Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis by Maria Swan (feel good novels TXT) 📕

spilled goods, a pair of work boots, filled by the wheelbarrow pusher’s feet. I looked up with my friendliest smile and pointed to the horse stuff. “Are you taking these to the trailer for Tristan?”

The bright light cast strange shadows on the man’s face. His beard seemed as unkempt as the grass, and he wasn’t smiling. Our eyes met, and I froze. Those light eyes, pale blue, maybe gray? The same shiver I experienced at the police station found its way up my spine. Oh my God! That was him... the half-brother.

I’m sure he read the fear on my face because he straightened up, towering over me. I stepped back, nearly stomping on Dior. My lips opened and closed, but no sound came. He moved forward, oblivious of the goods on the ground.

Rogelio Avondo, Angelique’s lover, stared back at me. I heard a click and without looking I sensed he had a blade in his hand. “So, you’re the bimbo lover boy is balling. Let me rearrange your smile a little.” He sneered and took another step. Dior growled. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. He was only feet away and didn’t seem in any hurry. Tache let out a sound, more a squeal than any usual sound I’d ever heard a horse make. I turned and started running toward the parking lot.

He came stamping behind me, cursing and gaining ground, and then a miracle happened. Headlights appeared from the corner of the new building as a truck headed for the same parking area I was running toward. And as the vehicle advanced, security lights, high on eaves of the roof came on, and I screamed louder. “Help, help...”

The pickup came to a screeching stop, its headlights angled on me.

The driver’s door opened.

I kept running, Dior and Tache joined me, joyously prancing as if this was just a new game. The man from the truck caught up to us, and suddenly voices sounded, other people appeared. I stopped and turned around.

Rogelio Avondo had changed direction. Before I could catch my breath, he was getting into the truck the good Samaritan had left running, and to my dismay, he drove off. The driver of the truck went running after it, but to no avail. We watched the taillights of the truck head toward the road to Interstate 10.

My whole body shook. I couldn’t breathe.

The man who’d come to my rescue said, “Damn, it wasn’t even my truck.”

Brenda, and Bob, must have heard the commotion as they came rushing up. Bob had drawn his gun and pointed it in the direction the truck had gone. But both the truck and the thief driving it had disappeared in a cloud of Arizona dust.

FIFTEEN

THE FOUR OF us stood on the spot where the pickup had been stolen. Stunned. The good Samaritan with no name kept his litany of swear words going, and from time to time I would hear a “...going to kill the son of a bitch.” While Dior, blissfully obvious to the situation, was greeting Bob with tail wags and sniffing galore.

I finally gathered enough breath to say the name. “Rogelio Avondo.”

“Rogelio who?” Brenda asked.

I beat Bob to the answer. “The dead woman’s half-brother. He’s wanted by the police, and he just stole this poor man’s pickup truck.”

“Hell no he didn’t. That son of a bitch who stole the pickup was Leo, the idiot who claims to know horses, but doesn’t know diddle shit,” Good Samaritan said.

“Who?” Bob and I could make a nice duet.

“Some newcomer. Angelique Dumont brought him to the ranch and insisted he be hired as a farrier. Said her husband vouched for the man.”

Yeah, I bet.

“I need to make some calls.” Officer Bob Clarke could hardly contain his excitement, he took off toward his car. Waddling more than running due to his noticeable pouch. Maybe the widow did cook after all.

Just then, Tristan and an old man I assumed to be the caretaker, Ernie Lopez, walked up. Neither seemed in a hurry. The whole scene felt weird to the max, like a low-budget film noir.

No special effects.

The motion-activated lights clicked off so that the dark sky and remaining sparse lights gave the illusion of a black-and-white movie in need of some serious editing. But Tristan and the old man had no clue about the latest events.

Good Samaritan took care of that. “Ernie, that f**king bastard stole Walter’s truck.” He nervously kicked dirt and gravel around with the toe of his cowboy boot. And these were the real thing. Even in the dark they looked old and worn.

“What? What are you talking about? Where is Walter?” Ernie Lopez asked.

Tristan wasn’t paying any attention to the conversation or to me. He made a beeline to where Tache waited impatiently for his attention. She paced and snorted in the enclosed area. Tristan actually hopped over the fence, and even from where I stood I could feel the bond between the man and his horse. He spoke softly to the mare, never once glancing my way. Still, the sight made me feel all warm inside.

The two men began to argue heatedly about the stolen truck. Bob was heading back our way, and then—Brenda lost it.

“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” The tone of her voice was so shrill, I bet no horse would sleep tonight. Then she retrieved a pack of smokes from her denim jacket and lit a cigarette. I think that simple gesture shocked the men more than her yelling. Well, she wanted attention, she got it.

“No one touches anything,” Bob Clarke announced.

“What’s there to touch? All my stuff is in Walter’s truck. I drove back here to make sure everything was locked down for the night. Everyone else is at the bar to celebrate Walter’s birthday. Goddamn... some birthday all right.” Samaritan kicked dirt with more determination.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” Lopez asked Bob. Tristan turned to look and seemed to realize for the first time that something wasn’t right. He spoke from the fenced