Wanted, p.1
Wanted, page 1
Cover image: Silhouette of Person Walking through the Woods © Casarsa, courtesy of istockphoto.com. Jail Indoor © tierio, courtesy of istockphoto.com
Cover design copyright © 2013 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2013 by Kathi Oram Peterson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc. or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-1-62108-492-1
For my brothers, Lyle John, William Richard, and Steven Craig Oram, who are my heroes
Acknowledgments
I could never have written this story without the help of many wonderful people.
A huge thank you goes to my sister, Jo. For many years, I have tagged along with her, attending small rodeos most often held in the middle of nowhere. They are not performed in air-conditioned arenas, nor are they like rodeos you see in the movies or on TV. They use weather-beaten, decades-old stands and stalls and showcase cowboys who work hard and get dirty for their sport. And during rodeo time, people travel from miles around to attend, sometimes forming small RV and camp-trailer cities. It takes a lot to put these events together, and some rodeo owners labor their whole lives to make them happen—a true labor of love.
I owe a big thank you to Crystal Brothers Rodeos and especially Joyce Crystal for showing me what a real, down-to-earth, get-your-hands-dirty rodeo is like. Some people have developed misconceptions of how rodeo stock are treated. The people I’ve met worry and fret over their animals, making sure they are well fed and cared for both day and night. They tend to their animals in good weather or bad, and I developed a great respect for them.
One of the main characters in this novel is convicted of a crime and becomes converted to Christianity while in prison. I need to thank Jerrianne Kolby, who served for several years as a home teacher with her husband at the Utah State Prison. She answered my many questions about prisoners and how some inmates have turned to religion as they’ve served their time.
I must also thank my writing group, the Wasatch Mountain Fiction Writers, for keeping me on track. A special thank you goes to Brenda Bensch, Dorothy Canada, Ann Chamberlin, Tina Foster, Maureen Mills, Charleen Raddon, Nikki Trionfo, and Roseann Woodward. They are awesome writers whose opinions and comments I highly value. I must especially thank Kathleen Dougherty and Kerri Leroy, my go-to critiquers and mentors who read this entire novel. Their keen insight on logic and attention to detail were an enormous help.
My publisher, Covenant Communications, has been fantastic to work with. Samantha Millburn is an exceptional editor, and her skills and knowledge have helped my writing grow by leaps and bounds. Kelly Schumacher takes great care to see that my novels are promoted. And I’m also very grateful to Jennie Williams and Chelsea Breur, who make such gorgeous cover art for my books.
And of course, I have to thank my family. Sometimes I’ve taken them with me as I’ve traveled to remote regions to attend different rodeos, but many times, I’ve left them home. And they’ve never complained. Thank you!
Chapter One
Rain threatened to fall at any moment. With trembling hands, Faulkner wrapped the stolen trench coat more snugly around him. Besides trying to stay warm, he was desperate to hide his prison uniform. The bullet in his left side shot waves of pain through his abdomen and down his leg. When he was first shot, he’d been able to manage the pain, even stop the bleeding with stolen rags, but that was over six hours ago. With each passing second, the pain grew worse . . . and he was bleeding again.
Of the few drivers he’d hitched rides with, only one had grown suspicious. The last one. He was a semi driver who kept fishing for information about who Faulkner was, where he was from, and if he was feeling well. Faulkner had been able to steer the others away from probing questions, but this guy was different. As soon as he could, Faulkner got out of his truck.
However, as he’d jumped from the cab to the ground, the wound tore deeper and started to bleed again. The bullet must have traveled, he thought. He had to find Doc Powers; he was the only man who could help him. A statewide alert had probably already gone out. Faulkner didn’t have much time.
A chill breathed over him. His ankles felt heavy, as if he still wore prison shackles. He pressed on, barely able to place one foot in front of the other.
In the distance, Faulkner heard a nasal voice blare through a loudspeaker, followed by the recorded twang of country guitars and fiddles. Walking around the curve of the road, he saw the old familiar sight of Swan Valley’s rodeo grounds.
He’d find the doctor there.
* * *
Angry lightning cut through the dark, and heavy clouds banked on the Targhee Mountains. Straddling the wood-splintered rodeo gate to chute number five, Josephine Powers glanced up at the turbulent sky. A deep rumble of thunder echoed through Swan Valley and reverberated over the ground. Then a strange stillness held the air as if the world waited for the storm to catch its breath. The wet scent of impending rain grew stronger with each second. When Jo was a little girl, her father told her thunder was the devil dancing and lightning was God’s warning of bad times to come.
Whatever made her think of her father at a time like this? He’d passed away two years ago. She rarely gave her father’s little sayings much thought, brushing them aside as an old doctor’s rambling tales. But right now, she missed her father. Missed him a lot. He always knew what to do and say during stressful times.
As the veterinarian for Wymer Rodeos, Jo was more than a little worried about the short-horned Brahma that had been loaded into the chute. Loco was the rankest bull to make Idaho’s rodeo circuit in years. He had a large, fatty hump on his shoulders, drooping ears, and huge folds of excess skin under his neck and underline. The bull had become agitated when his hind legs slipped through the sorting pen grate. Jo feared the animal had suffered serious injury. But the cowboys had eased the beast out of his strange predicament and locked him into the chute. Not waiting for Jo to properly assess the animal’s physical condition, the rider had mounted the bull and firmly tightened the flat, plaited bull rope around his left hand.
Jo knew Loco was a ticking bomb.
Frightened.
Confused.
And mad.
She was about to voice a warning when an overanxious cowboy reached for the flank strap to tighten it. The temperamental beast turned chute-crazy and rammed into the wood fencing. The cowbell between Loco’s legs wildly clanged as the animal kicked against the rail. Panicked, the rider groped for the gate’s overhead bar with his free hand.
Lance Wymer, co-owner of Wymer Rodeo and Jo’s fiancé, leaped onto the gate beside her. His square jaw clenched, small blood vessels bulging over his temples. His worried gray eyes scanned the anxious crowd perched in the rodeo stands.
Though he balanced on the lowest rung, he still towered over Jo. She had to make Lance listen to her. “This animal can’t perform tonight. His hind legs are weak from the grate. With him kicking at this chute, there’s no telling what will happen.” She grabbed Lance’s arm to draw his attention and pointed to the Brahma’s hind legs. “Look!” The hide was barely scraped. To the naked eye, the wounds did not appear serious, but Jo knew differently.
“Open the gate!” the rider yelled, his frightened eyes the size of water buckets. Ballistic, Loco pitched his weight to and fro inside the chute. Timbers creaked and cracked, barely able to contain the tormented animal. The rider was in a dangerous situation because he was strapped on and couldn’t get off, but Jo knew the bull was in jeopardy too.
Lance shot her a no-time-to-argue glance. He jumped down, flipped the latch, and with the help of Frankie, the sad-faced clown, pulled open the gate.
Jo rode the gate until it neared the corral, and then she quickly leaped onto the wood fence and climbed to the top. Her eyes were glued to the bull as worry for the animal outweighed all else in her mind.
A brilliant flash of lightning streaked overhead. Thunder boomed.
Loco bolted from the chute in a tight spin, hind legs kicking high in the air, horns burrowing the ground. The rider held up his left arm in the bull-riding position as he dug his dull-pointed spurs into the Brahma’s loose hide.
The bull’s hindquarters rolled as his back legs struck the earth. An unmistakable sound of breaking bones shot through the whoops and hollers of the cheering onlookers. A gut-wrenching bellow resounded through thick, wet air as Loco’s full weight dropped to the ground.
Jo knew it! Why did Lance hire her if he wasn’t going to listen when she had concerns? She slammed her hand against the wood plank. There was no time for anger, only time to act.
“Get my bag!” she yelled, jumping into the arena. A surge of concerned cowboys had already started over the fence.
Chugger Gibson, Lance’s right-hand man—who was as mean and ugly as a blue healer dog—stopped and snagged her medical bag, tossing it to her as he leaped to the ground.
Loco’s pitiful groans tore at Jo’s heart. She had to help the bull. As she sprinted across the arena, she not iced one of the clowns had helped the bewildered rider off the Brahma. Dazed, he stood staring at his adversary.
Loco spastically attempted to crawl to his feet, hoofing the ground with his front legs as he bawled and snorted. His hind legs, twisted and broken, dragged uselessly behind him. Long dangling lariats of mucus shot out of his nose. Wild fear and tortured confusion filled the animal’s widened eyes.
Jo glanced at the stands. Even with the storm upon them, the audience stood frozen in shock. Small children hid behind their parents. Jo knew she should shoot the animal. A bullet in the brain would be the fastest way to ease Loco’s suffering. But those little innocent faces peering around their mommies were too pure and terrified to see more violence tonight.
Dropping to her knees, she dug through her bag past the hypodermics, looking for her 60cc syringe with the sixteen-gauge needle. Finally, she pulled it out and loaded the vial with a large dose of phenobarbital sodium—snuff juice.
Watching the liquid fill the syringe, she shouted at the others, “Make a tight circle around us! Get Frankie and his clowns entertaining those people!”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lance’s boots step beside her.
“I’ve got to put him down.” She pushed the prong until liquid dribbled out of the end of the blunt-nosed needle.
“Let me get my gun.” He started away.
“No!” She pulled him back. “Not in front of the children.” Before he could argue, she stepped toward the moaning bull. “Lance, I need you to hold his head so I can inject this in his neck.”
Lance reluctantly motioned for Chugger and a couple of cowboys to help him. They lashed a rope around Loco’s front legs. Lance and Chugger grabbed the Brahma’s head. Jo wiped a trembling hand across her face. Biting her lips together, she stole a few fortifying breaths then ran to the bull.
The animal cranked his head, trying to hook her with his horns. Lance and his men struggled to hold the beast. Jo jabbed the needle into Loco’s neck, injecting the deadly poison.
More mucus sputtered from his nose. A heartbeat later, he collapsed in one massive heap, his eyes frozen open. The last flicker of life slowly evaporated from his stare.
Jo patted the bull’s cinnamon coat. She knew death was no respecter of humans or animals and felt a keen sense of grief at this animal’s loss.
Large drops of rain fell, closing the rest of the rodeo’s events. Frankie led the other two bedraggled clowns to their waiting van. Lance motioned for the tractor to enter the arena, and Chugger guided it to the carcass.
Jo dropped the syringe into her bag then grabbed an irritating lock of hair and looped it behind her ear. Looking up at the angry sky, she thought once again of her father. He had been right.
Lightning was God’s warning of bad times to come.
* * *
Through the pelting rain, a steady stream of cars and trucks left the rodeo grounds. Their headlights beamed in his face. Faulkner flinched from the glare.
What if someone recognized him and stopped? His shaking hand searched the coat’s deep pocket until it met the cold, hard steel of the .357 Magnum Colt Python he had stolen from the prison guard. He didn’t want to use the weapon, but if someone were to stop him, the gun would frighten them away.
A few straggling rodeo goers trickled out of the stadium. Pickup trucks, campers, and horse trailers were parked in the pasture next to the dilapidated arena and stands. The scent of wet manure brought back memories of his life long ago, a life gone wrong. Because of the scars of his past, he’d developed a strong dislike for animals. They were unpredictable and flighty and bit anyone within reach. He’d trust a good running car over an unstable horse anytime. He walked between the lines of three-quarter-ton trucks hooked to trailers.
Anxious cowboys loaded their prized horses into the safe havens of their trailers. Horses whinnied in shrill protests.
Keeping his head down to avoid making eye contact, Faulkner skirted around everyone he possibly could. Dirt turned to mud on the path leading to the arena. With each sliding footstep, new pain burned fresh in his gut.
Out of his peripheral vision, he saw an old familiar Ford truck with a dented rear fender and rusted joints. A sign painted on the side read Dr. J. R. Powers—Jonathan Powers.
Doc’s truck. “Thank you, God,” he said under his breath.
He tried to stay calm. Acting as if he belonged there, he walked steadily toward the rusty Ford. He checked the area. No one watched. No one cared about anything except moving themselves and their animals out of the rain.
He opened the truck’s door and stepped up on the high running board. Pain ate at his side as he climbed into the cab. Sitting on top of a blue plastic tarp and leather work gloves, he doubled over on the seat, fighting the burning ache in his side. His skin prickled with chills, and his lips quivered as he held back a sudden swell of nausea. He sucked in long, deep breaths and swallowed bile as he tried to focus.
Then . . . voices came from outside the truck.
A woman and a man. And neither of them was Doc.
They were coming closer. Easing onto the floor of the passenger’s side, Faulkner threw the tarp over himself and drew the gun from his pocket.
* * *
“Jo, listen to me,” Lance yelled through the pouring rain. “That animal dying is going to cost us money we don’t have. Loco was a big draw. People came from miles around just to see that crazy bull. But the cowboy comes first! I had to get the rider off, and the quickest way to do that was for him to ride.”
The timbre of Lance’s voice only incensed Jo more. Rain sluiced off her hat, trickled beneath her collar, and ran down her back. Cold, tired, and wet, she didn’t give a Fig NewtonTM about Lance’s justifications. Because of the moronic acts of humans, she had been forced to kill an animal tonight. And Lance could have stopped it if he’d been thinking clearly.
Looking up at Lance’s tall, lean form clad in his oilskin Dover coat, Jo became more enraged. Why did she have to be so darned short? She wanted to look him in the eye to tell him what she thought of his barbaric, uncaring attitude toward animals.
Consumed with anger, she balanced on the toes of her mud-caked boots. “That bull should never have been loaded into the chute. You knew that! You saw when his legs caught in the sorting pens.”
The injustice of it all burst within her. “Criminey sakes! You hire me to watch out for your animals, and then you don’t listen! You cowboys are all alike! You keep going no matter what. Your motto is ‘Ride the animal till he drops.’ Makes me sick.” Tempted to kick him, she made herself turn and vent her anger on the Goodrich tire of her truck. The impact jolted mud and manure from her boot.
Lance grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face him. “That’s not fair. I did listen to you, but there was nothing I could do! A rider’s life is worth more than a bull’s.”
Jo’s anger tempered a little. Of course, he was right, but the rider should never have mounted the bull until she’d had time to do a proper assessment. Lance should have stopped him.
Lance glared at her, his grip tightening on her arm. “And there’s not a cowboy on my rodeo crew who doesn’t place the animals first when it comes to food or shelter. I’ve seen Chugger so sick he can hardly stand up, tending to a bull.”
The pouring rain mingled with Lance’s words dampened Jo’s rage further, and she realized she had been lying to herself in her anger. The cowboys did care. But it still didn’t change the fact that she had to put down an animal. Wanting to get out of the rain and away from this argument, she tried twisting her arm out of his grip. “Let go of me.”
For a moment, they stood almost nose to nose, like a Yorkshire terrier challenging a Great Dane. Even though Lance had made some good points, Jo stood defiant, staring back at him. A mask of command turned his face to rock. His eyes filled with more brooding anger than the storm, an anger she had not seen before. A little shaken, Jo almost backed down, but then determination to make him see her point overrode her alarm.
Finally . . . slowly . . . he loosened his hold on her arm. A lazy smile pulled at his lips. The Lance she knew had returned. “Come on, Jo. What’s done is done. Our fighting won’t change what’s happened.”
