8
Colcord turned onto Maple Road, which zigzagged down a hillside and crossed the Colorado River on a pretty red bridge. Beyond the bridge, he stopped at the flashing lights of a train crossing, watching in his rearview mirror as a plume of telltale dust signified Cash’s black Tahoe was still behind him. The arm came down, and a yellow train rumbled by on tracks that ran along the river.
The train passed, and Colcord continued on, bumping over a dilapidated cattle guard and past a barbed wire fence held up by aging posts. A sign announced that he was entering the Brooksfield Ranch—theBbackward with a crude butterfly, painted by a child. A long-horned steer skull hung askew on a post next to the sign. The ranch house sat atop a hill overlooking the Colorado River and a large pasture sprawled along a hillside dotted with beef cattle. Their ears perked in unison, heads swiveling as he drove by, before returning their attention to the hayfield. The sun was lowering in the sky—it was late afternoon now. It had been a long day and he was exhausted.
After parking, Colcord slid out of the driver’s seat and was immediately greeted with a wriggling red heeler who tried its best to melt into the front of his shins.
“Good boy,” Colcord murmured, crouching to run the dog’s pointed ears through his thumb and forefinger. As he petted the eager animal, he regarded the property. The main house was an austere log home with green shingles, surrounded by porches and grasslands. A white fence enclosed a handful of grazing horses, and Colcord admired a particularly gorgeousperlino quarter horse. It huffed when it saw him, pawing the ground, before cantering to the other side of its enclosure. The familiar musty smell of manure and the sight of a big rooster strutting about brought back memories of Colcord’s childhood: mucking stalls, roping, and dodging their rooster, Claws, to collect eggs from the coop. He chuckled to himself, remembering how his mother had shrieked one day when Claws had tried to spur her. Claws had been conspicuously absent from the coop the next day, and that evening, his mother had served a delicious meal of coq au vin. Nobody said anything, but they ate with gusto and complimented the chef on the fine meal—and were glad of the quiet nights that followed.
He stood from his ministrations on the heeler, brushing himself free of dog hair as Cash pulled up and stepped out of the Tahoe. The heeler barked excitedly, zooming figure eights around them as they approached the front door. Cash knocked, and a woman answered almost immediately. She had red-rimmed eyes as if she had been crying.
“Paul with ya?” she asked in a strained voice. She was wearing a pair of jeans, and cornrows were tied out of her face with a silken scarf, her dark skin glowing in the afternoon sun. A child peeked out from behind her boots.
“We’ve got a head start on him,” Cash said. “Some of our crime scene folks wanted to ask him questions. He’s being taken care of, ma’am, not to worry.”
She held out a hand. “Margie Brooksfield.”
The woman shook Cash’s and Colcord’s hands in firm, successive shakes. Colcord noticed her forearms flexed with roped muscle—she was surprisingly strong. “I want to start by saying if Paul is a person of interest, I have no desire to speak with you without a lawyer present.”
“He’s not a suspect,” Cash responded. “We’re just looking to get some background, that’s all. May we come in?”
Brooksfield’s knotted expression eased, and she stepped aside, the child moving so that she continued to be hidden by Brooksfield’s boots.
“The little peeper here is Lolly.” Margie hauled the kid up on one of her hips. The little girl buried her face in Margie’s shoulder. Margie took a seat on a leather couch parked in front of a stone fireplace, moving the girl onto her knee, and gestured for them to join her. Colcord noticed a cross hung above the fireplace, and a picture of Jesus and another of the Virgin of Guadalupe adorned the walls.
Colcord chuckled, sinking into a leather chair. “She’s darned cute. How many you got?”
“Heck if I know. Paul’s the one who keeps track,” Margie joked, laughing an infectious, tinkling laugh that flashed a gold molar. “Five total. Lolly, who’s six, then Susanna, twelve, the twins Waldo and Emerson, fifteen, and Adam, eighteen.”
“How many cattle you got?” Colcord nodded toward the door.
“Sixty head. Black Angus. Five thousand acres total.”
“That’s a lot of land per head, especially seeing as the pasture looks to be high quality. Happy critters, huh?”
“It’s excellent land, been in Paul’s family for over a hundred years. I married into it. But it’s hard to keep it profitable when you’re a small outfit.”
“How many workers you got?”
“Just Paul, our boys, myself, and a couple of ranch hands. I also supplement the beef income with some honey and goat cheese that we sell to Denver urbanites. That, and I make a living as a certified financial planner, managing money for some clients.”
“So you raise bees and goats too?” Colcord was impressed.
“Sure do.”
Cash cleared her throat and gave Colcord a look that said,Hurry up already.
“Right,” said Colcord.
Cash said, “Mrs. Brooksfield, we have a few questions, and we’d like to record. Okay with you?”
“Sure,” Margie replied, crossing her legs. She began to fidget and stroke Lolly’s head.
Cash took out her cell phone and set it to record, putting it in front of Brooksfield. She also took out her notebook and pen.
Colcord watched as Brooksfield released Lolly, who scampered off to another room. He couldn’t help but like the woman; she reminded him of his mother: a sensitive but no-nonsense straight shooter and talker.
“Did you know Willy Grooms?” Cash asked.
