Saddled Hearts

By Jan Sikes

Colt Layne owns the Layne Horse Sanctuary. He lives an idyllic life, between caring for the animals and playing music with his band. That is until a stranger appears with unreasonable demands. When someone murders the man, Colt is arrested. He’s been framed, but by whom and why?
He needs to talk with his deceased grandfather. But that’s impossible. Or is it?
Sage Coventry is gifted with the ability to communicate with the deceased. Skeptical but desperate, when Colt consults with her, he gets more than messages from beyond the grave as she breezes into his heart with sweet patchouli fragrance and tempting lips he longs to kiss.
The race against time to clear his name and save the ranch launches them on a mission that brings shocking revelations.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509244058

Jan Sikes

Biography Jan Sikes openly admits that she never set out in life to be an author. But she had a story to tell. Not just any story, but a true story that rivals any fiction creation. You simply can’t make this stuff up. It all happened. She chose to create fictitious characters to tell the story through, and they bring the intricately woven tale to life in an entertaining way. She released a series of music CDs to accompany the four biographical fiction books and then published a book of poetry and art to bring the story full circle. And now that the story is told, this author can’t find a way to put down the pen. She continues to write fiction and has published many short stories with a series of novels waiting in the wings. She is a member of Authors Marketing Guild, The Writer’s League of Texas, the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB (RRBC), the RAVE WRITER’S INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHOR (RWISA), sits on the RWISA Executive Council and hosts a monthly RAVE WAVES blog talk radio show, ASPIRE TO INSPIRE.

Book preview

Chapter One

Colt Layne cast a worried glance at the darkening sky and straightened his broad shoulders as he loaded the last horse into the long metal trailer. A six-hour drive in the rain was the last thing he and these traumatized horses needed.

Want me to take the wheel, boss? Hank Griffin, a lanky middle-aged cowboy, slapped his black Stetson against his leg. A puff of dust flew into the air.

Yeah. I’m beat. Pull into the first place you come to, and let’s tank up on coffee. Colt slid the heavy bolt across the trailer door, then hoisted his six-two frame into the truck.

You got it. Hank cranked the engine.

That’s one of the saddest situations we’ve run into yet. Hat in his lap, Colt leaned back against the seat.

Yessir, it was. But the horses don’t look as bad as some we’ve picked up. Hank eased onto the two-lane country road.

Mrs. Carter did her best to take care of them. Thank goodness she called us when she did. Best I could tell, a couple of the mares will be pretty easy to re-home, but they all need food and a lot of TLC.

Lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a loud clap of thunder.

Looks like all hell’s fixin’ to break loose, boss. Hank gripped the steering wheel.

Colt raked a hand through his thick chestnut hair and blew out a sigh. Just what we don’t need. The horses are skittish enough without a storm.

Want me to look for a place to pull over and ride it out?

I think it’s best if we keep going. Maybe we can outrun it. The sooner we get back to the ranch, the better.

Hank turned on the wipers as a hard-driving rain pelted the windshield. About that coffee. Still want to pull over?

Of course. A few minutes ain’t gonna make any difference one way or the other. Besides, we need to get gas.

Colt flipped on the radio. When he’d inherited his grandfather’s three-thousand-acre ranch in central Texas, he never envisioned what huge life changes it would bring for him. A year later, the Layne Horse Sanctuary offered hope for horses destined for the slaughterhouse. So far, they’d rescued over thirty animals from abuse and neglect situations.

The horses in the trailer behind them came from Arkansas. A phone call from a desperate elderly woman spurred Colt into action. The poor woman had lost her husband two years ago and struggled to continue feeding the animals. From the looks of the horses, she’d failed. But her intentions and heart were good.

Thirty miles down the road, Hank turned on his blinker before pulling into a truck stop.

Colt handed him a twenty and an insulated Thermos. Coffee, black. Fill it to the top. I’ll gas up.

With his hat pulled low and collar turned up, Hank dashed toward the restaurant.

Colt hunched over against the driving rain as he hurried around the truck to the gas pumps. Inside the trailer, the horses stamped their hooves and squealed.

He spoke to them through an open side window. I know, and I’m sorry. But I’m taking you to a nice warm barn with plenty of hay.

A horse nickered in reply as he closed the window to block the driving rain.

He failed to recall just when it was that he first discovered he had the uncanny ability to communicate with animals. Perhaps he always knew. Even though he spoke words to them, it was more than that.

Come to think of it, maybe the defining moment was at the Cheyenne rodeo back in ninety-two. That wild-eyed stallion had been a crazy one. The anger at having been captured showed in his eyes. Made him even madder that any man would dare to climb onto his back.

But when man and horse connected on that invisible thread of communication, they gained an understanding. Colt rode the stallion that night for a gold buckle and $20,000 purse. That’s the moment he knew he had a gift. And he vowed never to misuse it.

He topped off the tank, then crawled back into the truck. He longed for home and a warm bed.

When Hank returned with the coffee, they pulled back out onto the blacktop.

The deluge made going slow. The wipers barely made any headway as they swished across the glass on full-speed. Small hail peppered the roof of the truck like bullets.

I’ll be glad when we can get off this little two-lane pig trail, Hank grumbled.

Yeah. Arkansas roads have only one reputation, and it’s not a good one.

The men made small talk as they covered the miles. Colt knew very little about Hank. He’d showed up a few months back with calloused hands and chaps thrown across his shoulder, asking for work. Said he had experience with ranching. He hadn’t lied about that. And he’d stuck around. Colt made him foreman after a few weeks and trusted him to keep things running smoothly.

His many years on the rodeo circuit taught Colt not to ask too many questions. As long as Hank did the work, he didn’t pry.

A man’s business was his own.

Just as they hit the interstate, Hank sped up. Two minutes later, he slowed back down.

What’s wrong? Colt asked.

I don’t know. Something don’t feel right. It’s gettin’ hard to steer.

Oh, hell, Colt grumbled. Trouble of any kind is exactly what we don’t need. There’s not another town of any size between here and Mount Pleasant. Pull off on the next exit. Let’s take a look. His shoulders ached and muscles knotted in his neck as he reached behind the seat and jerked out a slicker suit.

A loud pop caused both men to jump, and the trailer weaved behind them.

Hank wrestled the steering wheel. Shit! We’ve blown a tire.

Keep it steady. Don’t want to roll these horses.

Hank slowly applied the brakes and flipped on the emergency flashers. He eased the rig off the road and onto a sloping shoulder. Of all the times for this shit.

Colt threw open the door. As he jumped out, he tugged the slicker around him. Hank grabbed another and followed.

The horses stamped their hooves, snorted, and squealed inside the trailer. There was no question about it. They were not happy with their current situation.

Semi-trucks blared past them, shaking the trailer. Thankfully, the flat tire was on the passenger side, away from the roadway.

For that, Colt was grateful. In the darkness, all it would take was one driver who wasn’t paying attention to plow into them.

We’re gonna have to unload the horses. Can’t jack up the trailer with them in it. Colt slid open the latch.

One at a time, the cowboys led the horses out and tethered them to the side of the trailer.

Colt gripped the lead rope tight on the last horse. Just as they cleared the trailer, a semi flew by blaring his horn.

Whoa, girl.

The mare squealed and reared up on her hind legs, ears laid back, the whites of her eyes showing. Whoa. Colt kept the rope tight, while dodging the flailing hooves. Settle down, girl. Settle down.

Once she stopped fighting him, he led her away from the roadway, slipped both arms around her neck, then laid his cheek against her drenched hide. It’s okay. Nothing’s going to hurt you. You gotta trust me.

The horse whinnied and nuzzled his shoulder.

He stayed with the horse another minute before tying her with the rest of the herd. Satisfied she was calm—or as calm as the situation would allow—he turned his attention to the flat tire.

Remind me why in the hell I do this, he yelled over the wind as the tire iron slipped off the wet lug nut and dropped into thick mud.

Hank set the hydraulic jack down beside the trailer and shot him a grin as water poured off the brim of his Stetson. Damned if I know, boss. Maybe you need to ask the horses.

While Hank wrestled the spare tire out of the back of the pickup, Colt loosened the rest of the lug nuts.

Even with the slickers, driving rain soaked both men to the bone by the time they had the tire changed, the horses reloaded, and were back on the road.

Colt took the wheel and headed the rig south. By my estimation, we should be back at the ranch by midnight, barring no other catastrophes. We’ll stop in Mount Pleasant for a bite to eat. He cranked up the heater.

Even though it was early spring, the storm dropped temperatures.

Hank dug a cigarette pack out of his pocket. Do you mind?

No. Just crack the window a little. Truth be told, Colt hated cigarettes. He’d tried smoking back when he was a teenager and quickly decided that wasn’t for him. Now, at twenty-eight, he was happy he never picked up the habit.

You know, boss, until that lady from the TV station came out and interviewed you, I had no idea why you’re so hell-bent on rescuing these animals.

Colt ran a large, calloused hand through his wet hair. Drops of water clung to his collar. I told her the truth. My granddad often talked about how angry it made him to know that over a hundred thousand horses were sent to slaughter each year. So, when I inherited the ranch, I decided it was the perfect way to honor him. It fulfills some deep part of me. I love all animals, but I think I must have been a horse in a past life.

Hank chuckled, took a long drag, then tossed his cigarette butt out the window. Yeah, I get that. I’m glad to be a part of the operation.

Colt cast a glance at the grizzled foreman. I’m glad you are, too. You’re a damned good hand.

****

Sure enough, they rolled across the cattle guard under the Double L Ranch crossbar around midnight. While Colt wanted nothing more than a hot shower and long sleep, the horses came first.

Two other ranch hands met them at the quarantine barn. Each horse brought onto the ranch would spend ten days separated from the others, to make sure they didn’t carry any diseases. Tomorrow, the vet from Cedar Springs would be out to check them over.

Colt backed the trailer up to the barn door.

While the rain had slowed to a drizzle, the ground remained riddled with puddles. Each man led a horse out of the trailer, their unshod hooves splashing mud and muck onto his jeans.

Inside the barn, six stalls lined each wall, making it possible to process up to twelve horses at a time.

Colt examined each animal a little closer. After he looked in their mouths, he ran a hand down each leg. Other than being malnourished and dehydrated, they didn’t seem to have any severe problems.

But he’d let the vet make that determination.

Once he’d checked the last horse, he clapped Hank on the shoulder. I’m heading up to the house for some shuteye. I recommend you do the same. Give them water and a little bit of sweet alfalfa. That’ll hold ’em ’til tomorrow.

Hank nodded.

Covering the distance from the barn to the house, Colt reflected on the endeavor to save these beautiful animals that had consumed his life.

That and playing music. Those were his two—his only—passions.

His band, Inside Straight, had gained regional popularity, and he often turned down gigs because they couldn’t cover them all.

Colt’s best friend, Jag Peters, played keys in the band.

Not long after Colt first met him, Jag fell in love with and married Rena Jett.

Some deep and distant part of Colt’s soul longed for the kind of love he saw between them. If he could find that, he wouldn’t mind adding a third passion to his list.

But as soon as the desire arose, he tamped it down. He’d given his all to love before, and the only thing he got out of it was a heart so shattered it would never mend.

He remembered telling someone once that his life had consisted of broken bones and broken hearts.

While that was partially true, the broken heart only happened once, and he swore never to allow it again.

Sure, he had casual girlfriends. But if one of them got too serious, they became history in a flash. He’d not be played for a fool ever again.

Inside his front pocket, a small stone pressed against his thigh. He reached in and retrieved a white rune.

Colt had been the best man at Vann Noble’s wedding a few months back. That day, Vann passed the rune to him, claiming the stone held magic. Magic for a happily-ever-after, just as it had for Rena and Jag. The rune had come to Rena in a letter from her brother, who didn’t make it home from Afghanistan.

Vann swore the stone had given him a fairy tale love with Nakina Bird, and it could do the same for him.

Colt had serious doubts. There would be no happily-ever-after love for him.

For one thing, he didn’t need anyone in his life. He was perfectly content to rescue horses and play music.

Yet, in the darkness of night, some part of him longed for more―a real love that would never betray him. Someone to hold in his arms and share his deepest secrets.

For a moment, he considered tossing the stone out the window. He’d have to be crazy to think it held any kind of powers. But Vann had wanted him to have it, and he’d promised to treasure it.

He stuck the rune back in his pocket and trudged toward the front door.

His two Australian Shepherds, Mattie and Sheila, met him on the porch. They jumped up, demanding he scratch behind their ears.

Colt grinned. You ladies are my happily ever after. I don’t need anyone else.

If he could only convince the innermost part of his heart, which didn’t seem to understand the theory.

Chapter Two

Three days later, Colt perched on a stool in the living room holding his favorite guitar. Jag Peters sat across from him at his keyboard.

With a notebook balanced on his knee, Colt glanced up. Play the last line again.

Jag played a series of notes. I really like that chord progression. It’s different.

Colt scribbled on the tablet. Yeah. I do too, but something’s not quite connecting yet. Let’s run through it again.

The notes rang out across the sprawling, vaulted-ceiling ranch house. Colt stopped mid-song. That’s it. Instead of going to an A right there, what if we go to E then back to A minor? He strummed the guitar strings.

That adds a whole other dimension to it. Jag ran his fingers over the keys. I like it.

Gravel crunched under tires in the driveway, and Mattie and Sheila raised a ruckus on the front porch. Colt set his guitar on a nearby stand. Sounds like we have company.

He strode to the door and called to the two dogs. They stopped barking but kept their ears straight up and eyes on the vehicle that belched black smoke as it came to a stop.

A red-faced man squeezed from behind the steering wheel of a rattletrap pickup.

Can I help you, sir? Colt asked.

Is this Buck Layne’s place?

It was. I’m his grandson. What can I do for you?

You and me, we need to talk.

Those four words had never bode well for Colt. They usually meant he was in trouble, only he hadn’t done anything this time. Do I know you?

I doubt it. I worked the circuit with your granddaddy for a few years.

All right, sir. Want to come inside?

The stranger lumbered up the steps and across the wide sprawling porch, puffing with each step.

Colt held the door for him, then followed him in. He pointed to the living room. Have a seat.

The man dropped into an overstuffed chair covered with brown-and-white spotted cowhide. Got anything to drink?

Anything, as in iced tea or water?

I’d rather have a beer.

Jag pushed up from the piano stool. I’ll get it, Colt.

You got a name, mister? Colt sat on the edge of the sofa across from the intruder.

Jeremiah Tompkins. Like I said, I knew your grandpa.

Colt rubbed his chin. Jeremiah Tompkins. That name doesn’t ring a bell.

Jag returned with three beers and stuck out his hand. Jag Peters.

Jeremiah grunted, ignored Jag’s hand, and accepted the beer, turning it up for a long swig.

After he passed Colt a beer, Jag joined him on the sofa.

Okay. Colt leaned forward gripping the beer bottle. Exactly what is it you need to talk to me about, Mr. Tompkins?

Jeremiah wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. It’s about a debt Buck Layne owes me. I heard he’s passed on, but that don’t change the fact. He owes me.

A debt? Colt took a swig of his beer and narrowed his eyes. What kind of debt?

Well, you see, me and ol’ Buck, we used to play cards a lot. Only this one night, Buck couldn’t draw a decent hand no matter how hard he tried. When he ran out of money, he put this land on the table.

Are you saying my granddad lost this ranch to you in a poker game?

That’s about it. Jeremiah grinned showing yellowed teeth. So, I’ve come to collect what’s mine.

Colt leaned back against the sofa and blew out a breath. And what proof do you have of that?

Buck’s word is proof enough.

And he didn’t sign any paper or give you a note or anything?

He might’ve, but I’ve moved around a lot. Hard to keep track of such things. Doesn’t matter none. He lost to me fair and square, and I’m here to claim my land.

Colt narrowed his eyes. My grandfather never mentioned you or any poker game, much less gambling away his land. Exactly what year was that, Mr. Tompkins?

Jeremiah’s cheeks reddened even more and puffed out. You callin’ me a liar?

I’m not calling you anything. Just saying he never mentioned your name to me, and in all of his records there’s not one mention of a gambling debt.

We was both drunk that night. Jeremiah guzzled the last of his beer. Up in Billings, Montana. It was colder than a well-digger’s ass. We were staying in some rundown motel that didn’t offer much heat, so we drank to stay warm. Then the card game started.

My granddad never left Texas in the last five years before he died. So, if this really happened, it would have to have been many years ago. And it was just the two of you? No one else?

Yep. Just me and ol’ Buck. I’m tellin’ you, it happened. I ain’t no damned liar.

Look. I’m just trying to make sense of what you’re saying. You can’t expect to walk onto this ranch years after a supposed gambling debt that you have absolutely no proof of and think I’m going to just hand over even a portion of my land to you.

Jeremiah blustered and leaned forward, resting his meaty hands on his knees. If you’ve got any decency about you, that’s exactly what you’ll do.

Colt got to his feet and set his beer on the coffee table. I think you’d best be moseying along, Jeremiah Tompkins. Try your scheme somewhere else. I ain’t buying it.

Buck Layne never welshed on a debt. Jeremiah leaned back to stare up at Colt’s six-foot-two height.

Look, Colt growled. I was close to my grandfather, and he never mentioned your name. Why in the hell did you wait so long to collect this supposed debt? Surely you can see my position here.

Jeremiah struggled to lift his heavy frame from the chair. When he stood, he had to crane his neck to look Colt in the eye. I’ve been busy. That’s why. And this ain’t over. Don’t think for a minute it is. I want what belongs to me, and I won’t stop until I git it. You’ll be hearin’ from my attorney.

With that, he lumbered out the door.

Colt turned to Jag and raked a hand through his hair. What in the hell just happened here?

Jag shrugged. I have no earthly idea. What are you going to do?

Colt dropped into the chair the man had vacated. I don’t think there’s anything to do. I wish I could talk to my grandfather. He’d clear this right up. Personally, I think the man’s a con artist. Or trying to be. I can’t believe Pa wouldn’t have told me something that important.

I have a suggestion. Jag rolled his bottle between his hands. This may sound a little crazy, but you could consult with a medium to talk to your grandfather. My mom’s friend who works at the New Age Life Center has that gift and does readings.

A medium? What the hell? You’re joking, right? Colt reached for his beer.

Just hear me out. A medium is someone who can communicate with souls who have passed over to the other side. She was able to communicate with Rena’s brother, Sam, and help me understand why I kept seeing a soldier in full combat gear in the strangest of places.

Oh, yeah. I remember that. That’s pretty far out there. You really think she could talk to Pa for me?

It’s worth a shot. I can tell you she’s the real deal. She has a gift.

Seems like a strange way to solve a problem. I’ll think about it.

Jag drained his beer and stood. I’ve got to get my gear loaded up, then head out. Let me know if you decide you want to see her, and I’ll set it up for you. Her name is Sage Coventry.

Colt nodded, lost in thought. After helping Jag slide his keyboard into the cover, he carried out the metal stand for him.

After he closed the trunk of the car, Jag clapped a hand on Colt’s shoulder. Try not to let that bullshit worry you. I personally think the man’s trying to pull a fast one.

Yeah, you and me both. But if Pa did gamble away any part of the land, at least I could offer to give the man money to cover it. I want to be fair.

Jag grinned. You’re a better man than me. He climbed into his red convertible. With a wave, he eased down the long driveway.

Colt whistled for the dogs and jumped on a four-wheeler. Let’s go check on the cows. Both dogs let out a short bark.

The southernmost part of the ranch ended at Wolf Creek and provided excellent grazing for livestock. While his main operation involved rescuing and rehoming horses, he also maintained a herd of cattle.

He utilized every inch of the three-thousand-acre ranch in one way or another. Where no horses or cows grazed, he grew sweet alfalfa and oats.

The number of horses on the ranch varied from day to day, and giving them plenty of room to run and exercise was equally as important as food and shelter.

Nope. I’ll not give away even one acre of this land, Colt muttered to himself.

There’s no way his granddad wouldn’t have told him about a gambling debt. Especially over the last few years when they’d spent almost every day together.

He needed answers. Maybe Jag’s idea held some validity. After all, consulting a medium couldn’t be any stranger than communicating with animals or carrying a magic rune in his pocket.

Colt bounced along over the rough ground, the dogs running alongside him as he checked the fence.

He stopped and pulled out his cell phone. When Jag picked up, he made his request.

A session with a medium might bring some clarity.

It was worth a shot.

Chapter Three

Two days had passed since the surprise and shocking visit from Jeremiah Tompkins.

Inside a small metaphysical shop that led into the New Age Life Center, incense tickled Colt’s nostrils while flute music filtered through small wall-mounted speakers. Crystals and other gemstones lined one wall, while books, tarot and oracle cards, essential oils, and incense lined another.

He twirled his Stetson and shifted from one booted foot to the other as he waited for Sage Coventry.

Maybe this was a bad idea. He couldn’t be more out of place if he’d landed in the middle of a foreign country that spoke an entirely different language.

A young girl with a long, tie-dyed scarf wrapped around her head perched behind the counter, munching on an apple. You can have a seat, if you want, Mr. Layne. Sage will be with you shortly.

Colt glanced around the space and spied no chairs, only colorful cushions scattered on a rug in front of a bookcase. I’ll just stand if that’s okay.

The girl shrugged.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, he meandered to the bookcase and perused the titles. Every subject from learning to harness the energy of gemstones to reading tarot cards and something called akashic records filled the shelves. He cleared his throat, put his hat under his arm, then slid out a book entitled Animal Speak by Ted Berner. Now there was something he could relate to.

How much longer? He glanced at his watch. It was already ten minutes past his appointment time. Even though Jag thought highly of the woman’s talents, Colt had his doubts. Sage Coventry was probably an old crone with a pointed witch’s hat and moles on her chin. One of those con artists that tricked desperate folks out of their money.

Yes, this was a bad idea. He slid the book back onto the shelf and headed toward the door.

Colt Layne? a melodious voice called out.

He turned and sucked in an audible breath. A voluptuous blonde with twinkling hazel eyes held out a hand.

Feeling like he’d just been called into the principal’s office, he stammered, Y-yes. That’s me.

Her small, soft hand contrasted with his large, calloused one.

Not only was this woman beautiful, she smelled like a meadow of sweet flowers. He couldn’t quite define the fragrance.

Sage Coventry. Nice to meet you. Come on back. She opened a door leading out of the small shop into a long hallway. Sorry to have kept you waiting.

Colt’s boot heels thudded against the wooden floor as he followed her. No problem. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice. One question answered―this woman was definitely no crone, and not a mole in sight.

She flashed a smile. I’m always happy to help out any friend of Jag’s. She pointed to the last door on the left. This is my office.

He hoped there would be chairs. Plopping down on a cushion on the floor didn’t appeal to him in the least. His towering frame was built for riding broncs, not reclining on floor cushions.

Sage held open the door, and he