A Killing in the Valley Read Free Page B

including hers.
    She lived by herself in a small house on Rancho San Gennaro, the old family ranch in the Santa Ynez Valley, which was on the other side of the low mountains from the city of Santa Barbara, forty miles to the south. The property, 18,000 acres, was the second-largest ranch in the county. She had grown up on the ranch with her parents, brothers, and sisters, other family members. Back then, their operation ran over a thousand head a year.
    After her father passed away in the early ’60s, she and her husband, Henry McCoy, a prominent lawyer and social activist in the community (dead now going on five years), took over the ranch. Over the subsequent decades, as corporate ranching gobbled up many independents, the operation shrunk considerably. Her current herd was two hundred and fifty cows, and fourteen bulls to service them.
    Although Juanita had lived in Santa Barbara for most of her life, she was worldly and well-educated. She went to Stanford, where she met her husband. They traveled extensively. She was a patron of the local arts. Considered a great beauty when she was younger, she was still highly attractive, despite the inroads of age. Although she had lived on a ranch for most of her life, her skin had few lines or wrinkles. She wore her silver hair long, usually wrapped up in a braid or bun, except at night.
    Over the past few years, since her husband’s death, she had dropped most of her social activities. She had become accustomed to her solitude. When she needed companionship there were still friends to be with, but she was comfortable keeping her own company. She was at peace with everything in her life; with one important exception.
    The issue that upset her, that she dwelled on but had no solution for, was knowing that when she died, this way of life, passed down ten generations, would be over, because neither of her children were interested in maintaining stewardship over the land. Her son managed a Nissan dealership in Tucson, Arizona, and her daughter and son-in-law owned a chain of natural-food grocery stores in northern California. Her heirs would subdivide the property. The mini-estates would sell for millions of dollars, and her descendants would be rich. But the land would be gone from them.
    The sky was a black canopy of stars and a three-quarters moon when Juanita woke up. She put on a pot of black coffee and clicked the television to the weather channel. The forecast was for hot, dry conditions, with the possibility of evening Santa Ana winds—no change for several weeks now.
    Juanita was particularly vigilant about keeping trespassers off her property during this time of year. One careless match, one overturned lantern, and thousands of acres could light up the sky in a hellish fireball. That had happened many times in the past, and would again; nature was more powerful than man. But the heedful landowner didn’t help nature destroy itself. You protected your property, and by doing so, you protected everyone else’s.
    The fear of fire wasn’t the reason Juanita was up earlier than usual this morning, however. Over the past week, on two separate occasions, her vegetable garden had been plundered by a vicious, cruel marauder. Both times, her dog had chased the intruder away, but not until considerable damage had been done. This time she was going to be awake and ready when it returned to continue its violation.
    She drank a cup of black coffee, waiting impatiently. If she didn’t stop it, the culprit would come back until there was nothing left to devastate. She itched to go outside to lie in wait, but if the wind was blowing the wrong way her scent would carry and spook her prey. The instant her dog started yelping she’d rush out and confront the bastard.
    She glanced at the clock over her stove. Almost five-thirty. First light would soon be on the horizon, and then the chance for success would be gone, because this was a night prowler who did its damage under the cover of