“Four horses are going to tie you down, though.”
I nodded. “They’ll give me something to think about, that’s for sure.” I looked off toward the cottonwoods, trying to picture the mammoth Percheron draft horses ambling among the gnarled, armored tree trunks. “And I think maybe I need that, too.”
The horses had been my own private version of the white light that some folks claim to see just when their hearts give up.
In my case, it had been visit to an Octoberfest north of Flint a week or so before my surgery. I hadn’t particularly wanted to go, but Camille and family had convinced me that if I liked beer, this was the place to drown in it. That part didn’t sound half-bad, although I detested the loud polka music and the crowds that went with such an event.
I went, and I stood rooted and mesmerized as the great horses competed in deadweight pulling competition. Great concrete blocks were set on the enormous rude wooden sled by a smoke-belching diesel front-loader. Between each round, as they waited for the tonnage to be increased, the handlers walked their teams of horses around the churned arena, and the immense creatures were as docile and plodding as old fat men.
Their heavy leather harnesses were rigged to a single tow bar with one stout iron hook that hung down like a claw. As soon as the driver began to maneuver his team toward the load, the animals came alive, broad hooves smashing into the dirt in a frantic dance. The man had to fight the reins, yelling at the animals at the same time, while a second handler grabbed the tow hook. He had the most dangerous job, since the horses lunged the instant they heard the clank of iron against iron, and he needed to dive to safety.
Four tons of horses lunged into the harness, snapping the front of the sled out of the dirt and surging the pile of concrete weights into motion.
The winning team had pulled twenty-eight tons the measured distance. And in the process, they had captured my imagination as nothing else had in half a century.
After the horse pull, I’d met the owner and driver of the winning heavyweight team, and we’d talked while we stood in the shade of those massive beasts. I’d never made a decision so promptly that didn’t involve arresting someone.
He agreed to sell me a matched team of fourteen-year-olds, animals that were approaching retirement and would need a nice, quiet, shady spot. As the idea took root in my mind, I had let go of what little common sense had been nagging me. I also agreed to buy an eight-year-old mare and her foal.
And in the course of several conversations over the next couple of weeks, he’d agreed to several other things, too. He would deliver the animals himself when I was ready. Perhaps most important, he agreed to take them back, at no charge, if I happened to drop dead one day.
Camille, of course, had thought at first that I’d gone certifiable, but given enough time and argument, she at last shrugged. Horses weren’t new to me, after all. The first eighteen years of my life had been spent around them, including a lot of time at the dumb end of the reins while my father’s Belgians, Hugo and Fred, plowed nice straight furrows in the North Carolina soil.
I had always liked the Gonzalez place, and I had driven by at least half a million times in the past twenty-five years. And I knew that it was for sale-and had been for months. The entire deal had been predicated on my surviving what the doctors had planned for me. That accomplished, I had wasted little of my convalescent time. Telephones were wonderful gadgets.
I heard the clump of Sam Preston’s boots coming back through the house. “That was Detective Reyes-Guzman,” he said. “She wants to stop by if you’re going to be here for a few minutes.”
“We are,” I said. “Why don’t I talk with you later on this afternoon, back at the office?”
Sam nodded. “Place is open. Just make yourselves at home. If you would, be sure the front door locks when you leave, although I don’t guess there’s much to take here yet.”
After he left, Camille hooked her arm through mine again. “What does Estelle think about all this?” She gestured out at the cottonwood paddock.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet,” I said. “It all happened pretty fast, and since we’ve been back, there hasn’t been time for chitchat.”
“Ah,” Camille said. She pointed toward the west. “Let’s walk back to the irrigation ditch.” We did, our shoes crunching the leaves under the cottonwoods. What I had started calling the paddock included seven acres, a vast park that was a delight to the eye. We reached the ditch, now, just a berm on either side of a weed-choked channel.
“Hasn’t been water through here in awhile,” Camille said.
“A long, long time.”
“Where did the water come from? The Salinas is too far west, isn’t it?”
I nodded. Rio Salinas was a seasonal and undependable little rivulet itself. “There used to be a series of springs. But they dried up in the early 1960s, when the mine was getting started.”
“So where does the water come from now?”
“The house has a well-a very good one. I’ll pipe water back to the paddock.”
I collected another of those skeptical glances from Camille. She stood on the bank of the ditch, hands on hips, looking back toward the house. “Quite a challenge,” she said.
“That’s a kind way of putting it. But look at it this way. The grandkids can visit one at a time and ride the horses.”
Camille laughed. “One at a time. I like that.” She shook her head. “You’re hopeless, Dad. I’d like a photo of that, though. A little kid would need a stepladder to climb up on the back of one of those beasts.” She pointed at the house. “That must be Estelle,” she said. “Let’s see if she thinks you’re as crazy as I do.”
Chapter 19
Estelle Reyes-Guzman saw us as we walked toward the house, and she sat down on the bench by the back door. She was wearing a tan suit, and from a distance, she blended in with the adobe behind her.
As we approached within speaking distance, she stood up, a smile brightening some of the fatigue on her dark face. Camille gave her a small hug around the waist with the one arm, keeping the other linked through mine.
“Sam Preston told me you were out here,” Estelle said, and her gaze swept the property. I could see the mental gears working.
“Anything new on the youngster?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Eddie told me about the folks in the RV.”
I laughed. “We made their day, I’m sure.”
“Holman doesn’t want to pull the search teams for a while yet,” Estelle said. She examined the corner of the old house where the stucco was badly cracked.
“That’s probably just as well,” I said.
She ran her hand down the rough finish. “Are you buying this place?” She turned to look at Camille, and I walked over to the bench and sat down, leaning back against the wall, feeling the warmth of the old adobe filter through my flannel shirt.
“She’s not. I thought I might.”
“I see,” Estelle said. I grinned, amused at this accomplished detective’s complete lack of nosiness.
“I’d like to own some horses,” I said. “This place is on the market, and it’s cheap.” I reached around and patted the thick adobe wall. “The house is basically sound.”
“You mean you’re going to live here?” She didn’t try to conceal the incredulity in her voice.
“Yes. That’s what I was thinking.”
“Oh.” Estelle walked a step or two closer to the back door and stopped. “Well, it’s farther from the interstate,” she said.
“That’s one plus.”
She gazed at me, and I felt as if I were being CAT-scanned. I took a deep breath and said, “I’ve been thinking about offering the hacienda to you.”
“Me?”
“To you and Francis.” Up to then, I hadn’t been able to imagine how I was going to broach this subject with Estelle. I’d thought about it for months, playing various conversations through my mind. But now that I’d started, the words tumbled out in a rush.