"Is the foreman here?"
"I'm the ranch manager," the man said, pulling off his work glove to shake Kerney's hand.
"Emmet Griffin." His voice carried a trace of a brush-country Texas accent as he rolled his words together.
"What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for Nestor Barela," Kerney answered.
"Barela sold out three years ago and moved to town," Griffin said.
"I understand he leases the Fergurson land."
Kerney's statement raised Griffin's interest.
"He does, but he doesn't really use it. He puts a few cows on it each spring, fattens them up, and slaughters them for his freezer. It keeps Pergurson's taxes down and fills Barela's stomach."
"That's a pretty expensive way to fill a freezer."
Griffin laughed, showing his teeth below his mustache.
"It sure the hell is."
"Do you think Barela would be willing to consider a sublease?"
Griffin shook his head.
"I've tried that. He won't sublease it, and the Fergurson woman won't sell. My boss would love to buy that property as a buffer. A lot of the big spreads east of here are being carved up and sold in five- to twenty-acre tracts. She doesn't want that kind of development along her boundary. She likes her privacy."
"Is your boss here?"
"Nope. She should be back in a day or two."
"What's her name?"
"Alicia Bingham."
"What breed of horses is she training?"
"We breed and train. Dutch Warmblood and English Anglo-Arab, for dressage and show jumping. We sell to an international market. Our buyers are mostly topflight competitors."
"Do you know how I can contact Barela?"
"Not really. One of his sons and a grandson go up to the mesa now and then to check on their lease holding.
But I don't know where they live, exactly. I heard the old man moved his whole family onto one piece of land."
"Thanks for your time."
"Hell, I'd rather talk to you than muck out stalls.
Good luck with old Nestor Barela. You'll need it."
Back at the cabin. Soldier and Pancho were saddled and ready to go, and Shoe was caged inside the horse trailer working on a steak bone. He wagged his tail when Kerney called his name.
Dale had pulled the wood off the cabin door and was nowhere to be seen.
Kerney found him inside, knee-deep in rotting hay. Thick cobwebs hung down from the log rafters, which had been nailed and tied with bailing wire to the bond beam that ran along the top course of the stone walls.
The tin roof was rusted through in spots, and one of the logs that spanned the ceiling had decayed and broken apart.
"You might as well knock this damn thing down and start over from scratch," Dale said.
"You've got vermin droppings and black widow nests everywhere."
He held out a yellowed, chewed-up piece of stationery.
"What's this?"
"Part of a love letter from Erma Fergurson."
"To whom?"
"Can't tell."
Kerney studied the faded handwritten letter. It spoke of a starry night on the mesa, not liking the idea of sleeping alone, and bodies entwined. It carried Erma's signature and had no date.
"Good for her," Kerney said with a smile.
"I hope she had a lot of fun with him, whoever he was."
"Want to look for more letters?"
"We'll let Erma's affairs of the heart stay where they are for now." He dropped the piece of stationery on the moldy hay.
"Did you see Barela?"
"Barela sold out and moved to town three years ago.
I haven't talked to him."
"So, no arrest is pending?"
"Not yet."
"That's disappointing."