Murder Maybe

By Troy Andrew Smith

An old live wire and a horse's shoe. A rich man's death looks like a freak accident to Deputy Dan Mitchell and Detective Stan DeRudder . . . except that the dead man has left behind a crowded fielf of suspects. Wyoming "Cowboyologist" Rell Sawtell is brought in to manage the crime scene, a Southern California equestrian center, until a ruling can be made--is it murder? Maybe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Hulsey Books
• Release date: Feb 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224490134

Troy Andrew Smith

Troy Andrew Smith was born on July 13th, 1952 in the small rural town of Nowata, Oklahoma. He was raised on a ten acre place just outside of town and grew up dreaming of being a cowboy like his Dad. Although, their place was small, it was directly across the road from a large ranch and just down the road from another big spread. By the time Troy was 15 he was a regular hand during branding and shipping. He had no idea of ever being in a movie. As an adult, Troy worked as a ranch hand, machinist, carpenter, guide, dude wrangler, and Country Western singer. He also wrote a weekly column for the Nowata newspaper and had several of his Cowboy poems published in various publications. While attending film school at Montana State University, Troy supplemented his income with movie jobs in the summers and started writing novels and screenplays. He has ridden horses or driven teams in numerous movies and TV shows, including three seasons on HBO's series DEADWOOD. At this time Troy is concentrating his efforts on his skills as a Screenwriter, Author and Actor.

Book preview

MURDER! MAYBE?

TROY ANDREW SMITH

Copyright © 2015 by Troy Andrew Smith

This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

For information contact: info@jchulseybookscom

Cover Art by Michael Thomas

Cover Design by J.C. Hulsey Books

Published by J.C. Hulsey Books

February 2024

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Author’s Note:

Iwould like to express my great appreciation to Kevin McNiven, for his help in writing Murder! Maybe? Kevin supplied much of the information used in the segments of the book set in Wyoming. He was gracious enough to share with us his unique and efficient method of ‘starting’ colts under saddle, which we used in the book. I want to thank him as well, for his insights concerning our main character, Rell Sawtell. Kevin is the ‘real deal’ when it comes to cowboying, horse and mule packing, or breaking horses to ride or drive. I thank him for his help, his expertise and for the time he spent making this book a reality.

Troy Andrew Smith

CHAPTER ONE

Charles Goldman VII

CHARLES GOLDMAN THE seventh didn’t know it yet but his world was different on this chilly November morning. It didn’t seem any different, as he walked his horse, Goliath, around the arena in the early morning hours. In fact, life for Charles Goldman the seventh was about as good as life could get for any man. At least that was his opinion.

Okay, he said to Goliath as they made their way around the arena, maybe I’m not as fit as I was before I turned fifty. Goliath snorted. I didn’t ask for your opinion, did I? Goliath seemed to nod his head up and down as he walked. Might do you well to keep your opinions to yourself, if you want any extra oats when we’re done here. This time Goliath was quiet. Like I was saying, continued Charles, I’m not as young as I once was, but I’m still doing pretty darned well. After making his proclamation, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching down and squeezing the fairly slight roll riding out over the top of his leather belt. I see what you mean, he said to Goliath. Time to hit the gym, as they say in L.A. Still, Charles Goldman the seventh believed he was in better shape than most men his age. And he was.

Charles Goldman the seventh was a man who was well liked by a lot of people. Although he might not be a Donald Trump or Bill Gates, he was fairly rich by most people’s standards and he enjoyed his money. He liked what he liked and knew that unless he took up hard drugs or gambling, he probably couldn’t spend all of the money he had in the bank before he died. That didn’t even include what he’d make today. Without even lifting a finger he’d add several hundred thousand to the proverbial pot of gold before the day was over.

His children still liked him, well maybe not Junior, but the rest of them did, at least as far as he knew. The twins, Junior and Charlise, they were out of his second wife and were the only ones that lived close by.

His first wife had taken their two kids and fled to England. At least that was the way she had stated it in their divorce decree. She always was one for the melodramatic. Fact was, he’d never laid a hand on her in anger and she was really running off to England to marry an actor she’d met on the set of one of Charles’ films. ‘So be it,’ thought Charles. ‘They deserve each other.’ Though Charles didn’t think of himself as a vengeful man, he had made sure that the actor lost the four roles he had been up for in this country. Plus, he’d let it be known that anyone that hired him would never be allowed to work on one of Charles’ movies again. It didn’t stop the actor from working overseas or in Australia, but at least Charles didn’t have to run into him over here.

The twins, however, lived close by—in fact, Junior lived right across the way—so he saw them regularly. They never agreed on much of anything but this time they did. They weren’t too thrilled with his new wife, Celeste—whom he’d married, while his company was shooting on location last year, without telling anyone until after it was a done deal. They had been furious with him at the time—but at least they were civil to her and him when they all happened to get together. But then, that rarely happened these days.

Charles thought of his children as the results of a very poor breeding program. No horse breeder would have ever made the crosses in bloodlines that Charles had made. Still, he couldn’t complain about the activities he’d enjoyed up until he’d gotten the P word and had decided to do the right thing. What an awful cliché that was, in Charles’ opinion, the right thing. ‘Right thing for who?’ he often wondered. The right thing for the woman? So she could be in a marriage where she soon hated the sight of him, especially if he didn’t have any clothes on. The right thing for the kids? To be brought up in an atmosphere of constant tension, pending violence—even though there’d never been more than a broken plate or thrown vase, but those were thrown by them, not him—it certainly couldn’t be called the right thing for him. Unless you thought paying alimony and child support a right thing. But, he did have to admit, he had loved the children, each and every one. And, despite the efforts made by his exes, the kids did seem to still love him. Even though, he still wasn’t sure about Junior.

A picture of Celeste’s naked body ran through Charles’ mind and he made no effort to remove it in any hurry. She was small but well put together, with an engine that ran hard constantly.

A slight frown crossed his face as he thought about how hard and determined she could be sometimes, but then again, what was the harm in someone being driven to succeed? After all, he’d been like that when he was her age and nobody thought ill of him for it... did they? Still, Celeste made him feel alive and young and wanted. That wasn’t such a bad thing, he was sure. At least it wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for the twins. They had their reservations, but when didn’t they? ‘Okay,’ he admitted to himself, ‘Junior’s a pain in the ass and Charlise is spoiled rotten, but so are a lot of other kids in the world.’

Charles Goldman the seventh stepped his horse up into a canter and loved the smooth feel of the powerful body moving in sync with his commands. Charles was an excellent rider and this morning he was mounted on one of his two Frisians, a big black   with a registered name Charles couldn’t even begin to pronounce, so he just called the horse Goliath. He liked the name. Somehow it made him feel more alive to know he was in command of a horse named Goliath. Maybe that made him feel like King David? Charles almost laughed out loud at that one.

Charles owned two Frisians for dressage, a Dutch Warmblood for show jumping, and much to his daughter Charlise’s chagrin—she loved the ranch but was a snob when it came to breeds of horses—two Quarter Horses, both geldings, that Charles team roped on at least twice a month, his schedule permitting.

Charles loved the roping more than all the other equestrian sports he was involved with, although he couldn’t tell that to any of his high class friends or boarders. They’d believe him truly barbaric if they knew. In fact, most of them didn’t even know that he did rope. They believed he liked riding new trails with his quaint ponies. He didn’t know where they’d gotten that idea, but he let them believe what they wanted. He loved to rope, to ride fast, and—although he hated to admit it—be just one of the guys, competing to win. Charles Goldman the seventh, loved to compete. He loved to win, too.

Thoughts of the boarders went through his head. I ought to kick the whole lot of insufferable snobs and their ‘fancy’ ponies right out into the street, Charles suddenly told Goliath. Goliath didn’t seem to have much of an opinion. Charles quickly looked around to make sure no one else had been close enough to hear him. With a slight change in his seat, he cued the big horse and slowed Goliath back into a walk. He was careful to keep just the right amount of contact with the horses’ mouth, just the way that John Wesley—his dressage instructor—constantly told him he needed to, in order to make the horse work correctly.

Charles made sure he kept Goliath collected—as the English riders would say—at all times, used his legs to guide and cue the big black stud, and wondered not for the first time, ‘What would it hurt if I just turned this big rascal loose and let him run?’ But, that wasn’t what Goliath was trained for, so he would do all of the proper things he was supposed to do in order to ride correctly.

Maybe someday, I’ll just load your big ass up in the trailer and you and me will go find us an open meadow and just see what you can do. He finished the statement with a laugh and a friendly slap on Goliath’s neck.

Charles knew he’d never make that ride on Goliath and he also knew he had other horses that were more built to run. They had much more top end speed than Goliath ever would, but still, it would be fun to feel the power of the big brute. A smile crossed his face that was the result of just pure joy. Life was good if you were Charles Goldman the seventh.

Charles loved the early mornings for many reasons. The fact he loved to watch as the ranch woke up, was among them. Jerry Small, the ranch manager, who was anything but small—in fact Charles often thought Jerry was big enough to hunt bear with a switch—always got up early too. So did Jerry’s wife Tina, but Jerry didn’t know that. He was too busy getting horses turned out for some of the boarders, making sure none of the horses were cast in a stall, or had torn something up during the night. He made sure all the automatic waters were working—often a horse would crack a pipe messing with the water bowl. Then he called the feed store or veterinarian or he was busy handling whatever emergency had come up since the night before.

Yes, thought Charles Goldman the seventh, Jerry Small was a busy man, who did a pretty good job of his job. Concentrating on the job was probably the main reason he didn’t know where his wife was right now and who she was with, but Charles did. It’s some good watching on this place, he told Goliath.

Cutter was a black Quarter Horse gelding with a white blaze down his face and one white sock on his off hind hoof. That was the ankle he half walked on and half drug behind him. That was the ankle that had ended his cutting horse career and sent Charles Goldman the seventh in a different direction with his riding. Cutter had been Charles’ first horse, and although Charles wouldn’t freely admit to it, his favorite. When Cutter had come up lame, Charles had switched from cutting horse competitions to team roping. Mainly because the cutting reminded him of the loss of his good horse, and the sadness he felt tended to nullify the fun he had cutting cattle. Plus, Charles Goldman the seventh discovered he liked the speed, the timing involved, the exhilaration of team roping, so it was an easy choice to make.

After Cutter’s ankle went bad Charles hadn’t had the heart to put him down. After all, the horse’s heart was good, he wasn’t in any real pain—at least not after the first few weeks of the injury—so why put his best friend down? They didn’t need the space at the ranch, there was plenty of room. Charles had the money to feed him and then some, so Cutter was allowed to live out his life with the full run of the place. He’d had the run of the place for well over ten years now and Charles had expected him to die anytime, but Cutter seemed to be getting stronger as he got older. He hardly limped at all anymore and he looked better than he had in years. Cutter was coming onto his thirtieth birthday but nobody cared, he’d just been the old horse of the place for a long time.

Jerry Small, the ranch manager, usually gave Cutter a can full of oats in the morning and Cutter always made sure he was handy for Jerry to locate. Another person that fed the old horse was Lester Finch, the guy that owned the racehorses in the back stable. He usually came in a bit later though, so Cutter had time to eat the oats that Jerry gave him and then make it over to eat the mixed grain that Lester preferred. Life was good for the old horse and he liked it that way.

This morning, Jerry was making his rounds and was on the back side of the ranch where most of the hay and feed storage was located, which just so happened to be the area where Cutter hung out most of the day. At that moment, Cutter was rubbing his neck against an old electric pole and from the grunts and moans he made, it must have felt pretty darned good.

Jerry called out to Cutter, Hey old man, you hungry? Cutter didn’t bother to answer or even pay any attention to Jerry. Jerry knew that would change shortly when he opened the door to the feed room. At that magic moment, he always became Cutter’s best friend. As soon as the oats were dumped in Cutter’s feed box, Jerry was forgotten once again, until the next time tomorrow. Although he had his own stall—a double one in fact—the door was never closed and Cutter came and went as he pleased. His daily routine was comprised mostly of walking from one hay stack to another, eating his choice of any bale he could reach and walking away to perhaps get a drink then eating off of another hay stack. While it was true he tended to make a mess of the hay stacks none of the older boarders complained because, ‘it was just Cutter.’ This practice was not popular with some of the newer boarders though, especially the racehorse people, since Cutter tended to hang out on their side of the ranch.  He was always snacking on and making a mess of their horse’s hay. If they tarped the hay, Cutter tore the tarps. They wanted a new hay barn built and even though Charles was willing to cover the cost, L.A. County Building and Safety hadn’t approved the building of said barn as of yet. God only knew if they ever would.

Jerry Small stopped what he was doing and walked over to the old horse who was still rubbing on the creosote covered pole. Rolls of dead hair fell to the ground—Cutter seemed to shed year round—and clung to the pole. A steady cloud of dust colored the air in the close vicinity of Cutter.

There was an old style breaker box, mounted on the post just inches away from Cutter’s shoulder. It was a square metal, rust covered box with a lever type handle on one side. If you could’ve still read the long ago faded to rust lettering next to the handle, you would’ve seen that pushing the lever up was ON, and down was OFF. Jerry scratched Cutter on the forehead as he admonished him.

Don’t cut yourself on this hunk of junk hanging here. I ain’t wasting no money on no vet bill for the likes of you.

It was an idle threat and Jerry and Cutter both knew it. Truth was, the veterinarian the ranch used had been called out more than once for Cutter. Cuts, colic, colds, you name it, if Cutter was suffering from anything it was Jerry’s job to get him medical help as soon as possible. Charles Goldman the seventh had made it perfectly clear that as long as Cutter was on his feet and healthy—the definition of healthy basically meant the old horse wasn’t in chronic pain—then he’d get any care he needed...up to a point. Charles always threw that last part in so as to sound like he wasn’t a bleeding heart softy. Of course, they’d never reached that ‘point’ yet concerning Cutter and Jerry Small had no idea where that point might someday be.

This damned pole has been here since, forever, and I still don’t know what it goes to. I even had Junior and Charlise help me look for it one time. They was younger then, said Jerry. He pushed Cutter away from the pole. Go on before you whack your head into the corner of this box and kill yourself.

Cutter snorted his disgust at having his rubbing session interrupted and, accompanied by a loud passage of gas, wandered towards the feed room to await Jerry’s arrival there.

Jerry laughed out loud at Cutter and said, Same to ya, ya old fart. Then more by accident than not, he looked at the old breaker box and wondered out loud. Wonder where the heck this line even goes to? Probably don’t even work. He grabbed the handle and pushed it up. The movement made a grating sound as years of accumulated layers of rust and dirt cracked apart and the handle ‘wonked’ as it hit the top peg on the breaker box, but other than that, nothing seemed to happen. Jerry looked around in the dim early morning light, didn’t see any lights suddenly come on, then pushed it back down like he’d found it. He wiped his hands and thought he probably ought to figure out where that electric line ran to someday and probably get rid of it. As far as he knew it didn’t provide power to anything on the ranch, but right then he didn’t have time to mess with it. Jerry had his rounds to make and Cutter was waiting for him.

Because of Cutter’s wandering, snooping, rubbing, chewing, hay robbing, and quite often, breakage of things, Cutter added quite a bit of extra work for Jerry and his crew. Jerry’s crew consisted of one older Mexican named George—not his real name Jerry was sure but didn’t care—and himself. George mainly just cleaned stalls and fed some of the horses, although some of the boarders did their own feeding or had their own man to feed.

One own man, was a very good looking young woman named Cindy. Jerry very much liked to watch her when he could, but he refrained from watching as much as he’d a liked to. Mostly because, he felt guilty about some of the thoughts that crossed his mind. Especially, when he noticed a piece of hay stuck to her shirt or better yet, the cleavage showing through when she was sweaty or wet. He often wished he was that piece of hay stuck to her, at least for a little while.

Jerry knew her name was Cindy. She’d never told him her last name, if she had a boyfriend, or that she was a Pittsburgh Steeler’s fan. Jerry was also more than aware he was a married man, loved his wife, and hated the Pittsburgh Steelers. But, after all what did it hurt to daydream? It was purely a fantasy relationship that existed only in his mind, but Jerry often times wished he could fire George and hire Cindy to replace him. But Charles would never go for that and neither would Jerry’s wife, Tina. Tina was a jealous woman. She didn’t even like having Cindy on the place. That was one thing Jerry was very sure about.

In the gray light of early dawn, up in the Hollywood Hills, Detective Stan DeRudder slept fitfully with dreams of fighter jets, hot lead tracers in the air, and anti-aircraft missiles just missing his plane. The face of a foreign woman suddenly replaced the combat. Stan DeRudder awoke, bathed in sweat, heart pounding confused as to where he was in the darkness. As his senses returned to normal, he quickly realized he was in his own bed, alone. His wife was still gone and always would be, so he guessed he should get used to it. He didn’t think he ever would.

Glancing at the clock beside his bed, he saw it was almost six and he’d be having to get up soon anyway, so he decided to just go ahead get it over with. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.

In the stucco finished house that stood on the other side of the west fence that defined the boundary of the property, Charles Goldman the eighth stood at his kitchen sink. He drank from a bottle of very expensive mineral water, watching the eastern sky lighten with the coming sunrise. It was a scene that most people—especially people who lived in the depths of urban Los Angeles—would think beautiful. The slightly pink and yellow line forming above the mountains, with horses and barns being silhouetted against the sky. Trees growing tall along the edges of the property and fancy, flowered vines covering the dividing fence between where Charles Goldman the eighth’s house sat and his father’s pet project. Yes, most folks would love to get to see such a picturesque scene every morning. He hated it.

His father’s ranch was over forty acres, a huge piece of property by L.A. standards and was worth one big chunk of money, if it could be sold off. That was of course something else that would never be allowed to happen as long as his father was still alive. He thought about what he could do with the money, if he had it, and his heart started to race and his palms got a little sweaty. Even though it was only a dream, he still enjoyed the rush he got and hoped that maybe someday, he’d have enough money to live out all his fantasies.

Why he was even up this early was another story, but he wasn’t telling. Still, he liked to think about how his efforts had gone last night. It had been a productive night, he’d met some of the ‘right people,’ and the best part of the story was, he was just about out from under the controlling thumb of his father. Good old Daddy.

All Junior—a name he was called by his parents and everyone else that knew him, which he despised—had to do now was be patient and wait. A smile crossed his face as he watched Jerry Small—from where he stood at the sink he could see Jerry between the barns—messing with Cutter.

He looked over at the barn where he knew his father was riding. His father rode every morning since he’d retired, recently. Junior wasn’t really sure what his father had retired from, he’d never paid much attention. All he knew was his father had something to do with making movies but Junior wasn’t sure what, that he had a lot of money, and he used it to keep him and his twin sister on a tight leash. What his father hadn’t understood was, the collar had started to chafe their necks and they were tired of it. Now, plans had been made that with just a little luck, they would be able to cut loose from the leash and good old Daddy could go to Hell.

Junior was caught up in his thoughts about how his father had, in his mind, never given him credit for being able to do anything but spend money, when he looked back over at Jerry Small and saw him throw the breaker switch, and slowly, almost as if that breaker switch was attached to his brain, a plan started to take root. As the idea grew, Junior thought about a lot of things, it seemed like, all at once.

Junior thought about his half siblings that lived over in England with their mother, Charles’ first wife. He believed they were the lucky ones, not having to endure their father’s benign ridicule their whole lives. Even though Junior couldn’t recall a single incidence where his father had ridiculed him, he was completely convinced that it had happened constantly and he’d been forced to blank it out of his memory in order to stay sane.

Junior heard the water stop running in the upstairs shower and he knew his sister Charlise would be getting out, wrapping herself in a thick robe that was kept there for that very purpose. She would come down the stairs, shaking her wet hair and heading for the coffee pot. He knew because she’d done the same routine ever since they had been teenagers.

She’d come over last night to help in the final stages of his plan and had in fact been more than happy to do so. Mostly because it got her away from her soon to be ex-husband—the fool doesn’t even know it yet—and because the two of them had always been close even though they seldom agreed on anything. Only, this time they did.

Unlike Junior, Charlise liked to listen to the sounds of the horses next door and the ranches in the area on the whole. Someplace down the way owned some peacocks, and they got on her nerves sometimes, when she’d stayed up too late or partied a little too hard, but she still liked to hear them, most mornings. Still, she always rose early, if she’d gotten to bed at all the night before.

Charlise had been known to go for two or three days at a time without sleep, with a little help, of course. She thought of herself as a country girl at heart and truly loved the ranch. She didn’t know exactly how it had happened that Junior had ended up living in the ranch guest house, as the permanent guest, and she lived just off Laurel Canyon. While she ended up with her completely clueless husband, in one of those old, hippie commune type houses.  Those houses were built cheap ages ago but now were very costly to buy and to maintain. They couldn’t be torn down and replaced without an act of Congress practically—they were so historically important—and that she hated because her husband was there. Though that last part wouldn’t be the case for long, and then maybe she’d see if her twin brother wanted to swap houses.

Charlise was tired of the city. Tired of marriage. Maybe just plain tired, but she knew if Junior’s plan worked—she couldn’t see why it wouldn’t—she’d be able to live anywhere she wanted and their father wouldn’t be able to say a word about it. She’d be independent at last. She liked the sound of that word, independent. She wondered if anyone ever really was?

Junior was pouring her coffee as she padded into the kitchen with bare, still slightly damp, feet. Thanks, she said as she took the offered cup from her brother. Heard anything yet?

Wouldn’t this early, said Junior. We will just have to wait, be patient, then act like we are totally surprised when things happen. After all, we wouldn’t want to give the impression we were expecting it, at all. That would make us seem suspect or just down right arrogant. No, it will work. I just wish I could see the expression on the old man’s face when it does. Won’t he be shocked?

They both giggled at the thought.

So, what are you going to do with your half? asked Charlise. Get drunk, get laid, get loud, ’til it’s gone?

Please, said Junior, Give me a little credit. I have grown up some since those days. No, I think I’ll become a slum lord. That way, I can enjoy kicking women and kids out of their crappy apartments because they haven’t paid. It might be kind of fun watching the children cry, and having the women offer to do anything I want them to, if I will only let them stay.

Charlise slapped him on the shoulder, grinned, and said, You are such a liar! I know you can’t stand the sight of a kid crying and you’d never lower yourself to even look at the kind of women you’d be kicking out of their apartment. Seriously, what are you going to do with your half of the money when we get it?

You know me too well, Sis, he grinned at his twin. I’m going to write a book. I’ve always wanted to but never could stand to sit still long enough to do so. Now, I believe it’s time to write my memoirs and with the money we’re going to collect, I’ll be able to self-publish it and promote it. They won’t be able to stop me, and then who knows? I might go on the talk circuit, the morning news shows, I might even follow Dad’s footsteps.

You are such a liar!

Junior’s new idea had reached its full potential. It wasn’t much as plans go but it had been an ongoing nuisance ever since he could remember. Now, with a little help from his sister, he was going to take the initiative and fix the problem and show his father he could... well, take the initiative.

Hurry up and get dressed, I’ve got a job for you to help me with, said Junior.

What job?

We’re going to show the old man what we can do. So, hurry up, before it gets too light and the ranch gets busy.

So, Charlise, her curiosity up, was quickly dressed in a stylish sweat suit and running shoes and followed her brother out of the house.

As the big horse loped almost effortlessly around the arena, Charles Goldman the seventh smiled as he thought about his ranch manager’s wife. It was not a happy kind of smile, more of a bemused look. That’s what it would be called if anyone was around to witness it and bother to describe it at all. Charles knew a lot about Tina Small and what she wanted in life. He knew she would use any and all of her feminine attributes, shall we say, to get what she wanted out of life, but Charles wasn’t even sure if she knew what that was.

She had made several covert passes at him since he had hired her husband but he’d pretended he hadn’t noticed. Then one day, she had made it very plain what she was after. During the angry fit she had thrown, when he passed on her offer, she had threatened him with everything from telling her husband he’d raped her to killing him. The method she had described to him seemed to require a lot of wear and tear on his testicles, something about hanging him from the rafters, but Charles didn’t pay much attention since he didn’t believe she could lift him that high.

Yes, Charles Goldman the seventh was a contented man in every way, with the possible exception of his own marital status. He was twice burned after all and still not all that sure how a woman as young as his wife could actually love an old codger like himself, but at least Celeste performed well between the sheets—Charles knew that was a woefully inaccurate phrase because Celeste often chose places for copulation that didn’t have any sheets at all, nor a bed for that matter.

Charles did find those times very interesting but he had to admit he wished he still had more of the stamina he used to. It seemed to Charles that one of his life’s cruelest ironies was, that when a man was at his most virile he very often found himself in the position of having no woman around to service, him in his times of need. Then when he got so old as to be less, shall we say, needy, he finds himself married to a sexual wildcat.

Oh, well, lamented Charles out loud to Goliath. I guess a man could have worse things to worry about.

Goliath snorted in response just before his head perked up and he looked across towards the doors of the arena.

Well, well, would you look at that, Charles spoke softly. The Sexual Wildcat herself.

The object of their attention, Celeste Goldman, had just entered the arena. She was striding towards where the big horse and Charles had just come to a halt. They had not stopped gracefully. Charles had not paid attention to his riding and stopped with the correct amount of pressure on the bit. They had just stopped.

Celeste wore faded jeans, Charles was certain they were brand new but made to look old and comfortable. He couldn’t imagine how they could be comfortable as tight as they were, but he wasn’t going to complain about the view. She also wore a western cut shirt with two of the snaps open at the top. It was very obvious to Charles that, except for the boots on her feet and the cute little hat on her head that would never pass as a real cowboy hat, she was wearing nothing else. Well, nothing else but the plain white cotton gloves she habitually wore around the ranch. Celeste didn’t like to get her hands dirty opening and closing the gates plus there was always the danger of breaking a nail, so she always wore gloves around the place.

He couldn’t complain about the view, even though he wasn’t sure if it was meant for his viewing pleasure or someone else’s. Celeste had never given him any reason to think she was cheating on him, maybe that was why the thought plagued his mind occasionally... like every other minute. Still, Charles had long ago decided he wasn’t going to concern himself about that either. He knew he couldn’t stop her if she was going to, so that made it something he couldn’t control and Charles had learned not to worry about stuff he couldn’t control.

When you get as old as me, he muttered to Goliath, You learn to enjoy life’s little pleasures wherever and whenever you can.

You talking to your horse again? asked Celeste as she stopped just below him with her hands on her hips.

Yep, Charles replied with a grin on his face as he peered down the front of her shirt. Goliath’s the only one around here I can have an intelligent conversation with and not get interrupted.

Celeste dug a toe in the dirt as she hooked a thumb underneath her shirt collar and pulled the material out a bit.

You like my outfit?

Yep. The clothes ain’t bad either.

Celeste swatted him gently on the leg then let her hand linger on his thigh.

You are such a cowboy! I don’t know if I’ll ever get you trained properly. The look on her face made Charles instantly wonder as to what kind of training she had in mind, but the moment passed, the spell was broken and her hand was removed from his leg. Though it was no longer touching him, Charles could still feel the heat of it on his own jeans as she asked him.

You seen Jerry? I’m looking for him. He was supposed to put those new vitamins in Blaze’s feed and I don’t want him to forget.

I doubt he’ll forget, but I think he’s still out on the back lot—Charles liked to use movie set terms on the ranch so he could feel like he was a modern day Cecil B. DeMille—getting ready to feed Cutter.

I don’t know why you waste feed on that old thing.

He’s not a thing and it’s not a waste. And, I’m the one who pays for the feed.

Don’t be so sensitive, I was just joking. One thing Celeste possessed was a keen sense of survival and she knew better than to push her husband too far.

How’d you like it if I quit feeding you when you get old? asked Charles.

I ain’t ever getting old, Lamb Chop, quipped Celeste, and you can take that to the bank.

Charles was never sure why she called him Lamb Chop. He wasn’t even sure if he liked it or not. But, it’s what came out of her mouth so