(click on cover for larger image)

 Hopefully most readers will relate to the shoer in Forged. As one reader commented, “we’ve all experienced these negative traits—just not all in the same shoer!” True enough. Dominic is based on many shoers—all of his characteristics are drawn from life; however, I never had a shoer with all these flaws.

I’ve tried to recreate many instances from my own life in this story—all responses will be appreciated.

    The following chapter is taken from the manuscript and may contain a few typos and other errors.

Forged Chapter 1

        I drove up my own driveway, mad as hell. He’d better be there; I found I was saying the words out loud.  “He’d better be there or this time he’s had it. If that bastard pulls a no-show on me one more time, I’ll kill him.”
     Rounding the corner at the bottom of the hill, I looked apprehensively in the direction of the barn. Damn. I heaved a sigh of relief. There it was—a white pickup truck parked in my driveway. He was here, after all.
     Parking my own truck near the house, I got out and walked back down the hill toward the barn. Perhaps I would say a few kind words to the man. My horseshoer had, for once in his life, shown up when he said he would.
     Being a horse vet myself, I was more than familiar with the typical client complaint: “You guys charge an arm and a leg and you always show up late.” Horses were unpredictable, and it was nearly impossible to keep a strict schedule when you were dealing with a dozen or more of the beasts in a day. But even allowing for the inevitability of delays, Dominic Castillo was notoriously unreliable.
     There were plenty of horseshoers on the central coast of California, some of whom were quite dependable. I put us with Dominic for one reason: He was a master farrier and my horse, Gunner, had a tricky foot problem. Thus I dealt with Dominic’s legendary tardiness and absenteeism.
     Dominic had failed to show up for the appointment I ‘d scheduled last week; naturally, he had as excuse. Swallowing the angry tirade I longed to deliver, I’d rescheduled for today. Approaching his pickup truck now, I schooled my face into a quiet, composed mold—not friendly, not hostile. Dominic had one more annoying fault—he was an incorrigible flirt.
     No matter how often I declined his offers, advances and invitations, if I so much as gave him a warm smile, Dominic was certain to come on to me once again. None of this was particularly flattering; Dominic was known to come on to any woman he met who was roughly between the ages of twenty and sixty. It seemed of no matter to him that he’d gone through one girlfriend if not two or more. Nor did he seem to care if the objects of his various flirtations were married or otherwise involved themselves. Any woman who would respond to his charm was fair game, apparently—at least in his estimation.
     And he had considerable charm. Despite everything, Dominic Castillo was difficult to dislike and easy to smile at and there you were—with the man’s arm draped around your shoulders and his eyes smiling into yours as he asked you out yet again. Thus I composed my face to remain in a neutral frame.
     Gunner was tied to an oak tree in the spot where Dominic usually shod him, and looked at me inquiringly. I walked up to my horse and rubbed his forehead. Gunner, my big gay gelding with his white blaze, high socks, one blue eye, and friendly nature, had been my buddy for many years now. I was more than willing to pay the top dollar that Dominic charged in order to keep my good horse sound.
     Shoeing tools lay on the ground, the forge was chugging away in the back of Dominic’s pickup, but I could see no sign of the man anywhere, which was odd.
     I looked around the barnyard, fearing yet another contretemps. Would I find him sitting in the barn drinking whiskey? I was, after all, his last appointment of the day, and Dominic was known to like a drink. My friend, rancher Glen Bennett, always said that Dominic could shoe a horse when he was drunk better than most men could sober, but my preference was not for a drunken horseshoer.
     “So, where is he?” I asked Gunner.
     The horse pushed his muzzle into my face and I blew gently into his nostrils—a typical horse greeting mannerism. Gunner’s breath smelled warm and sweet, and I rubbed the underside of his neck, where he liked to be scratched.
     “Dominic,” I called out.
     No reply. Now this was truly odd. Usually if Dominic did show up, he worked. Yes, he would flirt and chat, but he still got the job done. So, what in hell was going on?
     Maybe he was drinking in the barn.
     “Dominic,” I said again, looking in the direction of my hay barn.
     It wasn’t much of a building—a small, high-roofed pole barn suitable for storing a load of hay; that was all. There was a good-sized stack of wheat hay filling it now; delivered a week ago by my local feed merchant. Walking towards the stack, I called Dominic’s name again.
     Still no answer. But I stopped dead.
     Something’s not right. Boots…boots sticking out from behind the haystack. I took a cautious step forward and peered around the high wall of hay bales.
     “Oh…my…God.” I could hear my own voice; it didn’t sound like me, though.
     Dominic lay face up in the litter of chaff on the floor of the barn. There was a bloody, wet spot in the middle of his stomach, pulpy and dark. His eyes were closed.
     “Dominic!” I stepped toward him and reached for his wrist.
     His eyes stayed closed, but the pulse was there, barely. Even as I took it I was digging my cell phone out of my pocket.
     “Oh my, God,” I said again, my gaze riveted to Dominic’s body as I dialed nine-one-one.
     “I need an ambulance right away. A man’s been shot; he’s still alive,” I said without preamble, knowing that the operator would have my address already.
     “Is the injury serious?” the voice on the line asked.
     “Very. He’s gutshot.”
     “And you are?”
    “Dr. Gail McCarthy. I found him here in my barn.”
    “An ambulance and police will be right there.”
     “Thanks,” I said. As I ended the call, Dominic’s eyelids flickered.
     “Dominic,” I said, reaching for his hand.
     The eyelids lifted. Dominic’s brown eyes looked straight at me.
     “Gail.” I could barely make out the whisper.
     “I’m here,” I said. “I’m with you, Dominic. The ambulance is coming.” I squeezed his hand gently. “What happened?”
     A long, long silence. Dominic’s lids dropped back over his eyes; I thought he was out again. But in a minute the eyelids slowly lifted and once again I looked into Dominic’s eyes. I couldn’t fathom their expression.
     His lips twitched. Faintly, very faintly, the words come. “I was cleaning the gun. An accident.” Then his eyes closed.
 I pressed his hand to comfort him, hardly believing what I had just heard. Why would he be cleaning his gun in my barn in the first place?
     Scanning the littered straw around us quickly, I saw it. Sure enough. Half-buried under his thigh; I’d never noticed it in my haste to get help. A pistol, looked like a large caliber. My God.
     “Dominic,” I said again.
     No response. I thought his breathing sounded more labored. In the distance came the thin wail of sirens.
     I sighed with relief. “Just hang in there, Dominic.”
     The minute or so that it took the ambulance to pull in seemed like an hour. Dominic grew perceptibly paler as we waited. But eventually the flashing lights were in my driveway, and I was waving the paramedics toward the barn. A dark green sheriff’s sedan was right behind them.
     Once Dominic was on a stretcher and in the ambulance, I turned to the man who had gotten out of the green car. Strongly built, with a big chest and a thick neck, he had wiry brown hair, brown eyes, and a somehow familiar face.
     “Are you Gail McCarthy?” he asked.
     “I am.” Something in his tone or his stance made me bristle. “Dr. Gail McCarthy. And you are?”
     “Detective Johnson of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Department.” He didn’t offer a handshake; neither did I. “You dialed nine-one-one and reported that you found this man in your barn.”
     “That’s right.”
     “He was already shot when you found him?”
     “That’s right.”
     We were both silent as Detective Johnson made a note. I was pondering my reaction to the man, which was one of instant dislike. Why, I wasn’t quite sure. A certain sort of forceful overconfidence in his voice, maybe, a tinge of that typical cop distaste for a member of the general public. Whatever it was, Detective Johnson’s manner antagonized me. I wasn’t about to volunteer anything. Let him ask.
     “Do you know this man?”
     “I do. Dominic Castillo. My horseshoer.”
     “Do you know why he was here?”
     “Presumably to shoe my horse.” I gestured to Gunner, still tied to his tree.
     “Tell me how you found Mr. Castillo.”
     I recounted my movements as accurately as I could, ending my story by pointing at the gun, which was still lying in straw on the barn floor.
     Detective Johnson made notes as I spoke. At one point he looked up. “He said he shot himself?”
     “That’s right.”
     “Are you sure?”
     “I’m sure.” I shut my mouth firmly on any comments I might have made. Detective Johnson didn’t need my opinion.
     I watched as the man took a cell phone out of his shirt pocket. “Could you please wait here?” he asked.
     Leaving me stranded in my own driveway, he walked far enough away that I couldn’t hear him, and began talking on the phone.
     Since I could see no reason not to, I moved the few steps to where Gunner stood tied and began to rub his neck. In five minutes or so Detective Johnson was back.
     “Please wait were you were asked to do so. This is a crime scene.”
     “I’d like to put the horse back in his corral and feed him and the others.”
     “That will have to wait until we’re done here.”
     “And when will that be?”
     “I don’t know.”
     I could feel the annoyance building up inside me. “I expect to be able to feed my horses,” I said sharply. “Do you know Detective Jerry Ward?”
     “I do.” Something in Detective Johnson’s voice said, “And what of it?”
     “She’s a friend of mine,” I said lamely, already knowing it would do no good.
     Detective Johnson visibly shrugged; I thought I saw a brief flash of outright hostility in his eyes.
     I tried again. “How long will this horse need to stay tied here?”
     “Until the crime scene investigators are done.”
     “And how long will that be? Give me an estimate.”
     Detective Johnson met my eyes. “I just called them. I imagine it will take them at least of couple of hours to go over the scene.”
     “So you don’t think this was an accident?” I asked.
     Detective Johnson didn’t reply to the question. Instead, he asked me another. “How well did you know Dominic Castillo?”
     I pondered a minute. “Not well. But I’ve known him, or known of him, in the way one knows a horseshoer, for several years.
     “For how many years has he been your horseshoer?’
     “A little over a year. But I knew him before he was shoeing my horse. I’m a horse vet; he’s a shoer. We both interacted in the same community of horse owners. I saw him from time to time; I knew his reputation. I can’t really remember when we first met.”
     “You say you knew his reputation. Explain.”
     I started to open my mouth and stopped. What should I say here? More important, what shouldn’t I say? There was a lot that could be said about Dominic, but did I want to be the one to say it?
     “He had a reputation as an excellent craftsman,” was what I did come up with.
     Detective Johnson looked at me sharply. My hesitation wasn’t lost on him.
     “And personally?” he asked.
     “I didn’t know him personally.” I hedged.
     Our eyes met. At that moment a white van pulled in my driveway; both of us glanced in that direction.
     “Crime scene investigation team,” briefly. “Could you wait here, please?” And off he went to confer.
     I stayed where I was told, this time. No point in aggravating the man further. He seemed to have taken the same instant dislike to me that I had taken to him. I stood quietly in my driveway and watched the people from the crime scene van deploy themselves over my barnyard.
     There were at least half a dozen of them, all dressed in beige jumpsuits, two holding cameras. They photographed Gunner; they photographed Dominic’s shoeing tools lying on the ground; they photographed his truck, the barn, and, and repeatedly, the gun. Others went over the ground closely, searching for something, it seemed. Detective Johnson spoke to one or another from time to time. Occasionally he made calls on his cell phone.
     I waited. Time passed. The sun dropped behind the ridge and the golden slant of late afternoon light dissolved into the cool colorlessness of dusk. Gunner nickered at me from his tree. At the sound, my two other horses, Plumber and Danny, neighed loudly in unison. “Feed us,” they said.
     Staring impatiently at Detective Johnson’s back, I tried to bore holes in his head with my eyes. “Come on, you asshole, get on with it,” I thought but didn’t say.
     Apparently unaware of my mental dagger, Detective Johnson continued his conversation for a solid ten more minutes before he turned to me.
     By this time, I’d had it. Pretending patience for over an hour had worn me out. Wisely or unwisely, I greeted Detective Johnson’s approach with a curt “I need to feed my horses and get on with my evening chores. Let’s see if we can arrange that.”
     “You can put the horse in his pen and feed him now,” he said. “But I want to talk to you a little more. Can we go somewhere quiet?” This last with a pointed look up my driveway.
     “All right,” I said resignedly. “Just let me get all my animals fed and we’ll go on up to the house.”