“Cordie June, you’re what—twenty-two, twenty-three ? You have lots of time.”
She gave her hair one last look and turned to me, her expression uncompromising. “You don’t know what it’s like. They’re grooming people younger and younger to be stars now. It’s not just talent, it’s looks and age, too. I saw the video of a girl the other day who just turned seventeen. She’s landed a million-dollar contract promoting her music
and
a line of Western clothes for J.C. Penney’s. She’s got a killer first single, she looks like dynamite, and she’s almost six years younger’n me. Believe me, every minute counts.”
“Amazing,” I said, trying to ignore the questions racing through my mind. How long had everyone known about this producer’s visit? Was it Tyler he was expecting to see? And most of all, just how far would Cordie June go to eliminate her competition?
SEVEN
WHEN WE REJOINED the men, Dewey walked Cordie June to her car, and Gabe and I waited while they said an affectionate goodbye. Under his cream-colored Stetson, Dewey’s face was flushed when he came over to our car.
“I’d be careful if I were you, Dewey,” Gabe said. “Looks like she’s causing that old blood pressure to rise a little too high. Men your age . . .”
Dewey grinned and ignored Gabe’s teasing. “The stable’s about ten miles from here. Just follow me. And try to obey the speed limits this time, Chief Ortiz.” He winked at me.
We followed Dewey over back country roads, eventually turning down a long gravel driveway through a field of freshly-turned-over soil. The air had a sweet grassy smell, like cooking hops. A faded green tractor sat in the middle of the field like a toy abandoned by a child. In the distance, about a half mile from the road, I could see the stables surrounded by a grove of huge cottonwood trees. We passed under a metal archway that spelled out “Champagne Quarter Horses” in fancy black wrought iron. The sharp, hot wind that always seemed to be cropping up swung the varnished wood sign under it: “Horses boarded and trained—Dewey Champagne—Belinda Champagne.”
“They must have had an amicable divorce to be able to work together,” I commented.
“I think she’s still hoping he’ll come back,” Gabe said. I looked over at him, my mouth wide open in surprise.
“
You
know a piece of gossip? I don’t believe it. Where did you hear that?”
“Angel or Becky, I can’t remember who told me.” He reached over and gave my chin a gentle shake. “Close your mouth. The flies in Kansas have been known to choke people. I know a lot more than you think. I just don’t go around announcing it every chance I get.”
I swiped his hand away. “Telling your wife is not announcing it. It’s called communication. Want me to spell it for you?”
“Brat,” he said good-naturedly, pulling the car to a stop.
“Despot,” I retorted.
“Very good. Dove will be thrilled to hear you are utilizing the college education she paid for.”
“What are you two arguing about?” Dewey said, coming around and opening my door.
“She’s begging to move to Kansas, and I said no,” Gabe replied. Leave it to him to find the one thing that could make me laugh.
“Quit making fun of your roots,” Dewey told him. “You might be able to fool other people, but I know the real you. You’re a flatlander at heart.”
“Shut up and show us around,” Gabe said.
Behind the long ranch-style house were four breezeway barns containing, I guessed from their size, thirty enclosed stalls. Most of them sounded full, which meant Dewey probably boarded about a hundred horses, give or take a few. It was an impressive operation for a mostly rural area where many people kept their horses on their own property.
“Either of you want something to drink?” Dewey asked. We both declined, but he got himself a bottle of Samuel Adams and drank it as he gave us a quick tour. His pride in the stables was apparent in his quiet enthusiasm. He and Belinda had built a first-class stable that included a large, spotless training arena with a set of redwood bleachers, two hot walkers, two bullpens, an indoor wash rack with hot and cold water, and a tack room so organized it resembled a store. Bridles, halters, whips, saddles—everything was in its place, clean and labeled. Champagne Stables was the most immaculate stable I’d ever seen. As he was showing us a rose-and-maple-leaf-carved Charles Hape saddle he’d just had custom made, a young girl wearing tan English breeches, shiny black boots, and a pink Beauty and the Beast T-shirt walked in and threw a bridle haphazardly up on an empty hook.
“Hey, Sarah,” Dewey said sharply. “You know better than that. Hang it right.” He tossed his empty beer bottle in a plastic-lined trash can.
She rolled her eyes dramatically, but walked back and rehung the bridle properly.
I laughed. “You’re as bad as Gabe. For Pete’s sake, you’ve both been out of the Marines for twenty years. Are you ever going to relax?”
“Relax and you’re dead,” they said simultaneously, then looked at each other and laughed.
“Sergeant Cochran’s first rule of thumb,” Gabe said.
“Sergeant Cochran?” I asked.
“Our drill instructor,” said Dewey. “Meanest man who ever lived, but his training probably saved our
huevos
more than once.”
“Well, as irritating as compulsively neat people can be to live with . . .” I dodged the back of Gabe’s hand swatting at my butt. “Just like Gabe, you’re probably a great investigator.”
“Watch it,” Gabe said. “She’s buttering you up for use later on.”
“Well, whatever this little lady wants, I’d probably do it.” Dewey gave me a friendly smile. “I have to admit, I’ve acquired quite a soft spot for your wife already.”
I smirked at Gabe and unfortunately wasn’t quick enough to miss his hand this time. “Hey, cut it out,” I said. “That’s police brutality.”
“Settle down, you two,” Dewey said, “or I’ll have to put you both to work.” As we followed him back through the stalls toward the house, he explained the way he and Belinda ran the stable. “Belinda supervises most of the day-to-day stuff—lessons and exercising and the shows we put on for the kids a couple of times a year. I see to the breeding and the paperwork and working with some of the rougher horses. We just bought a new stud—Apache’s Red Power. He’s a Thoroughbred just off the track.”
We stopped at Apache’s stall, where he was pawing at the fresh wood shavings. He was black as a night sky, with an almost blue sheen to his coat. He had the lean head and the lanky, matchstick legs of a quality Thoroughbred. Hearing Dewey’s voice, the horse’s small, neat ears pricked and turned like little radar dishes. Dewey reached over the stall door and stroked the stallion’s neck. “Never intended on owning a Thoroughbred. Too temperamental for me. But the price was right. And he was kind of a challenge. He might make a good riding horse yet.”
“He’s beautiful,” I said, reaching over and fondling his soft muzzle. Apache blew an excited, watery breath. I stroked his dark face. “No treats today, Apache,” I said. “Maybe next time I come, after we get better acquainted.” I looked up at Dewey and smiled winningly.
“No way,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “I won’t even let Belinda or any of the stablehands ride him.”
“Just around the arena. Just once,” I coaxed.
“I told you she was buttering you up for something,” Gabe said, laughing.
“Please,” I begged.
“There are plenty of other good horses around here for you to ride,” Dewey answered.
“But I want to ride Apache.”
“Nope, sorry.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“But . . .”
He pulled his hat off and gently smacked the top of my head. “But nothing.” He grinned at me, teasing, and I knew that was the best answer I was going to get.
“Well, I think that stinks.”
He turned to Gabe. “Is she always this persistent?”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Gabe assured him.
“You know,” I said, “I can probably handle that stud better than either of you. You don’t need a . . . more weight to let a horse know who’s boss.”
They were teasing me about my comment when two preteen girls walked a mare past us and cross-tied her a few feet away from Apache’s stall. The mare let all of us know she was in season as she sprayed the ground with urine, releasing her scent into the stable. Apache, reacting as nature compelled him, started kicking at his stall and letting out loud whinnies. The girls giggled and started brushing the mare. Apache blew air loudly and kicked at the door with his front leg.
“Get that mare outta here,” Dewey snapped at the two girls. “Go groom her somewhere else.” Apache tossed his head and kicked a dent in the back of his stall. The girls led the mare out, giggling again as they passed Apache. “Oh, be quiet,” one of the girls called to the agitated stallion.
“Dang stable rats,” Dewey muttered at the girls. He went over to Apache and started murmuring under his breath. “Calm down, fella. There you go. That old mare’s not worth breaking a leg over.” He looked over at us. “Let’s go in the house and have a drink.” As we followed him out of the stable, Gabe reached over and patted the horse’s forehead.
“I know how you feel, old boy.”
“Very funny,” I said, bumping him with my hip.
Dewey’s large brick house was set off from the stables about a football field’s distance away. I was curious about where Belinda lived, though that was a question I knew I’d be better off asking Becky. Once inside, he poured me a Coke, Gabe a mineral water, and grabbed a couple of bottles of Samuel Adams for himself. We settled down in the spacious, distinctly western-style living room decorated in rusts, browns, and tans with raw-hide lamp shades, end tables with tiny wagon-wheel carvings, and striped Pendleton blanket-type fabric on the sofa and loveseat. The subject of Apache came up again.
“I’m going to talk you into letting me ride him,” I announced.
“Not a chance,” Dewey said.
“Did you hear about Otis’s poker horse?” Gabe asked.
“Heard about it?” Dewey said, giving a loud chortle. “I was at the game. The guy who lost was royally pissed, but he’s one of those old boys who just doesn’t know when to pack it in. How’s Old Sinful doing?”
“I’m going to go out and work with him tomorrow,” I said.
“He’s a nice-looking gelding. Kind of green, but nothing you can’t handle. He’s a good horse for you.” I frowned at him, annoyed at his macho I-know-what’s-best-for-you tone. He ignored my look and went over to a liquor cabinet where he filled an old-fashioned glass from a half-empty fifth of Jim Beam bourbon. “Sure you don’t want something stronger than that fizzy water, Gabe?” He held up the bottle of bourbon.
“No, this is fine,” Gabe said evenly.
Dewey downed his drink and poured another. “Suit yourself.”
While he and Gabe reminisced about an old high-school escapade that involved a dead frog, bread crumbs, and a squeamish home economics teacher, I wandered around the living room looking at the pictures on the walls. Photographs of Chet from babyhood to his latest rodeo covered almost every inch of the rough paneling. Working my way around the room, I followed the life of Dewey’s son. One recent picture showed Chet and a smiling young girl of about sixteen or seventeen. This must have been DeeDee, the daughter who died. I reached back into my memory for what Gabe had said. Thrown off a horse and killed. Flashing the unknown photographer a dazzling smile, DeeDee looked so young and happy, it was hard to believe she was dead. She wore tight red jeans, a ruffled white cowboy shirt, and a tall, pale cowboy hat with a fancy feather band. A white sash across her chest announced in gold glitter: Miss Rodeo Sedgwick County.
“That’s my little girl.” Dewey’s voice rumbled behind me. I turned and looked up at him. His face held a dark expression, and his breath was sharp from the bourbon. “I shot the mare that killed her.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He shrugged and turned back to Gabe. While the two of them talked about some truck that Gabe’s dad bought the year he was born, I wandered over to a built-in bookcase that flanked the liquor cabinet. Dewey’s choice of reading matter was predictable for someone who raised horses—various veterinary books, books on equine lineage and breeding, back issues of
Western Horseman
magazine. He also owned a large collection of books on Vietnam. I pulled out books randomly, leafing through them. He seemed to prefer oral histories; something he and I had in common. As biased as they sometimes are, I’ve always felt that in the long run they give us a more accurate representation of an era than any accounts found in a history book. I pulled out a paperback that, judging by the softness of its cover, had obviously been read or thumbed through many times. I opened it to the middle to look at the pictures, and found an old war photograph stuck there.
The photograph showed the weathered back of a man’s neck and a young, sober-faced Gabe facing the camera. Gabe’s eyes were shaded by his helmet, but even minus his thick mustache, the proud, stubborn set of his jaw was as familiar to me now as Dove’s nagging. His worn camouflage fatigues were rumpled but clean, and it appeared as if he’d just shaved. The man facing him was pinning something on Gabe’s shirt; his beefy hand concealed the shape of it. “Oh,” I exclaimed.
The men stopped talking and looked over at me. “What is it?” Gabe asked. Dewey came over and took the picture out of my hand.
“Well, I’ll be dipped. I wondered what had happened to this picture. I was talking to Chet about it the other day when I told him you were coming out from California. I was telling him how he would have never been here to ride bulls or anything else if it hadn’t been for my good brave buddy, Gabe Ortiz.” Dewey’s words slurred slightly, and I couldn’t tell if it was just the liquor or if there was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.
I glanced over at Gabe’s frozen face. His eyes had turned steel-gray. “Shut up, Dewey,” he said, his voice low and controlled.