade once and for all. She wouldn’t wait for the stewards to call her in. Today she would tell them the truth about Shameless.
She walked toward the office, glancing at the sign across the street, which read: DAYLIGHT DOUGHNUTS CHRISTIAN CHURCH. It was such a beautiful day—the pines, the sunflowers, the blue sky—but a feeling of dread spread outward from her heart. If only Dan hadn’t told her the truth.
Clay met her at the door. “You look grim,” he said.
“Bankruptcy isn’t the best way to start a marriage.”
“You can’t have everything.”
“I mean it, Clay. I’m going to the stewards today.”
“Just wait and hear what Norm has to say.”
They sat down in Jim Brady’s office, who had obligingly let Norm have it for this meeting. “First of all, thanks for letting me look at your father’s journal,” Norm told her, after they exchanged amenities. “It bears directly on some legal issues that are extremely important to Black Oak.”
Dakota was determined to be polite. N
orm could be stuffy, but he was a good guy. “Look, I’ve got to get this off my ch—”
“Did you read the journal carefully?” Norm asked.
“I read it several times over.” What did this have to do with the price of sweet feed?
“Then I guess you must have read the part about your father breeding Dash To Judgment to Something Wicked.”
“Darkscope,” Dakota corrected him.
Clay squeezed her hand. “Listen,” he suggested.
“It says here that the groom, who was new, didn’t know in which pasture the stallion was kept. He brought the wrong stud. Coke looked at the horse, checked his tattoo, and sent the groom back for the right horse. Something Wicked.”
Dakota stared at him. Her heart kicked over, then began to soar. Don’t get your hopes up, she told herself. See for yourself.
Norm Fredman obligingly pushed the journal across the desk. “That highlighted passage, there.”
There was a partial eclipse, like the gods were trying to tell me something. I collected from the stud and inseminated Judgment right on the spot, the way they used to do it in the old days before they added all these newfangled antibiotics. Danny Boy would have a heart attack if he knew.
She read it, reread it. “It’s not conclusive, though, is it? It’s just some writing in a book. Legally, it wouldn’t stand up in court.” Why was she playing devils’ advocate? She needed that money if Black Oak was to survive.
“But blood-typing will,” Clay said. “I sent to the AQHA for the records on the blood types on Shameless, Something Wicked, and Darkscope. I got them back this morning. Shameless could only come from Something Wicked.”
Dakota tried to digest this.
Shameless wasn’t an imposter. Dan Bolin had almost single-handedly ruined Black Oak, and her father had single-handedly saved it. “You know what this means?” she asked Clay.
“We’ve got our first stakes winner—an All American winner—for the new Black Oak. And with the mares, foals and yearlings you’ll be buying back, and my own horses—
“But the lawsuits—”
“We’ll make it,” Clay said. “Together, we’ll make it.”
And as they walked out into the morning sunlight together, and Dakota drew in a breath of mountain air, she suddenly knew that they would.
Be sure to read J. Carson Black’s Amazon Kindle bestselling Laura Cardinal Series of thrillers: Darkness on the Edge of Town, Dark Side of the Moon, and The Devil’s Hour.
Turn the page to read Pony Rides, the Tucson Weekly Words and Images Award-winning short story by J. Carson Black.
PONY RIDES
J. CARSON BLACK
WRITING AS MARGARET FALK
Between Lordsburg and Deming, New Mexico, Interstate 10 cuts across a land that stretches in sleep like a great tawny lion. There aren't many places to stop for food, gas, or a place to stretch your legs, just a truckstop every now and then.
Across the access road from Slonaker's Texaco, stands a stucco cafe that looks like a child's building block. It's called the Hi-Way Cafe and for a time it did a brisk business, before they put in the new neon mini-city called Truckmasters farther up the freeway. A lot of people stopped at the Hi-Way Cafe because they were too tired and hungry to go on, and some, because the diner's color—chalk pink—grabbed the eye. Years from now, the children who traveled this stretch of freeway will remember the cafe in a different light: it's where a lot of them had their first pony ride.
It had been a slow morning. When the door opened, Joelle looked up with interest. A tiny man in jeans and a work shirt strutted to the counter. He reminded her of a bantam cock as he perched on the stool. "Hamburger and a cup of coffee," he said.
She poured him a cup. "Sure is hot today," she said.
"Yep." He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, then upended the sugar container. A mass of sugar poured out of the stainless steel spout into his cup.
Joelle put on the hamburger. As she scraped the griddle, she could feel him staring at her. She glanced up into the mirrored surface above the grill, her face distorted by the rippled diamond pattern in the metal. Joelle hardly ever looked at herself; one glimpse of her hair, dry as winter grass, and faded blue eyes, and she looked away. Mashing the gray meat with a spatula, she scooped it up, place it on a bun, and set the plate down before the cowboy with a sharp click.
The man hunched over his plate, his attention shifted from Joelle to his meal. His face was ageless and tough, broken in two by a pug nose that barely made it between two close-set, black-currant eyes. He must be a cowboy. He smelled of horses and dust. His shoulders were broad and his trunk wiry, narrowing down to slim hips and legs. "How far's the nearest town?" he asked between bites.
"About twenty miles up the freeway. Deming."
"You live there?"
Joelle nodded to the side door. "Out back."
"Love your work, huh?"
Joelle knew from years of experience that the best thing she could do was let that kind of remark roll off her back. She went over to the table by the window and swiped it with her dishrag. Outside was a big semi rig. She could see animal hides between the slats of the trailer: probably cattle headed for slaughter. The sky was cloudless, and the sun beat down on the parched ground. It must be hot, being cooped up like that.
The cowboy swiveled on his stool. "Hey. You married?"
"No."
"How come?"
"Want more coffee?"
"Never met the right guy, am I right?"
Joelle splashed coffee into his cup. "It's no affair of yours."
"Hey, I'm sorry." He regarded her seriously. "I guess I say the wrong thing sometimes. Don't mean nothing by it." He bent over on the stool, arm outswept in an exaggerated bow. "Please accept my apology, ma'am."
She had to laugh.
"That's better. I like to see a lady laugh. Marriage ain't all it's cracked up to be anyway. I've been married three times myself."
Dennis came to mind. She didn't think about him much anymore, although she saw him near every day. But for just a moment, she saw the handsome boy of seventeen and remembered the way her heart had wanted to stop, just looking at him.
"Last wife soured me for good. Ran off with an engineer. Can you credit losin' out to a guy that sits in an office all day drawing itty bitty pictures of bridges?"
In a minute he'd be telling her the story of his life. She had to get away from the sound of his voice. "Excuse me," she said, taking a roll of paper towels from under the sink. "I have to clean the mirrors in the Ladies." Before she closed the restroom door, Joelle heard him say, "Imagine that. An engineer. Say, you get cable out here?"
Dennis was going to be a NASCAR driver. At seventeen, Joelle knew their love was absolute; it would overcome parental objections, money problems, limited education. One night in May, 1978, they left Benson, Arizona, and headed for El Paso. They had a total of $276.53—Dennis' last paycheck from the Quik Mart—a beat-up '66 Plymouth, and dreams that would go a long way beyond the pin-prick stars overhead.
The Plymouth broke down halfway between Lordsburg and Deming. Joelle was coming down with the flu and as the sun rose higher in the sky and no one stopped to help, the lover's tryst turned into a nightmare.
They walked along the highway until they came to a pink adobe cafe shaded by a cottonwood tree. Joelle balked. She was feeling sicker by the minute and would go no farther.
The cafe owner, Mrs. Rucker, let Joelle lie down in her trailer. Dennis said he would go to the Texaco across the way and get the parts he needed for the car.
The same day her father came to pick her up. As they pulled away she looked back and saw Dennis standing there, looking guilty. She leaned across the car seat and rolled down the window. "You traitor!" she cried, the tears running down her cheeks.
It was her first experience with pragmatism.
As time went by, Joelle realized that Dennis was just looking out for her best interests. She had been sick, and he'
d wanted her to have the best care. Now that she was well, of course he'd take her back.
They had been on their way to El Paso, where a friend of a friend had a garage and also raced the stock car circuit. Dennis wanted to work for him, get to know the business. Sooner or later someone would see how good he was and would bankroll him to race. He shouldn't be hard to find.
Joelle worked and saved money, bought bus fare to El Paso. No one had ever heard of Dennis Taylor.
"You might try Fort Worth. They're having their big race next month," one mechanic told her. He torqued a nut on the battery hold-down of the Chevy he was working on, then paused to look at her. "A pretty girl like you shouldn't have to go chasing a guy. Why don't you go home and meet some nice young fella and settle down?"
Joelle went to Fort Worth. A week later, tired and discouraged, she started home on the last of her savings.
The bus stopped for lunch at the Hi-Way Cafe, where she and Dennis had parted company months before. Joelle went to thank Mrs. Rucker for her past kindness.
"That's a nice young man you used to go with," Mrs. Rucker said as she rearranged the condiments on the counter. "Bill Slonaker's mighty pleased."
"What do you mean?" asked Joelle.
"I thought you knew. He works at Slonaker's Texaco."
Joelle's mouth went dry.
Mrs. Rucker gave her a sad-sweet smile. "Say. I'm pretty short-handed around here. If you don't mind waitressing . . ."
Five minutes later, Joelle stood in the garage bay across the road and waited for the pair of legs under the Camaro to realize she was there. "Dennis, it's me. Joelle."
Dennis rolled out from under the car.
"I went all the way to Fort Worth looking for you and you were here all along . . ." Her words trailed away as she saw the expression on his face.
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