Tate didn’t feel like having this conversation, so he simply nodded and stood to get dressed. It would be a cold day in hell when he admitted the voices were there and bothering him again. The meds should squelch them anyway.

  The person screaming from the front of the house screamed at least four more times before he and Marcy could get to the bottom of the stairs. Reg and Deidre were wandering out of their bedroom at the same time, and they all walked out the door to the front porch.

  Delmar Smythe was standing there in front of his dually pick up, hands on hips, steaming almost visible from his ears.

  “’Bout damn time, Verhoven. What the hell were you doing?”

  “Sleeping, Smythe. It’s Saturday. I allow myself the luxury of sleeping once in a while.” Reg ran a tired hand through his hair. “What the hell do you want? I was going to be nice, but you started this on the wrong foot.”

  “I got another dead cow. Another one! This is your family’s fault, and I want compensation!”

  Reg came awake. “Your mortality issues with your herd are not my problem.”

  “Your little witchy in-laws and friends are most certainly your problem! You think I don’t know what you’re playing at? You’re angry because my herd has been so successful, and you’ve brought your two little hoodoo-makers in to make sure I fail!”

  “Get off my property.” Reg’s voice was deadly.

  “No! Call the cops! I want to be compensated for the head of cattle that keep dying! I’m going to keep coming back until you call off your witches!”

  Marcy gasped and ran back inside. Tate was about to follow her, but Smythe was getting violent, and he knew that Deidre was still weak from her last chemo treatment. He didn’t want to leave his father alone to deal with Smythe.

  Reg walked down the stairs, one at a time, staring at Smythe. “Are you really trying to tell me that you think my son’s girlfriend, and the physical therapist I hired, are witches that are destroying your cattle?”

  “What other reason could there possibly be?”

  “Thousands,” Tate interjected.

  Smythe leveled an angry finger at him. “You stay out of this. I know you’re sleeping with that witch’s hag sister.”

  Tate’s vision washed red. “Did you just call Marcia a hag?” He found himself marching down the stairs to join his father at the bottom. “Did you really just call my girl a hag, you filthy liar?”

  Reg grabbed his arm, and before he could stop her, Marcy shot past him holding something out.

  “Here,” she said, holding out a small slip of paper. “Here, fair market value for the cow, plus eight hundred for feed and care.”

  Smythe hesitated as Reg, Deidre, Tate, and the now present Darren all gasped.

  She was holding out a check that was north of three thousand dollars.

  “Marcy— ”

  She turned and her eyes snapped at him to shut up. She spun back and pushed the check at Smythe again. “My money is good. Fair value plus.”

  “This should be coming from Verhoven—”

  “The money is good—who cares where it comes from? And either take it or get the hell off the property.”

  Smythe snatched the check out of her hand and pulled his door open to climb back in the cab. The engine roared to life and Tate watched in horror as Marcy ran around to the front of the truck.

  The slam of her hand on the metal hood was unmistakable. The roar of her anger cut through the sound of the diesel engine.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  Tate had to curb his reaction to her before he tented a hard-on in front his father and mother. Marcy was not a princess in that moment—she was a battle-hardened Empress on a field of war.

  He liked it. A lot.

  “I’m leaving like you said, little girl.”

  “Not. With. My. Cow.”

  Tate heard Darren and Deidre suck in a breath.

  His Marcia was a damn genius.

  “It’s dead,” Smythe snapped. “The hell do you want with a dead cow?”

  “I paid you market plus for that dead cow, so you’d best drop it here before you speed off in your compensation-mobile with your truck nuts and your penis-envy tailpipe.”

  Tate heard his father snicker. He had trouble curbing his laughter as well.

  “You want it? You pull it off the bed.”

  Tate, Darren, and Reg all ran for the back of the vehicle, and grabbed the unfortunate beast’s back legs and heaved with all they had. Smythe was pissed, and as soon as Marcy was out of the way he pressed the gas, unintentionally helping them unload the cargo.

  He sped off, back down the drive to the main road, leaving them all standing there watching. After he disappeared down the road, less than a minute later, all five of them burst out laughing.

  “Finally!” Marcy whooped. “I gotta go call my sister and get her and the other vet here to do the necropsy. We’re going to find out why these cows are dying!”

  She shot back into the house.

  Deidre smiled and turned to walk back in as well. “Darren, Tate, move that cow so we’re not operating on my front lawn, please.”

  “Darren, get the tractor,” Reg directed. “I’ll help.”

  Darren took off, excited to use large farm equipment.

  Reg clapped Tate on the back. “We probably have half an hour before Fatima gets here. That’s enough time for you to say thank you to that pretty little filly you got.”

  Tate laughed. “Excuse me for a few. I have to go…shower.”

  Reg’s laugh echoed as Tate ran up the stairs to find his princess and reward her. Thoroughly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Your Honor, this went so much deeper than just people breaking and entering,” Frank said as he paced through the judge’s chamber.

  “Start talking, Counsel. I got four other dockets today that I have to hear.” He tented his fingers.

  “Not only are Cady McCoy and Lucy da Silva being framed, there was a huge conspiracy that Mister Smythe was unaware of as well.”

  “Oh, this should be good.”

  Frank bit back his words. Tate could tell that the judge was getting on his nerves.

  “After completing a full survey of the tape provided, Tate Verhoven clearly proved that the bin that this footage was taken in was not, in fact, Smythe’s bin. It was taken from another. With some analysis, we were able to narrow down the two bins that could have served as a source for this footage.

  “Once one of our officers spoke to the second of the two suspects, it came pouring out of him that this was a setup to play on Smythe’s superstitions. Oliver Magruder let us into the bin and we were able to immediately identify that this was, indeed, the place the footage had been taken.

  “Mister Magruder, wishing to avoid being implicated in the machination, confessed to assisting John Jenkins in the creation of the video, taking the whole hard drive offline so no one could access it. Once we had the hard drive back online, Mister Verhoven and Mister Saxon Abbott were able to trace the file and its creation back to the source.”

  “Here’s where it gets fun, Your Honor,” O’Brien said, leaning forward.

  “Mister Magruder was not the beginning of this. There were other players beyond him, and this was all brought on by jealousy and petty insecurities.

  “Several of the ranchers in the area were upset that Smythe’s cattle were all turning out so well. They were all healthy, and fetching lots of cash per head at the plant. They—“

  “What plant?” the judge asked.

  “Excuse me, Your Honor, slaughterhouse, but the ranchers call it a plant.”

  The judge motioned him to continue.

  “They were paying top dollar for Smythe’s angus, while several other of the ranchers were struggling to break even. Jenkins realized that Smythe was paying for a different supplemental feed to be delivered to the farm through the store—uh that would be Jenkins Feed and Tractor store, Your Honor. It was a special blend, and Smythe paid for it through the nose. But calf after calf was winning blue ribbons, and the price those head fetched were enviable.

  “So they cooked up a scheme to play on his superstition. After Jenkins and Magruder heard about the breech calf and its mama that survived, they thought they found the perfect opportunity to destroy Smythe’s herd and get someone else blamed for it.”

  You’re a waste, Tate.

  They’re watching you.

  Tate shook his head and focused back on the conversation. He needed to hear the end of this.

  “So. Jenkins cooked up the feed bin tape, forgetting that Magruder was one of the few with a square feed bin. He started sending poisoned food with Smythe’s order. There was plenty of regular, real feed, but every so many tons, he poisoned some of it. The poison, a nitrogen fertilizer supplement, worked fairly quickly, killing the heads within twenty-four hours. If they didn’t get enough of the fertilizer, the symptoms mimicked bovine spongiform encephalitis. Mad cow.”

  O’Brien took over. “Jenkins and Magruder convinced my client that Counselor Drexler’s clients were putting curses on his farm, killing his cattle. That’s why they were dying. He believed it was the women were casting cruel spells.”

  The judge looked back and forth between to the lawyers. “And we’re taking this accusation seriously? Witchcraft?”

  “Or hoodoo,” Drexler said. “Whichever you prefer.”

  “We’re serious here?”

  “Yes, sir, my client was convinced of it. But after explaining all of this to him, he is extremely pissed that someone played him for a puppet, and that he accused two innocent women of something so ridiculous.”

  Drexler nodded. “We’re sure that we can get Jenkins up on charges of trespassing, false representation, animal cruelty, and a few other things.”

  “You want me to drop the charges.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And you’re sure about this? There’s an electronic trail?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Mister Verhoven has everything backed up, triple checked, and double locked down,” Drexler said. “We are sure that there’s some more evidence in Magruder’s computers, which we’ll need a warrant for.”

  “Charges dropped. Get back to me when you get Jenkins all straightened with charges, and what you want to do with Magruder.”

  Frank and O’Brien stood and motioned for everyone to stand.

  She doesn’t love you.

  You’re useless to her.

  Lucy walked up to O’Brien and stuck her hand out to him. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad you agreed to this.”

  “My pleasure, my dear. I’m glad that none of this was true and that we’ve gotten closer to the root of the problem.”

  The bright summer sun felt amazing on Tate’s face as they walked down courthouse steps and out to freedom. He looked down as Marcy’s hand slipped into his.

  Lies. All lies. She’ll leave you.

  You should hurt her.

  Tate tripped.

  Drawing back a bit, Marcy looked at him. “Are you okay? Did you miss a step?”

  You should hurt her before she hurts you.

  Tate felt his eyes go wide, and he sank down on the step. “Oh, God, no…”

  “What’s wrong?”

  You should hurt all of them.

  He pulled his head between his knees. “No, no. No.”

  “Tate! What’s wrong!” Marcy screamed the words this time.

  Reg and most of the family turned around, and when his father saw him curled on the stairs, he came running back.

  “What’s going on, Tate? Talk to me, son.”

  “Get her away from me. Get her away. Get away.”

  Fatima’s hand wrapped around Marcy’s arms a moment later. “Come on, Marce. Let’s go. Step back.”

  “No, what’s going on?!”

  Hurt her. Bring her back, hurt her!

  “Get away!” Tate screamed, and started rocking.

  Reg looked up. “Bring the car around, fast! Come on! Fatima, Lucy, take your sister away from here!”

  “What’s happening?” Marcy wailed.

  “He’s having a crisis, Marcy,” Lucy said. “Reg is going to take him to the behavioral hospital.”

  “I need to go with him!”

  “No!” Tate whipped his head around. “Get away! They’re telling me to hurt you! Stay away!”

  He watched, helpless, as Marcy started sobbing uncontrollably as her sister pulled her away.

  You should have hurt her.

  * * *

  The sobs that escaped Marcy wracked her whole body. She felt lost and alone, and to make everything worse, the chair sucked.

  Fatima and Lucy sat on either side of her in the waiting room. It wasn’t a typical waiting room. Nothing in a behavioral hospital was typical, she’d learned. Everything was locked, nothing was sharp, and everyone had secrets and demons.

  A doctor appeared from behind the fortress of the doors and walls, and Reg and Deidre followed him out. They all stood: the three sisters, Caldwell, RJ, Cady, and Joseph.

  Introducing himself with a name Marcy instantly forgot, he launched into an explanation. “We have Tate sedated at the moment. I wouldn’t recommend going in to see him. He is indeed in crisis. There appears to be a decompensation of his meds, and we’re going to have to take some time to adjust them. The sedation is a quick fix and will help him, and us, while we adjust medications.”

  “How long will this last, Doctor?” Caldwell asked.

  Marcy already knew this answer, but let the doctor answer.

  “He’s always going to be like this. There is no cure, no way to just make him better. We can get him stable, but we’re never going to cure him or put him in remission. This is an always-and-forever kind of illness.”

  “Isn’t there a better medicine—“

  “That’s not how this works. Everyone responds differently to different medicine. What works for you may be devastating to him. Our brain chemistry is unique to each of us and there’s no way to determine if Drug X or Drug Y is better, yet. As we work more with Tate, you’ll see that we’ll find certain types of drugs do better or worse in his system. He might do better on a norepinephrine inhibitor than a serotonin inhibitor. He might do well on a first-wave antipsychotic and struggle on a second-wave. There may be times when he must take the brand name and not the generic.

  “But this is only his third visit here, and we’ve only been working with him for six months. We have a long way to go yet. There are so many possibilities ahead of us. We’ll get this figured out, and we’ll have more ammunition for the next crisis.”

  “Next crisis?” Fatima asked. “Can’t we stop this?”

  “No,” the doctor said. “You never know when a crisis will pop up. We can’t stop them. What we can do is teach him the signs that one is coming, and possibly prevent it with a change in drug regimen. That’s our goal: avoid the crises.”

  “When can we see him?” Marcy asked.

  “Tomorrow. We have strict visiting hours, and he can make a policy if he doesn’t care to see anyone. Please keep that in mind. But you’ll be welcome tomorrow, two at a time.”

  The group walked out to find the sun already heading for the horizon. Marcy watched as Lucy and RJ peeled off toward their car, and Fatima and Caldwell paired off toward theirs. Cady and Joseph were already climbing into their car.

  She looked back at the hospital. She didn’t want to leave Tate there—again—on his own.

  Reg put an arm around her. “Come on, Princess, we’ll take you home. Tate’s in the best hands, and that’s all we can ask for at this point.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  The car was quiet as they rolled down the drive to the main road to head back to the ranch.

  Marcy’s phone rang shrilly in the silence. Tempted to ignore it—the only person she wanted to talk to was the one she couldn’t—she finally pulled it out.

  Dad.

  The word flashed on the front for a second before she got herself together enough to swipe to answer. “Hello?”

  “Marcia, you have to come home.” Duarte’s voice was a panic.

  She sat straight up in the seat. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your mother broke her leg. Badly. I need you home, Marcia. We need your help.”

  “Dad…”

  “Please, Marcia. Your mother and I talked it over and we’re ready for you to start taking over. She’s in so much pain right now.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was thrown from a horse she was trying to break.”

  “Dad, didn’t we say that you and Mom shouldn’t be doing that anymore?”

  “Your mother is as stubborn as a jackass, you know that. We need your help.”

  Marcy paused. They wanted to start giving her the farm. This was what she had been working for since she came back from Germany. Since the horrible day she lost her son. The moment she realized her sister didn’t have the acumen to run the farm.

  But she also wanted Tate. She wanted him in her life, she wanted him better. She desperately wanted to make decisions like this with him.

  Damn it, she loved him.

  But Lizette was injured, and she and Duarte had just offered the farm. The stables that had dozens of blue-ribbon horses and dozens more placing show horses.

  This was what she wanted.

  “Reg, could you drive me to the airport?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Three weeks later…

  Tate sat on the front porch, staring out at the road that passed the house, the bushes, even the two trees at the start of the drive.

  Two weeks in the hospital, one week of intensive outpatient counseling down, and everyone was back to treating him like an invalid.

  And Marcy was gone.

  Up and left the day he said the voices were telling him to hurt her. He didn’t think he could blame her, really. He’d pushed her away to save her from the voices and what they were trying to do, but…

  Well, he’d scared himself as well.

  Lying in bed, walking around with the thorazine shuffle for two weeks, there was no question in his mind anymore that he was nucking futs. Cuckoo in the cabeza. He was the walrus, coo-coo-ka-choo.

 

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