is it with women and horses?) Enclosed is information on something she’s worked up about. Feds being stupid, saying they’re protecting wildlife when they’re really wanting to shoot horses somewhere in New Mexico. Your involvement would help. Though not really a priority to me, it is for my wife, so I’d appreciate you doing something to give this organization some traction. That’ll go a long way toward making the little lady happy and getting her off my back. My man will be in touch. You can count on my support when you need it. Keep up the good work.
The page was laid alongside another, the top of which held the banner, “Action Alert, Wild Horse and Burro Babes,” and below it, “Stop the killing of wild horses in Piedras Coloradas National Monument.” With an illegible flourish of a signature on the first page, both were folded, then stuffed into an envelope, marked personal, and addressed to an occupant of the Hart Senate Office Building, Constitution Avenue, Washington, D.C.
—·—
Days later. Cannon House Office Building, Independence Avenue, Washington, D.C.
Congressman Brent Hoff closed the file on his latest polling numbers. Not bad. Not bad at all. If advisors are correct, they’ll get even better.
Coat off, he sat back and ran his fingers through blond, wavy hair. The numbers supported everything advisors had told him so far. He opened a second file, and read the list of issues projected to get him through the primaries to secure the party’s nomination. After that, the general election, and the rules would change. For now, the focus had to be on this list. At the top: perceived government overreach.
Hoff heard a knock at the door. He looked up from the page.
“How was your trip?” asked an aide, standing in the darkened hallway, loosening his tie.
“Productive. What’s up?”
“We’re getting emails, Congressman.” He stepped inside and gave a stroke to his beard, pulling at the dark brown lines framing his chin. “Constituents. Well . . . not constituents, donors. Major donors. Unfortunately, I don’t like the issue. It could be trouble.”
“How so?” Hoff dropped his eyes back to the list.
“They want us involved in an issue in New Mexico. It concerns a rancher grazing on public land, refusing to pay his fees. He says he doesn’t recognize the authority of the Bureau of Land Management, or any fed, for that matter. Suffice it to say, the agency claims his cattle are in trespass. Courts agree. BLM plans a round-up, intending to sell his cattle at auction to cover fees and fines. Meanwhile, this guy’s being called a hero for standing up to the feds.”
Hoff closed the file and pushed it aside. “Interesting.”
“Yeah, but it’s complicated. By horses. Wild ones, which BLM wants to shoot or capture. That has horse lovers up in arms, pointing at the rancher, saying get rid of his cattle, that everything would be fine if his cattle were gone.”
Hoff smiled. “So why do you think it’d be trouble?”
“First, the rancher hasn’t paid grazing fees in years. He makes lots of noise, justifying his actions, but bottom line, suffice it to say . . . he’s a freeloader. Other ranchers pay their fees. He doesn’t. Second, the agency’s caught in the middle, between horse lovers and this Manson character. Third, it’s not your state. You’d be sticking your nose in another delegation’s business.”
“Interesting take on things, Alex.” Hoff sat back and rested his hands behind his head. “Are you aware the Senate may take up legislation on this issue?”
“To do what?”
“Make horses priority.” Hoff shook his head in disgust. “Someone’s calling in favors. Pulling strings. The little guy loses.” Hoff turned and stared out the window, first at the capitol dome, then at the marble-clad wing of the Senate. “I won’t bore you with my usual diatribe, but this country has problems. Real ones. Across the way, the Senate’s playing games, messing with horses.”
“You’re sure?”
“I heard it this morning. Chatter before conference committee. Talk of putting staff on it.” He leaned over his hands. “This rancher . . . Manson. He may need our help.”
“That’s not a good idea, Brent. He’s everything you’ve worked against, your whole legislative career. He’s a welfare case.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Making him a hero might serve the greater good. We might need a poster boy to drive the upcoming election. At least for our base.”
“He’d be a distraction, Brent. I can’t risk letting you crash and burn over something that could turn into an ugly fight.” He sighed. “You’ve got too much to offer. I can’t let you jeopardize your chances. Not on this. If a partisan fight, hell, I’d push you to do it, but that’s not what this is.”
“Do not worry.”
“Horse lovers . . . they’re passionate. In a mud fight it’s hard not to get dirty.”
Hoff laughed, and set his hands on his cherry wood desk. “Alex, let’s talk horses. Metaphorically speaking.” He waved his aide to a chair.
Alex Trasker sat, his lanky frame sprawled in the chair. A cocky smile grew on his face, as if he knew which story he was about to hear.
“Remember Lady Godiva?” Hoff waited for a nod. “Her horse did the work. Carried her all over town, but who remembers the nag’s name? Do you?” He paused and awaited a response. Seeing none, he continued. “Thought so. That’s because Godiva took the risks. Not the horse. Godiva. She was the one with the cause.” Hoff paused and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Not a criticism, Alex, just a metaphor. You are my most trusted aide. Like Godiva’s horse, you do the work. All of it on some issues. But like Godiva, I’m the one with the cause. The one who moves causes forward. Important causes. To do that, I have to be willing to take some risks.”
Trasker sighed and stroked his beard. “But, this cause is . . .”
The congressman cut him off. “Alex . . . remember, I’m taking the risks. I’m Godiva. You’re Godiva’s horse.”
Chapter
2
Scattered clouds gathered over parched earth. For two years, they gathered but brought no rain or snow. Nothing. Not here. The headwaters of the river saw plenty of snow, but clouds passed by the high desert and plateaus of northern New Mexico, waiting to reach Colorado before releasing their moisture. The dusty range held little for deer, pronghorn, cattle, horses, or any surviving animal. Those that remained stripped the land of leaf and stem. If they could jump the fences in search of food, they had done so long before now. If their search brought them here, they had put themselves on the wrong piece of range.
Year one brought concern. Year two, panic. Most ranchers gathered their stock and took them to pasture elsewhere, or sold them to wait out the drought. The animals remaining picked at desert scrub, searching for anything that could provide a little energy.
Cumulus clouds floated over the plateau, somehow appearing a little more numerous, a little taller, a little bluer along the edges, but the cloud cover was
