The Clincher Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Lisa Preston

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Cover photo credit istockphoto.com

  ISBN: 978-1-5107-3272-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3274-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  DEAD BLOW

  Chapter 1

  THIS GUY WAS ALWAYS SUCH A faker, acting like I’d killed him, broken his leg, whatever. I bit back my growl, because he’s the over-sensitive type. With some, it works to improve manners but with the fakers, and I have a few on my list, I have to keep my grrs inside. I’d whacked him in the ribs twenty minutes earlier, but it taught him nothing. With his leg over my thigh and a freshly driven nail sticking out the side of his hoof, it could be so unhealthy to add serious kicking to the mix. He’d already scraped a layer of flesh off my inner wrist when I trimmed this hoof. Now he was rocking, swaying back and forth as though he lacked the God-given balance anyone with a leg in every corner has. I just hate it when they rock. Did he hear music under those big ears? Need his skull wrapped in tin foil? I gritted my teeth and twisted the nail point off in the apex of my hammer’s claws.

  My client pursed her lips together, looking prissy and pissy while fiddling with the lead rope. Always fussing with the rope. And she’d about fainted when I slapped her boy. Patsy-Lynn Harper doesn’t buy her clothes in a big enough size and she has that ridiculous white-blonde hair piled up over thin, dark eyebrows. And now she had those silly eyebrows pinched up in pointless worry. It’s easy to see the overgrown Paint comes by his flair for fretting honestly.

  But today was worse than usual. Patsy-Lynn had been in a tizzy from the moment I walked into her immaculate barn. She’d been on the phone saying in her southern drawl what a bad idea something or other was. She’d hung up pretty quick when she saw me. On this visit, I saw Spartacus had a scrape on one hind leg. It wasn’t enough to worry about, just a little skin missing, but Patsy-Lynn had dabbed ointment all over it. She said that she thought he’d hurt himself, kicking out some of the pasture fence. Earlier in the week she’d found a broken board.

  The horse leaned again, putting so much weight on me that he was basically asking to get the flat of my rasp across his ribs. I don’t know how my legs held both of us or how I found the fortitude to not beat the daylights out of him. The footing helped. One fine thing about the Harpers being on my client list is their setup, that’s got to be said. The barn is sunrise-pretty and well-built, with these brick-looking rubber cushions lining the aisle. I could see the heels of my boots biting into the flooring and I told my knees to hang in there, drove two more nails home, then twisted off the points quick as I could.

  Wearing what Guy calls my Wood Plank face, I told myself I’d be out of there in fifteen minutes. I drove and wrung the last nail then released the hoof from between my knees. With one hand, I reached for my clinchers and rasp while the other brought his foot forward to my hoof stand. Soon as I did his clinches, I prettied things up with the rasp and lied to Spartacus as I patted him.

  “You’re a good fella.” I turned to put my tools in the truck.

  Patsy-Lynn hollered for her barn-help to come fetch her baby and take him back to his stall.

  I hate it when clients call critters “baby.” My dog, Charley? He’s not my baby. My horse, Red? Also not my baby.

  Barn-Help brought his blue-check-shirted, bow-legged self up from where he’d been mucking stalls, rolled his eyes, and shot me a glance to see if at least I appreciated him. He was a new guy, I was pretty sure. Patsy-Lynn Harper does go through the help.

  She fiddled with a cross-tie like she had the whole day to kill and I guess she did. These people who don’t work, I don’t know how they can pass all the hours on their hands. It seems like she must have filled quite a lot of time buying stuff. The Flying Cross started looking pretty snazzy after Mr. Winston Harper married Patsy-Lynn last year. She set to marking her new territory by purging the help and redecorating. She’d scored big, marrying a rich older fellow whose only kid was already raised. Even the barn was repainted, with lots of fancy new touches to impress the horses. They now have mud-free paddocks all year—and that’s a real accomplishment on the edge of the Cascade Mountains—because she bought those grids-over-gravel things that cost about a gajillion bucks a square foot. The new stainless steel mini-fridge at the far end of the barn aisle where she kept vaccines and cold drinks glimmered.

  The stall down there had its top door shut so some new horse couldn’t stick its head out. Patsy-Lynn hurried past it with a couple sodas and raised a Diet Coke in my direction like an offer, but I was humping my anvil up to the tailgate and didn’t exactly have a free hand. If I ever drop that mother on my foot, I won’t be able to work for a month or two.

  She studied her barn-help as he latched Spartacus’s stall door. “You have to watch them every minute,” she whispered to me. “That last guy got my new hedge trimmer.”

  Just as the barn-help hung Spartacus’s halter on the stall door hook, the stud kicked. Patsy-Lynn looked gratified that her horse shared her opinion.

  “Your last barn-help made off with your hedger?” I asked.

  “A day labor fellow I had in here for pruning the orchard and a few other things.” She shook her head and popped her gum. “Well, Rain, six weeks from today to re-shoe, ’kay, hon? And let’s make it first thing in the morning, ’kay?”

  When she started calling me Rain was when I shortened Patsy-Lynn. And I’m not her hon. And not everybody can be first thing in the morning, for crying out loud. She hadn’t liked today’s afternoon appointment when we scheduled it the month before last. Seems she’s used to being first.

  “’Kay, Pats.” I ignored her frown and penciled in the next date and time—it did turn out to be first thing on a Monday morning, six weeks to the day—in my appointment book and then on a card that I gave her even though she tried to wave it away. To survive, I need to be more business-like in this thing, so I got these cards and the ap
pointment book and I might get a sign for my truck doors. It’s hard to picture Ol’ Blue with a sign on the doors, but it’d be some cheap advertising.

  Patsy-Lynn entered the date in her phone, then wrote it on the big hanging barn calendar—for the hired help, I reckon.

  I finished putting up my tools then used my cooling bucket’s water to rinse my hands and arms. In a fit of helping, Patsy-Lynn had once dumped my bucket while I was putting my anvil stand in the truck. It has to go in a certain way. Before I could stop myself, I’d given her a whole lecture about how I liked to wash off my hands and arms in my bucket, last thing. Never, never dump a horseshoer’s water bucket.

  Patsy-Lynn acts like it makes her all kinds of cool to have a woman shoer. When she babbles about women getting to do all kinds of jobs, I just ache to ask if she’s ever done any at all.

  This afternoon she about shocked me by asking if I wanted to stay for a coffee and chat. She offered this up like it was some sort of rare gift. She’d gab all day no doubt if I could stay and stand it, but this is how I feed myself and make my rent and truck payments and I can’t hang around jawing with some bored, rich housewife.

  She chirped about how welcome I was to hang with her for a bit. Said she could show me the catalog picture of the new paneling she’d ordered for the tack room. Does her husband know how much money she wastes on decorating? I made it plain to Patsy-Lynn’s pinched face that I had another client scheduled. Confussed—Guy calls it “confussed” when someone acts confused and fussy—might have been her state of mind. Seems all she needed was some girl time. All I needed was to get the Flying Cross in my rearview mirror.

  I drove Ol’ Blue through the ranch gate onto Oldham lane. Down the road a piece, a vehicle straddled the centerline, going around a pretend-cowboy in a brown leather hat who was walking down the road. This is ranchland, with shoulderless roads. I pulled Ol’ Blue all the way to the side as the shiny, black-windowed truck nearly took me out, grinding the gears with every shift, right down the middle of the road even after he’d passed the dude afoot. I called him a foul name before I remembered I’d sworn off cursing in my pledge to become a better person.

  My last client of the day, Abby Langston, lived with her daddy across the highway from the Harpers. This is hilly country where black basalt ribs through the grass. Over here in the west part of Butte County, every coastal evergreen grows, just not as tall because we have less rain than the coast. We have the pines. Lodgepoles, Ponderosas, Yellow and Sugar pines shed their needles on the forest floor, making for soft trails amid the spruce, fir, and cedars. This is the trick of central Oregon—it doesn’t know whether to be like the rugged, thick-treed coast or the high east deserts. A few quiet dirt roads on the outskirts have the land looking more like green brush, and the meadows in there are mostly man-made. It makes for wonderful trail riding and a lot of one-horse places, like the Langstons and their neighbors.

  Keith Langston is a banker in our little town of Cowdry, a divorced guy raising his daughter. I get the idea that Abby isn’t swapped between the parents every year or two like I was.

  When my back’s aching and the day’s been full enough—mid-afternoon can feel tired when I’ve done four full shoeings, especially right after finishing a stud like Spartacus—my mood will always improve upon clinching the last hind foot on the last horse. Ol’ Blue rattled over the cattle guard that put me on the semi-rural street where the Langstons live, and I smiled big.

  Abby Langston is one of those cutie preteen girls that make the horse industry. She keeps her little Arabian in the field back of the house and thinks it’s the smartest and most beautiful horse in the world. Her tack room’s decorated with pictures cut out of magazines, flashy Arab shots mostly. Arabs at the Nationals, an Arab climbing Cougar Rock at Tevis, lots of other endurance pictures, a few shots of Ride and Tie, the whackadoo team sport that combines trail riding and running.

  Abby rides bareback and sometimes without a bridle. She’s polite and so’s the mare. Liberty’s always clean, bug-sprayed, and stands quietly when I’m doing her feet. I was looking forward to an easy appointment.

  A hex was what I put on myself. Liberty twisted around and whinnied across her pasture over and over. It was like shoeing a drunk pogo stick.

  “No,” Abby told her mare, snapping the lead rope. “You stand still.” The kid’s face puckered in consternation and she growled at her horse, just like I’d taught her.

  Good girl. If Abby doesn’t get stupid as she goes teenybopper, she’ll be less like I was. We could have been sisters if I could go back to pre-teenybopper times. My braid’s longer now, but at her age I’d had that same shoulder length, straight brown hair, thick as any mane, bangs, and brown eyes with teeth that might have wanted braces. In the last couple years, I became a trim one too, like Abby is already.

  At the Langstons’, there are no rubber mats and no covered barn aisle for me to work in, but Abby has the place swept up and a manure fork’s at the ready in case Liberty lifts her tail. No shoer wants to stand in a fresh pile of horse apples.

  Abby gets a nod from me because she does all her own barn chores. She’s one of those little girls who’d ached for a horse, thought them and dreamed them and loved them with her every breath before she ever scored Liberty. I’d been one of those girls and I understood the need completely. When I was with my mama, I’d had to fill that hole with the Black Stallion books, Black Beauty, National Velvet, the My Friend Flicka trilogy, Misty of Chincoteague, and the like. I still picked up beater copies and gave them to Abby, getting the girl properly book-equipped, and she pretty well worshipped me for the favor, especially for the last find, one every little lover of Arabians needs, King of the Wind.

  Liberty has big feet for an Arab and the horn quality is nice, not those brittle, shelly hooves like my first horse of the day. That Thoroughbred had needed shoes but the owner just wanted a barefoot trim. A lot of horses don’t pick their people too careful, but little Liberty chose fine. The mare’s always been a good weight. Abby doesn’t give in to the temptation to equate food with love. She keeps treats down to a few carrots and feeds sensibly. Plus, obvious from the fact that I can never reset, but always have to shape fresh shoes for Liberty, Abby rides the dickens out of her mare.

  Standing back now, I could see this dancey horse was getting a belly.

  “Abby,” I said, “what—”

  She waved furiously with both hands for me to quiet down, looking around quick like someone might hear us. There was nothing to see but maples, cottonwoods, and evergreens one direction. The other way stretched neighbors’ pastures, then the distant buttes and hills. Still, Abby shot a guilty look all around and hissed for me to shush.

  I don’t like kids telling me what to do. I was a kid too recently to give up the scrap of respect I have for being a decade older than Abby. She saw the growl coming up my throat and looked apologetic quick enough.

  “I can’t say anything yet,” she whispered.

  I gave her a solid You’re Full of Crap look.

  Abby’s face was desperate, pale. “He’ll kill me.”

  “Huh?” I reached for her shoulder, but she clammed up and went to wringing her hands, staring at the faraway hills of Black Ridge.

  “Really, Rainy. He’ll kill me.”

  If drama’s what I wanted, I’d have stayed with my mama the last bit I lived with either of my folks. Truth is, I was enough of a disagreeable badger in my teens that neither of my parents could hardly stand me, and the feeling was mutual. Looking back, the real problem was that I couldn’t stand myself and I viewed anyone with the bad sense to be related to me as highly suspect.

  Mama said I made her look old and that could hurt her career, such as it was. As if she was ever going to go from shampoo and food commercials to a big screen star. I used to call her “Mama” every chance I found, just to watch her wrinkle.

  None of that’s Abby Langston’s business and maybe her suddenly misbehaving mare being pregnant’s not
my business, so I shut up and shod the horse.

  Chapter 2

  PULLING OL’ BLUE UP TO THE little one-bedroom house on the last acre of Vine Maple Lane, that’s me coming home these days. It’s a well-named lane, braced with old cottonwoods that dwarf the scraggly vine maple shrubs. Come fall, the brush is the first thing to turn bronze, distracting us from winter’s approach. All’s green now. The dangling chains of yellow flowers from the big maple in the pasture mean that May’s here.

  The house doesn’t look like spring exactly. Guy probably wasn’t the first owner to let the garage be a spare bedroom, seeing as how there’s also a carport hitched onto the north side of the house. The winter rains mold or rust anything standing still, so any kind of a roof over the head is helpful. The house has clapboard siding with peeling paint, letting everyone know that though it’s blue now, it used to be yellow. The trim looks like it was always white. The little front stoop’s steps and railing are just gray-weathered wood. Soon as I pulled up, someone came down those sagging steps.

  A tall, lanky-built guy with a cold drink and a smile is a real nice sight. It’s scary sometimes, like I don’t know whose life this is. This is a better person’s world, not mine, but it’s kind of working for now. I shut off Ol’ Blue, easy in the fresh silence.

  Guy handed me his drink while Charley bumped at his heels to get a greeting in, too. “Your lettering is here,” he said, drying his hands on the tail of his rugby jersey. He has this group of friends with names like Biff and Chip and Buddy for poker and rugby. The first hobby explains why he hardly ever has to use an ATM and the second explains his crooked nose.

  “My lettering is here,” I said, because when it’s hard to understand Guy even though I got every word, well, one way of letting him know he needs to use more words is to repeat what he says so he can hear he’s making no sense.

  “Come see.” He went up the steps and held the door open for me. In the corner where the dinette sits lay a wide sheet of letter decals he’d ordered from someplace online.