Night of Shadows (7 page)

She still was not very presentable. But
compared to the muddy, bedraggled creature Mac had fished out of the water,
there was a vast improvement.

The light tapping at the door
announced that Preston was back. When Melinda greeted him, he was smiling as if
that melancholy conversation of minutes before had never taken place.

"Ready to go downstairs?"
he asked cheerfully. Seeing that she was dressed, he added:  "Good."

As he took her arm, Melinda felt
foolish accepting his assistance. A good night's sleep had done wonders to
bolster her strength. After they descended the stairs, Preston led her into a
huge living room decorated with heavy antique furniture and throw rugs strewn
over a recently polished, hardwood floor. The room was attractive, but its
immensity made Melinda feel uncomfortable.

"Where is everyone?" she
asked.

To her chagrin, Preston misread her
motive for asking the question.

"If you mean Mac — you won't
find him in here this time of day. He was up hours ago. He spends all his time
outside with the horses."

Preston chattered on, volunteering
information Melinda had absolutely no interest in. "My brother is — dedicated.
You have to give him that. No woman has ever won out over his work yet. In
fact, no one has even come close."

"Why would any woman in her
right mind even want to try?"

Melinda pointedly turned her
attention back to the living room. It was plain that Joan had not been allowed
a hand in the decorating. It was a man's house. The multi-colored brown
and beige carpeting and heavy oak, ranch-style furniture gave a feeling
of solid comfort. But there were no floral arrangements or other feminine
touches.

"Wouldn't you like to see the
library?" Preston suggested.

He led her down the hall and into a
room filled with hundreds of volumes lining the bookcases. Books and magazines
about horses and racing were in a section nearest to her. The opposite wall
contained a glass case loaded with trophies won at horse racing events and
shows.

With a wave of his hand, Preston
dismissed the trade books and trophies.

"That probably wouldn't
interest you," he said. "Over there is the fiction."

Melinda joined Preston at the
opposite side of the library, where he peered at the shelves as if seeing those
particular books for the first time.

"Joan's," he said shortly.
"I never paid much attention to them before."

His eyes scanned the titles
hungrily as he read. "
Love in the Spring
,
The Fantasy World of
Mary Harper
,
Arms of Destiny
..."

Preston reached out and thumbed
through a novel that seemed typical of Joan's tastes as Melinda remembered them
— oriented towards love and adventure. Preston half smiled to himself as he
scanned the pages, and paused over some of the passages.

"I never realized," he
said, half to himself. "Joan was — is — quite a romantic."

Melinda watched Preston's tender
expression as he eagerly grasped the book, almost as if he hoped to find Joan
by perusing words she had once read. It seemed rather late for a husband to
discover something as important about his wife as her reading tastes.

Melinda found herself thinking that
even her sister's friends knew Joan better than her own mate. Suddenly, she had
an idea.

"Preston!" she exclaimed.

He looked up from the book as she
touched his shoulder in her eagerness.

"What about Joan's friends she
was traveling with when she moved here? Are they still around here?"

He nodded. "We're in touch. They're
both still working in Ruidoso, in fact. But I wouldn't get too excited, if I
were you. I've talked to them already. They don't know anything."

He slammed the book he was holding
shut, and put it back on the shelf. "They used to visit here — quite
often, in fact. Did you know Debbie and Connie?"

Melinda tried to quell her negative
feelings. She remembered them only as irresponsible, immature airheads who had
lured Joan away from college to join them in their stupid adventure.

"I met them once."

She recalled, too, that during those
travels Joan's so-called friends had helped deplete her sister's share of
their parents' trust money meant for schooling. Joan now had no easy means of
returning to college. Preston watched Melinda, and must have seen the dark
thoughts mirrored in her face.

"You're probably thinking that
if Joan had never let herself get talked into leaving college, she would have
never met me. And none of this would have happened."

Melinda half shrugged, making no
comment. Of course she felt that way. But dwelling on the past wasn't doing her
any good. What she needed right now was a clue — a place to start.

"Maybe Debbie and Connie are
overlooking something," Melinda said hopefully. "Those two had a lot
of influence on Joan, as you well know."

"Believe me, Melinda. I, of
all people, know that. It never changed."

Preston's weary tone alerted her. She
turned to face him. "You said they came here often. Did they have some
reason? Other than friendship, I mean."

"Debbie had her own reasons."
He looked at Melinda meaningfully, but her blank expression must have shown she
did not understand the implication. Preston sighed.

"Well — it's like this. Personally
I don't understand it, but some women seem to think Mac has a certain kind of gruff
charm. Debbie, for instance."

Melinda let that one pass. She was
eager to contact the girls as soon as possible. Melinda noticed a telephone on
the desk, and reached for it.

"I'll borrow your phone and call
right now to see when we can get together."

"Sorry. The flood washed out
all our telephone lines. Service will be out for a couple of weeks, at least."
Preston hesitated. "Tell you what. If you promise to take care of
yourself, I'll make you a deal. In a couple of days, we'll be taking some
horses in to Ruidoso for the races. Then I'll personally take you to see the
girls. Maybe as Joan's sister you'll be able to think of something we
overlooked. You realize the sheriff has already questioned them thoroughly. But
if it will make you feel better..."

"Yes!" Melinda responded.
"At least I'll be doing something!"

"Okay," Preston agreed. "We
have plenty of room at our cabin. You can plan on staying there when we
go."

"Thank you," Melinda
said, unable to avoid a tone of dismissal.

Now that she had a plan in place,
she wanted to be alone. She selected a book at random and pretended to browse
through it. Preston took the hint.

"Well, I have work to do. I'd
better get busy before Mac comes in here to remind me of my responsibilities. He's
good at that."

Preston sounded sulky, almost like
a teenager instead of a full-grown man. As he stalked from the room,
Melinda decided that perhaps he and Joan were well-matched after all — at
least, in terms of their mutual immaturity.

Theirs had to be a stormy marriage. Melinda
couldn't help but wonder. How much understanding had Joan received from Preston
or Mac in this male-dominated world?

She thoughtfully closed the book she
held. Already, she was making excuses for her sister. The story of her life. But
if she intended to solve this mystery, she must stay open to the facts — even
if they cast Joan in a bad light.

The morning dragged on. Melinda
settled into an armchair and attempted to escape into the pages of a
National
Geographic
. But somehow the plight of the citizens in Sri Lanka paled in
comparison to her own.

At one point, she found she had
been staring at a page without really seeing the words for a good while. Finally,
she walked over to a window and morosely stared outside as the sheer curtain
billowed out in the breeze.

She felt herself growing listless
and bored. Would this day never end? She couldn't wait for darkness to fall, so
she could meet with Sammy. She wasn't expecting too much from him, though. Surely
if he knew where Joan was, he already would have told someone.

She turned and looked wistfully at
the telephone on the desk. She thought about Perry, who right now seemed like
the only friend she had in the world. She knew he was bound to wonder what had
happened to her, since she had been unable to call as promised.

Well, at least she could send him a
letter. She slid open the desk drawer and found some old-fashioned stationery,
with slightly yellowed pages indicating it hadn't been touched for a long time.
Then she sat and wrote down the events of the last week, trying to downplay her
adventures to avoid alarming Perry. She had just finished sealing the envelope
when she heard the sound of someone clearing his throat behind her.

When she turned, she saw Mac
standing there, laden with packages. Her heart leaped involuntarily as he
spoke.

"Your clothes were ruined in
the flood. I didn't think you could make the trip to town just yet, so I — uh —
bought you a few things."

He dumped the packages in a nearby
chair, as he looked at the letter in Melinda's hand.

"Do you need something mailed?
Here. I'll take care of it."

He took the letter, frowned down at
the name, then turned and retreated out the library door before she even had
the chance to say "thank you."

Curious, she hurried over to the
chair and began to sort through the packages. They contained several pairs of
Levis and blouses. He must have known her sizes from the damaged clothes.

At that moment, she heard shouting
outside the window.

"Mac!" It was Preston. "Come
here! Quick!"

The urgency in Preston's voice made
Melinda dash to the window and peer outside. She saw Mac and Preston running
toward a series of corrals, where some of the livestock were kept. A small
crowd of workers gathered in a semi-circle there.

Melinda hurried outside and pushed
her way into the group of onlookers. First, she saw the enraged bull tossing
its horned head with its lethal sharp prongs. Several ropes had been tossed
around the animal, and about five cowboys leaned back against the bindings in
an effort to subdue the crazed beast.

Then she spotted Sammy's bloodied
body inside the corral. Preston knelt beside him. And standing by him was a
red-headed man who by the looks of the medicine bag he held must have been
Preston's assistant. Mac, too, stood looking down. His face was white.

"I found him lying just like
this," the man was explaining. "I tried to help, but..."

Preston stood up slowly. "It's
okay, Rod. There's nothing you could have done. He's been dead for some
time."

"But how could this have
happened without anyone noticing before now?" Mac demanded.

"I don't know," Rod
answered. "We were all busy, I guess."

Mac suddenly walked over to a shed,
disappeared inside for a moment, and came out with a rifle that he cocked
menacingly. Everyone instinctively took a few steps back as he aimed it toward
the bull.

"Wait!" Melinda screamed.

But it was too late. A crack rang
out. The bull fell to its knees, then plunged forward. Blood spurted from its
head.

Melinda ran forward to confront
Mac.

"How could you do that?"
she demanded. "It might not have been the animal's fault!"

"Please. Don't interfere."
Mac sounded drained.

Melinda paused, trying to think of
a way to phrase what was really on her mind. "There could be something
more to this."

Mac lowered the gun and gave her a
pitying look. Then, he turned toward Rod and nodded in Melinda's direction. "Tell
her, Rod."

"Ma'am, Sammy was gored to
death. By this bull. I found the blood on the horns. They match the wounds in
his body. And I guarantee you the coroner will agree with me."

Melinda struggled to maintain control
over herself. "Sammy might have known something," she said carefully.
"His death is just too much of a coincidence, because…"

She stopped herself as she scanned
the group now staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Better
not to say too much. Because, as far as she knew, there wasn't one soul here
she could trust.

"What you're implying is
ridiculous," Mac said angrily.

"Oh?" Melinda said. "Tell
me something then, Mac. Does it seem ridiculous to you that people on your
ranch have a habit of turning up missing — or dead?"

With that, she stalked back into
the house.

The next morning, Melinda awkwardly
wriggled into the Levis and tried on the red and blue plaid Western shirt Mac
had bought for her. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and jammed each foot
into the stiff, new cowboy boots.

When she stood in front of the
mirror, she had to laugh out loud at herself. She hooked her thumbs into her
pockets, then twisted around for a better view. She chuckled again when she
imagined how Perry would react if he could see her now:

"
Really, Melinda. It's just
not you. What would your clients say
?"

It definitely wasn't the outfit for
a date to the Bindel Tower Clubhouse. She had one more good laugh as she
imagined herself, clinging to Perry's arm, her boots making a hollow thump as
they walked up the elaborately tiled floor toward the horrified maitre d'.

Then her expression grew sober. She
had no time for this kind of frivolity. She had immediate business to tend to,
long distance calls to make. Her own cell phone had been lost in the flood. But
it wouldn't do her any good out here anyway.

What she needed to do was visit the
nearest town to find a telephone that would actually work. And the first person
she planned to call was Perry. Next, she would ring up Ruth in the research
department of the Atlanta office and ask her to help with a background check on
Sacramento Ranch.

Ruth could use the Internet to
research newspaper and magazine files, even credit reports. But in order to get
started, Melinda needed transportation. Immediately.

Steeling herself for argument,
Melinda marched downstairs to confront either Preston or Mac. But after a
futile search of the house, she found only Harriet busily clearing away
breakfast dishes in the kitchen. Harriet gave her a disapproving look.

"We eat at seven. Sharp."

Now that Melinda had regained her
strength, it appeared special favors such as breakfast trays brought to her
room were a thing of the past.

"I — lost my watch in the
flood," Melinda found herself stammering. "I didn't know what time it
was."

Strange that this woman with her
fierce maternal manner could reduce Melinda's stone resolve to quaking
meekness.

"Never mind. I saved you
somethin'. Sit."

Melinda sat, as Harriet placed a
plate of biscuits and cold scrambled eggs in front of her. Harriet
unceremoniously slid a jar of homemade grape jelly and butter toward Melinda as
she continued to clear the table.

"Actually," Melinda said.
"I'm not sure I have time to eat. It's rather urgent that I speak to Mac
or Preston about getting a ride into town."

Harriet paused only long enough to
fix Melinda in a stern gaze. "This is a place of work. Preston and Mac are
long gone."

"Surely you have the keys to
some kind of a vehicle…"

"Not without their
permission."

Choking down her exasperation,
Melinda carefully buttered one of the biscuits and took a bite to try and at
least maintain an appearance of being civil. It was best not to antagonize
Harriet, who might turn out to be a valuable source of information.

"Well," Melinda said,
trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. "Maybe I'll be able to
track one of them down. The place isn't that big, is it? Or maybe they'll come
in to take a break?"

"Maybe."

Melinda almost wished she hadn't
healed so fast. Harriet definitely was a much nicer person when she thought her
guest was in need of tending. Melinda reached up to the bruised portion of her
face and pressed it tenderly, while rolling her eyes in the direction of the
housekeeper.

"Ow," she said loudly.

That earned her a sharp look that
quickly softened. "Hold on," Harriet said. "I'll go get you
something for that."

Harriet disappeared momentarily,
then reappeared with a wad of cotton and an unlabeled bronze bottle. She soaked
the cotton with some of the bottle's contents, which smelled suspiciously like
Mac's horse liniment. Then Harriet's work-wrinkled hands began to dab at
Melinda's face.

Melinda blinked quickly, her eyes
stinging, as Harriet began talking.

"I expect nobody much is going
to have time for you today, Miss. They're all getting ready for the big
futurity."

Melinda must have looked blank.

Harriet paused to regard her
intolerantly. "The horse races. In Ruidoso. The biggest purse for quarter
horses in the world. You mean you've never heard of it?"

"Well, no I…"

Harriet resumed dabbing at
Melinda's face with a vengeance, causing the younger woman to wince. "It's
like I tried to tell your sister when she was all the time bringing strangers
here for some fool purpose. The boys have better things to do than entertain
guests. So don't be expecting any more fancy treatment from us."

With that, Melinda gently reached
up and grabbed Harriet's hand to steer it away from her face. Then, dropping
the hand, she slowly stood up to meet the woman's hostile gaze.

"It's clear you don't think
much of me, Harriet. Why is that? Is it because I'm Joan's sister? Is it
because you hated her?"

Harriet backed up a step, seemingly
taken aback at someone literally standing up to her. At least the woman had the
decency to look a little ashamed as she dropped her head. The space between her
eyebrows crinkled slightly in thought.

"I am — truly — sorry if
something really has happened to your sister," Harriet said at last. "I
don't mean to sound rude, Miss. But, the truth is, she's caused me a lot of
hurt. Everything changed around here when Joan showed up last year. She caused
a world of trouble between Mac and Preston."

"I know that's the way you see
it, Harriet. But think about it. Preston and Mac still aren't exactly acting
like the best of friends. And my sister hasn't been around lately to blame for
it, now has she?"

Like a deflated balloon, Harriet
suddenly dropped into a chair. "Oh, dear me. You could be right."

Melinda pulled up her own chair,
and sat down opposite Harriet, who now stared desolately off into space. "They
was always such pals, them two, even when they were boys. I raised them, you
know."

"No," Melinda said in low
voice. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah. Their Mamma died when
Mac was six and Preston was just a baby. Carl — that's my husband — has been
foreman here since he was a young man. We never had children, so when Mrs.
McClure passed away and left those two little ones...well, I guess her job was
something I naturally took on. Lord knows, her dying so young was a tragedy. But
in the long run it was a real blessing for me and Carl."

A smile glimmered on Harriet's lips.
"They're both such fine boys. Preston was just a teenager when their Daddy
died of a stroke. But that just seemed to bring them closer together somehow."

"That's how it was with Joan
and me," Melinda said. "We lost our parents, too."

"Is that so?" Harriet's
look softened as she regarded her guest. "Well, those two boys were the
best of friends growing up. They could always depend on each other. Then — Preston
got the wild notion to join the service."

"He told me a little something
about that."

"Did he? Well, half the time we
didn't even know where he was, his work was so secretive. We were so happy when
he was finally discharged. He'd only been home a little while when he met that
girl. He married her without even getting to know what she was really
like."

"I wasn't very happy about it
either," Melinda cut in gently.

"Is that so?" Harriet
gave her a look of deep scrutiny, then sighed. "Well, I suppose it would
worry you. It worried all of us. Those two. They could hardly keep their hands
off each other at first. Maybe it really was love. Who knows? Preston is so
mixed up these days. Not at all himself. Mac needs to be more patient with
him."

Harriet frowned then, as though
concerned she had said far too much to a mere stranger. She stood up, smoothed
her dress and picked up the plate of food Melinda had hardly touched.

"You might find Preston in his
office," Harriet said grudgingly. "It's down near the stables."

A few minutes later, Melinda was on
her way. She stopped to ask a few directions of busy ranchhands who seemed
eager to stop what they were doing to help her.

A few minutes later, she stood in
front of a large white building that emitted an odor of antiseptic. The door to
the right side had been identified as Preston's office. She tapped on it firmly.
But when it opened, she saw a face that was only vaguely familiar.

"Oh," the man said
unenthusiastically. "It's you."

 His flaming red hair reminded her
of his identity. This was Rod, Preston's assistant, who Melinda had seen bent
over Sammy's body just yesterday.

"Hi, Rod," Melinda said
cheerfully. "Is Preston here?"

"No. Sorry." Rod made
motions as though to shut the door.

Melinda pushed her way through. "I'll
just wait for him inside."

Rod eyed her warily as she looked
around the small, cluttered office with undisguised curiosity. A nearby desk
was piled high with papers. Next to it was a large refrigerator, the only item
in the room that looked even remotely intriguing. Melinda walked over to it.

"Does Preston happen to keep
soft drinks in here? My throat feels really dry."

As she reached for the handle, Rod
dashed over — blocking the door with his body. "No," he said firmly. "There's
no need for you to open that."

Melinda knew she was pushing the
limits of polite behavior. But the clues to her sister's whereabouts must lurk
somewhere in the shadows of this place. She was determined to look everywhere,
pry into everything.

Rod attempted a flustered
explanation. "We have some semen stored in there. From bulls. That's all. The
samples have to be kept protected. Some of them are quite valuable. If they
were to get broken...well. You understand."

"Of course," Melinda
said, forcing herself to sound agreeable. She sat down in one of the metal
folding chairs. "Do you practice a lot of artificial insemination here?"

Did she imagine that Rod responded
with a furtive glance at the refrigerator? "Mostly just the beef
cattle."

"Oh? Why not horses?"

"We do some of that, too. Strictly
by the rules. Look — uh. Miss," Rod said. "I have a lot of work to do.
I'll give Preston the word that you stopped by."

"Oh, that's okay,"
Melinda said brightly. "I have lots of time. You go right ahead with what
you were doing. I'll wait in here."

She had the distinct impression
that Rod's original plans involved leaving the office. But with her there, he
settled into the desk and made a show of shuffling through some papers.

Melinda picked up a magazine
published for quarter horse enthusiasts and pretended to browse through it. She
carefully timed her next question.

"Why would you have to follow
rules?" Melinda asked suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something
you said a few minutes ago sounded — well, odd. About following rules during
insemination. Why would there be any rules about something like that?"

Rod paused, seemingly to collect
his thoughts. "Oh. Well, it's very simple. The racing association we
belong to has — standards — regarding artificial insemination. I won't bore you
with the details, but lineage in horse racing is a very touchy, very regulated
business. For instance, you can't just freeze the semen of a prize sire and
keep it on hand the way you might with a bull. Now if this were a thoroughbred
operation..."

His voice drifted off, as though he
hoped she had been satisfied with the explanation. Melinda didn't let him off
so easily.

"And what if this were a
thoroughbred operation?"

"Artificial insemination
wouldn't be allowed at all."

"Why is that? To make the
sire's fee more valuable?"

"I suppose that's part of
it."

Rod determinedly returned to his
papers, and seemed to become absorbed in something. Melinda dropped her head
and pretended again to be studying the magazine. She allowed a few minutes to
pass, before venturing another question.

"So are you a veterinarian,
too?"

"No. But I've had some
training."

"How long have you known
Preston?"

"I've worked here about a
year."

Rod finally stacked up his papers
and moved them to the side. His green eyes lit with wry amusement.

"You're not fooling anyone
with this act of yours, Miss Bailey. I heard your little remark after Sammy
died. That's what you're leading up to, isn't it? Questions about Sammy? About
the so-called mysterious circumstances of his death?"

"More like questions about
everyone."

"I can't help you there. I'm
new here myself."