A Relentless Ride for Blood (Preview)

Prologue

A ranch has unmistakable sounds that bring a farmer peace of mind and comfort. The lowing of the cattle, the whistling of a farmer working on the back acres, an owl hooting in the barn’s rafters, or the whirring sound of the tall wooden windmill keeping its sentinel watch over the farm.

A field mouse scurried with a kernel of corn between his lips, bravely stolen from the hog’s trough. In the distance, in the wheat field, a fox hid underneath the swaying wheat, preening his whiskers, trying to lick away the bright yellow yolk of the egg he had pilfered from the chicken’s nest.

A woman stood under the clothesline directly beneath the windmill. She brushed her grey hair away from her eyes with one leathered hand. She stooped over, plucked another clean diaper from the straw laundry basket, and hung the diaper on the line next to the other diapers, using the wooden clothespin, which she held tightly between her teeth. A long line of bright white diapers stretched from one wooden T-pole to the other. The diapers flapped madly in the hot breeze of that Oklahoman summer. The diapers would dry in no time. The woman smiled as she periodically glanced at the baby cooing in an old wicker basket nearby. She squinted up at the sky. Scattered grey and black clouds were beginning to gather. As the wind picked up, the diapers flapped more wildly, whipping the diapers into a dance of flapping and twisting, like the diapers were white flags of surrender.

The windmill’s blades turned more swiftly, churned by the increasing wind. Its whirring became louder and louder, making the steel blades spin round faster and faster. The creaking and speed frightened the roosting pigeons lined along the wooden crisscrossed legs that held the windmill steady. The birds took flight from their perches and flew over the woman and baby.

The woman shook her wrinkled fist at the birds, “Now don’t you go pooping on my fresh clean nappies, you dang pigeons!”

The birds ignored the woman, of course. They saw her outside every single day, and every single day, she yelled the same curses at them.  Several, once fresh clean nappies, were once again soiled by the flying pigeons.

It was inevitable that it would happen. Some things in life were just like that …

Inevitable.

Eighteen years later, when the old windmill had stopped turning, Leroy Fairfield had put a well in on the back wheat acres. The old windmill was basically obsolete after that. The farmer had known there was probably water out there in the back acres, below the surface, but the old windmill had pumped enough water for the small family of three for eighteen years. Leroy had read where the big city was thinking about laying pipes to bring water out to the ranches one day soon. He had already put the new well in, which was good enough for him. There was plenty of water for the crops. Of course, Timmy would decide city pipes or not, some day when the boy took over the farm business, but for now, Leroy had made up his mind that those revenuers were not going to squeeze one extra cent out of him to pay for the city laying water pipes.

Today Timmy was turning eighteen. Leroy had circled the date on his calendar hanging in the barn. He circled the day in red. Yep, this was one of those so-called red letter days, but not necessarily in a good way. Today, he and his wife, Emma, had a morbid job to do. Not morbid in the sense of burying someone, but his heart felt just as heavy as if it were. He and Emma knew that this day would come, of course. They knew it, but the truth never quite sunk in as a reality. But today was that dreaded day.

Leroy felt his rough stubbled face. He hadn’t shaved that morning. He always shaved in the morning at the wash trays out on the porch. Emma had hung a mirror right at the correct height for him to shave there, and he always did. But today, he didn’t shave. At 4 a.m., he had just gone into the barn to milk the cows without even washing his face with cold water.  He ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. The rough stubble scratched his fingers. Emma had reminded him that today was Timmy’s birthday as if he needed reminding. He should shave before supper, at least.

Why could he still envision that little toddler running behind him to the barn to milk the cows, yes, even at four in the morning?  The little fellow would latch on to his hand and be skipping along, trying to keep up with Papa’s strides.  Papa. Yep, that’s what the little tyke called him as soon as he could say the word. Leroy wiped a wandering tear that zigzagged down his cheek. How is it that little Timmy is eighteen years old?

Much had happened in those eighteen years. Three dogs had died. One cat. Timmy had cried about all of them. The first dog’s passing was the worst. Nothing comforted that little boy. Mama had to put him to bed with his special blanket, which had already been on the shelf, put away and not needed, for three years, but when that first dog died, that little boy needed that comfort blanket! Mama had taken it off the shelf and wrapped him in it. The crying had finally stopped.

Leroy wondered if Mama had put the blanket back on the shelf. After he pitched some hay, he would ask Emma if she had stored it again or if it was still on the boy’s bed. The boy was hardly a boy any longer. Today he was eighteen, a man. Leroy reached into his breast pocket and took out an RJ Reynolds flat plug. He stuffed the chew in his mouth between his teeth and gums. Removing his heavy heart would take more than his sweet chewing tobacco to give him comfort today.

Today might change everything.  He didn’t know if he could bear that.

Leroy’s boots crunched on the gravel as he made his way from the barn to the house. He kept his eyes down, sure there were rain clouds overhead, or there should be on a day like today. He could smell the damp dirt scent in the air.  When he reached the porch, his hand pulled the screen door handle. He had done it a million times in the last eighteen years, but the handle never felt so cold and rough around his fingers. The door swung open with its usual loud squawk. He always said the same thing, “I need to get my oil can for that squeak.” But he didn’t say it today.

Today Leroy Fairfield didn’t even hear the squeak …

Mama had set the dining table with the special chocolate birthday cake, laden with eighteen white candles, as the table’s center piece. She had put the white china with the raised roses on the corner of the table for the supper buffet. She had laid her mother’s silver cake server at the ready for when dessert-time came ’round to serve the birthday cake. She had thought about putting Timmy’s baby book on the other corner of the table. One of their family traditions was to look at his baby drawings on his birthday every year, but today, she only sighed. Perhaps they should look at his scribbling art before they cut the cake.

She sighed again, wondering aloud, “How did this day arrive so quickly?”

Chapter One

Tim made one more pass with the horse and plow, down the row and up the other. The whites of his eyes had turned a shade of pink, irritated by the dust, and his lips had a thick line of light brown dust around them. He grabbed his canteen tied around his waist and took a swig of the luke-warm water, after dusting off the spout with his sleeve.  The horse twitched his tail and shook its massive body, making the leather creak with his shaking movement. The horse was waiting impatiently for Tim to finish, knowing he had a nice rub down and a meal waiting in the barn. Tim removed his straw hat and wiped the sweat off his brow, causing the dirt to change to mud mixed with his perspiration, smearing the brown sludge in an arc across his cheek.  He rested his arms on the John Deere cast-steel plow handles. Gazing across the field, which he had spent the entire day plowing, he could see all the way to the edge of the field, where the next wheat crop was growing. He nodded to himself; his plowed rows appeared fairly straight. A good day’s work, if he thought so himself! Papa would be happy; he was sure of that!

A sudden flash of light caught his eye across the plowed field—the spark of light appearing inside the wheat field’s brown stalks. He put his hand above his eyes, straining to see what it could be. He waited. The light did not flash again. Just as well, he needed to hurry up and finish.  He still had to tend to the horse. Mama would have his birthday dinner and cake all set out, just like she did every year. He smiled to himself. Eighteen didn’t feel any different than seventeen. He slapped his leg to get himself moving. He would walk to the end of the row, unhitch the plow, and lead the horse into the barn.

As he led the horse to the barn, he thought again about the flash of light he had seen in the wheat field. If it weren’t so late, he would go back and check it out, but he didn’t want Mama to have to wait on supper. One thing she demanded of Papa and him was being on time for supper. She would be especially particular about this supper. He grinned. He knew exactly what she would have for his birthday dinner—his favorite fried chicken, mashed potatoes, okra, and applesauce. He liked the sweet predictability in his life. Enough stuff was going on that he couldn’t predict, but fried chicken on his birthday, well, that was Iron Clad! He began to whistle “Old Swanee River” as he entered the barn.

The horse leaned into the brush, feeling the stiff bristles run across his back repeatedly and down his legs.  Tim spoke to him softly, “I know fella, it has been a long day for us both. You rest and eat, and God-willing, we will start up bright and early tomorrow again.” He gently slapped the horse’s behind and closed the stall.

He sniffed the air. What was that smell? Tobacco? He turned to see someone’s shadow in the barn door entrance. “Papa?” He squinted, trying to make out the silhouette, but the shoulders were too broad for Papa. Within seconds the shadow was gone. He ran to the doors. “Hey, where’d you go? Hey you!”

“Who you hollering for, Timmy?” Katie Upton grinned at her childhood friend. “Were you looking for me?”

“Can’t say I was, but I sure am happy to see you! Hey, Katie! You came for my birthday dinner.” He hugged her. “Did Douglas come with you?” He searched behind her, expecting to see her brother.

She shook her head. “My brother said he’s too big for birthday parties.” She laughed, “But I say you are never too old for a birthday party, especially one that promises fried chicken.” She had been coming to Tim’s birthday parties since she was six years old; his birthday was always the same: Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, fried okra, apple sauce, and chocolate birthday cake.

Tim continued to look around the yard. “No one came with you?”

“No, I rode Jasmine over.” She pointed to the old mare tied on the post near the farmhouse back door. “What’s wrong?”

“I just thought I saw, uh, nothin’. Let’s just go have some birthday supper!” He stretched his stare to the corrals at the end of the lane.

“You seem uneasy, Tim.”

“Someone was here, right before you came. Stood right here in the barn door frame. I couldn’t see him very clearly because of the sun going down; he looked like a shadow actually, and …” He paused. “I thought he could have been Papa, but the guy was quite a bit bigger than Papa. Broad shoulders.”

“Maybe he went in the house?”

Tim slid his arm casually around her waist.  He could smell the clean scent of lemon oil dabbed purposely behind her ears. He wanted just to roll her into his arms and tell her that she smelled like a walk in the lemon orchard in the spring, but instead, he told her, “Yeah, come on, let’s get some of that chicken!”

Papa and Mama were standing in the middle of the kitchen. Papa looked at his wife and then back at his grandson. “Uh, son, we have something we want to tell you. It’s a bit serious, so do you wanna eat first or sit on the davenport and hear it all first?”

Katie took a slight step backwards and loosed Tim’s arm from around her waist. “Is this family business? I could step outside if you like.” Her cheeks had turned a slight pink.

Mama shook her head. “No, in the end, it will concern you, too. I suppose you should stay and hear it, too.

Tim laughed, “It’s a birthday party; let’s eat!” He ignored their seriousness. “Come on; I can smell that chicken, mmmm hmmm smells delicious!” He pulled out a chair for Katie. “Sit! It is get yer own style, so I will make your plate for you.”

Papa glanced at his wife. He shrugged his shoulders and handed her one of the white plates with the raised roses. Within a few moments, their plates were all steaming and full. Papa put his arms out to his sides on the table and reached for Katie and Emma’s hand to say grace. Tim did the same, holding Katie’s hand a little more snuggly than he held Mama’s hand.

“Give us O God of the nourishing meal, well-being to the body, the frame of the soul. Give us O God of the honey-sweet milk, the sap and the savor of the fragrant farms.”

They all chorused, “Amen!”

Mama pushed her food around her plate with her fork. She finally scooped some mashed potatoes in her mouth. Papa bit into a chicken leg. “This is your best chicken ever, Emma. Just listen to that crunch.” He bit into the leg again.

“Papa, did anyone come by the farm today?” Tim held his piece of chicken in the air.

“Anyone? No, not that I can recollect.” He bit into the crunchy leg again.

“Maybe like a delivery came or something?”

Papa shook his head. “No, son, no one came by. I was in and out, of course, doing this and that. I never saw anyone arrive or leave.”

“How ’bout you, Mama?”

She shrugged her shoulders silently, wondering if this would be the last time her grandson spoke to her. How far would the young man’s fury go? Would he hate his grandparents for lying to him for eighteen years? She could hardly swallow the mashed potatoes. She put down her fork.

Katie’s brow wrinkled. “Are you okay, Misses Fairfield?”

The older woman looked up with her watery grey eyes, “I have told you so many times, dear. Please call me, Mama.” She smiled and then dabbed her napkin on her pale lips. “I am not very hungry. I suppose I snacked while I cooked. I do that sometimes. Bad habits die hard.”

The small kitchen nook was full of their conversation about plowing, new pigs, and an expected foal. After the ceremony of cutting the cake, Papa stood, “Now let’s go into the parlor, and Mama and I need to speak with you, Timmy. We have waited much too long as it is.” He helped his wife stand, taking note that she had not touched her piece of chocolate cake. He slipped his arm gently through hers, “Do not fret, Emma, all will be fine. I promise you that.”

She leaned her head against his arm, “We had eighteen pleasant years, that’s for sure. I am grateful for that.”

Tim overheard their quiet talking, “Mama, those years weren’t all pleasant! How quickly you forget when I brought that beehive into the kitchen.” He laughed.

She shook her head, “Oh, how could I forget that!” She laughed, amazed that she didn’t have to force her laughter.

“And Papa, how about the time I decided I would ride the bull.”

Leroy chuckled, “And you always say it was worth your broken leg.”

“It was! Oh, Katie, let me tell you, there is nothing like riding a bucking bull!  I held on to him so tightly, and of course, within a few seconds, I was flying through the air like I had been set off from a bolt of lightning!” He laughed until he had tears in his eyes. With the back of his hand, he wiped the droplets before they could reach his jaw. “I thought about going to rodeos and riding, but my grandparents thought it wasn’t such a great idea. Besides, they needed me here on the ranch to help them. But I will never forget that bull ride.”

“So you were a little hellion?” Katie snickered.

Mama shook her head. “The sweetest little hellion you would ever meet.” She stretched up to kiss Tim on the cheek, but before her lips touched his cheek, she shrieked. “Is that mud on your face Timothy Fairfield? Did you neglect to wash up before supper?  Oh, I hope that was not the case. Eighteen is not too old for a hickory switch!”

He glanced at his Papa and then smiled at Katie, “If you will excuse me, I will be right back.”

When Tim returned, they were all seated comfortably in the parlor. Tim and Katie sunk into the deep cushions of the big, red, overstuffed davenport as if they were two young children. Mama had pinned two crocheted doilies on each of the big arms.  Papa and Mama sat in the huge armchair across from them. Papa spoke first, “Son, we love you; you know that. We would never do anything to harm you or make you unhappy. We told you that your parents were killed in a fire and they were. That’s the honest truth, but what Mama and I never told you was,” he paused and swallowed, “the whole truth is that your parents were murdered that grim night. Someone set that fire on purpose. The sheriff never did find out who had done it.” The older man took a deep breath before he continued, “Timmy, bullets were found in the ashes, and the door, which was part of the frame left untouched by the fire, that door didn’t burn, well, it was chained on the outside to keep it shut so as no one could get out of that inferno, even if they tried.”

Mama was sniffling into her handkerchief. “We didn’t want you to grow up angry and mean and resentful. We wanted you to be a happy little boy and have a normal childhood. We didn’t mean to outright lie to you, Timmy. Papa and I made a pact to tell you everything on your eighteenth birthday.”

Papa nodded, “We just didn’t think the years would pass so quickly.”

Timmy leaned back on the davenport. He didn’t know what to say or how to react, but he felt a burning in his stomach and a fire growing behind his eyes. He always knew Mama and Papa weren’t his parents, but he had come to think as if they were. Most of the time, they just WERE his parents. They were the only parents he ever knew. He never fancied they would lie to him. He glanced at Mama crying into her white embroidered handkerchief, trying to remember a time when he had seen her cry, but there were no recollections. He had never seen Mama cry. He got up and put his arm around her tiny shaking shoulders. “Don’t cry, Mama. It will be alright. I’m fine.” Even as he said the words, he knew that everything had changed at that moment. He had never felt hate. He never had enemies. It was odd to feel all the nerves in his body twitching and seeming to stand guard and ready to make his fists start pulverizing—something! Or someone!  From that moment on, he knew he had an enemy walking on the earth and he hated that enemy with every fiber of his being.

Papa put his arms around both of them. “It is all over now. You know the truth now, son, and we can all just move on.” He kissed his grandson’s cheek. “The culprit is long gone and unfortunately, we cannot bring back the dead, your dear sweet parents.”

Mama stopped sniffing. The room became extremely quiet.

Tim pressed his lips tightly together and stood up slowly, “Well, party’s over. I think I will walk you home, Katie, and then I will take a quick walk up to the family plot to talk to my folks.”

Papa whispered, “Ya, why don’t you do that, son?  Settle your heart a bit.”

Katie offered, “May I help with cleaning up the kitchen first, Tim?”

Mama shook her head. “No, you just go on with Tim. Papa will help me, won’t you?”

“I sure will; no need for you to worry, Katie.”

Emma and Leroy watched their grandson slip his arm around Katie’s waist and walk her out. Papa shook his head, “It seemed to go well, but …”

Emma nodded, “But the knife cut deep inside our boy.” She blew her nose on the hanky. “That boy is going to leave the bloody trail of a wounded man from now on, Leroy. I could see the look of pain in his eyes. I will never forget that look.”

“But he didn’t seem too upset with us for not telling him the truth sooner.” Leroy started walking toward the kitchen.

“Mark my words, Leroy. That boy is gonna pluck off that scab when any of us least expect it. I hope he doesn’t just die of a broken heart.”

Later that evening, after he had seen Katie safely home, Tim made his way on an overgrown path over the top of two grassy knolls before it dropped into a slight valley. The valley was flanked by a meandering bubbling stream, which disappeared into a thicket at the far end. Tim paused a moment to take in the scene and took a deep breath. He felt like he was stepping into a painting, wandering between the graves until he came to the familiar headstones. He patted the tops of the stones of his other two grandparents, who he had never met.  He ran his hand over the front of his baby brother’s tiny stone, easing down closer and leaning on one knee. The baby had only lived three days, and his name was Emery. Tim ran his finger along the etching of his baby brother’s name. “Well, Emery, I was told my whole life has been a lie. I sure wish you had been here with me, as my elder brother. I suppose we would have leaned on each other hearing the sad news about our mother and father.” He glanced at his parents’ graves. “Do you think they are really buried there next to you, Emery? I mean the fire must have …” He stopped speaking and shook his head. “Our parents were murdered. Who would want to murder two young farmers barely scraping a living out of the land?  Well, Emery, I can’t tell anyone ’cept you, our parents will not have died in vain. I promise you that, Emery, right now on my eighteenth birthday. I don’t know when, but we will have our vengeance on whoever dared kill our parents, no matter how long it takes.” He affectionately tapped the top of the weathered headstone. “I promise you, Emery.”

He heard a twig snap in the brush, and his head snapped to the left to follow the intrusive sound. “Someone there? Hello?” An owl hooted and then silently flew from its perch to another tree. Tim pulled his collar up on his shirt. “Well, Emery, I’ll be back.” He lowered his voice to barely a whisper, “I’m gonna get a pistol, Emery. We have enemies now. And I am not gonna live scared.”

Chapter Two

Time has a way of claiming its pages in the book of life. Two years passed. The first year, Tim’s nineteenth birthday, he had no fried chicken or chocolate cake since Mama had passed that year. Influenza grabbed hold of her mid-winter; she didn’t live to see another spring. Tim thought his Papa would never be the same, but he realized something about older people that year. His Papa had a calm resilience about him.  It seemed to Tim that older people accepted life’s sad events easier than younger ones. Birth and death were respected in a way that younger people failed to comprehend. At first, he had coddled his grandfather, worrying over his every need. Tim made the old man’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He washed his Papa’s clothes. He just added all Mama’s chores to his daily list of tasks, and life went on. His grandfather didn’t object to Tim taking on the chores, or maybe he didn’t even notice. Perhaps the old man would only have noticed if the chores weren’t done. Tim thought that might be a possibility. But after the second year, life became routine again. There was just Papa and Tim—somehow life righted itself …

“Hey, Papa, what do you think of that ham bone soup I made?”

His grandfather looked up with the spoon almost to his mouth, “I’m eatin’ it, aren’t I?”

Like an excited puppy, Tim enjoyed every moment with his grandfather, even when the old fellow was grumpy. Tim savored hay pitching and cow milking, anything where he could ask question after question and listen to his grandpa tell his tales of years ago. As they pitched hay into the stalls, Tim would demand, “Tell me about that cat that wouldn’t die, Papa?”

“Timmy, you have heard that dang story n’er a dozen times.”

“Ah, come on. One more time.” The young man grinned. He knew his Papa loved telling that story.

Papa would sit on the edge of the water trough to tell the story. “I loved the cat, you see. He was an orange stripe, like a tiger. He hung out in the rafters. He was a real mouser, that one. We never had a mouse problem the entire time we had that cat; he was feral, you see, but when that cat saw me, he would jump on down out of those rafters and purr around my legs. Just wrapping around me with his body and that twitching tail.  Kind of made my brothers jealous, I guess, how as that cat liked me. But one day, the cat knocked this pitchfork down on my brother, Louis. I got so scared when Louis got knocked out. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “I thought Louis was a goner. I kept crying and crying. I couldn’t see for tears.  I took that handle of that rake and hit the cat. Well, dang thing died right on the spot, or so I thought.”

“Weren’t you sad that you did that to your cat?”

Papa shook his head. “Not at that moment. Sometimes we do things in the moment and don’t think of the consequences. But later, after brother Louis was okay, when I buried Harry, that’s what I had named the cat, I told the cat I was sorry. Not that it mattered. The cat couldn’t hear me, but here’s the thing—three days later, that cat rose up outa that dirt and was on the back porch! Yep, just sitting there waiting for me. As soon as he saw me, he started rolling around my legs like he always did!  A true testimony that cats do have nine lives.” He slapped his knee laughing.

Tim and Papa loved that story.

Now, as he watched his Papa sipping his hambone pea soup, Tim whispered, “I think the dead can hear us. In fact, I know they do.”

Papa became quiet. “Yeah, I talk to Mama all the time. I do. Not ashamed of it, either.”

“You and I know our stuff, Papa. We are great farmers.” He quickly changed the subject.” Did you see that wheat today? It’s ready for harvest!”

“I saw it. Lots of work for next week. Boy, why don’t you go on and meet your little honey, and I will do these dishes.”

Tim picked up his plate and then his Papa’s plate. “I can help.”

“Nah, it’s nearly dark. Go on, don’t keep Katie waiting. I know you meet her every night out by that pond.”

“You know?”

“Of course, I know!” The old man chuckled. “You’d be surprised to know what Papas know.”

“Well, I guess I like her.” Tim smiled, “I like her a lot.”

“So you’re sweet on her. Is this the one, Timmy?”

“Papa, I can honestly say I do believe Katie is the one. She’s always been the one. I think you and Mama knew that.” He grinned. “I will ask her to marry me one day. First, I have to figure things out, like where we would live and stuff like that. I want to save some more money, of course.”

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“A Relentless Ride for Blood” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

When Tim Fairfield was just a baby, a vicious criminal killed both of his parents, at a time when many murders were committed in town. His grandparents raised him, hiding the ugly fact that his parents were victims of a heinous crime. When he reaches adulthood and discovers the truth, he is determined to take revenge, but where should he start?

A thirst for vengeance and for blood to be shed overtakes him…

Katie Upton, a gal next door, has been in love with Tim for a long time, but he ignores his budding love for her in pursuit of the man who took the lives of his parents. In his search for retribution, will he destroy their love before it even has a chance to blossom?

Will Katie’s resolve to stand by him be her own undoing?

When the bodies of innocent victims begin to pile up again, Tim and Katie realize that they are closer to the killer than ever before. Just when they think the quest has reached its end, and that Tim will never know the truth, someone from the past appears who might be holding the missing puzzle piece… Will Tim be able to protect the girl and the whole town from an unspeakable evil? Resorting to brutal violence might be the only solution left…

A pulse-pounding drama, which will make you turn the pages with bated breath until the very last word. A must-read for fans of Western action and romance.

“A Relentless Ride for Blood” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!