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provide sketchy information about Barela. Kerney had a name, a post office box number, what Barela paid for his lease, and the location of the ranch, all which could easily be out of date.
    He stopped at the horse barn, where several trucks were parked. A hand-crafted sign above the doors read HORSE CANYON RANCH . He could hear the sounds of menand animals inside the barn. He called out and a middle-aged Anglo man, thick through the chest, wearing a stained felt cowboy hat, a plaid snap button shirt, jeans, and a pair of work boots caked with manure and straw, walked out to greet him.
    Kerney introduced himself by name only. “Is the foreman here?”
    â€œI’m the ranch manager,” the man said, pulling off his work glove to shake Kerney’s hand. “Emmet Griffin.” His voice carried a trace of a brush-country Texas accent as he rolled his words together. “What can I do for you?”
    â€œI’m looking for Nestor Barela,” Kerney answered.
    â€œBarela sold out three years ago and moved to town,” Griffin said.
    â€œI understand he leases the Fergurson land.”
    Kerney’s statement raised Griffin’s interest. “He does, but he doesn’t really use it. He puts a few cows on it each spring, fattens them up, and slaughters them for his freezer. It keeps Fergurson’s taxes down and fills Barela’s stomach.”
    â€œThat’s a pretty expensive way to fill a freezer.”
    Griffin laughed, showing his teeth below his mustache. “It sure the hell is.”
    â€œDo you think Barela would be willing to consider a sublease?”
    Griffin shook his head. “I’ve tried that. He won’t sublease it, and the Fergurson woman won’t sell. My boss would love to buy that property as a buffer. A lot of the big spreads east of here are being carved up and sold in five- to twenty-acre tracts. She doesn’t want that kind of development along her boundary. She likes her privacy.”
    â€œIs your boss here?”
    â€œNope. She should be back in a day or two.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?”
    â€œAlicia Bingham.”
    â€œWhat breed of horses is she training?”
    â€œWe breed and train. Dutch Warmblood and English Anglo-Arab, for dressage and show jumping. We sell to an international market. Our buyers are mostly top-flight competitors.”
    â€œDo you know how I can contact Barela?”
    â€œNot really. One of his sons and a grandson go up to the mesa now and then to check on their lease holding. But I don’t know where they live, exactly. I heard the old man moved his whole family onto one piece of land.”
    â€œThanks for your time.”
    â€œHell, I’d rather talk to you than muck out stalls. Good luck with old Nestor Barela. You’ll need it.”
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    Back at the cabin, Soldier and Pancho were saddled and ready to go, and Shoe was caged inside the horse trailer working on a steak bone. He wagged his tail when Kerney called his name.
    Dale had pulled the wood off the cabin door and was nowhere to be seen. Kerney found him inside, knee-deep in rotting hay. Thick cobwebs hung down from the log rafters, which had been nailed and tied with bailing wire to the bond beam that ran along the top course of the stone walls. The tin roof was rusted through in spots, and one of the logs that spanned the ceiling had decayed and broken apart.
    â€œYou might as well knock this damn thing down andstart over from scratch,” Dale said. “You’ve got vermin droppings and black widow nests everywhere.”
    He held out a yellowed, chewed-up piece of stationery.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œPart of a love letter from Erma Fergurson.”
    â€œTo whom?”
    â€œCan’t tell.”
    Kerney studied the faded handwritten letter. It spoke of a starry night on the mesa, not liking the idea of sleeping alone, and bodies entwined. It carried