Dead Blow Read online

  Other books by Lisa Preston:

  Fiction:

  The Clincher: A Horseshoer Mystery (#1)

  Orchids and Stone: A novel

  Measure of the Moon: A novel

  Nonfiction:

  The Ultimate Guide to Horse Feed, Supplements, and Nutrition

  Natural Healing for Cats, Dogs, Horses, and Other Animals

  Bitless Bridles

  Copyright ©2019 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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  Arcade Publishing® and CrimeWise® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Cover photo credit istockphoto.com

  ISBN: 9781510749115

  Ebook ISBN: 9781510749122

  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

  Forging Fire

  Chapter 1

  DYING FROM A HIND HOOF GETTING run through my skull would smart, at least for a minute. If this big old girl didn’t learn some manners pronto, I’d be finding out if the noggin went numb right quick or if maybe it kept stinging as I flopped around in the barn aisle, landed-trout style.

  Or Sandy could behave herself, that’d be an idea.

  She and I were on the near side of needing to go take a Pay-Attention-and-Act-Like-a-Lady walk. The barn grunt was off cleaning stalls. He’d just put the mare in cross-ties—I hate working with the horse in cross-ties—before hustling away. Wasn’t his horse and he probably had a chore list longer than his hairy arm, so he wasn’t about to do extra like mind this horse. Now I was left with a horse stomping, pulling away, and swaying like we were in a hurricane.

  I was ready to whack her in the butt.

  The horse stood nicely for the two seconds it took me to get back in position under her haunch, then she snapped her leg into my gut and twisted away, hopping on her other hind leg and throwing me onto my toolbox. I got up mad but let that go for now, because anger and horses don’t mix well. I gave Sandy a stink eye. She gave me one right back, indicating maybe she hadn’t caught up on her kicking quota.

  Then something just wonderful happened.

  Whatever saint is supposed to keep watch over horseshoers woke up from a nap and cast a quick spell on Sandy. She stood like stone and I finished that hoof like nobody’s business. Well, nobody else’s business, what and all with this being my whole business. And business was fair near booming. I was still grinning thinking about the phone call this morning. Couldn’t wait to go grab dinner with Guy and tell him about my new account.

  When the Widow Chevigny rang and asked me to shoe for the Buckeye, it suited me fine. This was a ranch account and I wanted to be Donna Chevigny’s shoer mighty bad. Word is, she’s been needing a shoer. Her husband had done their shoeing but he died last year, around the time I moved to Cowdry. Being new, I learned about the accident—rolled his tractor, is what I heard—in bits, here and there. I’ve been needing more clients but hadn’t wanted to go pound on a widow’s door asking for a job.

  “I want rim shoes,” Donna told me on the phone. “Getting some of my ranch horses shod for a herd dispersal sale. They’ve been keeping themselves way off at the back, by the grazing lease.” This brought a big sigh and I knew she was thinking about how it’d take her time and trouble to bring the horses in. Guess the area where her excess herd was hanging was too rough for driving to, or she’d have been telling me how long it’d take us to get out there with trucks or four-wheelers.

  Real pleased with my new possession, I allowed as to how I could cold shoe out in the tooley-weeds, without need for my anvil and stand. My fellow’s folks had gifted me with a Pocket Anvil as an engagement present. It’s a portable horseshoe shaper that folds up. What gal wouldn’t be completely swept off her boots with such a bonus? That gift selection was surely Guy’s doing, because I can’t imagine how his parents would have thought up sending us a pasta thingy and a Pocket Anvil for engagement presents.

  Still, a full shoe inventory would be quite a ball and chain to pack to the far end of the Buckeye ranch, so I asked, “Do you happen to know what size feet you got out there?”

  “They’re all ones.” Donna sounded like a woman who was certain. “All four feet on all twelve horses.”

  “I won’t be shoeing a dozen in a day, ma’am.” I mean, yeah, stories go around about old timey ranch shoers whupping out fifteen and twenty shoeing jobs in a day, but I’ve never known a sure shoer to manage twelve where the work site was remote, needing an hour’s ride to get to and from the string. Lots of steel to pack. Chances were, some of those front feet were supposed to be size two, and some of those hinds were aughts, anyways.

  “I thought you’d try for half one day, half another.” Donna told me the brand of horseshoes she favored. Regular stuff. I had a fresh box in Ol’ Blue, my truck.

  Thrilled with my new tool, I told Donna all about the Pocket Anvil, this portable gadget that lets me shape horseshoes in the backcountry. Getting by without my real anvil would let me ride out to shoe in remote country. Without my forge, I wouldn’t be hot fitting the shoes, of course, but I’m not above cold shoeing when circumstances demand.

  “A pocket anvil? Goodness, I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Donna sounded floored, then hopeful. “I wouldn’t have to bring the horses in?”

  “Nope. We could ride out to them as long as you scare up some saddlebags that’ll freight my gear. Just the regular hand tools, a couple dozen shoes, nails, and my Pocket Anvil.” Just, ha! It was still no small chore. And I’d be shoeing without my good hoof stand all day, so I’d be feeling it in my back and legs the next day. But, on the plus side, without my real anvil, there wouldn’t be heavy hammer blows striking steel, so my ears wouldn’t be ringing.

  Donna’s appreciative exhale let me know she was considering my offer. “It sure would help me out an awful lot if we ride out to the stock instead of me having to bring them in the day before.”

  “We’ll do it,” I promised. I already had my appointment book out and found a free day that worked for both of us. I used to worry about not having my work weeks scheduled full, then came to find that they tend to fill up just fine.

  Donna worked all t
he hours a day sent, too. “Is six too early for you to be here? I’d have my horse tacked up, with the heavy packing saddle bags, if you’re sure we can handle everything you’ll need to haul.”

  Given that it was almost fall, we’d be riding out in the cool dark morning at that time, which sounded kind of wonderful. “I’m sure. Um, the horses needing shoes, they handle all right?” I didn’t want to be battling broncs in the backcountry.

  “They all handle fine. We won’t have any problems with them out in the rough, and there’s an old pole corral there. Goodness, Rainy, it will save me hours of pushing stock and eating dust if we can just ride out to where they’re pastured.”

  “You’d need to give me a mount,” I told her. “My Red’s a good horse and I’d love to ride him out at your place, but I don’t have a trailer.”

  “I can put a good horse under you,” Donna promised.

  * * *

  Soon as I finished trimming this big tough mustang’s feet and nodded to the barn guy, I slid Charley over on Ol’ Blue’s front seat, gave him the necessary kiss on his good gold Aussie face, and went to get something under my belt. The restaurant I go to in town is an outfit that’s gone from a good place to get a glass of water to a whole bit better, thanks to my Intended.

  If Guy’s not there, the Cascade Kitchen is just a diner and that’s what it always looks like. Lots of orange caps and vests at the counter come hunting season, sometimes a tractor in the parking lot when the guy who farms the adjacent hundred acres comes in for a hot lunch.

  Today a horse trailer with living quarters, hooked up to a dually four-door F350 truck, took the five-plus parking spots a rig that size demands. The pickup’s custom paint job read Paso Pastures. I didn’t know who owned the truck and trailer, but horse people are my tribe. Folks are getting used to seeing me ride Red into town for an ice cream. If the Cascade Kitchen’s owner put a corral, or at least a hitching rail, behind the restaurant, it would suit me fine.

  Walking in the back door like a boss, I grabbed the mail stuffed in the wall tray to give it a gander. Guy and I started using the Cascade Kitchen for mail after our road mailbox got baseball-batted. Sizzling scents made mail sorting a pleasure.

  I waded through way too many cooking and spice catalogs before the mail got good. A horseshoeing supply catalog, an ad for glue-on shoes, another horseshoeing supply catalog, a tack catalog, a different horseshoeing supply catalog, then a couple bills, and some official-looking fat letters: envelopes for Guy and me from the fifth judicial district, whatever that meant, which apparently pulls up a chair in Clackamas County. We’re in Butte County, but this fifth judicial deal also claimed to be from the State of Oregon. How many people get mail from their own state? Too early for Christmas, so these would be . . . subpoenas? I thought those got handed out by seedy-looking creeps who tracked you down when—

  Whack-whack-whack, whackety whack. Guy’s rangy, almost six-foot frame stood at a metal counter in front of a cutting board piled with red peppers. His right arm moved like it was demon-possessed, powering a butcher’s knife, whacking peppers into long strips.

  Only I could break the spell. “Hey.”

  Guy put the knife down, turned and squirreled his arms around me. “What happened to you? Are you okay?”

  I followed his stare to my dirt-covered legs. “I was working on Sandy’s hinds. She’s from the Riddle Mountain herd, a big Kiger mare—”

  Guy broke in with a solo. “I’ve got a . . . Kiger by the tail it’s plain to see.”

  Never sings the right words, Guy. Bursting into song is one of his things, like he breathes and eats and sleeps. He knows a gajillion and six songs, but he adjusts the words quite a bit. We’d talked at the house this morning about me going out to work on some mustangs. New clients have a pair of these beautiful, stripey-legged tough duns with the hardest feet any horse ever thought of growing. True Kigers, that band of barefooters, born wild in Oregon’s southeast. I’d been tickled to become their shoer—okay, their new trimmer—and tickled to tell Guy about the job.

  He tickled me, snaking his arms all over as he dusted me off and went for free feels.

  It’s a little embarrassing to be fussed over and it’d be best we not get started in the kitchen. I mean, in our kitchen at home, that’s fine, but not here at his work. That’d be some kind of food safety violation. Man in his line of work ought to know that kind of thing. I pushed him away.

  “Well, fine.” Guy kissed me like he meant it, smoothed my ponytail, then brushed again at the dirt on my jeans. “Anything broken?”

  See, here he was gathering points. He knows I’d prefer a How’s-the-Kit question when he can see plain enough that I’m still standing.

  “My chaps,” I said. “I’ve got to cut a long, thin strip of leather to replace one of the leg straps.”

  Guy grinned and washed my dirt off his hands before scooping up slices of red pepper. “Julienne leather?”

  Oh, he seemed to think he was clever with this little . . . was it a joke?

  I am new at julienne jokes.

  New at a lot of stuff, actually. New at making my way in Cowdry, this town I’ve called my own for the better part of a year and a half. New at letting someone like Guy feed me love. Sometimes it’s too good to be true, like I can’t believe this is my life.

  Customers seated at the tables and booths and counter gave me a glance as I went through the swinging doors to the front with Guy. I like to act all cool as I go to my spot at the very end of the counter and rack my boots on the rail. That last twirly stool is as good as mine.

  As the man who wants to marry me fetched up a tall iced tea—not sweet, no lemon—and put out pie for folks in the far booth, I blabbed bits about me getting a go at the Buckeye ranch account.

  The Buckeye ranch is a cattle operation with a few good ranch geldings sold on the side, making little more than enough hay for its own use. Trying to keep the Buckeye going on her own was going to be the death of Donna Chevigny, I feared. More work than a single body can do. I didn’t know how she was fixed for money, but I knew that even if her hiring me as a shoer strained her pocketbook, it would take strain off her back. And she picked me, The New Girl, as I’m known to horse folk here.

  I hadn’t asked for the title. Hadn’t asked to be Donna Chevigny’s shoer, come to that. I’d bided my time and didn’t sniff around for the job like Dixon Talbot, one of the other full-time shoers in Cowdry. Plenty of part-timers would have liked to land the Buckeye account, too. But, there’s generally enough shoeing jobs to go around. Most times, we work our butts right off, especially come summertime. Come fall, things taper down. People ride less in bad weather, and hooves grow more slowly up here in the north country winters.

  Guy raised his eyebrows and made the right noises, especially at the part about me telling the widow that I could do remote shoeing with my Pocket Anvil.

  “Well, fine, you’ll like that? Riding out to shoe with this woman?”

  “Donna Chevigny,” I told him again. “Looking to get some tuck now.”

  “And that would be?”

  Having done my formative eating in Texas and California, my palate, such as it is, doesn’t know what to do with itself with Guy in its life. Hope in my heart, I asked, “A burger?”

  He rolled his eyes, as he is wont to do with my cuisine choices. It’s not like the Cascade Kitchen is some upscale eatery with wine guys and cheese courses anyways.

  “With mixed greens?” Guy suggested. When I gave him a Look, he moved on with, “Fries or potato salad?”

  “Tater salad. And an extra burger patty to go, for Charley.” I winked. He gave me more iced tea, then bumped through the swinging doors to burn me a burger. As I settled into my stool to wait, something gave me the heebie-jeebies. Eyeballs bore into me from somewhere, quivering my skin like Red’s does when he’s knocking a fly off his back. In the mirrored part of the wall behind the counter, I saw a gal with a wolf’s watch studying me from the first twirly stool at the lun
ch counter. She flicked her gaze away when she caught me catching her.

  Somewhere. I knew her from somewhere.

  Well, from around town, most likely. Cowdry’s not too awful big and it does seem like the same people are the fill-ins at the post office and bank and grocery store and all that, so probably I just—

  There she did it again, checked me out in the mirror. Now both of us knew we were looking at each other and having half a mind at wondering what the other was up to.

  She looked a tad younger than me, probably barely drinking age, in sneakers, shorts, and a bright, synthetic T-shirt, with dark hair not prone to summer streaks like mine is. Her build could have helped her make it as a horseshoer—strong-looking but not too tall, and no gut to get in the way when squatting under a horse. But probably, horseshoeing wasn’t her career choice. It startles people when they find out how I earn my living.

  More motion in the mirror distracted me from remembering where I knew Wolf Eyes from. A couple rose from the booth right behind me. This woman’s clothes were my kind, broken-in jeans and an open plaid shirt over a cotton tank top. Her hair dangled in her face, not properly tucked behind her ears or in a ponytail. And him? He was a big guy with a Fred Flintstone haircut. Something about big beefy boys leaves a bad taste in my mouth, probably because the last one I dealt with tried to hang me with my own rope.

  Flintstone wore perfect, too-clean jeans and a yoked blue Western shirt with white piping. His cowboy boots bore no scuffs, no caked pucky in the inner corner where the heel meets the sole.

  Not a real horse guy, just someone with a costume in his wardrobe.

  “Doll, let’s go now.” He slid a hand across her patooty and gave the left half a squeeze.

  She ignored his command and grope, so at least she had that going. When he dropped money on the table and headed out, she turned her tall self around and strolled the other direction, toward the powder room. I just knew she’d be in there a good long spell while he cooled his boot heels, but I guessed her payback would be wasted on him.

  Like a horse or a dog, a fellow ought to know when he’s being punished for turdiness.