1
Cold Springs, Colorado. Last week.
BRANDED?
Delilah Bowing took one look at the Triple-B seared into her dear friend’s right cheek and retched in the camper’s kitchenette sink. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. All at once she was covered in goosebumps, but sweating in oppressive heat. She needed to look away. Scream for help. But her words refused to connect with her mouth. The bitter taste of bile rose from the back of her throat.
She inched backwards until the half-wall separating the dining table from the pull-out sofa provided enough support to hold her upright.
Reclining on the sofa, Lola—dear, sweet Lola who’d just last night won her first queen title and crushed a ten-year record by five-one hundredths of a second for the fastest barrel ride in their circuit, was dead. But looked posed as if she were a porcelain doll. She wore a turquoise leather pageant gown, Miss Starlight Rodeo sash, matching boots and crown for a hat band. Smoky eye shadow and red pouty lips made her appear ready for a hot date.
But Delilah had known Lola since the younger woman had competed on the junior circuit. Not only was she not wearing her own clothes, but she would never apply the heavy makeup or purple nail polish. She just wouldn’t. Pale pink was a statement for her.
Delilah’s gaze skipped to the brand on Lola’s cheek. At a glance, she might have thought it was a black tattoo, but Lola’s flesh was raised and charred—like grill-marks on a steak. A black fly settled onto the lowest B, sending Delilah back to the sink.
“Lola?” Following the masculine voice, a knock sounded on the thin outside wall. The camper shook when Lola’s boyfriend, Cal, mounted the pull-down stairs. “You in here, hon? I was thinking—oh hey, Del. Didn’t know my girl had company . . .” Upon seeing Lola, Cal froze. His jaw hardened and with fists clenched, a low growl of what Delilah took to be torment escaped him.
He charged Lola’s way, but Delilah shot out her arm to hold him back. “Don’t touch her. We have to call police.”
He broke down. “W-what kind of monster would do this?”
The fly had returned to Lola’s cheek. Buzzing and buzzing.
The confined space grew the sound into a jackhammer.
Cal roared, charging across the few feet with the power of one of the bulls he rode. “Get the hell off her!” He swatted the insect hard enough to smash the bug into the brand, at the same time breaking the scab, smearing rusty blood and puss on Lola’s cheek.
Retching again and again, Delilah escaped the camper, barely making it down the steps without falling and breaking her own neck.
From inside came unholy cries and howls and violent smashing of plates and splintering wood. Eventually, Cal’s anger gave way to anguished sobs.
“What’s going on?” Mark Peters, a calf roper on weekends and Colorado Springs attorney jogged over from his massive Lakota rig. “Those two have another fight?”
Delilah shook her head. Where did she begin?
Hunched over, she braced her hands on her thighs. Though she hadn’t been running, she couldn’t catch her breath.
“You okay?” He rubbed her back.
“Yes—no. Lola. She . . .” Delilah couldn’t bring herself to give voice to her mind’s eye terror. Five minutes earlier, it had been a lazy Sunday morning. Warm sun evaporated dew from the arena’s gravel lot’s too tall grass. A trio of wrens bickered over a spilled sack of chips. Somewhere in the sleepy town church bells rang.
“I got it.” Cal stumbled out of the camper. Red-faced, his gate teetered as if he’d had a few too many beers. “I got that fly. But there will be more. I need a swatter. Lola—” His voice cracked. “She needs protecting.”
Holding out her arms, Delilah went to him. “I’m so sorry . . .”
“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” Mark looked from them to Lola’s camper. “Is Lola okay?”
“There’s a fly.” Cal’s voice sounded flat. Void of his normally boisterous personality. “I have to protect . . .” Seconds later, the big, strong cowboy’s legs collapsed. He fell inwards, as if he were a folding table that had the legs kicked out from under it.
“Now, I know something’s not right,” Mark said. “Should I call police?”
She nodded. On the ground with Cal, hugging him, she said, “Please.”
“What should I tell them is wrong?”
Delilah sucked in a deep breath. “Lola . . . She’s been murdered.”
Look for the exciting conclusion to Renegade on June 20th
at your favorite online bookseller!