Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
ELIZA
ONE WEEK LATER
“Not one drop of blood,” Frank says, the creases in his forehead deepening.
I cover my mouth with a handkerchief, staring down at the bloated body of the bull.
My ranch hand kneels next to the dead mass. Then he looks up at me. “Makes no sense, Liza. You know this as well as I do…” He pauses, shaking his head, searching for the words lost somewhere against the heavy press of the noonday air.
Flies buzz angrily around us, but none will land on the buffet before us. And there are no signs of predation or scavenging.
Frank stands abruptly, wheeling back around with his hands on his hips. “If I had to say, I’d guess that’s at least a week old. Blood should be pooled at the bottom, coagulated.”
A breeze blows lazily between us. I hit at a fly dancing around my head. But not one lands on the carcass. And its coat is downright glossy. I can’t believe my eyes.
“Nothing. Not one damn drop.”
“You keep saying that,” I reply too quickly, breath coming faster now.
The distant Starborn Range lies thick with cloud and mist. How weather patterns can survive through the heat of July in Nevada, I’ll never know.
But they’re always there. Hovering. Threatening.
Today, it’s almost like the mountains sing across the valley. The sound presses into me, familiar… and for a second, I swear I’m not alone in it.
Today, I’d give anything for them to deliver on their promise, break forth and drench us in cooling rain. Rain that heals the land and washes away things that can’t be explained.
I dismount and draw closer, eyes narrowing. My insides twist, and my voice comes out all wrong, shaky. “There has to be an explanation.”
“You know well as I do there ain’t… from doctoring animals.” Frank pauses for a moment, swatting at one of the many flies swarming us.
“So what is this then?” I ask, talking with my hands now. “Supernatural? For God’s sake, Frank—”
I pause, let out a sharp sigh. “Just because we don’t have an explanation doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“What? You mean like pranksters with five-gallon buckets? You have any idea how much each bucket would weigh? And then not to spill even one drop?”
“But what’s the alternative?” I hiss, feeling my normal cool evaporate.
“Missing tongue and testicles.”
Frank shifts uneasily. After a long pause, he adds, “Maybe other organs, too, by the looks of it—”
I press the handkerchief to my mouth, going clammy at the description and the sight.
“Laser-precise incisions.” Frank removes his hat and runs a hand through his thinning gray hair. His handlebar mustache twitches, and he twirls one curled edge around his finger.
“I should call the sheriff,” I say, unable to pull my eyes away from the perfect lacerations, burned at the edges.
Frank paces back and forth next to me. “Knew something felt off with that last big storm. The way the mountains sang across the valley. Like things were waking up that shouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun. “What could the mountains possibly have to do with this?”
“You know,” he grunts with a frown. “The thing none of us are supposed to talk about.” He lets the words drift off with his thoughts.
“Until they start killing cattle.” I pull my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans, walking upwind of the body.
Not because it stinks, but because it doesn’t.
“Who you calling?” Frank asks, stepping toward me.
“The authorities,” I say, covering the speaker with my hand.
“As in?” He furrows his brow.
“Sheriff Cullen.”
I raise a hand when dispatch answers, reporting my location and the incident. Frank shakes his head, face going sour.
He paces to and fro in front of me, kicking up dust. I swear there’ll be a new ditch by the time the call ends.
After a brief hold, Cullen answers in rumbly tones. Must be quiet in the office. “Miss Eliza, what can I do you for?”
Now, I’m pacing next to Frank, words just out of reach. Silt rises along the path I carve, carried in dusty columns toward the cloudless sky.
“Eliza?”
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Sheriff Cullen, thank you for taking my call.”
“‘Course, darlin’,” the old man says, as affable now as when I’m plying him with coffee and doughnuts at the café.
“We have a situation at the ranch.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
The sun bores into me, rays drilling into my forehead. I press my fingers into my temples, massaging the spot where a headache threatens. “Unexplained dead bull.”
“Sure it’s not from fighting or something else?”
Frank shakes his head in front of me. Face livid.
“Something else. I’m absolutely certain.”
“Rumor has it a wolf’s been sighted over the Nevada border lately. Where there’s one, there’s—”
“It’s not a wolf,” I cut in, heart thumping against my ribs. “Might be the kind of thing we should have Mags out for.”
The line goes quiet.
“Be there shortly.”
Fifteen minutes pass in silence. Frank’s eyes dart back and forth between the mutilated body and me, as if something’s forming in his head. A plan I won’t like.
Finally, he looks up, removing his hat and swiping at the sweat gathering on his forehead. Flies buzz around us. I swat at them too frantically, like the rogue wisps of thought swarming in my head.
His eyes trail off across the valley to the black ribbon of asphalt that winds through the middle of Raven’s Ridge. Two towers of dust rise like angry clouds of ash as a pair of cars head our way.
One’s white and black with the seal of Starborn County. The other I didn’t factor on—all white, windows blacked out. No markings. Nothing to say who it belongs to.
Frank’s eyes go dinner-plate wide, his face a grimace.
“I asked for Mags,” I say too softly.
He shakes his head. “Ever since the museum deal and the trouble at the Reyes Ranch, the government’s been extra busy. Looking for any excuse to seize land.”
His last words cut through me like a knife. The one thing that can’t happen, that I won’t allow.
Frank levels his gaze on me. “Between this and the field…” he shakes his head, looking at his feet.
“Please,” I say too quickly. “Don’t mention that.”
His jaw tenses beneath a thick felting of stubble. “Your parents already gave too much for this place. Can’t watch you do the same.”
“That’s my choice to make, not yours,” I hiss.
“Secret’s safe with me,” he grunts, nodding toward two men in well-tailored black suits and Sheriff Cullen. “Like every other damned secret I grew up telling about this godforsaken place.”
The suited men step forward, offering their cards in turn. Agent Clooney and Murphy.
“This your bull?” Clooney asks, lifting his black Ray-Bans and showing narrowed eyes.
Murphy kneels down, doing an immediate inspection of the missing parts. Like he’s seen this a thousand times.
“Was my bull,” I whisper.
Frank stands firm with his hands on his hips. “Whoever did this doesn’t walk away from it.”
The words surprise even me until I see the way Sheriff Cullen’s shoulders relax.
“Copycat perp,” he says too fast.
The suited men don’t look convinced.
“We’ll handle matters from here,” Clooney says.
I shift my weight restlessly, words hanging on the tip of my tongue. I get it. As a lifelong resident of Raven’s Ridge… some things, some people are best left unnamed and undiscussed.
“But—” I start.
Frank grabs my upper arm, shaking his head when I startle and look in his direction.
“Mind if we head back to the ranch house now?” he asks. “Miss Eliza’s been out in the heat too long. She could use a cool drink and a cooler head.”
I exhale sharply, mind still swirling.
What if this happens again? How do I keep my cattle safe?
I open my mouth, but he pulls me toward the horses. “Come on,” he growls. “We’re more than done here.”
Sheriff Cullen’s face is ambivalent, his stare locked on the carcass. Then he nods. “Better that way. After I help these gentlemen, I’ll head up to the house to get a statement.”
“Much obliged,” Frank says, the curled corners of his mustache bobbing.
Back in the saddle and halfway across the ranch, the sun beats down on us. Relentless. Searing.
“We never speak of this again,” Frank grunts. “Not here. Not to anyone.”
Our eyes meet.
His blues go steely-gray and determined. “Understand?”
I sigh long and low, staring up at the periwinkle sky that sizzles. “But what do we do?”
“We don’t do anything, Liza. Except call your father and get things in the works to sell the ranch.”
“Sell the ranch?” My voice catches in my throat.
“Liza, you know there’s nothing I won’t do for you. But this? This I haven’t seen in God knows how long. And I don’t want to ever see it again. I’m too old for this. And you? You’re too innocent and sweet for it.”
“I can handle—”
He shakes his head emphatically. “Your dad couldn’t handle it. What do you think drove him and your mom into early retirement? What do you think gave him pause when it was time to divvy up the land?”
“Frank—”
“It won’t stop at one bull or even one herd. You can lose a whole year’s livelihood in one dangerous night of mountain activity.”
I shake my head, not wanting to hear his words. My mount, Daisy, neighs as if coming to my defense, tail swatting at the relentless flies.
“Stick to your horses and the café like you promised your dad. Out here, cattle’s trouble unless you live over at the Reyes Ranch or Ash’s place, consecrated land.”
“Old wives’ tales,” I say with a grimace.
“Old Mags’s tales,” he counters. “Either way, I’m done.”
The words fall heavy. Heavier than they should.
“You can’t just walk away from this, Frank.”
“Not leaving. Making a statement,” he says, setting his jaw and sitting straighter in the saddle. “Only way to drill some sense into you.”
“Tough love,” I huff a laugh. “Don’t give me that. I need a ranch hand, not a therapist.”
“You need to stay out of the cattle business. Unless you’ve curried favor with the elders. Them’s the only ones who can work this land successfully.”
“The elders,” I snort. “You mean, the mythic Wildbloods.”
“Exactly,” he grumbles.
We climb a hill, then look down on verdant fields of alfalfa. My stomach drops again. Daisy hesitates beneath me.
I shield my eyes with my hand, transfixed by it again. The symbol in the field. A perfectly formed crop circle. “What did that?”
Frank shrugs, fear hiding behind his gaze. “Shafts perfectly bent, not broken. Would love to say it’s a practical joke. High schoolers over from Raven’s Ridge having too much fun. But I don’t know.”
“It almost looks like language,” I say, my voice thinning. Like something trying to be understood. “Thought after a week the crops would straighten, grow normal again.”
Frank cocks his head to the side. “Stocks’ll come back. They always do. Consider it a warning. Like the bull.” His eyes meet mine, swirling with fear and concern. “Stick to horses, Liza. And keep them well-stabled at night. You’ll save yourself a world of hurt.”