Page 3 of Double Bucked

It takes about twenty minutes to ride the overgrown trail through the woods and back home. The trees part, and the darkness lifts. The moon is nearly full, and on a cloudless night like this, it shines bright over the Preacher Ranch.

I’ve worked and lived on this ranch for nearly going on a decade now. It looks particularly nice in the dark, though. The stables are all put to sleep, illuminated only with soft lanterns that flicker outside each building. Tall, overgrown hedges surround the Preacher house, blocking anyone out.

The Preacher Ranch is an elite horse breeding farm, one of the best in the state. The grounds are well-kept, from the stables to the horses to the freshly cut grass.

It’s all in pristine condition except for my digs. The only eyesore in the place.

I’ve got a trailer parked up on the very edge of the property, tucked away in the woods. Out of sight, out of mind. Mr. Preacher wouldn’t have allowed it, except he knows what he pays me, which is a penny short of nothing.

I lift the latch on the wooden gate that separates the Preachers’ land from Dagneys’. I’m about to tuck Chaucer in for the night when a shot rings out through the silence.

Then another.

The sounds echo through the empty land. It’s coming from the Preacher estate.

Shit.

I kick my heels into Chaucer’s sides and click my tongue. He starts forward, picking up the pace and galloping toward the estate. The grass gives way to gravel and red cobblestones as I halt Chaucer, dismount, and step around the hedges to enter Mr. Preacher’s private property.

I slowly round the large water fountain with the bronze sculpture of a horse reared up in the center.

Mr. Preacher stands on his porch. He’s got a fuzzy, moth-bitten robe hanging over his hairy chest and round belly. He’s wearing his boxers this time, at least.

In his hand, he’s wielding a double-barrel shotgun.

“Whoa, there.” I put up my palms. “Let’s take it easy now…”

He rounds on me, swinging the shotgun my way. I freeze.

Those gray eyes are empty and wild.

“It’s just me, Mr. Preacher,” I continue. “Riley Ransom. You remember me?”

When a horse gets spooked, it’s important to keep your voice low and calm. Don’t make any sudden movements. If you can, try to meet them with your eyes first.

That’s how I approach Mr. Preacher—hands up, body half-bowed, eyes on his.

There’s a flicker of knowing in those lost, gray eyes.

Slowly, he starts to settle down. He lowers the shotgun, and I can breathe again.

“That’s good,” I tell him. “That’s pretty heavy, huh?”

He huffs. His mustache quivers.

“How about you let me carry that for you, sir?”

He holds out the shotgun. I take it.

It’s loaded. How in the hell? Seems like every time I confiscate a firearm from him, he just digs a new one up. I unload it and pop out the shells, shoving them away in my pocket.

Without his shotgun, he’s just an old, sad, tired man. His shoulders sag, and he mumbles, “They’re coming to kill me.”

“Who is?”

“Them.”

He narrows his eyes at the darkness.

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