Page 25 of High Velocity

“Why?”

She smiles at me in a way I know means she wants my help with something.

“I have to pick up a horse just across the Idaho border outside Moyie Springs and I could use a hand, but Jonas has a meeting in town at eight. He can come with me tomorrow, but it has to be tonight.”

“Okay…what’s the catch?”

Because I’m sure there’s a reason she needs a hand with this one, when she goes out to pick up animals by herself all the time.

“The horse is in really bad shape. Neglected. I got a desperate call from a neighbor, who has tried to get the local sheriff to step in but has been unsuccessful.”

That’s not exactly a surprise, in larger communities those calls go to the humane society, who will come and investigate. However, in the less populated areas that responsibility falls on the shoulders of local law enforcement, and they often have bigger fish to fry. Especially since the laws protecting animals in both Idaho and Montana leave much to be desired. In most cases, it’s considered a misdemeanor, letting the offenders off with no more than a slap on the wrist, and making it barely worth the while for law enforcement to come out.

It’s ironic that in some aspects our wildlife receives more consideration and attention than our domesticated animals do.

“Apparently, the horse’s owner lives in a trailer down the road from the caller,” Ma continues, “and likes referring to himself as a sovereign citizen.”

Great. We’ve got our share of those. Often individuals tout that label to justify snubbing the law, as if that would make them exempt.

“Lovely. And you plan to steal this man’s horse?”

I move past her as I start making my way over to my cabin for a much-needed shower.

“Rescue,” Ma stubbornly corrects me, trotting to keep up. “Besides, he’s a sovereign citizen, what is he gonna do? Call the sheriff?”

“No, but he might feel justified shooting you,” I point out sardonically.

“Which is exactly why I have to pick up the horse tonight,” she explains, a little out of breath. “The neighbor told me he plays the slots at the River Inn Casino every Friday night.”

I stop in my tracks and turn to look at her through narrowed eyes.

“Does Jonas know the circumstances?”

She instantly sends a furtive glance at the ranch house, so I highly doubt it.

I have a feeling he’d have a thing or two to say about Ma putting herself in danger. Not to mention animal cruelty may not warrant a closer look, but law enforcement would come down hard on horse theft, even if it was to save the animal from a certain death. Seems backward if you ask me, but that’s how things are.

“He will…after,” she mutters.

When it’s too late for him to do anything about it.

I’m starting to wonder if Jonas actually has a meeting to go to, or whether that was simply an excuse to get me to go with her. Which, of course, I will because I know my mother; she’ll just go on her own. She’s more concerned about the horse than she is about her own hide.

“Fine. I’m taking a quick shower though,” I add. “And pack me something to eat. You’re driving.”

I have a handgun tucked into the back of my jeans, just in case, when I meet her by her truck twenty minutes later. She already has the small, single-horse trailer hooked up behind it. Waiting on the console between the seats are a bottle of water and something wrapped in tinfoil.

“Chicken, rice, and black bean burritos,” she clarifies when I get in.

Starved, I’m already shoving down the food before Ma pulls out of the driveway.

“Buckle,” she snaps, shooting a pointed look my way.

I comply and grin at the memory of what was a daily battle between us when my mother used to drive me to school. I wasn’t a particularly rebellious kid, I think, but I did use to give her a hard time about wearing my seat belt. I hated the feeling of being restricted. Still do, although these days age and wisdom have me usually buckling up without thinking.

“So what’s with you and that FBI agent?”

Her question comes out of the blue and catches me off guard.

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