Return to Oak Valley (13 page)

In Josh's office—she'd not yet been able to think of it as hers—Shelly walked over to the desk. Flipping through the account books that lay scattered across the top of the desk, she said, “Something strange was going on—he put down receiving fifty thousand dollars for some land, but I can't discover
which
piece of land. But what's really disturbing is that Josh sold off most of the herd, and while he claimed the money on his tax returns, the sums he received for the individual cattle were exorbitant.”

Jeb frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Take a look at this.” Her finger ran down the column in the small black book that had been underneath the account books. “Three years ago there was deposit of a hundred thousand dollars in Josh's account when he supposedly sold off ten cows with calves at side to a Rangemore Corporation. In fact all of the sales are to this same Rangemore Corporation. Now I haven't paid attention to cattle prices, but ten thousand dollars per cow/calf pair seems really,
really
high to me. And look at this—six months later is a deposit for more than double that amount—almost three hundred thousand. In the Granger Cattle Company books he claims the money—he didn't try to hide it, but there's no way he could have gotten those kinds of prices for the number of cattle he sold. Here's another one early last year for about the same sum, and the month before he died there's another one—which was when he apparently sold off the remainder of the herd. Most of it disappeared as fast as it appeared—that account currently only has about five thousand dollars in it. What really disturbs me, though, is that about four years ago Josh started selling off the stocks in his trust fund. Before these other amounts started appearing, he'd depleted his trust fund and begun to raid mine.”

“Could he do that? Raid your trust fund?”

Shelly made a face. “Yes. I trusted him, remember? He had a power of attorney signed by me. I never questioned what he did. And probably never would have if he hadn't died and I had to go over the books. He could have always told me that we'd bought some bad stocks or whatever to explain the shrinking fund, and I would have believed him.”

Jeb studied the notations, shaking his head, as if something had finally fallen into place. “The timing of the depletion of his trust is about right. Lots of rumors were flying around the valley at the time about his losses at the casinos. And it's about the time he suddenly took up with Scott and Williams.” His finger following the questionable figures, he asked, “Is there anything left of the Granger Cattle Company herd?”

“He sold just about every head of cattle we own. The entire Granger Angus operation is down to one bull and four very old cows.” She made a face. “According to the books, five animals is it.”

Jeb looked shocked. Granger Angus were known all across the country. At one time, the Granger family had been the largest breeder of fine registered Angus on the West Coast. The family had been breeding cattle for generations and doing a damn good job of it. Granger stock was legendary for meat production and cow/calf pairs; the cows maturing early, calving easily, their bulls in demand all across the country, and their market steers finishing out lean and flavorful. He'd even bought several cows and a couple of bulls from Josh over the years to add to his own growing herd. It was hard to believe that Josh had decimated his own herd the way it appeared he had.

Jeb shook his head. “I'm sorry, Shelly. Your family had some excellent stock.”

“And we will again,” she said firmly. “The bull, Granger's Beau Ideal, is one of the best. He's old for a herd sire—pushing thirteen, but if I can get a couple of calf crops out of him, we'll do fine. Nick and I have discussed it—we're going into a partnership. Granger Angus will be small at first, and it'll be tough going, but we'll rebound. I'm a rancher's daughter, remember? And I come from a long line of cattle ranchers. Nick's got stock that goes back to Granger stock, and he's young, hardworking, and ambitious. I may have been gone for years, but don't forget, I grew up right in the middle of the cattle operation. I've forgotten a lot, it's true, but with some help and guidance, I can get this outfit going again. And I intend to.”

His brows rose. “Do you really think you can do it?”

She grinned at him. “You bet your sweet ass!”

He laughed. “And to think that after all these years, I had you figured for a prissy city gal.”

They smiled at each other, then almost as one, turned to look down at the account books. The light moment was gone.

His jaw set, Jeb said, “These entries don't prove anything. In fact, they could give a motive for suicide. It's clear he was in deep financial difficulties.”

Shelly nodded. “I've thought of that myself.”

“On the other hand…on the other hand, he was getting money from this Rangemore Corporation,” Jeb said slowly. “Which is probably a dummy corporation for Scott and Williams. And they wouldn't give out that kind of cash without getting something in return. It's possible Josh balked at some of their demands and they, er, took care of business.”

“You mean, murdered him,” Shelly stated flatly.

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

“But what would that have accomplished? I mean besides sending a signal to others or something. With Josh gone, control of the ranch and everything connected with it falls into my hands. And I'm sure as hell not going to play into their hands!”

“Chances are, knowing the Granger roots in the valley, they probably figured you wouldn't sell—at least not right away. The odds were in their favor that you'd stay nice and comfy in New Orleans and put the ranch in the hands of a manager—someone they could control or pay off. And if that had been the case, killing Josh was a smart business decision.”

Her face tense, Shelly wandered over to where a large topography map of the area hung on the wall. “A business decision,” she said tightly. “My brother might be dead because of a business decision?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Jeb said as he came to stand behind her.

Together they studied the map. “Lots of land out there,” Jeb said finally. “Lots of places to conceal some good-size marijuana gardens. And if Josh had been paid to look the other way and then changed his mind, or wanted a bigger piece of the pie…”

Shelly found it difficult to think that Josh had been murdered, and it was even more horrible to believe that he might have died so some pot growers could make a profit. Suicide had been hard to accept, but murder was almost impossible for her to connect with her brother. “Maybe it was a suicide,” she said at last.

Jeb nodded. “Probably.”

They sighed simultaneously and stared at the map as if the answer were somehow written on it. The valley itself lay in the center, the foothills and mountains rising up all around it. Some landmarks stood out; town, Town Creek, the abandoned Louisiana-Pacific Mill site; the high school, the airport and the sanitation pond, just beyond town. The Granger lands were all neatly outlined in blue ink, dotted with happy face stickers, the Ballinger lands were delineated in heavy black ink and skull-and-crossbones stickers pasted along the boundary lines—Josh's idea of a joke. A thick scarlet line ran through the north end of the Ballinger holdings, and, seeing it, Shelly smiled.

The Granger right-of-way. Grangers and Ballingers had been arguing over it since York Ballinger had first sighted the small valley through which it ran and had claimed it for his own. He had planned to dam the narrow end of the valley and create a hundred-acre-or-so lake, piping the lake water down to the valley floor to irrigate his fields of wheat, barley, and alfalfa. York had barely touted his plan before Jeb Granger, the original, had asserted a prior right to cross through the valley to reach some Granger land that adjoined the area. Jeb did have a document that attested to the fact that a right-of-way had been granted to him, but there had always been a question about
when
the document had been signed, before or after the sale to Ballinger. Through some misfortune that was never satisfactorily explained, the document had gotten wet and the date had conveniently smudged. The county records were equally and suspiciously unclear. The previous owner of the land, the town drunk, had averred that the deed of right-of-way had been given prior to the sale and was therefore valid. Of course that was when the Grangers were plying him with liquor. If the Ballingers were buying his drink of choice, his story changed dramatically, and he would happily admit that he'd signed the deed after he'd sold the land. It was a stalemate, neither side willing to go to court on the word of a drunk to settle it once and for all. The right-of-way remained a bone of contention.

“It's our poke in the eye,” Josh used to say, “at the Ballingers. Can't let them have everything their way. They need to be reminded that they're not Lords of the Valley and that the Grangers were here first. They might be richer than we are, but we have more land than they do—and a right-of way smack-dab in the middle of their land.”

Shelly hadn't thought much about the right-of-way. It was seldom used anymore, although Josh had made certain that at least once a year they drove a small herd of cattle across it. “Just to keep my hand in,” he'd said when she questioned him about it. “It's our duty to carry on the family traditions. Can't have old Jeb Granger turning in his grave.” The twinkle in his eyes at variance with his solemn tone, he'd added, “Our family honor is at stake. The right-of-way must stay. All else is folly.” She'd giggled, and the subject was dropped.

His eye on the Granger holdings outlined on the map, Jeb said, “One thing's for sure; if you're going to run cattle, you've got enough land for it. You've got a lot of timber and rough ground, but there's also some fine grazing land mixed in with it all.” He traced a couple of areas with his finger. “Lots of prime grazing land.”

Shelly nodded. “And it's been a long time since I've ridden over it.” She smiled. “The weather is supposed to clear. I think I'll call Acey in the morning and see if he wants to give me a tour—reacquaint me with the area.” She smiled. “Think I'll even keep up the family tradition and check out the Granger right-of-way.”

“Uh, you sure you want to do that?” When she glanced at him questioningly, he looked uncomfortable, and muttered, “Well, uh, I mean, it's been a while since you've been rid-ing—you might find it tough going. Steep country out there.”

“Don't worry about me, I'll be fine—I rode some in New Orleans, so it's not as if I haven't been on a horse in years. There are just a few places I want to check out.” She grinned. “Acey won't let me get lost.”

Jeb left shortly after that, loaded down with plastic containers filled with leftovers. The rain had stopped, and Shelly had walked out to the car with him. Jeb slid into the dually one-ton red truck and turned on the ignition. Above the muted roar of the engine he said, “Go on, get back in the house. And thanks. The food and the company were great. Next time dinner is on me. The Steak House outside of Ukiah.”

He watched until she was inside, and then, with a toot of his horn, swung the big truck around and headed down the road. The rain had been just enough to make the road slick and he concentrated on his driving until he reached the valley floor, then he hit the gas. His own place was on the other side of the valley, and it was only a few minutes later before he had parked the truck and was bounding up the steps to his house.

Jeb walked straight to the phone hanging on his kitchen wall. Though the hour was approaching eleven he was pretty sure Sloan would still be awake. He punched in the familiar numbers, and when Sloan answered, he said, “I just had an interesting conversation with Shelly. She's planning on riding out to inspect the Granger right-of-way tomorrow.”

“Shit,” said Sloan.

“Yeah. My sentiments exactly.”

As had been predicted, the rain had moved on, and the day was dry, if chilly. Acey had agreed to accompany Shelly on her ride and had supervised as she had tacked up her horse. It wasn't really
her
horse; it was a horse, a quarter horse bay gelding, one of three or four that Josh kept in the small stables behind the house. Acey had picked out the gelding, saying, “I know you rode in New Orleans some, but you ain't rode regular, and I don't intend to be lugging you back here with a broken leg or some such nonsense because you got bucked off. Lucky is quiet and steady, and he don't get all spooked and snorty by a swaying branch or a covey of quail flying in front of him.”

Shelly hadn't argued. She hadn't ridden
that
often in New Orleans, although she had been an intrepid rider in her youth. Like many in the valley, she'd practically grown up on a horse.

Despite the slight overcast and the coolness of the day, it felt good to be outside. Garbed in an old pair of Levi's, well-worn boots, her hair tucked under a faded baseball cap blazoned with the logo of the New Orleans Saints, and a jean jacket, she didn't look much different than she had seventeen years ago. Only the logo on the hat was different.

The Granger holdings were scattered throughout the foothills, with several tracts of land separate from the main holdings overlooking the valley. Since the area she wanted to ride across was some miles from the house, they trailered the horses for the first part of the journey, climbing up off the valley floor and into the mountains.

Forty-five minutes later, Acey's truck and the stock trailer they had hauled the horses in were parked off the side of the Tilda Road. Ten minutes after that, the horses were unloaded and they had mounted up and were heading into the brush and forestland. Acey's cow dogs ambled out in front of them.

Dragging in a lungful of the cool, pungent air, Shelly savored the scent of fir, pine, and the musty smell of the oak and madrone trees. She was happy, she realized with a start. Really happy. Perhaps for the first time in years. Her horse, Lucky, was a steady mount, and she could relax and enjoy the scenery, drinking it all in like a dying man finding a pocket of springwater in the desert. Again it dawned on her how much she had missed the valley. Missed the mountains and foothills.

Riding along through the open forestland, it was a thrill to listen to the scolding of the blue jays, to spy overhead a gray squirrel leaping from branch to branch. Yellow and white trout lilies and bright pink shooting stars, pale blue cat's ears nodded their delicate heads as the horse's hooves brushed against them as they rode through small meadows and vales before entering the forests once more. They splashed through narrow, crooked creeks that burbled and sang over the rocks, the water clear and cold.