75. Down-home Good People
DOWN-HOME GOOD PEOPLE
ELIAS
The next morning, Bright takes off for her private client east of town about whom she’s said very little. I spend my time digging deeper into the issues that Reyes and the Judge will face in their reelection bids.
Reyes’ competition is stiff and, from the looks of it, well-funded in the extreme.
Our old country county where a handshake is a contract and your word is your bond is all of a sudden seeing billboards on the highway and candidates hosting dinners to discuss challenges in the precinct.
There’s another one tomorrow night, and I toy with going.
Early September means we’re less than two months from election day.
Eight or nine weeks to protect Reyes’ seat and find a new judge.
And it’s really just about this one issue, this one issue that few in town and even fewer in the county know about, but one that has immediate and personal impact to every resident.
Me: Can we meet for lunch?
Kimp: Sure. Everything okay?
Me: Yeah. Would noon at the Junction Diner work for you?
Kimp: Sure thing. Need anything else.
Me: Yeah. Can you bring Colt with you?
Kimp: You’re up to something.
Me: Yes, sir.
Kimp: We’ll be there.
I spend the next two hours seeing where the Judge’s weaknesses are and surveying the political landscape of the county.
When it comes down to it, Reyes is a fifty-fifty shot. His constituents love him. He represents them well. I don’t see him compromising his values, and his values mirror those in his precinct. The question is what would sway voters away from him. I’m hoping Kimp can answer that.
The Judge, on the other hand, is a true politician. He promises everyone exactly what they want to hear, always hedging. He’s financially solid, and fool that he is, he thinks his reelection is a shoo-in. That arrogance could work in our favor if he believes his own press.
Unlike most Commissioners, the power in the Judge’s position is considerable. It’s a stepping stone for higher level offices. Either way, it is the final say at the county level and holds its own prestige.
Because of that, the weight of public endorsements is huge and how the campaign is funded matters only to those whose livelihoods depend on the integrity of the winner and the ethics of the office. People like Kimp… and ranches like the Rangers’.
Lunch goes exactly as I’d hoped it would.
That is to say that we are constantly interrupted by people to say hi to Kimp, asking him about his kids, waving and speaking to Colt. It’s the opposite of the keep a low-profile strategy that Jon suggested. But it’s strategic nonetheless.
Kimpton Ranger isn’t old money or new money.
He doesn’t do flashy. He doesn’t show off his wealth.
He drives a three-quarter-ton truck that’s out of warranty, most of the time with the windows rolled down, and more often than he should, leaves the keys in the ignition.
He’s down-home good people. He’s fried chicken and chunky mashed potatoes, and I want everyone to see that…
to see him, and his son’s son, eating local, supporting local, in the community.
He is a fifth generation Texan, and his family has been on what is the Ranger’s ranch for nearly all that time.
He was a kid in this town, back before the national highways sliced through the land.
He knows the people who run the Ace Hardware, the feed store, and the local businesses.
He knew their parents; he’ll know their kids and grandkids.
“You going to tell me why we’re here?” Kimp queries as he dodges a pea Colt throws at him. His grandson wrestles and wiggles in his high chair and fights the baby seat belt that holds him in place.
He gums his food, when he’s not throwing it or smashing it under his fingers, and babbles throughout our time at the table in the center of the diner.
“Two reasons, aside from enjoying your company.” I pause as the waitress refills our drinks and removes our plates from the table.
“One—if it comes down to it and things go public—I want the people to know who they’re voting for or against when it comes to property development.
If we need allies, you’ll have them, no doubt, but I want it fresh in their minds.
And two…” I chew the inside of my lip. “I’m not convinced there isn’t something personal with the land or with you that propels the construction. ”
“What are you on about?”
“I wonder if any of this could be personal. I’m flushing that out, if you will. I want to see if we get a reaction, if there’s movement or heightened response with a more public presence.”
“So, you’re playing chicken with my home and business?”
“I’m getting all the cards on the table, so we know what hand we’ve been dealt.”
“Hell of a risk, Elias.”
“Yes, sir, it is. But we need to understand our enemy so we have a sound strategy of attack.”
He looks me over and, for the first time that I can remember, his piercing scrutiny reminds me of Exton. He nods once and smiles. He mumbles a repeated “our enemy” and takes a sip of his tea.
We rise and head for the exit.
“Great meal, Babs,” Kimp says over the noise and into the open diner window to the chef. “Appreciate it.”
“Good seeing you, Kimpton. Don’t be a stranger, you hear?”
We walk out into the arid September day, the early afternoon sun beating down on us with little reprieve.
I shake Kimp’s hand. “Thank you.”
“For what, son?”
Son.
“For this.” I wave my hand back at the diner. “For lunch.”
“Any time.” He straps Colt into his car seat and waves as he backs out of the diner parking lot. The sound of stray gravel crunches under his tires as he does.
I make a phone call as I get into my S7. Instead of heading home, I head south to see Manny Gutierrez and to what I hope is a good decision.
Brighton
“I got with Randy, and they QCed the feed. They’re not seeing anything that could make this happen.” I gesture to the horses as I speak with Rich Lager.
“Oh?” There’s little concern on his face. In fact, he seems utterly unconcerned with the state of all five of his horses.
“Yeah. The feed is good.”
It could be my imagination, but he’s closer than he was moments ago, standing just inside that bubble people unconsciously know not to cross.
The air in the stable is stagnant, bordering on sour, and the afternoon Texas sun makes this area feel like a pressure cooker.
He raises his eyebrows and leans a bit closer. I refuse to flinch, but he’s close enough I can smell the stale lunch on his breath and do not appreciate it.
No need in dangling a red muleta in front of a bull. I know when a situation requires defusing, and this most certainly qualifies.
I whip around so my side is no longer to his front, but stand opposite him face to face. I’m fairly certain my pony tail swiped his face as I did, and I’m not upset about that.
“I think we need to look at the water supply.” I move around the barn, feeling his eyes never leave me.
Unlike last time, I have my firearm holstered in my waistband at my right hip, a long shirt covering its grip and any evidence that I have it on me.
I don’t want him to know I’m carrying a pistol.
I do not want to use it and I certainly don’t want to kill anyone.
Selfishly, I don’t want to use it indoors, either, since my ears will ring for days.
But last time was the last time I’ll let myself feel that worried when I have the power to be less vulnerable.
“After I do that, though, I want to get some bloodwork.”
“Now that won’t be necessary.” His voice is harsh but low.
“It is, in fact, necessary. I need to run labs on your mares.”
“I said…” he begins. But I move around him, collecting drinking water, picking up some hay as discreetly as I’m able, as I do.
He grabs my wrist and spins me.
What the fuck?
My first instinct is to flee.
My second is more rooted in how I was raised. It’s not to bow up, but it is to stand firm. My David to my brother’s Goliaths. My smart mouth to injustice I saw.
I stare down at his hand on my left arm before lifting my gaze to his hard eyes. “Take your hand off me.” My voice is strong, clear, and decisive, with no wavering or fear. The authority there must shock him or maybe it’s just his horrid behavior.
His eyes change, and he takes a large step back. “I’m sorry, Dr. Ranger. That will never happen again.”
I nod once, acknowledging both statements.
Little does he know that if he ever tries that again, I won’t be so patient. I’m not stupid enough to land in this situation again, but I have to figure out the horses… I have to understand what’s making them sick so I can get them well again.
I finish my visit, with little additional conversation from Mr. Lager.
I draw blood from each of the horses, noticing the tremor in my left hand as I do. I’m steady and efficient on the needle with my right, though.
I stroke one of the mares as I pass and hold her gaze. “I’ll make this right. I promise,” I whisper as I finish the last of them.
I acknowledge the old man as I leave, saying nothing more. He doesn’t deserve my forgiveness or my comfortable chit chat.
Tossing my bag on the passenger’s seat, I drive off his property. I make it to 281 before I pull over, drop my face to my hands, and allow the adrenaline to slither from my system. I ball my fists over and over to stop my hands from trembling.
When did veterinary medicine begin to feel like a true crime documentary in the making?
“So, random…” I begin as Braxton and I stand at the split rail fence later in the afternoon. I watch Windrunner and Marron in the paddock, while Colt fidgets on Brax’s chest. At nine months old, he’s either moving or asleep, there’s no in-between.
“You want to get down?” He slides Colt toward his boots and focuses his attention at his son, but addresses me, “What’s random?”
“I have a client whose horses are always sick.”
“Bad feed? Tainted water? It’s not the medical care.”
“Thanks.” My eyes drift over Marron. Her coat is shiny. Her muscles are taut, even her post pregnancy weight and muscle tone are healthy. Windrunner is lean, but growing every day. “I don’t know.”
I turn fully toward him. “Brax, I’m not telling you this as my big brother, but I’m going to say it so it’s out there.
The client is Rich Lager, the recluse who bought the old Miller place on the east side of town.
Things get weirder each time I go. I don’t like it. It’s this nagging feeling I get.”
He starts to interrupt, but I lift a hand and continue. “I can handle myself. You know that. I’m smart when I go. Usually, I have protection in my glovebox, but I’ve started carrying while I’m there. And I’ll make sure someone knows when I go to his place.”
“Bright, this sounds more serious than sick horses.”
“I’m not asking my big brother to save me. I’m being wise and making sure someone is in the know. I can handle myself.”
“Bright, we’ve had too much loss around here to not take it seriously when you have that kind of feeling clawing at your gut.”
“I know. That’s why I told you.”
“Stubborn.”
“Pot meet kettle.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I bend over and grab Colt who is army crawling under the rails of the fence. “Up you go, silly boy.”
I toss him into the air before walking into the paddock and whistling for Windrunner. She doesn’t respond to that yet, but Marron does and comes prancing our way, Windrunner at her flank.
Marron noses Colt’s belly and drops her snout for pets which I offer her before Colt does the same.
His are less gentle, but his innocence must be obvious and Marron accepts his little pats.
Windrunner nurses for a few moments before walking on gangly limbs to us for the same.
Colt giggles as she reaches for his fingers with her lips and gums.
This is a healthy foal from a healthy mare. Eyes bright. Their coats are lustrous and reflect the sun. I’m missing something regarding Lager’s. But I won’t let those horses suffer because of my oversight… or worse, his neglect.
What am I missing?
Days pass. September stays dry and hot. Eli works nonstop on our behalf. He spends as much time on the conservation easement and avoiding the impending development as he does on Colt’s behalf.
At its foundation, he’s spending hours investing in the Rangers and our ranch.
Our history.
Our present.
Our future.
One that includes him.
Because, Elias is my future. My happily ever after is on the line because someone wants to bend the law for profit.
My future isn’t for sale, so as he works, so do I.