Saddled With Trouble by A. K. Alexander Read Free Book Online Page A

morning would be too much to bear right now.
    She took a long hot shower, pulled on a sweater, and as the sun began to set she poured herself a glass of wine. She turned on the TV to try and take her mind off of what had happened, but it was all right there on the news. An attractive local newscaster relayed the story of how Lou Bancroft, well-known rancher, had been found murdered at his ranch that morning. A pitchfork stabbed through his back. Oh no. That was the last thing she wanted to hear or see. She turned the TV off and tossed the remote.
    Those were not the images she wanted to remember her uncle by. What she wanted was to hold his hand again, like she had so many times when she was a child. He had great hands— tough, strong, dependable. When she’d been little and he’d taken her to horse shows or the county fair he’d held her hand tight, letting her know that he was going to make sure she remained at his side. Aunt Rose would tell him to relax, that no one was gonna steal little Mickey, but Uncle Lou would guffaw at that remark and he’d say, “You’re right, Rose, because I’m hanging onto the kid!”
    She wiped her tears away and finished off the wine. Time to head back out and check on Leo. She urged Cocoa to come along with her.
    At the barn, Michaela peered in on the horses before going to get another bucket of bran for Leo. She unlocked the tack room door and stopped. Leaning against the frame was the pitchfork she used for changing straw. She gasped when she saw it, her mind flashing back to Lou, the broken-off pitchfork sticking out of his back. It was like a stab in her heart. The tightness in her stomach came back and she felt woozy, her thoughts spinning with the memory.
    Her stallion Rocky whinnied and brought her back to reality. Thank God. Don’t think about that, not now . Stay focused. Do what you need to do . She went inside the tack and feed room. Scents of grain, saddle soap, and leather wafted through the air, and she breathed them in. She opened the can where she kept the bran. Dammit. Empty. She’d made a mental note earlier when she and Ethan had given Leo some, to go down to the feed store and get another bag of it. Maybe there was some in the trailer.
    “Come on, Cocoa.” Her dog stood her ground. The hair on Cocoa’s neck rose as she seemed fixated on something at the other end of the breezeway. “You are such a silly old girl,” Michaela told her. At times Cocoa could behave like an old woman who has had too much gin— brave and stupid, as if she needed to pick a fight with someone. “It’s probably a rabbit. Let’s go. C’mon.” Cocoa growled. “For God’s sake, come on.” She patted the side of her leg, and the dog finally fell in line as they walked over to the garage, where she’d parked the horse trailer. She found a half a bag of bran up in the storage area. Good. She’d drag it over to the barn in the morning. For now she scooped out a half a bucket’s worth and walked back to the barn.
    She poured it into Leo’s feeder and watched him eat. After he finished she took him for a short walk. She headed back to the tack room to get the blankets out and put them on the horses for the evening.
    At the door of the tack room, she stopped. Something was wrong here. She stepped back. Her pulse raced and her heart beat madly against her chest as she realized that the pitchfork, which had been there only an hour earlier, was now gone.

 
     
     
     
     
    SIX
    THE BARN SPUN IN A MIXTURE OF BROWNS AND beiges. Michaela braced herself against the tack room door and tried to regain her composure. Think, think. Her hands shaking, she reached for the phone and started to dial 911, but what the hell would she say? “My pitchfork has been moved?” Maybe she could tell them someone broke into her place. No. That wasn’t necessarily true, but someone had moved the pitchfork. She hung up the phone, yelled for Cocoa who dragged herself in, closed and locked the tack room