Turkey Ranch Road Rage by Paula Boyd Read Free Book Online Page A

Lipizzaner. I have no idea how I stayed in the saddle for that or for the race through the pump jacks and storage tanks that followed. I just remember being grateful that he hadn’t bucked me off in the salt flats. My mother had convinced me that the crusty white stuff would eat the skin off my hands and I’d be left with only bones if I touched it. Ah, those were the days.
    I had just stepped back up on the porch to go inside when my mother rushed out the door.
    “Jolene! You’ll never guess what happened! Get in here. Right now!” She spun and hurried back inside. “It’s on the news. Hurry!”
    I followed, but got there in time to only hear a teaser on the weather, about three minutes of local news, four commercials and a brief interview with some idiotic author promoting a mystery novel as if anyone cared. After another commercial, however, we were visually whisked back to the breaking news.
    “See there,” Lucille said, pointing at the TV with a long nail. “That’s why Jerry Don couldn’t come. Leroy either. It looks like a bomb went off.”
    It is a fine art, listening to my mother and the news at the same time, but I have honed this skill to razor sharp precision. Thusly, I was able to figure out—all at the same time—that somebody had tried to blow up what used to be known as Vetterman Brothers Feed and Seed. Vetterman’s Feed, Tack and Computer Store didn’t have the same ring to it, but the times they were a changing, even in Bowman County. It was also noted that Mr. Sheriff was on the scene and handling the crisis personally. As the onsite reporter relayed more of the facts and less of the excitement, it became clear that the only things actually “blown to bits” were some bags of rabbit chow and horse feed. Eyewitness accounts described how the bags just exploded, spraying livestock pellets like buckshot. No one was injured but some poultry was still unaccounted for.
    I glanced at my mother, who was suspiciously quiet during this big event. No gasping, no “see there,” nothing. In fact, she was slumped down in her velvet wingback chair with a frown on her face, a meaningful frown, and I didn’t like it one little bit. As I pondered exactly what it all might mean, the reporter on the scene gave me a nice big hint. It seems that the feed store bomber had left a note: Animals are people too! Free the chickens!
    I looked back at my mother. “Free the chickens?”
    “Chicks. Baby chicks.” She stared at the TV, scowling. “Vetterman always has a pen full of them this time of year.”
    “Well, now, just when did you get interested in what’s in stock at the feed and seed?”
    “They sell computers and fancy boots now too, catering to the hobby ranchers and such.”
    I indulged myself in a brief but multi-purposed eye-rolling. “Unless Vetterman stocks Mary Kay Cosmetics between the chickens and the hard drives I can’t imagine how you’d know about any of this.”
    Lucille hopped up from her chair and made a dash for the kitchen. “I had nothing to do with it, Jolene, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    Of course that’s what I was thinking. “Not so fast there, spacey lady,” I said, following on her heels. “Just how hooked up is your little group with the chicken bombers?”
    “They didn’t bomb the chickens, Jolene.” Lucille fiddled with some dishes in the sink then moved on to the refrigerator. “The AAC people are a little quirky, but they mean well.”
    “Quirky?” I leaned against the doorway and crossed my arms. “They tried to blow up a feed store to free chickens. That’s more than quirky. Somebody could have been seriously injured.”
    “They meant well.”
    “You knew they were going to do this.” It was not a question.
    Lucille shook her head firmly. “No, ma’am, I did not. I know their group likes to send messages to people and companies who exploit those who can’t help themselves.”
    “That’d be the chickens.”
    Lucille huffed and propped a