and Alan shook it. “This saddle. Tell me about it.”
Alan rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger. “I got it in last week. I’m told it’s by Harris, a fancy saddlemaker out of Carolina.”
“It is.”
Alan’s eyebrows rose. “You know your saddles.”
“You could say that.”
“So anyway, again, from what I’m told, the seat is made of ostrich hide and the accents are sterling silver and turquoise. New, a saddle like this goes for about thirteen thousand on their website.”
“That’s only a little more than my wife paid for it.”
In the months I‘d known Jack, he had never once mentioned that he had previously been married, that he had a wife and two children until a car bomb meant for him took their lives in Alamogordo, New Mexico. I only knew about them from other people. Hearing him mention his wife now froze the blood in my veins. This was big.
Alan squinted at Jack. “What?”
“When she had it made for me, as a wedding present.”
“You’re telling me this used to be yours? What are the odds?” He grinned.
“No, I’m telling you it’s still mine. It was stolen two weeks ago.”
Chapter Seven
I’ve always found it difficult to tell when the blood drains from a black person’s face. It’s not like they go pale. I lose all color; literally, I look like bleached flour. Alan looked ill now.
“Seriously?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so. But don’t take my word for it.” Jack pointed at the saddle. “Underneath the left stirrup, way up high, you’ll find my initials, JPH, and a date. June 7, 1996. Then hers: LTH.”
LTH. Lena Talbert Holden. I knew this because I had resorted to Google to fill in the blanks about Jack’s past.
Alan lifted the stirrup, turning it for us to see as well. JPH 6-7-96 LTH. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me about the person who brought it in.”
Alan’s eyes closed. “Oh man.” He walked to the shop door and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED.
I whispered to Jack, “I didn’t know there’d been a robbery at the ranch.”
“Greg and Farrah interrupted us.”
My brain whirled trying to understand what he meant. Jack was often unclear to the point of obtuse. I hadn’t been able to decide if it was his greatest skill or greatest curse. Greg and Farrah had come up to the Jeep when I crashed it into the concrete, but they hadn’t interrupted anything. Then I realized he meant that the issue with Greg and Farrah had interrupted our conversation at dinner the night before, when he’d told me we needed to talk. Probably. That, or he was speaking in tongues.
Alan’s voice and shoulders sagged. “We need to talk.” He trudged back from the front door to us, instantly twenty years older. “Follow me.”
He took us behind the U -shaped display counter of guns, jewelry, and coins and on through a heavy closed door in the center of the back wall. Alan flipped on light switches as we walked down a short hall. There were three doors at the end of it. One stood open, to a bathroom on the left. Another closed door on the same side had a plaque that read OFFICE. The last one, on the right, was closed as well. Alan opened the door on the right, again switching on a light. We entered a room filled with cardboard boxes, office supplies, and merchandise.
Alan stopped but didn’t turn around. “I keep most everything sellable out front, but if things aren’t moving, or if a customer puts something on layaway, I put ’em here. Also, stuff I haven’t gotten around to pricing and preparing for display is back here, and a few other things. Things that don’t feel right, sometimes.”
He crouched down and reached for a box under a table and dragged it out. He opened the flaps. Inside was a cigar box.
He lifted it out and flipped the lid, handing it to Jack. “Does any of this look familiar?”
Jack sucked in a breath. He lifted a currycomb from the box, sterling silver with inset turquoise and something engraved on it. I peered over
Alan rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger. “I got it in last week. I’m told it’s by Harris, a fancy saddlemaker out of Carolina.”
“It is.”
Alan’s eyebrows rose. “You know your saddles.”
“You could say that.”
“So anyway, again, from what I’m told, the seat is made of ostrich hide and the accents are sterling silver and turquoise. New, a saddle like this goes for about thirteen thousand on their website.”
“That’s only a little more than my wife paid for it.”
In the months I‘d known Jack, he had never once mentioned that he had previously been married, that he had a wife and two children until a car bomb meant for him took their lives in Alamogordo, New Mexico. I only knew about them from other people. Hearing him mention his wife now froze the blood in my veins. This was big.
Alan squinted at Jack. “What?”
“When she had it made for me, as a wedding present.”
“You’re telling me this used to be yours? What are the odds?” He grinned.
“No, I’m telling you it’s still mine. It was stolen two weeks ago.”
Chapter Seven
I’ve always found it difficult to tell when the blood drains from a black person’s face. It’s not like they go pale. I lose all color; literally, I look like bleached flour. Alan looked ill now.
“Seriously?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so. But don’t take my word for it.” Jack pointed at the saddle. “Underneath the left stirrup, way up high, you’ll find my initials, JPH, and a date. June 7, 1996. Then hers: LTH.”
LTH. Lena Talbert Holden. I knew this because I had resorted to Google to fill in the blanks about Jack’s past.
Alan lifted the stirrup, turning it for us to see as well. JPH 6-7-96 LTH. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me about the person who brought it in.”
Alan’s eyes closed. “Oh man.” He walked to the shop door and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED.
I whispered to Jack, “I didn’t know there’d been a robbery at the ranch.”
“Greg and Farrah interrupted us.”
My brain whirled trying to understand what he meant. Jack was often unclear to the point of obtuse. I hadn’t been able to decide if it was his greatest skill or greatest curse. Greg and Farrah had come up to the Jeep when I crashed it into the concrete, but they hadn’t interrupted anything. Then I realized he meant that the issue with Greg and Farrah had interrupted our conversation at dinner the night before, when he’d told me we needed to talk. Probably. That, or he was speaking in tongues.
Alan’s voice and shoulders sagged. “We need to talk.” He trudged back from the front door to us, instantly twenty years older. “Follow me.”
He took us behind the U -shaped display counter of guns, jewelry, and coins and on through a heavy closed door in the center of the back wall. Alan flipped on light switches as we walked down a short hall. There were three doors at the end of it. One stood open, to a bathroom on the left. Another closed door on the same side had a plaque that read OFFICE. The last one, on the right, was closed as well. Alan opened the door on the right, again switching on a light. We entered a room filled with cardboard boxes, office supplies, and merchandise.
Alan stopped but didn’t turn around. “I keep most everything sellable out front, but if things aren’t moving, or if a customer puts something on layaway, I put ’em here. Also, stuff I haven’t gotten around to pricing and preparing for display is back here, and a few other things. Things that don’t feel right, sometimes.”
He crouched down and reached for a box under a table and dragged it out. He opened the flaps. Inside was a cigar box.
He lifted it out and flipped the lid, handing it to Jack. “Does any of this look familiar?”
Jack sucked in a breath. He lifted a currycomb from the box, sterling silver with inset turquoise and something engraved on it. I peered over
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