Seven Sisters by Earlene Fowler Read Free Book Online Page B

what this one can do with ropes.”
    Gabe grinned at me and winked. “Is that right? We’ll have to talk about that.”
    Cappy held out a short-nailed, age-spotted hand. “Cappy Brown here. You must be her police chief.”
    “That would be me,” he said, taking her hand. “Gabe Ortiz.”
    “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Gabe. I’ve heard through the grapevine you’re doing a bang-up job policing San Celina. Come on back to the big room and we’ll get you a glass of wine.” She nodded over at me. “Let me tell you, Chief, you’re darn lucky to have corralled this one. She comes from good stock.”
    Gabe laughed and took my hand. “My grandfather was the best horse trader east of Dodge City, Kansas. He taught me if they had strong legs and good teeth, you can’t go wrong.”
    “Sounds like a man I’d be proud to trade with. Come along now.”
    “Good teeth?” I said under my breath, elbowing him in the side. “You’re going to pay for that remark, Friday.”
    We followed her down a long hall past a dark wooden staircase toward some open double doors.
    The room was large and airy with an open-beam ceiling, reminding me of the sitting room of an expensive Montana hunting lodge. The sounds of people laughing and the tinkle of glassware washed over us the minute we stepped over the threshold. The deep brown leather sofas and wingback chairs were well used and comfortable-looking with bright, geometric Pendleton pillows tucked in the corners. Old, probably priceless, Navajo rugs were tossed casually over the backs of straight-back mission oak chairs. An antler chandelier, the lightbulbs cleverly hidden among the horns, lit the room with a warm glow. Behind a dark oak bar, a picture window stretched from one end of the room to the other, framing a breathtaking view of the Amelia Valley, its orderly seams of grape rows, and the Seven Sisters volcanic peaks, shadowed blue and gray in the waning evening light.
    “Wine at the bar, and appetizers are over on the sideboard,” Cappy said, pointing to the south side of the room where a small group of people gathered. “Help yourself. It’s some of our 1988 vintage. A good year for the pinot noir, Etta tells me, though I’ve always preferred the ’91 estate chardonnay. We’re barbecuing a top block of beef and chicken and, for those with more exotic tastes, some wild boar my son, Chase, and our ranch manager, Jose, shot a few days ago. We have wines to match anything you care to eat, of course.” She glanced at an antique grandfather clock next to us. Tiny carved racehorses, necks stretched for the finish line, ran around the clock face. “We’ll probably be eating in another half hour or so. Chase will pour you whatever you want.” She gestured to the man behind the bar.
    Chase was dressed casually in an expensive sports jacket and white golf shirt. His blotchy face and loud laugh made me guess he’d been sampling the wine long before the first guest arrived. He stood in front of seven or eight wine bottles, each bearing a version of the silver-and-white Seven Sisters label—the seven volcanic hills with three horses connected tail to nose, running in front. “If you’re not a wine drinker,” she continued, “we have a full liquor cabinet, and Chase once worked as a bartender on a cruise ship. So if you drink it, he should be able to make it.” She rolled her eyes. “One of his many unsuccessful forays into the world of real work. The rest of the time he practices law. I keep telling him if he practices enough, he might get halfway decent at it. My two sisters are late, as usual, but they’ll eventually slither in.” She looked up at Gabe, her mouth twisting into a sly, scheming grin. “You and my baby sister have tangled, I’ll venture to guess.”
    “Who’s your sister?” Gabe asked.
    “Willow Brown D’Ambrosio. She was one of the city council members who voted against the budget initiative that would provide the city with more money for