“Think you should give him more tranquilizers?” the woman asked, shielding her eyes from the glaring Arizona sun.
They were at Powell Ranch, the largest and oldest horse operation in the area. The woman was one of many people who boarded their horses there and made use of the riding facilities.
Mel shook her head. “I don’t want him so sleepy he lays down on us. The wound’s right between his gaskin and stifle. He could pull on the flesh and inflict more damage.”
The bay was tied to a post at the far end of the outdoor stalls. He’d gotten into a scuffle with his neighbor, a shaggy and even more temperamental pony, who’d retaliated by biting the bay and leaving two gaping holes on his left rear leg. Unfortunately, the injury went unnoticed for a couple of days—the horse’s owner had been out of town. By the time she discovered the wound, it was inflamed, infected and just plain nasty.
Seeing the bay’s eyes drift close, Mel decided to make another attempt at removing the necrotic tissue. The procedure didn’t hurt the horse. He’d kicked at Mel more out of anger than pain. Also, just like some people, he wasn’t a good patient.
“Hold him steady,” Mel told the woman as she quickly snipped away with the scissors. Finishing that task, she cleansed the wound again and applied a liberal glob of medicated ointment.
“Are you going to stitch him up?” the woman asked, peering around the bay’s head.
Mel continued to assess the wound. “I don’t think so. The edges are too ragged for sutures to hold. Better we stick to a strict antibiotic regiment. You know how to give injections?”
“Me? I’m an old pro.”
Many livestock owners, especially those in rural areas, were capable of doctoring their animals to some degree. Vets were consulted for only the more serious cases.
“Good. I’ll leave you enough penicillin and syringes for two weeks. He’s going to need twice daily injections.” Mel ran her hand gingerly down the bay’s leg. “No sense bandaging the wound, either. It won’t hold.”
“He’d just chew it off,” the woman said with a resigned sigh.
Mel started to pack her case. Before closing it, she handed the woman her jar of salve. “Cleanse the wound at the same time you give him the injections and apply this. Call me if he’s not showing any improvement or the wound becomes reinfected.”
“Thanks for coming out on such short notice.”
“No problem.”
Mel carried her case to her truck while the woman returned the sleepy horse to his stall. Setting the case on the ground, she leaned against the hood and stifled a yawn. The bay wasn’t the only one who was tired. Mel had been up and hard at it since five this morning, nearly nine hours ago, with no break.
As she opened the storage compartment on her truck, she was struck with a sudden wave of nausea and light-headedness. Hugging her middle, she waited for the sensation to pass, hoping she hadn’t caught that flu bug going around.
Tomorrow was a big day. She, her two sisters and her new stepmom were throwing a huge sixtieth birthday party for her dad at the Cowboy Up Café where her older sister worked. They still had a lot to do, and the last thing Mel needed was to be under the weather.
Fortunately, the nausea passed, and the next instant, Mel felt perfectly fine. That was...strange.
She might have thought more about it if not for a black SUV turning the corner of the horse barn, distracting her. The writing and logo emblazoned on each side identified the vehicle as belonging to the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department. Three deputies were assigned to Mustang Valley and its nearest neighbor, Rio Verde. They were often spotted patrolling the streets, parked in front of people’s homes or, like today, at one of the ranches.
The driver’s door opened, and a pair of familiar leather cowboy boots hit the ground, followed by long legs clad in dark brown slacks and a khaki uniform shirt. Mel’s heart gave a flutter as it always did upon seeing this particular deputy, and she promptly forgot all about stowing her case.
As she watched, he walked slowly, yet deliberately, toward her. She imagined a twinkle in the vivid blue eyes he hid behind aviator sunglasses. Recalled how the bristles of his five-o’clock shadow tickled her palm when she cradled his cheek.
“Dr. Hartman.” He nodded in greeting.
Pushing aside her long braid, a silly, nervous habit she wished she could break, she smiled with more reservation than if they were alone. “Afternoon, Deputy Travers.”
“Is Ethan nearby? I was told I might find him with you.”
“Actually, he’s over there.” She indicated the row of outdoor stalls. “At least, he was earlier.”
“Thanks.” He tugged on the brim of his felt cowboy hat, hesitated briefly and then continued on.
A stranger might not realize they were well acquainted, and, to be honest, they preferred it that way. For the last year and a half, Aaron Travers and his family had lived in Mustang Valley, moving here when he transferred from the Phoenix Police Department. He and Mel occasionally ran into each other, as everyone ran into one another sooner or later in a small town.
There were also those encounters that weren’t accidental. But she and Aaron didn’t talk about them. Not with anyone else.
Once he’d passed and her heart rate slowed, she returned to stowing her supplies. The sensation of awareness he’d left in his wake wound through her, interfering with her ability to concentrate.
Bam! Another wave of nausea hit Mel, and she swallowed, willing her queasy stomach to settle. By some miracle, it did. A moment later she was fine, as if she hadn’t been nauseous at all.
She’d just finished preparing her invoice for the horse owner when Ethan Powell and Aaron—make that Deputy Travers—approached.
“Mel,” Ethan said, “do you have a minute? Aaron has some questions for you.”
“Sure.” She set down her invoice pad. “How can I help, Deputy?”
“Last night, three horses went missing from the Sanford place.”
Mel drew back in alarm. “You’re kidding!”
“It’s the third incident this month,” Aaron said. “I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with rustlers.”
“I can’t believe it.”
The first missing horses had been considered a fluke. A few even claimed they’d escaped their pasture and joined a wild herd often spotted near the Salt River. Then, after a second group of horses disappeared, people took notice. But horse rustling? That seemed like something out of the Old West. Not modern day.
“Why?” she asked, still grappling with the news. “None of the horses were particularly valuable. Mostly ranch stock.”
“Slaughter?”
Mel’s off-and-on sensitive stomach gave a lurch. She regularly dealt with the death of animals, many of the circumstances heartbreaking. As a result, she’d learned to cope. Still, the idea of horses being stolen for the purpose of profiting from their slaughter sickened her.
“Aaron’s visiting all the area ranch owners,” Ethan said. “Seeing if they’ve noticed anything suspicious in recent months and asking them to check with their employees.”
“What can I do?” Mel asked Aaron.
“You travel the valley on a regular basis,” he said. “Just