The Rustlers of the Sonoran Desert

By Wayne Simmes

In the vast expanse of the American West, where horses gallop under the boundless skies and cattle roam freely, William Anderson, a horse rancher from Ohio, seeks solace from the ghosts of his past. Little does he know that his journey will unravel a tale of redemption, courage, and the supernatural.

When a band of ruthless rustlers threatens the ranch of Victoria Connelly, a woman with grit as unyielding as the Arizona sun, Will is thrust into a battle against an enemy that defies the laws of the living. Armed only with his wits and an enigmatic companion named Jack, who straddles the line between the corporeal and the ethereal, Will must navigate the treacherous terrain of the Old West's modern incarnation.

As the shadows lengthen and the moon rises over the Sonoran Desert, Will and Jack embark on a quest to save not only Victoria's ranch but also their own souls. Together, they'll face spectral herds, phantom trails, and the haunting echoes of choices made long ago.

"The Rustlers of the Sonoran Desert" is a gripping modern-day Western that blends the timeless elements of the genre with supernatural twists. Will Anderson's journey unfolds against a backdrop of wide-open landscapes, where loyalty is tested, and the boundaries between the natural and the supernatural blur.

Saddle up for an unforgettable ride into the heart of the West, where the thunder of hooves mingles with the whispers of the wind, and justice is dispensed with both a badge and a ghostly ally.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Simmes
• Release date: Jan 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224991457

Wayne Simmes

With a literary career spanning an impressive three decades, Wayne Simmes is a seasoned writer whose words reflect the tapestry of a life rich in experiences. Born in a quaint small town in western New York State, Wayne Simmes draws inspiration from the landscapes of their youth and the unique charm of close-knit communities. Throughout the majority of his life, Wayne Simmes has been immersed in the dynamic world of sales, bringing a profound understanding of human interactions, negotiations, and the nuances of relationships to his writing. This background adds a layer of authenticity to his storytelling, allowing readers to connect with characters navigating the complexities of life, love, and ambition. At the age of 79, Wayne Simmes continues to be a prolific force in the literary world, weaving tales that resonate with the wisdom only garnered through years of lived experiences. His work reflects a keen observation of the ever-changing world, coupled with a timeless understanding of human nature.

Book preview

The Rustlers of the Sonoran Desert

Chapter One - Starting Over

In an effort to get away from a bad situation I had left my ranch and with no particular destination in mind had begun driving.  I was fairly close to the east coast so going east had not made a lot of sense.  I did not particularly like a cold climate so going north was not a viable option.  That left south or west and I chose to split the difference.  So after almost a full day of driving, I found myself on I-44 heading southwest out of St. Louis,

As I continued my journey, fatigue began to take its toll. The monotonous hum of the engine and the rhythmic blur of the road merged into a hypnotic trance.

As the shadows of dusk began to dance on the asphalt, my eyes caught sight of a lone figure on the side of the road. The decision to pick up hitchhikers may not have been the wisest, but weariness pushed me to consider the idea. Perhaps a conversation with a stranger would help keep me alert and stave off the encroaching fatigue.

The initial inclination to pull over shifted abruptly as I noticed something unsettling about the hitchhiker. A scar, jagged and ominous, ran down his face from ear to mouth. A chill crawled down my spine as the memory of a serial killer with an identical scar resurfaced. Prudence prevailed, and without signaling, I swerved sharply to the left, passing him by. The glimpse I caught of his face mirrored a deep-seated resentment that lingered in the air.

Relieved to have avoided a potentially dangerous encounter, I checked my rearview mirror, only to be greeted by the flashing red and blue lights of a patrol car. The abrupt realization that I was being pulled over sent my heart rate soaring.

Complying with the trooper's instructions, I pulled off the road, and the night air became charged with tension. The trooper approached cautiously, her hand instinctively reaching for the holster. The strained atmosphere mirrored the changing times, where an air of mistrust lingered between law enforcement and civilians.

Her demanding tone broke the silence, License, registration, and proof of insurance, please. Following her instructions, I handed over the documents, my hands visible on the steering wheel in an attempt to defuse any potential tension.

After a prolonged wait, she returned my documents without a word. Anticipation hung in the air as she questioned my actions. Do you know why I stopped you, Mr. Anderson?

Asserting my innocence, I denied any knowledge of wrongdoing. Her scrutiny, however, focused on my brief deviation onto the shoulder of the road. The mention of picking up a hitchhiker raised her suspicion. The trooper ordered me out of the car, her demeanor transitioning from stern to commanding.

As I stepped out, keeping my hands in plain sight, she declared her intent to conduct a field sobriety test. Requesting a more direct method, I suggested a breathalyzer or a blood test, expressing concerns about my stiffness. Unyielding, she directed me to lean against the car for a search, her professional approach overshadowed by a lingering sense of violation.

As I stepped out of the cruiser, the trooper's meticulous search ensured her safety. Satisfied that I posed no immediate threat, she motioned for me to lead the way back to her patrol car. The metallic click of the back door echoed as she instructed me to get in. Seated in the confined space, she disappeared for a moment, attending to some preparation in the front seat. Her focused demeanor hinted at the procedural thoroughness she maintained.

Returning to the back seat, she handed me a small tube connected to a device. Blow as hard as you can, she instructed. I complied, exhaling into the tube as the trooper studied the machine's display. With a measured tone, she declared that I was not over the legal alcohol limit. However, her concern lingered, cautioning against impaired driving. She offered a choice – a trip to the station for a blood draw or the suggestion to follow her to the next exit, where a motel awaited.

Yes, ma'am, I agreed, expressing gratitude for her leniency. Exiting the cruiser, I took a moment to observe the trooper who had occupied a significant chunk of my night. She stood tall and robust, her uniform pants neatly tucked into high, black leather boots.

Mr. Anderson, are you alright? she inquired, and for a moment, I feared she had caught me staring at her boots.

Yes, ma'am, I'm fine, and thank you again for your kindness, I reassured her, turning to head back to my car.

With a wave, she started her cruiser, signaling for me to follow. At the next exit, she guided me with a right turn, leading to the motel in the distance. As we reached the parking lot, she patiently waited, observing as I entered the motel office. Once inside and looking back, I saw her pull away, her patrol lights fading into the early morning darkness.

Fatigue weighed heavy, and as I checked into the motel, the weariness washed over me. The bed, a welcome respite, cradled me in its embrace, and I succumbed to a deep and uninterrupted sleep.

The following morning, refreshed and ready, I resumed my journey, the road stretching out before me like an endless ribbon of possibility.

Chapter Two - Another Day Another Adventure

The journey unfolded like a cinematic panorama as I drove westward along Interstate 40, the miles disappearing beneath the wheels of my Lincoln. Crossing into New Mexico, I decided to take a respite in a small town, both to savor a meal and to ease the stiffness in my legs. An hour later, fortified by food and the brief interlude, I resumed my westward course. Though vigilant for the man with the ominous scar, he remained conspicuously absent from the roadside.

Late afternoon found me in Albuquerque, a city teeming with life and character. My Lincoln, though a symbol of luxury, didn't sit well with my inclination to remain still. Opting for a light dinner and a chance to stretch my legs, I delved into the pulse of the city before heading towards Gallup.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the exit sign for Gallup beckoned, and I veered off the highway, seeking refuge in a motel with a nearby bar. Securing a room for the night, I inquired about the bar's offerings from the motel's counter clerk. Learning of sandwiches and enticed by the prospect of a drink, I set out for the short walk to the bar.

Entering the establishment, the twang of country music enveloped me, mingling with the rhythmic clatter of pool balls from a distant corner. The bar, surprisingly lively for a midweek evening, invited me to find solace in its embrace. Bypassing the vacant tables, the idea of dining alone failed to entice me. Opting for an empty bar stool, I settled in, waiting for the bartender to acknowledge my presence.

A young woman, donned in a plaid blouse, pleated skirt, and cowboy boots, addressed me, What'll it be?

Expressing my desire for food, I inquired about the menu. With a casual gesture, she directed me to a small blackboard at the back. Deciding on a ham and cheese sandwich, a side of French fries, and a tall local beer, I turned my attention to the patrons, especially those around the pool table. A plan to spend a few hours playing formed in my mind, contingent on the dynamics of the patrons.

As the cowgirl bartender placed my order, she asked, Would you like to start a tab or pay as you go?

Retrieving my wallet, I sifted through bills before handing her a pair of twenties. When that is gone, let me know, I said, setting the stage for a night of unknown possibilities. She took the money, placing it beside the register, as the hum of conversation and the pulse of the music surrounded me in the vibrant atmosphere of the bar.

The sandwich, a typical fare for a local bar, passed the threshold of satisfactory, but the beer, cold and potent, proved to be a welcome elixir. Its chill traced a refreshing path down my throat, warming me from within as it reached my stomach.

Having concluded my meal, I signaled the bartender, informing her of my intention to find a table near the pool area. She deftly retrieved the money from beside the register, settled my dues, and handed me the change. Leaving a five-dollar bill as a token of appreciation, I thanked her, rising from my seat to navigate the room.

Despite the growing crowd since my entrance, I managed to locate an unoccupied table close to the pool area. As I observed the ongoing games, it became apparent that couples dominated the scene. Just as I contemplated heading back to the motel, a tap on my shoulder interrupted my thoughts.

Hey there, I noticed you watching the pool table. I could use a partner if you don't mind playing with a novice, spoke a dark-haired cowgirl who had appeared beside me.

As she spoke, I took a moment to observe her appearance. Dressed in a teal button-up shirt, blue jeans, and cream cowboy boots with a low heel, she emanated a genuine cowgirl aura. Raven-colored hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her striking obsidian eyes revealed depth. Sun-kissed skin hinted at a life spent outdoors, and the sharpness of her facial features hinted at a potential Native American heritage.

Not at all. I'll put some quarters on the rail to save us a place in line, I replied.

She didn't wait for an invitation but pulled out a chair across from me, settling in. Waving to the waitress, she ordered a drink for herself and another beer for me.

I'm Victoria, but most call me Vicky, she introduced herself.

Victoria fits you. You even look a little like the woman who played in Dallas, I remarked.

A smile played on her lips, and we engaged in casual conversation until our turn to play arrived. Walking to the rack on the wall, I scoured for a reasonably straight cue. Noticing Vicky doing the same, I realized she, too, was seeking