exam proceeded, it was clear that Zach knew his role. He moved from one side of Hobo to the other, keeping out of the vet’s way as he checked the dog’s heart, lungs, eyes, abdomen and every available orifice. It was like watching a well-rehearsed dance team.
Ten minutes later Hobo was given a clean bill of health. Then Zach plucked him up and deposited him back on the floor much like the hook that grabs a stuffed animal and sends it down the chute to a waiting child.
“Okay, boy, you’re good to go.” Holbrook gave him a quick scratch around the ears. “I don’t have to see him again until spring,” he said, handing Rory a form to take to the front desk.
Seventy-five dollars later, she opened the car door and Hobo leaped inside, as joyful as any child to be leaving the doctor’s office.
Driving home, Rory couldn’t stop thinking about the list under Hobo’s folder and what it might represent. She came up with a host of benign possibilities, none of which explained why Holbrook didn’t want her to see it.
1878
The Arizona Territory
M arshal Ezekiel Drummond was up before the sun. He’d spent an uncomfortable night bedded down near the stall in which his horse was stabled. The only thing between his body and the hard-packed earth was the small pile of hay he’d gathered from the corners of the smithy. He was not unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground, but although he ached with fatigue, his thoughts refused to be stilled. Trask was out there somewhere, putting more miles between them with every passing minute.
Since he’d paid the blacksmith in advance, there was no need for Drummond to wait until the man arose to start his workday. After seeing to oats and water for his horse, he saddled the chestnut and led him outside. The horse moved with a spring to his step and a brightness to his eye that bespoke his gratitude for the sorely needed rest.
To the east the sky was pinking up, the sun peeking over the lip of the horizon like an impatient child waiting to be discovered in a game of hide-and-seek. Drummond swung into the saddle wondering where a man might find some breakfast in this town. Although his saddlebags were packed with hardtack and pemmican, along with some peaches and tomatoes in airtights, such provisions would best be saved for times when there was no other source of food.
As the chestnut picked his way down the dark, rutted street, Goose Flats’ residents began to stir. Two men came out of the saloon and crossed the street to a building at the other end of town. From his position, Drummond couldn’t quite make out the sign over the door, but an establishment open for business this early in the day was most likely to be a restaurant or what passed for one in these parts. He headed that way, and before he’d dismounted, he was joined by several other men who’d come by horse from the direction of the prospectors’ camp and the Tombstone mine. The men gave him a nod of the head, ample greeting for a stranger in a mining town where the population changed by the hour. Drummond dipped his head in return.
As he tethered the chestnut to the hitching post, he looked up at the sign, the unexpected words bringing a smile to his lips. “Big Bertha’s Buns” was a ramshackle structure with walls that seemed to be leaning into one another for support. Inside, an enthusiastic fire crackling in the hearth managed to impart a homey feel to the room. Half the tables were already filled with men forking eggs, ham and pancakes into their mouths.
The only female Drummond saw in the restaurant had to be Big Bertha herself. She was dressed in a homespun skirt that resembled a gunnysack and a blouse grayed from dozens of washings and embellished with a palette of food stains. Her brown hair was pulled back into a knot from which a thin curtain of wispy ends had pulled free to frame her full, rosy cheeks. Beads of perspiration danced across her forehead and skipped down her temples as she squeezed
Ten minutes later Hobo was given a clean bill of health. Then Zach plucked him up and deposited him back on the floor much like the hook that grabs a stuffed animal and sends it down the chute to a waiting child.
“Okay, boy, you’re good to go.” Holbrook gave him a quick scratch around the ears. “I don’t have to see him again until spring,” he said, handing Rory a form to take to the front desk.
Seventy-five dollars later, she opened the car door and Hobo leaped inside, as joyful as any child to be leaving the doctor’s office.
Driving home, Rory couldn’t stop thinking about the list under Hobo’s folder and what it might represent. She came up with a host of benign possibilities, none of which explained why Holbrook didn’t want her to see it.
1878
The Arizona Territory
M arshal Ezekiel Drummond was up before the sun. He’d spent an uncomfortable night bedded down near the stall in which his horse was stabled. The only thing between his body and the hard-packed earth was the small pile of hay he’d gathered from the corners of the smithy. He was not unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground, but although he ached with fatigue, his thoughts refused to be stilled. Trask was out there somewhere, putting more miles between them with every passing minute.
Since he’d paid the blacksmith in advance, there was no need for Drummond to wait until the man arose to start his workday. After seeing to oats and water for his horse, he saddled the chestnut and led him outside. The horse moved with a spring to his step and a brightness to his eye that bespoke his gratitude for the sorely needed rest.
To the east the sky was pinking up, the sun peeking over the lip of the horizon like an impatient child waiting to be discovered in a game of hide-and-seek. Drummond swung into the saddle wondering where a man might find some breakfast in this town. Although his saddlebags were packed with hardtack and pemmican, along with some peaches and tomatoes in airtights, such provisions would best be saved for times when there was no other source of food.
As the chestnut picked his way down the dark, rutted street, Goose Flats’ residents began to stir. Two men came out of the saloon and crossed the street to a building at the other end of town. From his position, Drummond couldn’t quite make out the sign over the door, but an establishment open for business this early in the day was most likely to be a restaurant or what passed for one in these parts. He headed that way, and before he’d dismounted, he was joined by several other men who’d come by horse from the direction of the prospectors’ camp and the Tombstone mine. The men gave him a nod of the head, ample greeting for a stranger in a mining town where the population changed by the hour. Drummond dipped his head in return.
As he tethered the chestnut to the hitching post, he looked up at the sign, the unexpected words bringing a smile to his lips. “Big Bertha’s Buns” was a ramshackle structure with walls that seemed to be leaning into one another for support. Inside, an enthusiastic fire crackling in the hearth managed to impart a homey feel to the room. Half the tables were already filled with men forking eggs, ham and pancakes into their mouths.
The only female Drummond saw in the restaurant had to be Big Bertha herself. She was dressed in a homespun skirt that resembled a gunnysack and a blouse grayed from dozens of washings and embellished with a palette of food stains. Her brown hair was pulled back into a knot from which a thin curtain of wispy ends had pulled free to frame her full, rosy cheeks. Beads of perspiration danced across her forehead and skipped down her temples as she squeezed
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