Falcon's Run

Her kiss was a tender expression of gratitude…

But Preston’s reaction to it was fierce and swift. He pulled her close and deepened the kiss. She didn’t resist. Giving in to temptation, she melted into him.

With each heartbeat, his touch became rougher, his kiss burned hotter. Then to her complete surprise, he eased his hold.

Abby looked into his eyes and saw the iron-willed control he held over himself.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You didn’t start this, and I can see you don’t want to…”

“I don’t want to?” He laughed, a dark, edgy sound. “I want you, Abby. I care about you more than I should. But you need to be protected—even from me.”

“You want me…” she said slowly, savoring the words. “Then show me.”

AIMÉE THURLO is a bestselling author. She’s the winner of a Career Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews, a New Mexico Book Award in contemporary fiction and a Willa Cather Award in the same category. Her novels have been published in twenty countries worldwide.

Aimée was born in Havana, Cuba, and lives with her husband of thirty-nine years in Corrales, New Mexico. Her husband, David, was raised on a Navajo Indian reservation.

Falcon’s Run

Aimée Thurlo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With special thanks to Doug Baum and Dr Steve Komadina, who shared with me so much of their time and expertise about camels.

Chapter One

Armed with her favorite guilty pleasure—a caramel vanilla cappuccino—Abby Langdon left Sunny Perk in the distance and navigated the long gravel road that led to her ranch. Later, she’d put on a pot of coffee, but for now, her fix was complete.

Already she was anticipating the hard work and long day ahead. Sitting Tall Ranch and its special mission had always been her dream come true. Young victims of illness, poverty and abuse came to her ranch daily for a respite from their challenges. Her guests had witnessed the worst life could hand out, but Sitting Tall Ranch was the haven where they could forget their troubles and just be kids.

Abby slowed as she neared the abandoned pickup parked alongside the road. She’d seen it earlier when she’d left the ranch. Somebody had probably run out of gas then gotten a ride.

Abby drove through the gates, parked and headed to her office, a separate casita behind the main house. She was holding her to-go cup in one hand and reaching for her keys with the other when she heard a familiar voice to her left.

“Abby! Wait up!”

Ten-year-old Bobby Neskahi, hands down her favorite guest, was struggling up the sidewalk. Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis had damaged most of his joints and left him to rely on braces, but whatever had caused the panicked look on his face was urging him to move fast.

He stopped in front of her, catching his breath. “Carl’s hurt! He’s not moving.”

“Where is he?” Her heart suddenly beat overtime. Carl Woods was her caretaker, animal handler and all-around right-hand man on the ranch.

“He’s inside Tracker and Missy’s turnout area. He’s on the ground, and he didn’t move or answer when I called him.” Bobby grabbed her hand. “He might be dead. I couldn’t see him breathing. Come on! You gotta help!”

Abby touched Bobby firmly on the shoulder, then handed him her keys. “Bobby, I need you to go into my office, call 911 on the desk phone, then stay here until the police arrive. You’ll have to show them the way. I’ll go check on Carl.”

Bobby nodded and Abby took off running toward the stalls.

Jogging around the corner of the barn, Abby nearly collided with a wheelbarrow stacked with bales of alfalfa hay. Stopping just in time, she began inching between the wheelbarrow and the fence. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of movement.

As she turned to look, a large figure leaped up from behind the stack and forced an empty feed bag over her head.

“Hey!” Sputtering from the debris in her eyes and mouth, she fought to pull the bag off.

Strong arms grabbed her wrists, yanked them down to her sides, then lifted her off the ground.

Abby tried to kick her captor, but he just grunted, hauled her several steps, then flung her violently onto the ground.

DARK, ANGRY CLOUDS were building over Copper Canyon. “Storm’s heading our way.” Hot from exertion despite the cool, early hour, Detective Preston Bowman had already shrugged off his shirt as he continued working alongside his brother, repairing gaps in the fence line. Their late foster father’s place belonged to all of them now.

As the wind from the downdrafts intensified, Preston could feel the force of the approaching storm. The sky continued to darken quickly, turning the new day into near twilight.

Kyle, taller than his brother by one inch and just as muscular, wiped his eyes with a dirty hand. “Rain I like. Sand-storms, not so much, bro.”

Preston was tired, though he’d never admit it. His sore muscles were a constant reminder of why he’d chosen city life instead. As a cop, Preston was more used to wielding a gun rather than a shovel, axe or sledgehammer. Even though he was six feet tall and in excellent shape—police work demanded it—he was ready for a break.

Kyle reached for his shirt. “I’d forgotten what it feels like to be sandblasted.”

“Have you decided if you’re going to be coming home for good?” Preston grabbed his own shirt and ducked inside the toolshed.

“Not yet,” Kyle said, joining him in the small shelter. “I have some things to work out first.” He shook his head and shrugged. “Can’t say anything else—classified.”

Preston nodded silently. He didn’t have to know the details to realize whatever it was had hit Kyle like a hard kick to his gut. Despite that, he knew his brother would find a way to deal with it.

Inside each of his five brothers was a fighter who never gave up. They’d all been tested at an early age, long before they’d even known how to protect themselves from life’s hard knocks.

Their stories were all different but shared the same core. They’d been wards of the state, abandoned by people who were supposed to have protected and loved them. Survival instincts had become second nature to each of them early on.

When life did its best to bring them to their knees, they got up and kept fighting. It was what they did best. The difference was now they had each other’s backs. Though none of them were bound by blood, their pasts had forged unbreakable ties among them.

A flash of lightning was followed immediately by an earsplitting crack of thunder that shook the ground. Hearing a horse’s panicked whinny, Kyle shot out of the shed and ran toward the corral. “Red!”

The large mahogany horse with the dark mane was bucking wildly, racing around the corral and tossing his head.

“Red’s used to his own stall inside Gene’s barn. He doesn’t like it here,” Kyle said.

Preston took the horse by its halter, led him to the side of the house and stood there with him. “He’ll settle down now that he’s here with us, sheltered from the wind,” he said. “How come Red’s here? Did Gene loan him to you for a few days?”

“No. He’s donating him to Sitting Tall Ranch. The owner, Abby Langdon, was looking for a gentle mount for kids with special needs. Red’s steady as they come—except around thunder. If he’s inside a barn, he’s okay, but not if he’s outside. Since I’d planned on keeping him here for a day or two so I could go riding, I checked the weather ahead of time. It was supposed to be okay, just a little cloudy, but this front’s a day early.”

As they stood waiting for the storm to pass, Preston kept his arm over the horse’s neck. The animal seemed to be handling things better now.

“Have you opened the envelope Hosteen Silver left for you yet?” Preston asked, referring to their foster father.

“No, not yet. He knew things before they happened and that always spooked me. There’s also something else I need to take into account now. After Daniel, Gene and Paul opened theirs, they ended up getting married within months. I’m thinking that I’ll hold on to mine for another decade or so,” he said and flashed his brother a quick grin.

Preston laughed. “Just so you know, they’re not all letters that foretell upcoming events. Mine’s a sketch.” Preston reached for his wallet and took out a folded piece of paper. “I made a copy to keep with me until I figured it out.”

“Nice. The old man was a good artist, though he seldom had time for that,” Kyle said, studying it. “That’s obviously Copper Canyon and there’s Falcon. It looks just like the fetish he gave you when you turned sixteen.”

“I’ve carried that carving with me every day since,” Preston said, lifting the leather cord that hung around his neck. A small leather pouch hung from it. “Falcon’s a faithful spiritual guide. I think he helps me see what others miss. That’s a great asset in police work.”

“In the sketch, Falcon’s swooping down on that owl and defending something… a nest or maybe its mate? The background’s mostly in shadow and hard to make out. Can you see it any better in the original?”

“No, not even enlarged.”

“What’s that drifting down?” Kyle asked, pointing. “A gray feather?”

“Feather, yes, but in the original, it’s blue.”

“Hosteen Silver used to say that blue jays, or piñon jays as he called them, stood for peace and happiness,” Kyle said. “So was he saying that you’ll be so busy fighting you’ll miss out on happiness?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Preston answered.

Kyle shook his head. “Everything about that man was mysterious. Even his name. Hosteen means mister. Silver was a nickname given to him because of his long silver hair.”

Noting the wind had calmed down and things were returning to normal, Preston started leading the horse back to the corral. Just then a big barn owl flew out of the pine tree beside him. The bird swooped past him with a faint rustle of feathers, then turned sharply and angled up toward the cliff, disappearing into the background of rocks and brush.

Preston led the horse away quickly, grateful that Red had seemed oblivious to the owl and was now back to his usual calm self. His one fear—thunder—had subsided.

“The worst is over,” Preston said.

“Not by a long shot, bro. You’re the falcon in the drawing, and that was an owl we both saw swooping down out of that pine. For you, it’s just starting.”

Before he could reply, Preston’s phone rang. He turned the reins over to his brother, gesturing for him to put the horse away, and answered the call.

Mere minutes later he met Kyle, who was standing by the department’s SUV. Preston had changed shirts and was ready to go. “I need to race over to Hartley. I’m the closest cop and some kid just reported what he thinks is a dead body at Sitting Tall Ranch.”

“Watch your back, bro. Looks like things are already in motion.”

Preston slipped inside the SUV, then glanced out the window, his face hard, his gaze deadly. “Whatever’s coming will find me ready and waiting.”

Chapter Two

As Abby fell, her head hit something hard. Dizzying flashes of light exploded before her eyes, and for a moment she lay dazed and unable to move.

Her attacker grabbed her under her arms, dragged her several feet, then dropped her to the ground again. Disoriented, she waited for several long moments, hearing the fading sound of heavy footsteps.

Slowly regaining her wits, Abby sat up, tugged the bag off her head and looked around, trying to get her bearings and cope with the dull ache radiating from her head. She was in the stall prepared for the new horse, Big Red, who was due to arrive in a day or so. Both upper and lower stall doors were closed, but light still filtered in.

Abby listened for a moment, looking around. She was alone, and with the exception of the sound of horses moving about in the nearby stalls, snorting and anxious to be fed, she could hear nothing unusual.

Still cautious, she pushed the door. It was latched from the outside and wouldn’t budge, and both sections of the Dutch door had been connected with outside barrel bolts, so she couldn’t go under or over by opening just one. Peeking through the narrow gap, she saw where the metal latch had been lowered into the catch. Somehow she’d need to raise the big pin about an inch.

Abby peered around her, hoping to find a piece of baling wire she could work between the door and jamb. Unfortunately, she also had a safety rule requiring that no baling wire or metal objects be left on the ground where an animal could get tangled or cut up.

Poking through the hay debris, she noticed that one of the heavy wire tines of the metal feeder bolted to the wall had broken away from the weld at the bottom and could be twisted loose. That was what she needed. Thirty seconds later she managed to work the latch free, and the door swung open.

Abby hurried outside. Nobody was around. The horses in the pen ahead were moving about nervously, and when she drew closer, she saw Carl lying facedown on the ground by the feeder.

Hank, one of their two resident camels, was in the adjoining turnout. When he saw her, he roared loudly, the distressed sound reminding her of Chewbacca in Star Wars.

“Carl?” Abby scaled the fence and ran over. As she bent down for a closer look, she saw that the back of his head was a wet mass of tissue and blood. No one could have survived that kind of head injury. Outrage and sorrow gripped her.

Abby was struggling for breath when she heard a car door slam in the distance. Wondering if the attacker could have been the driver of the pickup parked on the road, Abby raced uphill. If she could read the license plate, she’d be able to give the police something solid to go on.

Once at the top, Abby saw the pickup and rushed out onto the road for a closer look. That was a mistake. The driver spun the truck around and accelerated, coming straight at her.

Abby stared at the darkened windshield, frozen in terror. The driver’s face was lost to her, but his intent to kill her was clear.

Just then a dark SUV with flashing lights came racing over the hill—a response to Bobby’s 911.

The SUV swerved left, cut around her, then slid to a stop between her and the oncoming truck.

The pickup quickly returned to its lane, then sped past the SUV and continued over the hill.

An officer wearing a dark Hartley police jacket stepped out of the SUV. As Abby went to thank him, her knees buckled.

He was there in an instant, his arms secure around her waist and holding her gently against him. “Hang on, ma’am. I’ll call an ambulance. Your head’s injured.”

“No, I’m fine,” she said quickly, stepping back to stand on her own. She touched the emerging bump on her forehead. At least she wasn’t bleeding.

Abby looked up at him, straight into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. His steady gaze was like the man himself—strong and hard—a rock to lean on. “You just saved my life.”

“I’m Detective Preston Bowman of the Hartley P.D. You’re safe now,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring.

For a moment she felt tempted to step right back into his arms and rest against his hard chest. To forget…

She drew in a sharp breath. “I’m Abby Langdon. You need to come down to the ranch right away. Something’s happened to Carl Woods, my head trainer,” she said, telling him everything in a short burst.

“Let’s go,” he said, hurrying back to his SUV with her. “Hop in.”

“This whole thing…it feels like a nightmare…but it’s real,” she whispered, closing the passenger-side door.

“All I caught was glare off the glass. Did you see the driver’s face or his license plate?” he asked, easing down the hill, then making the turn into the long driveway.

“No, but it wasn’t for lack of trying,” she said.

“All right then. I called it in as soon as he took off. We’ll see what happens now. I’ve heard of what you do here, Abby. Now tell me more about your animal handler.”

“He’s… ” Her voice broke and she brushed away a tear. If she started crying now, would she ever stop? She took a deep breath and held it together.

He pulled up in front of the logs anchored in place to serve as a parking barrier. “Just point me in the right direction. This is a police matter and I’ll handle it.”

His steady voice and calm confidence made it easier for her to trust him. He’d stepped into an unpredictable situation and had taken charge effortlessly, as if it was second nature to him. Something assured her that Detective Bowman was very good at his job.

They climbed out of the SUV, and she led him quickly to the turnout area alongside the barn. As they approached, she saw that Bobby had left her office and was now standing just outside the welded pipe enclosure where Carl lay.

“I need to get Bobby away from there,” she said quickly. “He’s too young to deal with things like this and he’s seen too much already.”

“Bobby’s your son?” he asked, noting that the boy was Navajo.

“No, he’s always my first guest of the day. He’s also one of my regular helpers,” she said. “He found Carl and made the 911 call. Is it okay if I go take care of him?”

“Yeah. This is no place for a kid. Find a place where he can stay, just make sure he doesn’t leave the property. He may have seen or heard something that could help us.”

As Abby hurried to the boy, she could see Carl’s body in her periphery. A silent scream rose inside her, filling her mind and nearly obliterating her ability to think.

“He’s…dead, isn’t he?” Bobby whispered.

He seemed remarkably controlled considering the circumstances. But she’d seen that same look on other faces before and recognized it for what it was. Many would mistake it for indifference, but fear, the kind that clung with razor-sharp tentacles to your soul, often mimicked bravery. She remembered seeing it in her twin sister’s eyes as treatment after treatment had failed to cure her.

Taking a deep breath and forcing herself to focus on the present, Abby turned her head and saw Detective Bowman had ducked through the gap in the welded pipe fence. He had latex gloves on and was now crouched next to Carl’s body. After checking for Carl’s pulse, he looked up and shook his head, affirming what she already knew.

Abby focused on Bobby. “We need to leave. Other officers and medical people will be here soon and will need us to point the way back here.”

Bobby didn’t move, his gaze still locked on Carl. “Do you think Missy or Tracker kicked him?” he asked in a thin voice.

She hadn’t even considered that possibility until now. “I can’t imagine either of those horses hurting anyone. They’re the calmest animals I’ve ever known. I’ve never seen either of them spook, not under any circumstances,” she said, taking an unsteady breath. Somehow her voice had remained steady but her hands were shaking badly. Not wanting Bobby to see that, she jammed them into her pockets. “Carl was their trainer and the animals knew and liked him. They never even flinched or pulled away when he cleaned their hooves. There’s no way they hurt him.”

“Then who did this?”

Abby drew in another unsteady breath. “I don’t know, Bobby. That’s what Detective Bowman is here to find out.” She tried to urge Bobby along, but he refused to move.

“I’m going to miss Carl, Abby. He was my friend and I don’t have that many. The kids at the foster home play a lot of football and baseball, but I can’t. Carl liked the same kind of games I do. We’d pretend we were spies and do a lot of cool stuff.” A tear trickled down one cheek, but he brushed it away instantly.

She wanted to give him a hug, but she knew Bobby would think she was babying him and would hate that. “It’s okay to be sad. I am, too, Bobby.”

He nodded but didn’t answer her directly, avoiding the subject altogether. “The detective’s Navajo, like me. Did you notice? He has to work around the body and that’s dangerous, but he knows how to protect himself so he’ll stay safe,” he said. “See that leather bag on the cord around his neck? That’s not jewelry, and he’s not just trying to look Indian. That bag protects him.”

“From what? I don’t understand,” Abby said.

“Spirits stick around and like making trouble for people. Mrs. Nez—she cooks for us back at the foster home—told me that,” he said.

Abby hesitated, unsure what to say. “Carl would never hurt either one of us, not when he was alive or now that he’s passed on,” she said. “Bobby, you may not need a hug, but I do.” She bent down and held him. As she did, Abby felt the tremor that shook his small body.

After a moment she stepped away and Bobby refused to look at her, almost as if embarrassed. “Tell the detective that I followed the rule of three, okay?”

“The what?”

“He’ll know,” he said. “We better go. The sirens are coming closer.”

She nodded. “You’re right. We’ll need to stay out of everyone’s way.”

They walked back up the path away from the barn and the enclosures. Abby set a slow pace, but not so much that Bobby would think she was deferring to him. Bobby faced many difficulties daily, but he had a lot of pride, something that helped him endure.

Hearing Hank the camel roar loudly, Abby halted. “Bobby, go ahead without me. Make sure the other officers and emergency people know where to find the detective. I need to get the horses out of the turnout area and move Hank to another pen so the police can work in peace.”

“Okay, but if you get scared or something, shout out or whistle. I’ll hear you.”

“Thanks,” Abby said and smiled. Bobby was as loyal as could be. It was one of the many reasons she was so fond of him.

Abby jogged back to where she’d left the detective. Though the horses were clearly upset by the stranger in their enclosure, they were still acting in a predictable manner. Both stood as far away from Detective Bowman as possible, at the innermost corner of the enclosure, watching him, their ears pinned back.

“Detective, let me put halters on the horses and lead them to another pen. They’ll be out of your way then.”

“No, stay put. This is a crime scene,” he said. “I see a hoof pick over there and a coffee can with some traces of grain. I’ll dump that out then check their hooves, scrape off any dirt and debris into the can and then bring them out to you.”

Preston looked around for a rope and halter but, finding neither within arm’s reach, decided to forego using them. He bent down and checked each of Missy’s hooves. Using the pick, he collected dirt and what could be blood and hair. Once finished, he grabbed the mare by the mane and led her over to Abby, who immediately opened the small turnout gate.

“You know horses,” Abby said.

“Yeah. It was part of life where I grew up.”

Abby grabbed Missy’s mane as he’d done and led her out to another corral. By the time she returned, Detective Bowman was waiting with Tracker.

Abby grabbed the horse but as her gaze strayed to Carl, a lump formed at her throat. How could this have happened? Nothing made sense to her anymore.

“Was he a close friend?” Preston asked, as if sensing the turmoil inside her.

“We weren’t close, but I considered him a friend. He was a good, loyal employee and a man who’d believed in my dream for Sitting Tall Ranch.” She wanted to keep her voice steady, so she paused for a moment. “Do you know how…he died?” she added in a strained whisper.