Remembering August (Triple C Ranch Saga)

  Remembering August

  Copyright © 2011 by Rodney V. Earle

  ISBN – 13: 978-1-105-09711-9

  REMEMBERING AUGUST

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-105-09711-9

  Dedication

  I humbly dedicate this novel with pride and affection to Miss Patricia Crandall. Her contributions to our world are indeed immeasurable. Her wisdom was (and is) well beyond her years, yet it took me twenty years to realize it. Whether she is aware of how much influence she had on me, I cannot venture to guess. All I know is… without her wisdom and inspiration, truly this novel would never have seen the light of day.

  For Amy and for Bo and Lea and for Rocky Fund and for Rocky’s beautiful daughter, Jesse

  CHAPTER 1

  “Here! Come on!” Colleen’s headache began to take its toll on her. Never one to get a late-morning start, she just knew the others were still sleeping one off. “Lucky bitches,” she said out loud to herself. “I never get to sleep in.”

  August was unusually hot, even for Southern California. The hundred-degree heat made Colleen’s headache seem much worse than usual after a girls’ night out.

  The brim of the Stetson that rested low on her forehead dripped with sweat. She wondered whether the swill she finished drinking a few hours before would seep from her pores and burn her eyes all day long. The dusty straw hat had seen its share of sweat over the last year, but this morning the alcohol content of the tequila stung her eyes even more than normal.

  “Los!” she called over her shoulder. “Who the hell hosed down the ring this morning?”

  “Jesus,” replied Carlos, who was perched on the top rail of the show ring gate with his arms folded.

  “It’s a damn dust bowl in here!”

  The filly that circled her kicked up copious amounts of fine dust that resembled a slow-moving tornado.

  Colleen thought about her tone toward the ranch foreman a second before. She eased up a little. “Just tell Jesus that when he starts paying the water bill, he can decide how much water gets used on the show ring. ¿Comprende’?”

  “Okay, Boss.”

  She called the Triple C Ranch foreman “Los,” knowing full well she was the only one who could get away with it. Carlos Guzman found it endearing, even though he was twenty-five years her senior. The gorgeous, thirty-two-year-old Colleen Caldwell felt it was important that they work together as equals, but she was well aware that his experience vastly outweighed hers.

  The horse at the other end of the rope was skittish. Colleen thought that maybe her own nerves were shot to hell and that the gigantic filly was just feeding off her temperament. She learned at a young age that a horse is one of the few animals that can sense strong emotion in humans, and then mirror them. This creature was no exception.

  “She’s come a long way over the summer,” Colleen said as the filly passed in front of Carlos.

  “Indeed. A long way.”

  “We might just manage to make ‘er into somethin’.”

  “Maybe,” said Carlos. “Good legs. Always a profit in good legs.”

  She started to say something, but the dust was too thick for a full breath. She fought the urge to cough, but had to clear her windpipe.

  “I think I’ll keep this cull for a while,” she said after clearing her throat. “She was cheap enough, but she still has yet to earn her oats.”

  †

  When bidding for the horse began a few months earlier at the Bending River Annual Equine Auction, the auctioneer described this oversized young filly as a “cull,” and her owner labeled her as “a pain in the ass.” Colleen’s heart got the best of her. From the moment she laid eyes on her, she knew she had to save her from an uncertain fate. Far too often she had seen what happened to sound animals that needed nothing more than an attitude adjustment.

  Among the bidders were men who looked to buy horses cheap enough to make a quick profit in the glue or dog food markets. They served a purpose, but all of the reputable ranchers avoided them like the plague.

  “We’re two of a kind,” Colleen announced as she raised her bidding paddle. The Triple C was well-known and respected in the Southwest, and all other bidders respectfully lowered their paddles once they saw she was interested. Even the Purina buying agent lowered his paddle. Auctioneer Dick Long called three times for any other bids and then shouted, “Sold! To the Triple C!” He slammed his gavel on the lectern and said, “Watch this one, Colleen. She’s trouble.”

  After the auction was over and the beer started flowing, she found herself alone amongst the buyers and ranch owners, predominantly men in their forties and fifties. With a cold beer in one hand and a bacon-wrapped hot dog with extra mustard in the other, she heard “Purina” talking to Glen Powers, owner of Big Sky Ranch. His real name was Alex Anderson, but she referred to him as “Purina,” just as her husband Chase had done for years. Chase had his suspicions about him, but she thought he was a bald, dumpy, forty-something pig and nothing more.

  Colleen took a bite of her hot dog. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back slightly, and marveled at its deliciousness.

  “How’d you like those lips wrapped around your hot dog, eh Glenny?” Purina asked loudly.

  “Don’t mess with me, Purina,” Colleen warned without turning around to face him. She took a swig of her beer. She loved the taste, from the time she took her first sip at the ripe age of eight. As an adult, she hated what it did to men when it flowed too fast on a hot day.

  She heard Purina mumble something more, but couldn’t catch it all. She knew the tone in his voice, and that was enough. She didn’t need to hear every word to know that he was well-lubed with liquid courage.

  “Easy, killer,” Glen said with an even and sober keel.

  Since Chase’s death, Purina had made several efforts to gain her interest, but to no avail. The last time was a few months before the sale at a show jumping competition in Indio. After the competition, Purina asked what it would take to let him ride her, and with his spurs on. She dismissed his comment, and focused on the trophy headed for the Triple C.

  “She’s a bitch!” Purina bleated with a volume intended for anyone within fifty yards.

  Before he could see what was coming, Colleen dropped her beer, whipped around to face him, and drove her fist into his stomach, producing a loud, “Uhhh!” When he gathered enough breath to stand up straight, Colleen saw large mustard stains on his shirt from the demolished hot dog balled up in her hand.

  “Holy shit, Colleen!” Glen chuckled, nearly choking on his beer.

  “I told him not to mess with me,” Colleen said scornfully.

  Still catching his breath, Purina blurted, “I’ll sue you for that!”

  Colleen stared at the dumpy-assed blowhard and clinched her fists harder. More mustard-infused hot dog oozed from her hand like a Play-Dough Fun Factory. She looked down at her hands and decided to say nothing. Her knuckles were white from squeezing so hard.

  Dick Long, who had been an au
ctioneer for longer than Colleen had been alive, appeared out of nowhere and handed her a wet washcloth. She wiped her hands and said, “I need a beer. I guess I dropped mine.”

  “Here you go. This one’s on me,” he offered.

  She nodded and said, “Thanks, Dick.”

  “Maybe that cull you bought should watch out for you instead. Don’t you think… Purina?” he added, motioning to the ailing buying agent.

  “You’re right,” said Colleen. “Like I said before, we’re two of a kind.”

  †

  “If it isn’t one damn thing, it’s another,” the beautiful, thirty-two-year-old proclaimed.

  Carlos scratched his head and said, “What?”

  The pounding in her head intensified as the filly picked up her pace. “I have a headache,” she said, and then tried to concentrate on something else. “How we sittin’ for Goat Chow?”

  The ranch foreman knew she was in a bad way. He hadn’t seen her so hung over and disheveled since after her husband’s death a year ago.

  “About twenty pounds.”

  Colleen tried to concentrate on the filly, but found her mind wandering way off course. “When that’s gone, switch ’em to something else.”

  “Okay, Boss,” he said lazily.

  “I hate it when you call me that… Carlos.” She only called him by his full first name when he was in trouble, which wasn’t often.

  “Sorry,” he said with a smirk.

  “I would appreciate it… if you would tell Miss Joan that I said to hold off ordering anything from Purina for a while.”

  “No problemo,” he replied, which always meant he understood the instruction, and the intent behind it.

  Colleen’s eyes stung from blue agave-infused droplets of sweat. She felt beads of hard work dripping down her back between her shoulder blades, which was something she hated immensely. She believed that Sundays were for catching up on work that didn’t get done during the week, but she felt she would never make it through this day in the shape she was in. The work will have to wait, she thought to herself.

  “A few more good laps and we’ll call it a day,” she said.

  “Okay B— Ms. Caldwell,” he said in anticipation of a short workday. He slid from the top rail of the tightly-sprung gate and whipped it open with the vigor of an anxious schoolboy on the first day of summer. He passed through the gate and disappeared around the corner of the wash stalls about ten yards away. The wide-open gate moved slowly at first as it started to close, and then picked up speed before it slammed shut with a big CLANG!

  Colleen flinched violently and the plug at the end of the rope bolted sharply toward her. Usually light on her feet, she shuffled backward to avoid the massive animal, but tripped over her own boots. She hit the ground flat on her back, knocking the air from her lungs. In a flurry of dirt and dust, the frightened beast reared backward.

  Colleen instinctively raised her right arm for fear she was going to get a horseshoe to the face. Suddenly she felt the bristly rope scrape her cheek. She immediately realized she was still holding it, so she let go. The filly leapt over her and took off across the show ring. She galloped at full-speed, and then skidded to a halt just short of the concrete planters that lined the far side of the show ring.

  Hatless, breathless, and with a mouthful of dirt, Colleen tried to regain her feet, but before she could find her center, the horse whipped about and took off straight for her. She had no time to react. The filly plowed into her as if she were invisible, and sent her sprawling a second time.

  The filly let out a piercing whinny that resonated more like a scream. She reared again, and then landed a hoof on the right side of Colleen’s chest. She tried to scream herself, but couldn’t gather any air. She raised her arm again as the raging animal reared over and over, narrowly missing her head each time.

  Her chest heaved feebly. She tried to move her legs, but the left one wouldn’t work. The stabbing pain was like nothing she had ever felt. She had blurry visions of her husband being thrown from his mount a year before. Suddenly she heard crunching noises; like the sound of chewing dirt. The image of something blue caught her stinging, dust-filled eyes. She couldn’t turn her head enough to see what it was, but it was familiar to her. Something warm, she thought. Colleen lost consciousness.

  †

  “Whoa! Easy!” Clouds of dust filled the show ring as a man in his thirties struggled to distract the raging animal in front of him. Donned in worn cowboy boots, jeans, straw hat and a blue flannel shirt, the man waved his arms wildly and yelled “Hey!” over and over. The filly bucked crazily as if she had been zapped with a cattle prod, but he finally managed to grab the end of her rope. He immediately took a defensive position between the filly and Colleen.

  Her battered body was lying awkwardly face-down, but the cowboy still had a fight on his hands. The panicked animal suddenly reared again, ripping shreds of skin from his gloveless palm. He winced as he felt the thick twine slip further and further, burning his fingers. Dust flew in all directions, and the cowboy started to chew and choke on his own helping of dirt.

  Joan Caldwell, Chase’s mother, suddenly appeared on the porch of the ranch house about a hundred feet away. “Colleen!” she screamed hoarsely.

  “Call an ambulance!” the cowboy yelled as he continued to struggle with the horse.

  “Oh my God!” Joan wailed, paralyzed from the shock of what she saw.

  “Hurry!” the cowboy commanded.

  The screen door slammed hard as Joan stormed back into the house, nearly ripping the door from its hinges.

  Carlos reappeared at the show ring gate and his heart leapt from his chest. “Oy!” he shouted.

  The cowboy whipped his head in Carlos’s direction. “Get another rope!” he roared.

  Carlos disappeared again. The horse continued her frenzy, but the cowboy started to gain some ground with her. Blood poured from his hand, but with a renewed grip on the rope, he controlled the horse’s direction for once.

  Colleen was still lying on her stomach in the dirt. There was a large red spot of blood forming on the back of her left calf, midway between the back of her knee and ankle. A broken bone was sticking out of the center through a small rip in her jeans. Her hair was no longer in a pony tail and dirt filled her tangled locks. Her forehead was caked with dirt, and small wisps of dust eddied from under her head as she involuntarily struggled to breathe.

  The cowboy continued his struggle. Sections of the rope were stained with a brilliant red from his bloody hand. Over and over the cowboy yelled a raspy, controlled “Here!” and “Easy!” at the scared mountain of a horse in front of him.

  Out of nowhere, a lasso suddenly hit its mark around the saliva and dirt-caked head of the filly. “Vamos!” Carlos sputtered, taking the cowboy by surprise. “Vamos!” The strong hands and vast experience of the ranch foreman was too much for the horse. He had a commanding voice that affected livestock almost like a sedative, and the fatigued horse calmed slightly. “Calmar, Gigante’!” Carlos continued, lowering his voice more and more as the panting animal shuffled warily in the dirt. “Easy, Diabla.” The filly twitched nervously, sputtering frothy dirt and dust from her nostrils.

  “Tie ’er off,” the cowboy called out loudly.

  Carlos moved carefully toward the show ring fence as the filly surrendered her tug of war. He looped the end of the rope around a post in “block and tackle” style, gaining his leverage a little more. Firmly but gently, he shortened the distance between horse and fence.

  The cowboy moved toward the fence and held his grip on the thick twine. When he reached the fence, he looped his rope around the post in the same fashion. “Got it?” the cowboy asked.

  “Got it.”

  Carlos wrapped the rope around the fencepost twice more. He tied a double loop knot, and repeated the actions with the blood-soaked rope the cowboy was holding. The filly stood in the settling dust, pulling against the shortened rope and pawing nervously at the dirt. Order was r
estored with the filly, but the battered owner of Triple C Ranch desperately needed medical attention.

  †

  Joan Caldwell’s slender, calloused fingers couldn’t move fast enough as she dialed 911. The antique dial rotated in slow motion. Out of breath, she screamed “Come on!” She hadn’t bothered listening for a dial tone before she wedged the receiver between her head and shoulder.

  “Hello? Hello?” said a female’s voice.

  “Hello?” Joan replied frantically.

  “Joan? What’s wrong?”

  “Damn it!” she shouted as she held the receiver. “Hang up!”

  “Joan! What’s wr–”

  “Colleen’s hurt! Hang up!”

  “Oh, no!” the female gasped. “Okay… I’m hanging up n—”

  Joan swatted at the phone’s plunger and cut the woman off mid-sentence. She let go and waited for a clear line. After about a second, the dial tone clattered in her ear. Once again, she stabbed at the nine. She whipped the dial clockwise and whimpered as it lumbered slowly back. “Help is comin’, baby,” she said as she dialed the 1’s.

  “Let’s gooooooo.” One ring. “Let’s go, damn it!” Two rings. “What the f—”

  “Nine-one-one operator, what’s your emergency?”

  “My daughter… she’s hurt!”

  “And that’s at two three three two Tierra Rejada?”

  “Yes. Two three three two.”

  “Your daughter is injured? Is she breathing?” the operator asked all at once.

  “I… I don’t know! She’s been… trampled, I think, and she’s not… moving.”

  “And how old is she?”

  “Thirty-two. Oh, Jesus! Not again!”

  “Tell me what happened, okay? Take a breath.” The operator instructed.

  Joan took a short, labored breath. “Okay. She was working in the show ring, and all I know is she’s hurt. I didn’t see what happened.”