Stockton County Cowboys Book 4: Branding Cowboys

Chapter 7: Wolf Ridge Ranch

Chapter 7: Wolf Ridge Ranch

I returned to Wolf Ridge Ranch following my dinner date with Cissy and the twins. Exhaustion came over me, but I wasn’t about to slip into sheets and a bed upon entering my three-bedroom abode. Work called for me, which I knew would keep me up half the night. A strong coffee was needed—not a whiskey on the rocks, a light ale, or a gin and tonic, although the desire for each had never left my mind or taste buds—and a few piano concertos, which were both medicinal for me to accomplish the task I had at hand.

Wolf Ridge Ranch consisted of seven hundred and twenty acres of flat land, no cattle, an empty barn, a one hundred and thirty-foot high silo, and numerous mockingbirds that I sometimes called pets. A narrow brook ran along the west side of the property, which dried up by the end of August. The ranch-style house was a little over two thousand square feet and was huge for one person. Its rooms were large, decorated by Glenn Fitzpatrick, a well-known and straight professional in his line of business. There was very little fluff and pretty to the place, which is exactly what I wanted. The house was rugged with an assortment of dark hues, lots of steel and wood, and cement countertops and dressers.

Again, I wanted something strong to drink. When hadn’t I needed a drink to curb my addiction? I realized how challenged my mother was because of alcoholism. Whiskey and vodka had controlled her life. Gin was like a dessert to her. Beer was breakfast.

Coffee to me was weak and a waste, undesirable. Instead, club soda over ice and a splash of lime juice proved to tamp my desire for the time being. The concoction tasted very much like a cocktail, minus the alcohol, and pleased me, but not to the fullest. I fetched such a drink from the kitchen, became satisfied with my results, and found my way into the office on the first floor, beyond the dining room area, which was never used for entertaining guests or throwing parties.

The office was a blur of browns, blacks, mahogany wood, and etched in some refurbished aluminum. It reeked of male beauty, and I was comfortable there. The room had an obnoxious-size desk shaped like a yield sign and a plush leather chair the color of a bruised summertime twilight. I sat down at the desk with my faux drink, removed a cowhide notebook from one of the drawers, opened it, and stared at the page of notes in front of me, drifting and unable to concentrate.

Katherine, my mother, flooded my mind. I had missed the woman on a daily basis, just as I had enjoyed my days of heavy drinking. An image of her youthful face passed behind my eyes. The female image proved to be my mother because of her blond hair and blue eyes. She was thin, smiling, and pleasant to be around. Any good son would have missed her, just as I had.

“Help me with this case, Mother,” I said down to the first page of hand-scrawled notes. “I can’t do this on my own.” A sigh escaped me, proving my frustration, and the visage of her behind my eyes left my mind. Then I said, “Get busy, Joe. The murder isn’t going to solve itself.”