As she walked, tears gathered but she blinked them away. She wouldn’t fall apart now. She’d do what had to be done. Carl had shared her dream. He’d loved what they did here at the ranch daily: giving kids a chance to be kids again. He would have expected her to fight to keep it alive.
One way or another she’d see to it that Sitting Tall Ranch weathered the approaching storm.
Chapter Three
Preston considered the information he’d already gathered while the medical examiner worked. At first glance it had looked like an accident, a trampling death, but there were some inconsistencies. The wound to the back of the victim’s skull showed no trace of sand, something sure to have been left by a horse’s hoof, especially in this churned-up stall.
There also weren’t any deep impressions or hoof marks near the body that would indicate the vic had been trampled. In fact, the only fresh prints near the body appeared to be from the vic’s own boots.
He’d seen plenty of cowboys injured by horses at rodeos, but the way Carl’s body lay seemed posed somehow. A cowboy kicked by a horse usually landed askew, not neatly on his face with arms laid out flat by his side. The fact that someone else had been on the premises and had attacked Abby, then tried to run her down, supported the likelihood of foul play.
That’s when he’d taken another look at the ground by the body and discovered that someone had methodically obliterated the footprints along a strip of ground leading to and from the enclosure’s gate. It had been skillfully done, but Preston was an experienced tracker and had spotted the signs.
Dr. Joanna Medina glanced up from the body. She was in her late fifties, with short silver hair and blue eyes that looked world weary and a little sad.
“You were right. This wasn’t an accident. The wound on his head appears to have come from a blunt object. There’s a second bruise on his chest, too. It’s elongated, as if made by a stick or shovel.” Joanna stood and handed him a clear plastic evidence bag. “Here’s everything I found in the vic’s pockets.”
“Do you have a time of death for me?”
“All the markers tell me he died last night between nine and midnight.”
As she prepared the body for transport, Preston, still wearing gloves to avoid fingerprint contamination, studied the vic’s possessions. There was a small notepad with feeding schedules, a ranch staff ID and a wallet with five bucks but no driver’s license. Because there was no metro bus service and only one cab company around, it was unusual for locals not to have a license. He’d ask Abby about it.
As he walked back, Preston glanced over at the parking area and saw that the ranch’s staff was starting to arrive. They all wore dark blue T-shirts with a special logo. Yet the animal handler was wearing a plaid shirt.
The door to Abby’s office was partially open, and as he approached he felt a touch of cool air coming from inside. Preston stepped into the room, and Abby, who’d been sitting on the sofa next to the Navajo boy, came to meet him.
Now that he finally had a chance to take a closer, leisurely look at her, he realized that Abby Langdon was a stunner, with shoulder-length honey-brown hair and big hazel eyes. The loose clothing she wore didn’t hide the fact that she had curves in all the right places.
“Did you figure out what happened?” Abby asked.
He shook his head. “It’s much too soon for that, but I’ve got some more questions for you.” Even as he spoke, he saw her expression turn from hopeful to disappointed. He softened his tone. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, but these things take time. All I can tell you is that it wasn’t an accident.”
The color drained from her face. “This couldn’t have had anything to do with our ranch. It has to be random…craziness.”
“What do you know about the deceased?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “You think Carl provoked this somehow? But that just can’t be. He was a gentle man. He caught spiders and relocated rather than killed them.”
“Relax. I’m just gathering information,” he said.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Sorry.”
He saw her lips tremble but she quickly brought herself under control and turned her head to smile at Bobby.
Preston liked her. It was a purely instinctive reaction, but he trusted his gut. Just past those beautiful hazel eyes and that shaky smile beat the heart of a warrior. Yet hers was a gentle toughness.
The boy rose to his feet and came over. “I’m Bobby Neskahi,” he said. Honoring Navajo ways, he didn’t offer to shake hands. “I knew…him,” he said, avoiding the name of the deceased, also according to Navajo custom. “Probably better than almost anyone,” he added.
Preston wondered if the kid had been raised a traditionalist or was simply showing him the proper cultural respect.
“I’m Diné,” Bobby said.
“We both are,” Preston said, trying not to smile. Diné meant The People and signified those of the Navajo tribe.
Bobby moved back to the couch, and as he walked, Preston realized that the kid was no stranger to pain.
“Can we talk alone—Navajo to Navajo?” Bobby asked.
“Of course,” Preston said, then looked at Abby.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said, giving Preston a wary look.
“We’ll keep it informal, not official.” At her hesitation, he met her gaze. Looking someone in the eye was considered rude inside the Navajo Nation, but he’d learned over the years that those outside the tribe found it a sign of honesty, not disrespect. Though it hadn’t come naturally to him, over time he’d adapted to the custom.
“Okay, but I’m staying right outside.”
As Abby left, Preston sat down on the couch and gestured with a nod for Bobby to do the same. “Abby told me that you were the one who found the body this morning,” Preston said.
He nodded and swallowed hard. “Yeah, but I stuck to the rule of three.”
“I know,” Preston said. “So tell me, Bobby, how well did you know the ranch’s animal trainer?”
“Do you want me to avoid using his name or not?” Bobby asked. “I wasn’t raised on the Rez but I don’t want you to think I don’t know any better.”
“It’s safe to use his name. I’m a police officer, so I’m a modernist.”
“Mrs. Nez has been teaching me about our ways. She says modernists are like apples—red on the outside and white on the inside.”
Preston laughed. It was an old saying, and he had a feeling Bobby was testing him. “I’ve heard it all, kid.” He gazed into Bobby’s hard brown eyes and for a moment saw a glimpse of himself at that age. He’d been so afraid to show vulnerability. The world was seldom kind to those perceived as weak. That
