Dang Near Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

Six

We approached the corrals. A skinny cowboy perched on the top fence rail with his legs bowed around a post. His Stetson dwarfed his head.

“Welcome, folks. I’m Monty Malone. I worked rodeos afore Ranger Travis said I oughta work here.” He pointed to the lanky, big-shouldered cowboy inside the corral whose hat didn’t quite shade his chiseled face. When the rugged cowboy tipped his hat above his six-foot-four frame, the girls murmured. His half-shy grin and thick lashes stirred even my stomach. Ranger Travis might be the cowboy Vicki hated to leave.

When Ranger looked at Vicki, his grin widened. She stared pointedly at the horses. Monty watched their exchange with a satisfied expression before he shimmied down from the fence. I sidled his way in case he made any interesting observations.

Ranger started his spiel about the horses. About that time, Bertha sauntered up. As she watched Ranger, her face softened and her eyes grew round.

“We have thirty-five horses in this corral,” Ranger said. “You can ride most of them, but we keep a few back for ranch hands. We’ll match you with the best horse for you. They’re all gentle, but some of ’em have quirks. Some don’t like halters, like Scooter over there.”

He gestured to a dapple-gray mare with a black pigmented circle around one eye. The sun probably reflected differently off that circle from the way it bounced off gray skin around the mare’s other eye. Scooter probably saw things differently from each eye: with a halter coming toward her, she might perceive a misshapen foreign object that looked monstrous.

“Some of these horses,” Ranger continued, “will take off if you dismount and let the reins drag the ground. You can wrap the end of the reins around the saddle horn or, better still, hand them to a wrangler. Another thing, when you’re trying to get on a horse, make sure you mount from the correct side.”

Ranger should have specified which side of the horse he meant. Millie’s eyes were like saucers.

“Sassy over there”—Monty pointed at a short, stocky mare with a stiff mane flopping around flinty eyes—“she blows up like a balloon when she’s cinched.”

“Then what happens?” Millie asked.

“You get on and start goin’ good,” Monty said. “Then Sassy farts the air out. All of a sudden, the saddle’s not cinched tight enough to stay on her. You slip off sideways with the saddle.” He slapped his knee and guffawed.

Millie turned pale.

A big-boned black horse ambled toward the fence where she stood outside the corral.

“Don’t feed that one,” Monty said. “He bites.” Millie jumped back two feet. Sam chuckled.

“Yeah,” Monty added, “and don’t ever rein Dime too hard or he’ll pitch you in the dirt.”

“Which one is Dime?” Millie squeaked.

“That paint horse over there.” He pointed to a horse that looked like somebody had doused him with cans of brown and white paint.

Ranger shot Monty a stern look. “Don’t mind him. He gets a kick out of hasslin’ new riders.”

Monty pouted.

“We’ll catch your horses for you,” Ranger said. “It’s not a good idea to walk in here among ’em. If they’re not sure what’s coming up behind ’em, they might spook.”

“Spook,” Millie said. “You mean snort and look wild, like they do now?”

Monty gestured toward a tall horse and muttered to Millie under his breath, “You come up behind Marbach—that brown gelding over there that’s sixteen hands high—he’ll kick the crap outta ya.”

Millie’s hands started shaking. Horses plodded aimlessly inside the corral.

“They’re just milling around,” Ranger said. “They sense you’re new people and think they’re going to be ridden.”

The women cringed outside the fence. Sam winked at Meredith.

“We’ll start slow,” Ranger said, “until we’re all real comfortable. For riders who learn to ride good enough to go on the trail ride”—he eyed each woman, including me—“I’ll make something special for you. A souvenir of the ranch.” He lifted a multi-strand ring of wire. At first, I thought it was barbed wire, but it was thin and without barbs.

“Since we use a lot of wire on this ranch, I decided to make things with it. I can’t sing country western, so I do this.” Ranger moseyed over to a cardboard box, swaggering like Clint Eastwood. He hummed Brooks and Dunn’s “A Man This Lonely” while he pulled wire sculptures attached to wooden bases out of the box. I recognized one creature as an armadillo. The other sculpture was a bald eagle landing. Ranger’s wire creations were amazingly lifelike.

The women tittered, except for Vicki. A cowboy built like a fullback who had an artistic side had probably appeared in most of their dreams.

“Ain’t he great?” whispered Monty, keeping his voice low. George Tensel gave Monty a look of appraisal.

“I usually like horses better’n people,” Monty said, “’cept fer Ranger. When I worked that rodeo circuit, I was sleepin’ in one stall and shovelin’ out the rest when Ranger come along.” Monty peered at me from under his hat. “I hope you don’t mind my talkin’,” he said. “We ain’t had many guests for a while.”

“I understand. I enjoy listening.”

Ranger passed his sculptures around for everyone to admire.

“This job is better than the rodeo circuit?” I asked Monty.

“Best job I ever had. When Ranger said he needed a wrangler at this here ranch, I jumped at the chance. I’ve done ever’ thing from dodging snakes to shoveling shit. This job is easy: no traveling…steady work…having one boss—well, two, countin’ Bertha Sampson. It beats having ever’ cowboy and rancher in a hunnert miles telling you what to do.”

He lowered his voice. “I’m not countin’ Bertha’s assistant as my boss. Vicki’s nothin’ but a citified twit. Beats me why Ranger cain’t see it. Ever time Ranger eyeballs Vicki, ole Bertha expands like a blowfish. It’s obvious the old bag has the hots for Ranger. If Ranger don’t quit chasin’ after Vicki, he’s liable to lose his job and mine along with it. That snippy girl needs to get lost.”

I didn’t think Vicki was one bit interested in Ranger. She was probably contemplating her best time to escape.

Sam and Meredith, bored with Ranger and his sculptures, strolled over toward Monty and me. I told Monty how much Sam loved horses and dude ranches so Monty would keep talking.

“When Ranger offered me this job, I told him right off about getting drunk and hurtin’ that twerp,” Monty said.

My ears perked up. Sam moved closer.

“They said I hurt the guy pretty bad, but I don’t remember nuthin’,” Monty said. “Ranger said ever-body makes mistakes. He gave me this here job in spite of everythin’.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You recently hurt somebody in a fight?”

“Aw, no. It was a long time ago. Probly ten years. That feller’s bound to be healed up by now.”

Sam studied Monty and didn’t reply. I glanced up in time to see Ranger smile seductively at Vicki. Bertha frowned.

“Come on, everybody. Time to go to the firing range,” Vicki said. “Thank the wranglers.” She started the group clapping, let them pass by her and pointed them toward the next stop.

Monty caught up to George Tensel and started chattering. I guess Monty figured he’d worn the rest of us out. George was probably ready to listen to anybody who didn’t talk about conservation or nag him to exercise.

“You go on ahead,” I told Meredith and Sam. I was convinced Vicki needed someone to talk to. My feet had started itching ferociously. I wanted to know what Vicki thought about Ranger Travis. I caught up to her and walked alongside. “That wrangler’s really handsome,” I said. “Talented, too.”

She shrugged. “Ranger’s good looking, but he’s all show. Bertha makes a fool of herself drooling over him in his skin-tight jeans. If he flirts with me, she always seems to notice. Monty doesn’t like Ranger paying attention to me either. He’s not about to let anybody get near his meal ticket. I finally had to tell Ranger to buzz off. He looked mad enough to stomp me with his horse. Monty needs to quit worrying about my latching onto Ranger Travis. I want somebody with brains.”

Vicki didn’t seem to be interested in anybody at the ranch. She and brother Trey were at odds. She didn’t like Ranger, and Monty didn’t like her. Bertha was usually mad at her. There must be somebody she cared about, somebody she hated to leave. I just hadn’t met him yet.

“Who’s in charge of the firing range?”

“Wayne Rickoff,” she said. “He’s a Vietnam vet who spent time in a Wisconsin VA hospital. Once, before shotgun class started, I caught him aiming at one of the horses, then at Ranger. When he saw me looking at him, he whirled and put me in his gun sight. He lowered the gun right away, but he had a wild look in his eyes. He gives me the creeps. What’d I ever do to him?”

“When your boyfriend took you to the rodeos in Wisconsin, did you see a lot of angry vets?”

“Not too many. Some of the older vets, maybe in their forties, seemed especially angry. I was told they’d served in Vietnam.”

Since when was forty old? Vicki was too young to remember, so I told her what it was like for soldiers in Vietnam. “When they came back from combat, many soldiers felt the war provided no resolution of conflict for anyone. Regardless of how they’d responded, the outcome seemed to be an endless stream of casualties with no results. And people booed the returning soldiers.”

“Wow. No wonder they were angry.”

“Yes. Regardless of how hard they’d worked, sweated, bled, or how many friends they’d seen die, the outcome was the same. Our GIs were constantly rocketed or mortared, but felt they gained no ground. When they returned to the US, they’d try to put together some positive resolution for that time in their lives. But they found very little support from friends and neighbors at home.”

“I know that feeling,” she said.

“I’d see Vietnam veterans at the bank where I worked in Chicago,” I said. “They looked depressed, hopeless, angry. Some were irritable and easily startled. They’d have sudden outbursts of anger. The war affected many of them that way, either from what they’d seen or personally experienced. I read about post-traumatic stress disorder so I’d know how to relate to them.”

“When Rickoff pointed his gun at me,” she said, “he looked like he was ready to attack.”

“He might have hallucinated you and Ranger were enemies, that you were Viet Cong. That’s a symptom of PTSD: trauma they experienced in the war comes back, triggered by some unforeseeable event or person, and they’re ready to fight again.”

“What awful symptoms to live with,” she said. “I hope that’s not what Wayne Rickoff is going through.”

“So do I.”

Vicki definitely had a kind heart. But she didn’t seem to have a single reason to stay at this ranch. With all the animosity floating around, I wondered if we should leave. Two unexplained deaths had occurred here, Vicki’s doping brother was trying to steal from her, and she was desperate to escape. Monty had hurt somebody during a drunken brawl. Wayne Rickoff was an unpredictable war veteran who might suffer from PTSD and randomly pointed his gun at people. If I told Sam about Rickoff’s gun incident, Sam would have Meredith and me packed up and back on the highway in thirty minutes.

I’d counted on this vacation. Sam needed more time to heal. We needed time together without a crime to solve and a slew of cops and suspects around. We needed just enough time together. Not too much time. After my ghastly experience with Lester, I had mixed feelings about everything, including sex. Being loved (or so I thought) and left by Lester had affected so many people: me, Sam, his wife Katy, the child.

If I could help Vicki, maybe she wouldn’t flee. I knew from experience, after Lester took off, that merely running away wouldn’t help. Instead, I had worked my way up to bank vice-president and earned a business degree at night. But I was desperate to leave my boring job and Chicago’s lousy winters.

When I moved to San Antonio, I was financially secure for the first time. Free to live anywhere. And young enough to start over. When San Antonio’s
Flash-News
said they’d run “Stay Young with Aggie,” that cinched it.

I had thought, when we are all together in Chicago, that I’d begun falling in love with Sam. Single and thirty-nine, it was time for me to go to Texas and find out.

Now, we had the chance to become reacquainted on vacation. Despite conflicts at the ranch, I decided to wait awhile before telling Sam everything I knew.

Seven

Vicki turned our group around and led us back past the stables. We walked so far, we couldn’t even hear the horses. I guessed the shooting range had to be a good distance from the ranch’s populated areas in case somebody fired in the wrong direction.

My watch showed it was approaching five o’clock. Scorching sun seared the back of my neck. My dry mouth told me the temperature must be mid-ninety.

George and Selma Tensel padded behind Vicki. Selma periodically pointed out cenizo, black brush or a red yucca plant.

“Who cares about plants?” George said. “I need air conditioning, a cold shower and a beer.”

Our suitemates walked behind Selma and George. Jangles waddled and puffed with sweat dripping down the back of her neck. The Texas rhinestones covering her toes were dirt brown. Stoney strode with by-god determination, whacking mosquitoes. Nobody’d remembered to bring bug spray.

Millie looked despondent. I heard her talking to herself. “I haven’t seen one activity that looks safe.”

Sam, Meredith, and I walked far enough behind everybody to avoid their dust. Sam craned his neck around Meredith to peer at me. He raised an eyebrow: “Are we having fun yet?”

I wrinkled my nose at him and kept walking. I’d cajoled him into coming to the ranch by hinting that, although a dude ranch didn’t appear to be dangerous, two unarmed women traveling alone might need protection in the middle of eighteen hundred remote acres. He couldn’t resist my logic. I hoped my lame excuse didn’t prove true.

When the firing range came into view, Vicki turned around and walked backward, gesturing behind her. “This is where we learn to trap shoot. We fire shotguns at moving clay targets as though we’re firing at game birds. Our instructor, Wayne Rickoff, is a Vietnam veteran and crack shot who wins skeet shooting competitions.”

Vicki obviously couldn’t reveal more about Rickoff, or her charges would scatter like mice. I didn’t know his entire history, yet I couldn’t help but feel apprehensive.

We moved toward an area ringed with benches in a half circle. Off in the distance, waist-high tripods placed thirty feet apart held round four-foot-diameter targets. Rickoff stood with one foot on a bench, a shotgun resting across his thigh, and stared glumly at our dusty herd of approaching novices.

“This is Captain Wayne Rickoff,” Vicki announced. He nodded. No change of expression. “Monty’s setting up the trap machine,” Rickoff said. “I’ll show you how to hit those bulls-eyes out there.

“Cover your ears.”

He took his stance, aiming at the round, padded targets. They were painted with concentric rings in different colors with red bulls-eyes in the center. Rickoff fired shots at each target and moved to the next. When he was through, each bulls-eye had fresh holes torn through its center.

Sam muttered under his breath. “Damn.”

“Can you do that?” I asked.

“Not that well. Not without practice.”

Goosebumps raced across the back of my neck. If Sam grew worried, I’d freak out.

Rickoff continued shooting. We saw Monty way off in the distance to the right.

A new man sauntered up to our group. He wore earphones under his cowboy hat and had his face painted like a clown.
Ranch guests turned to look at him. When the barrage finally stopped, Vicki introduced him. “This is Sunny Barlow, camp cook and singer.” Her delivery was more animated than usual. Barlow smiled and welcomed everyone to the ranch.

“Sometimes I clown at rodeos,” he said, “and occasionally, I clown for kids. Hope you don’t mind my wearing clown makeup here at the ranch.” We all shook our heads. He exuded charm.

“It takes a while to put the face paint on,” he said. “Sometimes I get last-minute calls. This way I’m ready to go.”

We nodded. When Sunny Barlow smiled, you couldn’t help but smile back. I squelched the urge to go over and hug him.

“I like to watch Rickoff shoot,” Sunny said. He nodded to Vicki, stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to watch the show.

When Jangles maneuvered closer to him, he lifted one earbud. “You’re going to cook dinner?” she asked. “Tonight? On a campfire?”         

“That’s right. It’ll be cooling down soon. Sunset should be beautiful.”

“You’re the one who sings, too?” Millie inched toward Sunny in her first spontaneous move since she’d leaped onto the cabin table.

“That’s me.” His clown smile grew wider. He had the kindest eyes. I wondered if Vicki knew if there was some other reason he wore a disguise.

Rickoff stood with his gun shouldered. “Y’all want to see this trap shooting or not?” he barked. In the distance, Monty had worked his way into position, ready to start the trap machine.

Rickoff turned toward him.

“Pull,” he yelled. Monty yanked a lever. A clay target shot high in the sky and arced to the left. Rickoff blasted it to smithereens. He shouted again, “Pull!”

The bombardment continued for five or six volleys until Rickoff yelled “Pull,” and nothing happened.

“Dang thing’s broken again,” Monty yelled. Rickoff cursed.

“I brought some minis just in case,” Monty shouted. “I’ll throw ’em up fer ya.”

At Rickoff’s command, Monty threw up three smaller clay targets in succession. Rickoff pulverized them.

I heard Jangles whisper to Stoney, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom. It’s too far to walk back to the cabin.”

“Go out there in the bushes,” Stoney murmured, “way back behind us. Get far enough away so you can’t see us.”

“I couldn’t possibly...”

“Nobody can hear a thing. Give me those bracelets. I’ll watch where you walk and mark your direction.”

Jangles slipped off her trinkets, handed them to Stoney and headed for the brush. The women instinctively closed rank with our backs to her so the men wouldn’t see her leave.

“Pull!” Rickoff shouted. Monty threw up a clay target, and Rickoff blasted it. They repeated the stunt for a good ten minutes. My ears rang. I was amazed at Monty’s ability to toss clay disks in the right place, time after time, and in Rickoff’s ability to annihilate them.

A cool breeze blew through our ranks. Sam sidled close. “It’s great sharing my vacation with a crazed sharpshooter.” He winked at me. At least his sense of humor had returned. If he knew the veteran’s whole story, he wouldn’t be joking.

Rickoff turned to reload. He was apparently going to impress us with another feat.

Monty came loping up. “I’m out of minis. I’ll get more in town later.” Rickoff looked disgusted. He probably could’ve shot all day.

Somebody screamed.

Rickoff and Monty leaped backward. “A snake!” someone screeched.

Monty zoomed to the nearest fence and sprang to the top in one jump.

Rickoff fired his gun over our heads.

Jangles crashed out of the bushes and came stumbling toward us, pulling up orange gauze bottoms.

“Somebody’s shooting at me,” she shrieked. The flimsy fabric on her flailing arms snagged every bush she passed.

Sunny Barlow stood closest to Rickoff. Millie, intrigued by Sunny, had managed to inch up beside him. A red, yellow and black snake slithered two feet in front of them.

Rickoff aimed at the reptile. He looked like he was about to pull the trigger when Millie whimpered, fainted, and fell on top of the snake. Its head poked out from under Millie’s rib cage. We froze, terrified it would bite her. It wriggled out from underneath her and slithered toward the brush.

“Let’s get her up,” Sam said. He and Sunny pried Millie’s limp form off the dirt and hoisted her to her feet. Supporting her dead weight between them, they maneuvered her back toward the road, trying not to wake her up until they could distance her from where she’d collapsed on the crawler.

Jangles struggled to pull up her gauzy pants. She stared at the spot where the snake was last seen and started to hyperventilate. Stoney ripped shredded fabric from Jangles’ mangled sleeves and fanned her with it.

“It’s going to be okay,” Stoney said. “Take a real deep breath. That’s it. Let it out slow.”

“Dang it all,” said Rickoff, “I hate coral snakes.” He scratched his head and squinted. “Coulda been a scarlet king.”

Everybody whirled and started walking at a good clip toward the lodge.

Curse words spewed from the men. Thoroughly shaken, Meredith and I tried to catch up.

Sam and Sunny were still holding up Millie. She was regaining consciousness when Jangles and Stoney overtook them.

“Thank you, guys,” Jangles said, red-faced, with shredded clothes and blackened feet. “We’ll take care of her.” She and Stoney got on either side of Millie. “She’ll be all right, won’t you, Mill?” Jangles said.

“Just an accident,” Stoney said. Millie nodded, her jaw slack.

“This is outrageous,” Selma said.

Stony and Jangles talked into Millie’s ears so she couldn’t hear the others discuss what had happened.

“They should capture these snakes and put them in a zoo where they belong,” Selma huffed. “They’re not supposed to be out here scaring people to death.”

“They live here, Selma. It’s their habitat,” George blared.

“Shut up, George.” Selma stomped ahead. “If you’d been as close as I was to that slimy creature, you’d have died of a heart attack.”

“I can’t believe this happened,” Vicki said. “I haven’t seen a snake the whole time I’ve been here.” Jangles and Stoney kept talking to Millie while we trudged through the heat. Sunny starting singing Reba McIntire’s “How Was I to Know?” By the time he finished the song, everybody had grown quiet except Vicki.

“I’m in charge of you guys,” she said. “I’m supposed to make sure we’re always standing in a cleared area. We were in a cleared area. I don’t know why the stupid snake was even there. Bertha’s liable to fire me on the spot.”

I insisted what happened wasn’t her fault, but she peeled off on a side path with her head hanging. “I’d better go to the lodge to make sure everything’s ready for tonight’s barbecue.”

Sunny Barlow watched her go. He’d already removed his ear protectors. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through black curly hair. “Let’s not mention what just happened to Bertha…okay, everybody? We might get Vicki fired,” he said. “Nobody wants that.”

We might not have heeded his plea, except for his winsome smile. Who can resist a clown? Several people mumbled, but I thought they’d keep quiet about the incident, at least for a while. The heat and snake had sapped the fight out of them.

Vicki was succeeding at the ranch, despite having made enemies, but her luck couldn’t get much worse. Her lousy brother saw her as a meal ticket.

He apparently wanted to demean her to their parents and steal her trust fund. Bertha fussed at her, and Ranger Travis and George Tensel leered at her. Sunny Barlow seemed to be the only person at the ranch who gave a flip about the girl.

Vicki was trying to find herself, like me at her age. I had believed Lester and I truly loved each other. Until he took off. When Aunt Novena and Uncle Charlie died, I was eighteen with no place to go. Sam and Katy Vanderhoven were wonderful, but they didn’t know what had happened with Lester. I’d been deserted. Katy was the only one who knew about the baby. When I told her, all our lives changed.

I understood why Vicki felt the need to disappear. And now this snake incident. In the pit of my stomach, sadness and unease welled up for Vicki Landsdale.

Our prospects for a peaceful vacation didn’t look promising.