Page 47 of Stormy Ride

“Turkey club, cherry pie, and coffee. My regular lunch. I’m in a rut.”

“Sounds good and saves me thinking.” I waved our server over and ordered three turkey club sandwiches toasted and three cherry pies. “No coffee for Harlan. Bring him a chocolate milkshake. He needs more calories.”

Harlan grinned.

“Whose ranch did they hit?” asked Wyatt.

“Marilyn Pellegrino’s.”

“Aw, I was hoping they wouldn’t go back there. Was Marilyn hurt?”

Before I could answer, Harlan said, “The fuckers knocked her down and she got a fuckin concussion and got mud in that beautiful black hair.”

Wyatt stared at Harlan, not having a clue who he was or why he was with me.

I nodded and didn’t need to add much more. “Her cowboys were on the lookout for the rig, and they stepped in before the thieves got to the barn. Three of them this time and we got lucky. Buster got the tag on the pickup.”

“Great,” said Wyatt. “Who does the truck belong to?”

“I ran it through motor vehicles, and it belongs to a guy named Chris Hubbard with an address in Conrad. As soon as we eat, I’m going down there to see if they’re at that address.”

“Probably won’t be,” said Wyatt. “That would be stupid.”

“I figure theyarestupid, so I gotta check anyway.”

“Nice one, Travis. This will make a great follow-up story. You said no horses stolen this time.”

“They didn’t get that far.”

“Good thing Marilyn’s boys were on the ball.”

“Yep.”

Our server brought our sandwiches and pie and there was no more time for talking.

Hubbard Ranch. Conrad.

Following the GPS, we ended up in Conrad on the seedier side of the railroad tracks. The owner of the dark blue truck and trailer lived in a double-wide trailer outside of town on a few acres of property. Old, weathered barn and much newer corral not far from the trailer. No horses in the corral. A couple of dog kennels but no dogs.

“Huh, this is his setup.”

“No dark blue pickup,” said Harlan. “No horse trailer.”

“Lights are on inside the double-wide. Let the dogs out.”

“They’re gonna get all wet,” said Harlan.

“Yeah. You’re right. Leave them. We should be okay.”

Harlan and I ran to the trailer and stood under the sagging overhang waiting for whoever was inside to open the door.

With a temperamental squeak, the door scraped on the floor as a woman tugged on it. She snapped at me, “What do you want?”

“You Mrs. Hubbard?”

“So what?”

The woman—couldn’t call her a girl anymore—about thirty-five, bottle-blonde hair, short and chunky, and she gave notice that she hadn’t showered in about two weeks.

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