Hell, they were only bones. He’d been called upon to identify bones before. But veterinarian
Gil Tailor was skittish as a gopher in a badger hole. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t practiced his profession in more than two years. Maybe it was the irritating manner in which Deputy Jarmillo had asked him to view the bones during their earlier phone conversation. Could it be premonition? Nah, he’d never been a big believer in that paranormal bullshit.
Dr. Gillette Tailor drove the Spanish Peaks Veterinary Clinic truck up to the secured entrance to Rough Mountain Ranches. He was early. The huge wrought iron gates were closed and could only be opened by someone who knew the code. So he parked to the side to wait for Huerfano County Deputy Sheriff Jarmillo. It was the deputy who had called about the bones.
Gil was surprised to see his knuckles were white from holding the steering wheel so tight. He needed to relax. To pass the time and calm himself, he read the advertising signs bordering the highway in front of Rough Mountain Ranches. Own Your Own Colorado Ranch. 40-160 Acre Ranches.
Gil snorted. “Ranches my ass. Forty acres wouldn’t sustain even one animal in this country.”
But grousing didn’t relieve his tension. Nervous perspiration ran down his back, causing his shirt to stick. The hot summer sun blazed through the window churning the odors of naugahyde, hay, manure, medicine and sweat into a sour amalgam. He opened his window and tried to focus elsewhere – his new opportunity as a relief veterinarian for Dr. Bramlett, getting his life back together, distancing himself from the death of his wife; but he couldn’t keep his mind from returning to what was beyond that gate.
