The Trouble With Bulldogs

By Jonesy Carlson

Morgan’s Crossing, California – home to blue skies and sunshine, cows grazing peacefully side by side with their calves, and an itinerant cowboy whose eyes remind Bri of a death row inmate she’s seen recently on tv.

Nasty, nasty stuff. All of it. Even if the cowboy is a hunk.
When Briana – tarantula in hand and boa in bag – arrives in the teeny, tiny can’t-believe-people-live-here town, she has two goals in mind: sell her aunt’s estate and get back to the city in time for her gallery debut.

She doesn’t count on being saddled with a hundred-year old Victorian two-story that definitely looks like it’s seen better days and a mini-Sherlock Holmes who sees criminal activity around every corner.

According to little Johnny Jacobson, the most recent bull stomping is really a murder. He believes her aunt was murdered too. Problem is – he can’t get anyone to believe him. Bri quickly realizes Johnny Jacobson could be right. The town is full of suspicious types: Arin Conners, the real estate broker who wears a lumberjack shirt and grabs unsuspecting girls with his hook-like prosthesis; the super-size sheriff whose bark is worse than his bite; the woman with the nasty black dogs who just happens to be married to the grumpy sheriff.

And then there’s that cowboy with the dead eyes.

It’s hard to keep her mind on funeral preparations, a chore she totally dreads, and Bri finds herself intrigued, repulsed, and angered at the thought that her aunt might really have been murdered. Johnny has proof, or so he claims. Bri decides to back the boy up. That’s when she finds out the sheriff has a temper.

And he isn’t afraid to use it.

Then Arin Connors drives his car off a cliff. Another accident?

Johnny doesn’t think so. Neither does Bri.

There’s a killer at work in Morgan’s Crossing.

But how can they prove it?

The world turns completely mad when Bri’s jeep is raked by gunfire the way to her aunt’s house. As the Jeep’s engine dies, she escapes up the hill to her house, only to find her friend unconscious on the kitchen floor, her mother in the hands of a madwoman, and little Johnny Sherlock missing. She puts her trust in the dead-eyed cowboy, a trust that could prove her undoing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eye of the Eagle
• Release date: Oct 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466067844

Book preview

The Trouble With Bulldogs

Jonesey Carlson

Copyright by Jonesey Carlson 2011

Published by Eye of the Eagle Press at Smashwords

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter One

Eagle Valley, California. Easter Week. Dawn.

The fisherman huddles deep inside his jacket beside Groman's Creek. The pole in his left hand jerks, then bobs. He takes hold with confident hands.

Wait for it, Johnny, he whispers. Words his father used to say.

Then the pole goes slack and the fisherman heaves a heartfelt sigh.

It should be getting light, but heavy clouds hold back the dawn like his Granny holds back treats when he fails to bring home good grades from school. The air freshens into a light breeze as cool air slips down the mountains, carrying along the stench of fresh cow pies and dust from the corrals at his back.

From those same corrals comes a low moan and an answering cry; the rustle of restless hooves as cows and calves find each other after a night of broken sleep. He glances back as the ranch house lights flicker to life.

Old man Bennett'll skin him alive if he finds Johnny fishing in his fields. Don't make sense what with the cows locked up and all.

Johnny feels the creel empty against his hip.

Just one more try. After this morning the cows will be back in the field and that'll be the end of his fishing, at least in Groman's Creek.

He tunes out the bawling calves and feels his way through the barbwire fence. The sky's lightening just enough so he can see without using the flashlight tucked in his pocket.

Mountains rise like black shadows from the valley floor. He ducks down flat as headlights slash along the road and a car roars by on its way out of town. The road circles the valley like a protective snake, weaving in and out of small diversions, meeting up with State Highway 79 in the middle of Morgan's Crossing, then continuing on north to where State Highway 10 cuts through the mountains east to west.

Johnnie loves this time of morning, when the sun rises like a curtain on a stage, lighting first the peaks and ridges flanking the western side of Eagle Valley, spreading across circles of alfalfa waiting to be cut, then slipping over nursing calves and their patient mommas, across the ponds filled with migrating birds (long-necked swans and sandhill cranes were some of his favorites), and finally, touching his own home.

There won't be much of a sunrise this morning, not with the clouds and all. Kind of unusual for this time of year, but then the weather had been kinda strange all winter. First hot, then cold, then dry, winding up with a bunch of cold, wet storms and making the hay ranchers anxious about their first crops.

Johnny scrambles to his feet after a quick glance at the ranch house and works his way toward the culvert.

Just one last try, he promises himself. But it'll have to be fast.

The big pipe running under the road is no-man's land as far as his Granny is concerned, but Dad always used to say the best fish hide out in the weeds around the culvert's mouth. Johnny slides another worm on his hook, squinting to see in the gloomy dark. His flashlight would make things easier, but only sissies use flashlights, so he grits his teeth and finally manages to get the squirmy worm skewered on the hook.

A quick flip of the wrist sends hook and worm plopping in front of the culvert's yawning black mouth. The stream gently burps, then settles back into a soothing burble. Mud squishes beneath his feet as he moves a bit closer. No breeze down here where the bank rises steeply up to meet the highway. Somewhere among the reeds a frog tries out its morning voice. A second frog joins in and then another and another until the air fills with the chorus intended to greet a sun on the rise.

The pole bobs, sending shock waves through Johnny's arms. He hauls the tip up, up, up until he just can't lift anymore.

Whatever's on the end of the line is big. Maybe the biggest he's ever caught.

Water drips off the fishing line with a soft plop onto the scattered rocks at his feet. He tips the pole forward, waits for the comforting zing as nylon line whips through the reel, telling him his fish is on the run, telling him it's time to play. Johnny's heart pounds in his chest, his hands slip on the cork and rubber grip. He can't let go, not now. Letting go means giving up and a Jacobson never gives up.

The line whirs and stops, whirs and stops. Johnny's heart sinks. That's not the way a fish moves. He grits his teeth and starts to reel in. Each turn of the handle is lead-heavy; hauling dead weight through water always is.

Then the line refuses to budge.

The air sings as he whips the pole one way, then the other, trying to dislodge the hook from whatever refuses to let it go.

Probably water weeds or a piece of trash. One time he even hauled in a dead squirrel. Just thinking about that experience makes Johnny feel like he's standing in the middle of the local graveyard at midnight on Halloween.

Johnny holds the pole tight in his left hand and works his way closer to the culvert, keeping the line taut so he can see where it leads. It's barely light enough to see the silvery strand disappear around a dark form bobbing in the shimmery water.

Not stiff enough for a log.

His heart moves into his throat and for a moment he thinks about just cutting the line. But his father wouldn't have been afraid. His father was never afraid.

Johnny sucks his lower lip, swallows hard, puts his hand on the line, sets his pole on the bank, and moves forward. Mud sucks at his boots, threatening to drag them from his feet with each step. Taking a deep breath, he yanks on the line. Maybe this time the hook will pop free.

Nothing.

Now Johnny pulls out the flashlight hidden deep in his pocket and flicks the light on. The nylon fishing line glistens white before it disappears into what looks like a wet blanket. He gives the line another yank. The thing at his feet rolls toward him with a soft splush! And a pale, bloated face stares up into the morning gray.

A face he recognizes.

His shriek splits the air, an agonized cry filled with fear and horror. Johnny scrambles backwards, but the mud holds him fast and he falls to his side, his face inches from the glazed eyes.

Johnny's throat aches with the force of his screams. The stench of decaying flesh oozes into his nose and down his lungs. Screams turn to heaves and the biscuit he munched on the way out this morning ends up in the water.

He scrambles through the mud and up the gravel bank onto the road, no longer a self-assured fisherman.

Just an eight-year old boy too scared to spit.

Chapter Two

What've you got yourself into now, Mattie? Sheriff Brogan Ryce studied the glazed eyes staring sightlessly from beneath half-closed lids and shook his head. He settled back on his heels. Scratched the stubble on his cheeks. Frowned at the dull ache between his eyes.

Mattie Dawson always seemed to be stirring up trouble of one kind or another, whether it was here in Morgan's Creek or somewhere in the general vicinity. But she didn't deserve to die in a muddy ditch alongside a lonely country road.

No one did.

A meadowlark trilled good morning from a fence post a few yards away while off in the distance a rooster crowed.

In Beckwourth County, the position of Sheriff came complete with the responsibility of county coroner. This was the part of the job Brogan hated the most. The part that got under his skin and into his nightmares and refused to let go.

Sheriff.

Brogan ignored the intruder and focused on the corpse rocking gently in the creek. A broken doll, stomped on and tossed aside because she could never be fixed. One arm twisted over her tangled hair in a position only torn tissue could manage to achieve. The other arm lay beneath her. Both legs were similarly mangled. Pea gravel had embedded itself in the skin of her left cheek. A scratch ran down that same cheek into a nasty bruise along her jaw.

The morning air hung thick with unshed moisture beneath woolen gray-bellied clouds. He slapped a mosquito from his neck and struggled to breathe through the miasma caused by rotting vegetation mixed with cow shit and death.

Sheriff.

A large hand took Brogan's shoulder. The sheriff gritted his teeth and stood, wincing as a button on his shirt gave way.

You'd think running six miles a day and an extensive workout program would keep the waistline in check, but that wasn't the case. At least not with him. He shifted the equipment on his belt into a more comfortable position.

You got something for me? Brogan pinned his gaze on the man standing beside him.

Deputy Hawk McKenzie's face held all the emotion of chiseled stone, the epitome of cigar store Indian sans feather headdress and nineteen century garb. Hurt sat deep in Hawk's eyes, though. A hurt that sliced through Brogan like a freshly honed knife. Hawk and Mattie were close, real close. Why they hadn't tied the knot years ago was something Brogan never could understand.

You okay?

Hawk nodded. Someone called old man Bennett last night. Seems his bull got out. Almost caused a pile up on the road near the ranch. Bennett sent Justin out to bring the bull back, but didn't worry ‘bout the fence with all the cows being in and such.

Brogan's lips went thin as his gut tightened in anger. He'd suspected as much. Torn up gravel, broken fence. Pretty good signs that a very big wrestling match had gone on not ten feet from where the body ended up.

The body. Amazing how years on the job made a man compartmentalize things. Mattie Dawson wasn't just a body – he'd known the woman all his life. She'd even had a crush on him back when they were kids. She was seven and he was a big, grown-up fourteen. Just a nuisance back then.

He almost chuckled. She hadn't changed much, not Mattie Dawson. She was just as much a nuisance as she'd ever been.

Another glance at Mattie's broken body killed the fond memories. Cops learned to compartmentalize for a very good reason. If a cop couldn't bury his emotions – tuck the worry, the hurt, and the anger away deep inside – he couldn't do his job. And a cop who couldn't do his job was worse than no cop at all.

Where's the boy? Brogan goose stepped out of the reedy water, pulling his boots carefully from the sucking mud with each step. Globs of black goo clung to his boots. The stench rose sharply, then dropped off as a breeze quickened across the fields.

Back at his granny's. He's pretty shook up.

Brogan nodded. Can't say as I blame him. That boy definitely caught more than he was fishing for this morning.

I told Shirley we'd be back after we got done here. See how Johnny was doing.

Hawk's voice was guarded. And for a good reason. Bureaucratic paperwork. Bureaucratic bullshit. Back in the old days all a sheriff had to do was ask a few questions and write a few notes about an incident like this. Now the incident reports were twenty pages long. Took half the damn day to get all the t's crossed and the i's dotted sometimes.

The breeze shoved against Brogan's hat. He tugged the brim back down over his eyes and frowned at the clouds.

Gonna get some rain here soon. Hawk jerked his chin at the dark line moving toward them from the east side of the valley.

Brogan groaned. April showers, especially in this neck of the woods, tended to be very soggy affairs. Thank the blue skies Mattie Dawson had just had a bad accident with a bull. If this was a crime scene, it would be hell keeping anything from washing away.

You call in the body van? Brogan picked up a broken section of barbwire, careful not to prick himself on the rusty barbs. A clump of short hair bristled between the twisted ends along with a small piece of bloody hide. Looked like the bull had busted clean through, all right.

Van's on its way. Can I uh...?

Brogan looked up sharply at the hesitation. It wasn't like Hawk to hesitate about anything. If the man wasn't sure of something, he kept his mouth closed. Otherwise, he let you know in no uncertain terms what was on his mind.

Hawk knelt in the muddy water next to Mattie. His hand hovered inches above her bare arm. The knife in Brogan's gut twisted. He nodded without saying a word and turned away to give his deputy some privacy.

Deep gouges scarred the road bank above the broken fence. Brogan bent and studied the grooves. The dirt this high up was too dry to hold a decent track, but closer to the fence a few well-formed prints showed up. Hoof prints. Most likely from a very large, very angry bull.

The rest of the tracks were obliterated in a tangle of sticky mud, torn weeds, and rage.

Gravel crunched as a white windowless van pulled over to the side of the road. Reny Folker stepped out with a smile on his freshly shaven face. Hey, Sheriff. Hear you require my services.

The kid had probably stopped for a cup of latte on his way over from Miles Canyon. Brogan swallowed the urge to strangle the smile from the young man's face. Morning, Reny. Glad you could make it. She's ready to be tucked in. Hawk'll give you a hand.

He dropped his voice and glanced at Hawk still kneeling by Mattie's side. Drop her off for an autopsy before you start dressing her up, would you? Just a standard once over'll do. Have the doc fax me the report.

Folker nodded without saying anything. The kid was a relative newcomer. He'd moved into the area a few years ago from who knows where, bought out the local mortician and been around ever since. Sometimes Reny reminded Brogan of a newborn calf – all innocent and stupid - but despite his awkwardness and goofy-looking smile, Reny Folker knew his stuff. How the kid managed to stay sane handling all those dead bodies was something Brogan had always meant to ask him.

He'd been sheriff and coroner of Beckwourth County for more than fifteen years. Worked accidents, murders, suicides and still each corpse felt as if he was seeing Death for the first time.

Folker actually had to put those bodies back together and make them look as presentable as possible for the grieving families.

When there was a family to grieve.

Brogan rubbed the bridge of his nose, willing the ache behind his eyes away and the world back into focus. He didn't have time for another headache. Not today.

Thunder rumbled across the valley, a deep, warning growl straight from Mother Nature's throat. Raindrops thudded the brim of Brogan's hat. The reeds quivered slightly, then bent as wind ripped across the earth. He yanked a pad and pen from his pocket, jotted down a few notes.

Okay, boys. Let's wrap it up and get the hell out of here.

Brogan checked his watch. Noted down the time. Folker and Hawk already had the body bagged. Brogan scrambled up the bank, pulled open the van's rear doors. Fat raindrops puffed little dust clouds from the gravel at his feet, the scent of dampened earth momentarily overriding the mucky stench clinging to his clothes. The van's interior echoed as the rain drummed hard against the tinny roof. Pain seared his left eye like someone thrust a knife tipped in fire straight into his brain. He closed his eyes, tried to rub the pain away, but it was no use.

You okay, Sheriff?

Brogan opened his eyes and blinked the world back into focus. Reny stood next to the van, holding his end of the body bag like it was nothing more than a big bag of grain.

Just a sinus headache, Brogan said. It'll go away soon as the rain wets things down a bit.

The pain stabbed again. It was all he could to stay on his feet and keep his stomach where it belonged. Brogan stuck a hand in his pocket. His fingers closed around a small packet. Extra strength aspirin wouldn't make the pain go away, but sometimes it helped take the edge off. He downed the pills dry and spit to clear the bitter taste from his mouth.

Mattie's still got family somewhere? Brogan asked, ignoring the white bag sliding past his belly. He preferred the black bags himself, but Reny said the white ones were better for evidence collecting. Far as Brogan was concerned, white just highlighted the blood and guts.

Hawk nodded. Sister in San Francisco a half twist shy of loco and a niece who thinks she's Rembrandt or something.

Rain gusted wet against Brogan's face. He wiped the drops from his chin and gazed out across the valley. Notifying relatives was something he never looked forward to. Most of the time, he could be there to lend a comforting hand when he delivered the news. But calling folks he'd never talked to before and telling them a family member had departed God's green earth always struck him as being the most cold-hearted thing a man could do.

No way to get around it though. Hawk'd been through enough already today; Brogan couldn't see adding more stress by shoving the call off on the deputy's shoulders.

Something moved halfway across the field – a dark shadow in the gray rain. And then it was gone. That's when Brogan realized there was one thing missing from the scene. He slid back down the bank as the van doors slammed shut.

Where you going? Hawk slid down behind Brogan.

Where's Mattie's bike? Brogan asked. His pulse raced as he swatted aside reeds with his foot and scanned the area near the culvert. The woman rode that bike everywhere. If it turned up missing, they could have more on their hands than an unfortunate collision with the wrong end of a bull.

For a moment all Brogan could hear was rain and squishy footsteps. Then Hawk grunted. Over here.

A bicycle lay wedged between a fence post and a small rock pile about ten feet from where the scuffle took place.

Guess that bull was mighty mad, Hawk said. He carefully pulled the bike from the ground and rolled it over to Brogan.

Brogan swallowed the lump in his throat and studied the bent frame. He'd told Mattie just yesterday that bike would get her into trouble. But she insisted on riding it home after the meeting, even though it was getting dark. Even though she and half the people in the town hall were angry enough to spit bullets at each other.

She needed to cool off, she said. The ride home would do her good.

It had cooled her off, all right. For good.

Hawk brushed dirt from the pepper-red frame. Looked over the bent fork and twisted wheel with a critical eye. Little elbow grease and new paint should fix it right up.

If only people were as easy to fix as machines. But Mattie would have liked knowing her bike was being taken care of.

Brogan slapped his deputy on the shoulder. I'm sure you'll give it all the TLC it needs. Now let's go get some coffee and dry off a bit. I've got a phone call to make.

Chapter Three

What do you mean my aunt is dead? The tension in Briana Langstrom's voice was thick as peanut butter and just as sticky. She glanced into the living room, stomach tightening at the sight of the stick-thin woman rocking back and forth in a mission-style rocker that seemed two sizes too large.

That's all Briana's mother ever did anymore – rock and stare out the stupid picture window framing San Francisco's elegant skyline. Though what she could be looking at in this pouring rain was beyond Bri's comprehension.

She bit her lip and poked the paste emerald on the side of her nose back into place. Time for more glue.

Miss Langstrom?

Bri dropped her hand in exasperation. How the hell was she supposed to tell someone who couldn't even seem to remember she had a daughter that her sister had been run over by a mad bull?

Bri still couldn't believe it herself. Is this some kind of joke?

Her hair rustled against her shoulder. She glanced down. See there? You've gone and upset Harry.

"Who's Harry?

My tarantula. Quickly switching the cell phone to her left hand, she reached over with her right forefinger, and stroked Harry's back as he shifted his legs nervously. It's okay, baby.

A tarantula? The man on the other end of the line had sounded like a regular country hick a second ago. Now Sheriff Brogan Ryce sounded like he had something caught in his throat.

You got something against tarantulas? Bri asked. Harry rose back up on his legs.

Not tarantulas in particular, just spiders in general. Could I talk to your mother, please?

Bri glanced again at the perpetual rocking machine. Mary Elizabeth Langstrom. Silvery hair done up in a bun on her head in that special way she'd always liked. Hand-woven lap robe spread across her wasted legs. Things Mary E. didn't – couldn't, according to the neurosurgeon – appreciate anymore. The extra touches made Bri feel better though. She can't come to the phone right now.

The sheriff cleared his throat in her ear. There is an executor, of course. Arin Conners. He'll probably be contacting you about the funeral.

Funeral?

Someone has to take care of the burial.

So bury her. What's so tough about that?

Miss Langstrom...

She held up a hand as though the sheriff could see her. Just plain Bri will do, Briana if you have to be formal.

Yes, ma'am.

He'd caught Briana by surprise. People don't usually plan accidents, she reminded herself. But it was hard to fit surprises into a life that already had no room to spare. This sheriff didn't seem to understand that having an aunt die in some podunk town miles away just wasn't in the game plan.

Bri stroked Harry's back again to settle his nerves, turned so she could lean against the kitchen wall, and watched her mother rock back and forth. Back and forth. The hollow feeling inside her chest grew. Tell me what I need to do.

Your mother...

My mother is not up to dealing with anything right now. Take my word for it. Just tell me what needs to be done and I'll take care of it.

She listened to the sheriff's brief explanation with half an ear while thoughts of the gallery show scheduled for next weekend circled through her head. There were enough watercolors stashed in the closet to make a showing, but they hadn't been framed and they weren't really her best work. She'd planned on...

A stench worse than the body odor from one of the walking dead's