Mine now. And maybe the only ones I’ve got left.
Chapter
Two
ELIZA
ONE WEEK LATER
“Not one drop of blood,” Frank says, the creases in his forehead deepening.
I cover my mouth with a handkerchief, staring down at the bloated body of the bull.
My ranch hand kneels next to the dead mass. Then he looks up at me. “Makes no sense, Liza. You know this as well as I do…” He pauses, shaking his head, searching for the words lost somewhere against the heavy press of the noonday air.
Flies buzz angrily around us, but none will land on the buffet before us. And there are no signs of predation or scavenging.
Frank stands abruptly, wheeling back around with his hands on his hips. “If I had to say, I’d guess that’s at least a week old. Blood should be pooled at the bottom, coagulated.”
A breeze blows lazily between us. I hit at a fly dancing around my head. But not one lands on the carcass. And its coat is downright glossy. I can’t believe my eyes.
“Nothing. Not one damn drop.”
“You keep saying that,” I reply too quickly, breath coming faster now.
The distant Starborn Range lies thick with cloud and mist. How weather patterns can survive through the heat of July in Nevada, I’ll never know.
But they’re always there. Hovering. Threatening.
Today, it’s almost like the mountains sing across the valley. The sound presses into me, familiar… and for a second, I swear I’m not alone in it.
Today, I’d give anything for them to deliver on their promise, break forth and drench us in cooling rain. Rain that heals the land and washes away things that can’t be explained.
I dismount and draw closer, eyes narrowing. My insides twist, and my voice comes out all wrong, shaky. “There has to be an explanation.”
“You know well as I do there ain’t… from doctoring animals.” Frank pauses for a moment, swatting at one of the many flies swarming us.
“So what is this then?” I ask, talking with my hands now. “Supernatural? For God’s sake, Frank?—”
I pause, let out a sharp sigh. “Just because we don’t have an explanation doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“What? You mean like pranksters with five-gallon buckets? You have any idea how much each bucket would weigh? And then not to spill even one drop?”
“But what’s the alternative?” I hiss, feeling my normal cool evaporate.
“Missing tongue and testicles.”
Frank shifts uneasily. After a long pause, he adds, “Maybe other organs, too, by the looks of it?—”
I press the handkerchief to my mouth, going clammy at the description and the sight.
“Laser-precise incisions.” Frank removes his hat and runs a hand through his thinning gray hair. His handlebar mustache twitches, and he twirls one curled edge around his finger.
“I should call the sheriff,” I say, unable to pull my eyes away from the perfect lacerations, burned at the edges.
Frank paces back and forth next to me. “Knew something felt off with that last big storm. The way the mountains sang across the valley. Like things were waking up that shouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun. “What could the mountains possibly have to do with this?”
