Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 01 - Gunfight at Grace Gulch by Darlene Franklin

version of it has transferred to humans. That’s what has everyone scared. So far it’s only been found in Great Britain and a few other places.”
    We reached the turnoff for Cord’s ranch. “Are you sure you want to do this? It could be dangerous.”
    “Cord, dangerous? Audie, I’ve known the man all my life.”
    “Looking into a murder is dangerous.” His blue eyes turned to ice.
    I could see Audie was less than thrilled by the idea, but I just had to talk to Cord face-to-face. “If someone doesn’t look for the truth, an innocent person will be accused. Like my sister.”
    Audie grimaced, but turned his Focus onto the gravel road. It was designed for pickups, not passenger cars. Wet gravel spit up under his tires and pinged the front windshield. I wondered what Cord would say about the rumors. He did some business with a British cooperative last year, but I was sure he’d had all the animals screened.
    A few feet up the road, we encountered the familiar sight of a solid G filling a circle atop a sturdy steel gate. We had reached the entrance to the Circle G Ranch.
    “Pretty fancy,” Audie said.
    “They earned it. The Circle G has been known for quality beef since early days.”
    “How much farther is the ranch house?” Audie asked after a quarter of a mile.
    “A few more turns in the road. The Graces bought up land when other families moved out during the Dust Bowl. It’s a big spread.” We passed a few horses near a feeding trough. They kept their noses down and seemed oblivious to the rain.
    “I don’t know a thing about ranching. Or horses. Or cows.” Audie looked at the mares. “I feel like a kid driving out in the country who points to every passing animal. ‘Look, Mom, horsey.’”
    “That’s okay,” I said. “There’s more to life than farm animals and crops. Like beauty and art.”
    “Perhaps.” Now we were passing cows huddled together in a pasture. “But this is so much more. . .I don’t know, elemental.”
    A figure on horseback approached the cows. Cord atop Smoky. He spotted the car and made hand motions, indicating that he would meet us at the ranch house. We rounded a final bend and came upon the sprawling building.
    Audie scanned the area that was so familiar to me. As well-known as my own home. Pioneer Bob Grace had built a sturdy house with an open veranda out of native stone; and generations had added to it since.
    Cord must have taken a shortcut, because he arrived right after we did. I saw him on the other side of the corral. Smoky’s haunches bunched, and he jumped the fence in front of us. Cord slid off the horse in one fluid motion. He motioned for Audie to roll down the window.
    “Go ahead in. It’s not locked,” he said. When he tipped his hat, rain poured from the spout of his waterproof brim. “I’ll take care of Smoky.”
    Show-off. Audie’s shoulders slumped, as if considering his own lack of ranch skills. Cord and I competed in junior rodeos as kids, and we both won our share of gleaming belt buckles. I had packed mine away with my childhood toys. Cord’s still lined the mantelpiece above his fireplace, along with his medals for marksmanship.
    Audie removed his jacket and handed it to me. “I can’t offer to carry you over the mud.” He grinned. “But you can hold my jacket over your head to protect that pretty hair and fancy hat.”
    Did Audie really think my dandelion hair was pretty, frizzed as it must be in this weather? We made a dash for it, rain plastering Audie’s pristine white shirt to his well-muscled chest. The few yards to Cord’s front porch felt like miles. I kicked off my shoes and left them on the porch, unwilling to track mud into his living room.
    We opened the door, and I flicked on the light by the door lintel. Since his mother’s death, Cord had remodeled the interior of his home into a hunting lodge. Mounted heads of half a dozen different animals roared from the walls. A large bear rug warmed the floor, and I knew—from