Falcon's Run. Aimee Thurlo
by an earsplitting crack of thunder that shook the ground. Hearing a horse’s panicked whinny, Kyle shot out of the shed and ran toward the corral. “Red!”
The large mahogany horse with the dark mane was bucking wildly, racing around the corral and tossing his head.
“Red’s used to his own stall inside Gene’s barn. He doesn’t like it here,” Kyle said.
Preston took the horse by its halter, led him to the side of the house and stood there with him. “He’ll settle down now that he’s here with us, sheltered from the wind,” he said. “How come Red’s here? Did Gene loan him to you for a few days?”
“No. He’s donating him to Sitting Tall Ranch. The owner, Abby Langdon, was looking for a gentle mount for kids with special needs. Red’s steady as they come—except around thunder. If he’s inside a barn, he’s okay, but not if he’s outside. Since I’d planned on keeping him here for a day or two so I could go riding, I checked the weather ahead of time. It was supposed to be okay, just a little cloudy, but this front’s a day early.”
As they stood waiting for the storm to pass, Preston kept his arm over the horse’s neck. The animal seemed to be handling things better now.
“Have you opened the envelope Hosteen Silver left for you yet?” Preston asked, referring to their foster father.
“No, not yet. He knew things before they happened and that always spooked me. There’s also something else I need to take into account now. After Daniel, Gene and Paul opened theirs, they ended up getting married within months. I’m thinking that I’ll hold on to mine for another decade or so,” he said and flashed his brother a quick grin.
Preston laughed. “Just so you know, they’re not all letters that foretell upcoming events. Mine’s a sketch.” Preston reached for his wallet and took out a folded piece of paper. “I made a copy to keep with me until I figured it out.”
“Nice. The old man was a good artist, though he seldom had time for that,” Kyle said, studying it. “That’s obviously Copper Canyon and there’s Falcon. It looks just like the fetish he gave you when you turned sixteen.”
“I’ve carried that carving with me every day since,” Preston said, lifting the leather cord that hung around his neck. A small leather pouch hung from it. “Falcon’s a faithful spiritual guide. I think he helps me see what others miss. That’s a great asset in police work.”
“In the sketch, Falcon’s swooping down on that owl and defending something… a nest or maybe its mate? The background’s mostly in shadow and hard to make out. Can you see it any better in the original?”
“No, not even enlarged.”
“What’s that drifting down?” Kyle asked, pointing. “A gray feather?”
“Feather, yes, but in the original, it’s blue.”
“Hosteen Silver used to say that blue jays, or piñon jays as he called them, stood for peace and happiness,” Kyle said. “So was he saying that you’ll be so busy fighting you’ll miss out on happiness?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Preston answered.
Kyle shook his head. “Everything about that man was mysterious. Even his name. Hosteen means mister. Silver was a nickname given to him because of his long silver hair.”
Noting the wind had calmed down and things were returning to normal, Preston started leading the horse back to the corral. Just then a big barn owl flew out of the pine tree beside him. The bird swooped past him with a faint rustle of feathers, then turned sharply and angled up toward the cliff, disappearing into the background of rocks and brush.
Preston led the horse away quickly, grateful that Red had seemed oblivious to the owl and was now back to his usual calm self. His one fear—thunder—had subsided.
“The worst is over,” Preston said.
“Not by a long shot, bro. You’re the falcon in the drawing, and that was an owl we both saw swooping down out of that pine. For you, it’s just starting.”
Before he could reply, Preston’s phone rang. He turned the reins over to his brother, gesturing for him to put the horse away, and answered the call.
Mere minutes later he met Kyle, who was standing by the department’s SUV. Preston had changed shirts and was ready to go. “I need to race over to Hartley. I’m the closest cop and some kid just reported what he thinks is a dead body at Sitting Tall Ranch.”
“Watch your back, bro. Looks like things are already in motion.”
Preston slipped inside the SUV, then glanced out the window, his face hard, his gaze deadly. “Whatever’s coming will find me ready and waiting.”
Chapter Two
As Abby fell, her head hit something hard. Dizzying flashes of light exploded before her eyes, and for a moment she lay dazed and unable to move.
Her attacker grabbed her under her arms, dragged her several feet, then dropped her to the ground again. Disoriented, she waited for several long moments, hearing the fading sound of heavy footsteps.
Slowly regaining her wits, Abby sat up, tugged the bag off her head and looked around, trying to get her bearings and cope with the dull ache radiating from her head. She was in the stall prepared for the new horse, Big Red, who was due to arrive in a day or so. Both upper and lower stall doors were closed, but light still filtered in.
Abby listened for a moment, looking around. She was alone, and with the exception of the sound of horses moving about in the nearby stalls, snorting and anxious to be fed, she could hear nothing unusual.
Still cautious, she pushed the door. It was latched from the outside and wouldn’t budge, and both sections of the Dutch door had been connected with outside barrel bolts, so she couldn’t go under or over by opening just one. Peeking through the narrow gap, she saw where the metal latch had been lowered into the catch. Somehow she’d need to raise the big pin about an inch.
Abby peered around her, hoping to find a piece of baling wire she could work between the door and jamb. Unfortunately, she also had a safety rule requiring that no baling wire or metal objects be left on the ground where an animal could get tangled or cut up.
Poking through the hay debris, she noticed that one of the heavy wire tines of the metal feeder bolted to the wall had broken away from the weld at the bottom and could be twisted loose. That was what she needed. Thirty seconds later she managed to work the latch free, and the door swung open.
Abby hurried outside. Nobody was around. The horses in the pen ahead were moving about nervously, and when she drew closer, she saw Carl lying facedown on the ground by the feeder.
Hank, one of their two resident camels, was in the adjoining turnout. When he saw her, he roared loudly, the distressed sound reminding her of Chewbacca in Star Wars.
“Carl?” Abby scaled the fence and ran over. As she bent down for a closer look, she saw that the back of his head was a wet mass of tissue and blood. No one could have survived that kind of head injury. Outrage and sorrow gripped her.
Abby was struggling for breath when she heard a car door slam in the distance. Wondering if the attacker could have been the driver of the pickup parked on the road, Abby raced uphill. If she could read the license plate, she’d be able to give the police something solid to go on.
Once at the top, Abby saw the pickup and rushed out onto the road for a closer look. That was a mistake. The driver spun the truck around and accelerated, coming straight at her.
Abby stared at the darkened windshield, frozen in terror. The driver’s face was lost to her, but his intent to kill her was clear.
Just then a dark SUV with flashing lights came racing over the hill—a response to Bobby’s 911.
The SUV swerved left, cut