the corral when Kerney arrived home. He saddled Hondo and rode up the hill, past the ancient pinon tree where Soldier, the wild mustang he’d bought, gentled, and trained years ago during his bachelor days, was buried. He paused for a minute and then turned in a westerly direction toward the live spring at the edge of the ranch property that was always a favorite horseback riding destination for the family.
A fresh pile of horse apples near the water tank and windmill told Kerney he was on the right trail. He clamped his cowboy hat down hard, lowered his head against a stiff, cold southwesterly wind, rode Hondo at a slow trot, and tried to clear his mind of the events of the last ten or so hours. The Canoncito crime scene had been grim enough, but the impact on the family of the devastating news of Denise Riley’s murder had been heart-wrenching to witness.
The wind eased. Kerney raised his eyes and blinked away some dust as he reached the top of the small hill that overlooked the pond and live stream. Several hundred years ago, during the days of the Spanish conquistadors, the pond had been a stop along a wagon road that ran from the village of Galisteo to El Rancho De Las Golondrinas, a way station on the El Camino Real south of Santa Fe. The ruts of the road were still visible under the overarching bare branches of several old cottonwood trees that once shaded a hacienda, which was now nothing more than a rock rubble foundation covered by cactus and shrubs.
Under the trees, Gipsy and Pablito stood quietly. Down by the stream, Kerney spotted Sara and Patrick watching a small flock of Canadian geese that had stopped during their northerly spring migration to feed on the tall grass that surrounded the pond.
Hondo’s whinny startled the geese, and the flock rose skyward, honking deeply in unison, the sound of their wings creating a back-beat rhythm as they circled and flew north in a loose formation.
Kerney rode down to his wife and son, and Patrick gave him a stern look when he arrived.
“You scared the birds away, Daddy,” he said.
“That was Hondo, not me.” Kerney patted Hondo’s withers, bent low in the saddle, and extended his hand. Patrick grabbed on and Kerney swung him up onto his lap. “You’re getting heavy.”
“I’ll be four this year,” Patrick announced proudly.
“That’s a fact,” Kerney said, smiling down at Sara. The cold March wind had put some color in her face, highlighting the line of freckles that ran across her cheeks and nose. “Are you ready to head home?” he asked.
Sara smiled. “Now that you’ve scared the geese away, we might as well.”
Kerney groaned.
“Did you find Helen’s sister?” Sara asked.
Kerney nodded. “We did,” he said flatly.
“Not good?”
“It doesn’t get any worse.”
Sara stepped to Hondo and put her hand on Kerney’s leg. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know if I can do anything more.” Kerney jiggled the reins and Hondo broke into a walk. “In three weeks I’m going to be just another retired cop, a civilian, and it may take a lot more time than that to put this case to rest.”
“But it happened to a family member of one of your people, on your watch,” Sara said, her head suddenly filled with the images of the firefight in Iraq, the wounded soldiers on the ground. The acid smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils.
“I know,” Kerney replied. He reined up next to Pablito and put Patrick on his saddle.
“Can we come back to see the birds tomorrow?” Patrick asked.
Sara swung into the saddle, and Gipsy pranced sideways next to Pablito. “Yes, we can.”
“Does anybody besides me want blueberry pancakes when we get home?” Kerney asked. It was one of Patrick’s favorite meals.
“I already had breakfast,” Patrick said glumly as the three-some wheeled their horses toward home. “Cereal.”
“Is there a rule that you can only eat breakfast once a day?” Kerney asked his son.
Patrick shrugged and gave his mother a questioning look.
“I think there are special times when breakfast is a meal you can have twice a day,” Sara said with a laugh.
“The boss says yes to blueberry pancakes,” Kerney said.
Patrick grinned and spurred Pablito into a trot. “Okay,” he yelled, taking the lead on the trail.
Clayton Istee always looked forward to evening meals with his family. As a police officer, he’d missed far too many of them over the years, and now that the children were getting older—Wendell had turned eight and Hannah was approaching six—he knew it was more important than ever to be home for dinner as much as possible. He didn’t want to become one of those cops who sacrificed their personal lives or lost their families through divorce all for the sake of the job.
He’d called Grace late in the day to tell her he’d be home for dinner no matter what, and when he finally broke away from the investigation he was fairly certain that there would be no new developments that would interfere with his plans. In fact, in terms of developing leads, identifying suspects, and collecting any useful evidence, the day had been a complete and utter bust.
Clayton rolled the unit to a stop next to his pickup truck, which Sheriff Hewitt had arranged to have brought back to his house, and beeped the horn twice to announce his arrival. As he dismounted the vehicle, his son, Wendell, threw open the front door, bounded across the porch, and ran to the unit to greet him.
“I saw you on TV,” Wendell said, looking up at his father. “The evening news.”
Clayton nodded and said nothing. Earlier in the day, a camera crew from an Albuquerque television station had filmed him and the state police crime scene techs carrying evidence from the cabin.
Politely, Wendell waited a moment to see if his father was taking his time to consider a response. Clayton said nothing.
“The man who died,” Wendell said. “The deputy…”
Clayton pressed his forefinger against his son’s mouth before he could say more. “It is best for us not to speak about that. What has your mother fixed for dinner?”
“Spaghetti,” Wendell said. “With meatballs.”
Clayton rubbed Wendell’s head. “Good. I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” Wendell said.
In the kitchen, Grace was ladling spaghetti sauce onto plates of pasta while Hannah set the table. Without being asked, Wendell pitched in and helped his sister.
Clayton got quick kisses from his wife and daughter, along with instructions to go wash up for dinner. He locked his sidearm away in the gun cabinet where he kept his hunting rifles, gave his hands and face a good scrub, and returned to find his family seated at the table awaiting his arrival.
He eased into his chair and glanced from Wendell to Hannah. “Whose turn is it to tell us everything they did at school today?”
“It’s my turn,” Hannah said as she twisted her fork around some pasta.
“Okay,” Clayton said, smiling at his beautiful daughter, who had her mother’s eyes, small bones, and finely chiseled features. “Let’s hear all about it.”
Hannah took a bite of spaghetti and then began recounting her day at school.
After the table had been cleared, the dishes done, and the children put to bed, Clayton and Grace snuggled together on the living room couch.
“Your mother wants you to call her,” Grace said.
Clayton raised an eyebrow. Isabel Istee, a former member of the tribal council, continued to exert considerable influence over government affairs and was always pushing Clayton to get involved in politics. “Did she say what was on her mind?” he asked.
“No,” Grace replied, “but I can hazard a guess. Rumor has it that the tribal police chief position is about to open up, and after your close encounter with Bambi’s father yesterday, Isabel wants you off the streets and safely ensconced behind a desk. Today’s murder of the deputy only makes it a more urgent issue for her.”
“But not for you?” Clayton queried.
“I know you love your job.”
