Colts Crossing...Unsolved - Episode 2

Wild West

Murder, Mystery & Mom Season 4

The horse was not slowing down.

That was my first, deeply unhelpful observation. My second? This no longer qualified as a cute pony viewed from a safe distance. It transformed into a thousand-pound problem with hooves. All muscle and panic, the wild horse barreled straight toward us with very strong opinions about personal space.

“Move!” Loretta shoved me again, harder this time.

“I am moving!” I said, which would have been more convincing if my feet actually committed to the idea of movement.

Goldilocks lunged forward with the enthusiasm of a dog who believed every large animal was a potential best friend.

“Goldie! This is not an invitation to race.”

The leash snapped tight, jerking me forward just as the mustang veered—then corrected—then locked back onto a path that included my general existence.

This was it. This was how it ended.

Not with a dramatic podcast outro or a heartfelt monologue. Just me, flattened in a very expensive pasture, with Mama saying I told you so over my remains.

“Patsy.” Mama’s voice cut through the noise. Calm, steady, and absolutely not panicked, which felt inappropriate given the circumstances. “Left.”

I moved.

“Your other left.”

I sidestepped, my legs feeling like strawberry Jell-O.

The mustang thundered past where I’d been standing half a second earlier, close enough that I felt the heat of it, the force, the sheer size of the thing. Dirt and gravel kicked up in its wake, peppering my boots.

Goldilocks barked like she’d just been invited to the Kentucky Derby.

“You can ask for his autograph later.”

Behind us, shouting erupted. Ranch hands scrambled, one of them waving his arms like that might convince the horse to reconsider its life choices.

Another crack split the air.

I flinched. “Who’s shooting at us?”

“That’s not a firearm,” Mama said.

The horse came around again, faster this time, cutting a tighter arc. A handler tried to intercept and wisely thought better of it at the last second.

While I was still negotiating with gravity and my will to live, Mattie McDonald stepped forward into the chaos like the ring leader of an out-of-control circus.

The mustang circled hard, hooves tearing up the pristine grass, head tossing, eyes wild. He wasn’t just running; he fought something. Sound. Pressure. Memory.

“Easy.” She didn’t raise her voice or rush. She just… existed in a different frequency than the rest of us.

She stepped slightly to the side, just enough to take herself out of its direct path, and lifted one hand.

The mustang’s ears flicked, and his muscles coiled.

Add horse whisperer to the list of Mama’s impressive skills.

An older man on horseback rode in from the far side of the paddock, as if this were all part of his morning routine. White hair, weathered face, posture easy and controlled. He didn’t hurry or shout.

“Come on, now,” he called, voice low and steady.

The mustang circled again, but slower. Listening.

Mama didn’t move.

The man guided his horse closer, one hand light on the reins, the other resting easy like he trusted the outcome.

“Easy, boy,” he said again. “You’ve made your point.”

The mustang snorted, stamping once, then twice—like it was considering its options. Then, with visible reluctance, he gave ground.

Handlers moved in carefully, voices low now, movements deliberate. The mustang tossed his head one last time, energy draining out of it in sharp, reluctant bursts.

“Well,” I said, brushing dirt off my jeans with hands that were only slightly shaking. “That felt personal. Especially the shooting part.”

Mama lowered her hand, like she’d just finished adjusting a curtain instead of negotiating with a thousand-pound liability. “That was a starter pistol.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“For training,” she said. “Desensitization. Horses need to tolerate noise and not spook at the slightest provocation.”

I stared in the direction of the last shot. “You’re telling me someone thought this was a good time to test that?”

“Not test,” a voice behind us said. “Correct.”

I turned.

The older man dismounted, handing off his reins to a ranch hand without looking. Up close, he had the kind of presence that didn’t ask for attention—it assumed it.

He was on the short side and stocky. Built like an old retired jockey who let himself go slightly in the tummy area.

“That horse spooks at everything,” he said, nodding toward the mustang. “Sound, movement, shadows, his own reflection if he’s feeling dramatic.”

“Relatable,” I muttered.

“You let him run from it, you reinforce the fear. You teach him it works.” He glanced toward Mama. “Better to face fear head-on.”

Mattie gave a small nod of respect. She agreed? After what we just witnessed?

Loretta straightened her sunglasses, the nose piece tangled in her curls. “And you are?”

“Ray Holt.”

The name didn’t mean anything to me. But the way Loretta’s posture shifted behind me suggested it probably should have.

“Former jockey,” Mama said.

How did she know that?

“Former being the key phrase.” He patted his belly. “Now I use my expertise to breed winners with Final Turn Thoroughbreds.”

Ray Holt tipped his hat and followed the wild mustang. Goldilocks wagged her tail, clearly ready to volunteer her training services as a loyal assistant.

“Absolutely not,” I told her.

Goldilocks huffed, offended that the situation had resolved without her participation.

I straightened, brushing the last of the dust from my jacket, and glanced between the sprawling ranch, the retreating horse, and the people who seemed entirely too comfortable with all of this.

“Okay, so just to recap.” I pointed toward the paddock. “We’ve got a missing man, a runaway mustang, and someone firing off starter pistols like we’re reenacting a Jesse James bank robbery at the O.K. Corral.”

“You’re doing it again, narrating the disaster like we’re your little podcast audience.” Loretta huffed and adjusted her blazer with a sharp tug. “Save the Wild West metaphors for the people who pay for your Patreon; some of us are trying to work a real case.”

I looked at Mama, expecting her to broker a peace treaty. Instead, she adjusted her sunglasses, her gaze already fixed on the ridge where the horse had first appeared. “I’m not picking sides. But for the record, Patsy? The Jesse James line was a bit wordy.”

Loretta smirked. Mama’s favorite.

Well… Mama’s favorite was about to get a lesson. Because over the past few months, I’d solved the unsolvable. And this wasn’t a cold case. It was red hot with fresh leads. It was going to be a masterclass.

“That was excessive for a welcome committee.” I exhaled, one hand pressed to my chest. “Now that we’re back on track, how about you give us a rundown on the case?”

“How about no?” Loretta brushed dirt from the sleeve of her blazer like she’d just stepped around a puddle instead of nearly being flattened by a thousand pounds of muscle and poor impulse control. “Now climb back into your pink trailer and get out of here before you cause any more trouble.”

I swiveled to Loretta, adrenaline still buzzing just under my skin. “You said I could stay.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, well, I lied to shut you up.” She tilted her head, expression sweet in the way that meant just the opposite. “I’m sure that’s not the first time someone’s deployed that strategy with you.”

“Wow. Bold of you to admit you’re threatened.”

“Threatened? By you? Not likely,” she said, already turning toward the house.

“Why else would you turn down my help?” I asked, tugging Goldilocks along as we fell into step behind her and Mama.

Gravel crunched underfoot, the neat symmetry of the ranch slightly less charming now that I’d nearly died in it.

We passed a row of hitching posts made of hand-forged iron, each topped with a brass horse that seemed to track our progress with cold, metallic eyes. I caught our reflection in the tinted windows of a parked Suburban—Loretta looking like a federal agent poster child, Mama looking like she was on a Sunday stroll, and me, clutching a doodle’s leash and looking half trampled.

Loretta glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifting. “Just because you and Mama were around when a few cold cases were cracked doesn’t make you Sherlock Holmes.”

“Jealous?”

She stopped walking. That was the first clue I’d hit a nerve.

Loretta turned slowly, studying me the way she used to when we were kids, and I tried to convince her I hadn’t eaten the last cookie with crumbs on my chin.

“You don’t actually think you can help,” she said, voice calm, almost thoughtful. “You just don’t like being left out.”

I crossed my arms. “That’s not—”

“You insert yourself,” she continued, ticking points off on her fingers like she was presenting at a conference I did not agree to attend. “You escalate situations that don’t require escalation. You trust gut over structure, which occasionally works but mostly causes problems for everyone around you.”

I blinked. “Okay, first of all—”

“And you suffer from a chronic need to find a narrative where there is only data,” Loretta added, taking a step closer. “You aren’t looking for the truth, Patsy; you’re looking for a plot twist. You treat real people with real grief like fictional characters on your podcast. It makes you insightful, sure, but it also makes you reckless with the lives of everyone in your splash zone.”

I wanted to fire back. I queued up a dozen snappy defenses about empathy and the human connection, but the words died in my throat. It was the splash zone comment that did it. And for a split second, the Kentucky air felt a lot colder than sixty-five degrees.

I crossed my arms, tucking my hands away so she couldn't see them twitch. “That is a gross oversimplification of a very nuanced personality.”

She smiled. That small, satisfied consultant smile. “You walked right into that.”

“I did not walk into anything. You ambushed me with a personality profile I did not consent to.”

“It’s not an ambush if it’s an observation,” Loretta countered, already pacing up the circular drive.

I navigated around hedges trimmed with surgical precision, careful not to get tangled in Goldie’s leash.

The closer we got to the house, the more the air shifted—moving away from the smell of manure and toward the expensive scent of boxwood and floor wax blowing out from the open front doors of the manor.

My fist tightened at my side. “You just love the clinical hit-and-run!” I called after Loretta. “And for the record, my personality isn't a TV show. It’s a limited-series event with high production value.”

Mattie stepped between us like a referee who decided the match needed to be stopped before anyone started throwing punches. “When you two are through acting like children, we should go inside. The family of the kidnapping victim is waiting.”

Loretta exhaled through her nose, composure snapping back into place as if it had been on a hinge. “Y’all are not going in with me. And that’s final.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am not showing up to a crime scene with my mama, my nosy sister, and…” She glanced down at Goldilocks. “And their clumsy mascot.”

Goldilocks stopped in her tracks. Slowly, she turned her head and looked up at Loretta with the kind of betrayed expression usually reserved for soap opera twists and dramatically under-seasoned chicken.

“Okay, wow,” I muttered, giving Goldie an extra scratch behind the ears. “We’re all feeling very judged right now.”

“Loretta,” a voice called from behind us, easy and familiar, like it had no intention of competing with the tension but knew it would win anyway. “The wife is waiting.”

We all turned.

He came from the direction of the barns, jacket slung over one shoulder, moving at a pace that suggested he wasn’t in a hurry because he didn’t need to be. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Tall. Solid. The kind of presence that didn’t announce itself but didn’t get ignored either. Deep brown skin, close-cropped hair, and eyes that tracked everything without looking like they were trying.

He smiled when he saw Mattie, and it wasn’t polite. It was recognition. “Well, I’ll be.”

Mattie tilted her head, studying him for half a beat. “Agent Thomas West. Shouldn’t you be retired and attending Spring Training in Florida?”

He let out a deep, quiet laugh. “I still got a few good years left in me.”

Loretta straightened beside me, the edge disappearing from her posture like someone dimmed a switch. “Agent West has been leading coordination on this case,” she said, tone smooth, professional—like the last five minutes hadn’t happened.

He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Thomas West.”

I took it. Firm grip. Warm. Steady.

“Patsy Steffanelli,” I said, though my brain had already veered off into a completely different lane.

He glanced between Mattie and me, something amusing flickering. “Your mama and I go back a ways. Worked together about twenty years ago when she was with the State Department.”

Ah. State Department.

I wasn’t sure if Agent West intended to say the agency in italics, but we all knew that was code for CIA.

I cut my eyes to Mama. She gave me a look that said, "Don’t push it." Which, naturally, made me want to push.

I looked back at West and wondered how much he actually knew.

“It’s a real treat to have experienced eyes on this,” he said, shifting gears without effort. “Because this one’s…weird.”

“I like weird,” I said.

He tugged at his earlobe, drawing attention to his prominent ears, which made him look very slightly cartoonish. “Good thinking, bringing them in on this, Stanwyck. It’s high profile, and we need it closed fast. All hands on deck.”

Loretta nodded like it was her terrific idea and she hadn’t been trying to ditch me. “Walk us through where things stand.”

West thumbed through a battered notepad, fixating on the last few pages. “Mrs. Darrow received a ransom note four days ago with instructions on how much to pay, where to drop off, and when. She followed the kidnapper's instructions, paid on time, but it’s been radio silence for the last forty-eight hours.”

“And now she decides to involve the police?” Loretta shook her head. “Talk about a day late and a dollar short.”

“More like a million dollars short,” I said. “How much does a thoroughbred horse guy go for anyway?”

“Two mill,” West said, the snap of his pen echoing like a small bone breaking.

We followed West up the wide stone steps. The transition from the crunch of gravel to the hollow thud of wood on the expansive, columned porch felt like a volume knob being turned down. Everything here was white, pristine, and suffocatingly quiet.

West leaned against a thick Doric column, his thumbing through that battered notepad the only sound in the spring afternoon. He looked up, the sunlight catching the exhaustion in the corners of his eyes. “No contact since the initial ransom note. No proof of life. No movement on accounts tied to the transfer. No sign of Freddy Darrow.”

I gripped the porch railing. The wood felt cool under my palm, a sharp contrast to the buzzing all around me. “Four days?” I asked, my voice dropping to match the somber stillness of the house. “Isn’t that a bad sign?”

“Statistically? It’s a nightmare,” a voice replied, brittle as dry kindling.

We all froze.

Susannah Darrow stood by a white wicker glider, her hand resting on the back so tightly her knuckles looked like polished marble. She looked exactly like the type of woman who organized charity galas while navigating a personal crisis—classic, effortless, with a soft sweetness that made the sharp grief in her eyes feel like a physical blow.

She wore a crisp linen shirt tucked into tailored trousers, her hair perfectly coiffed, but she was vibrating with the kind of high-tension energy that suggested if you tapped her with a spoon, she’d shatter.

“Is that the ‘bad sign’ you’re referring to?” she asked, her voice steady but vibrating with a jagged edge. “The statistics?”

I felt my face heat up, the kind of instant, stinging flush that usually preceded a very public apology. I’d been so busy narrating the mystery that I forgot to make sure we were alone.

Maybe Loretta was right about me being a splash zone. I could feel the heat of her I told you so from five feet away.

Loretta stepped forward, her federal lanyard catching the light, her voice dropping into a practiced, clinical velvet. “Mrs. Darrow,” she said, her tone a reprimand to my very existence. “I apologize. My sister has a tendency to…think out loud.”

Susannah kept her gaze fixed on me, her head tilted slightly, searching for something in my expression—either a reason to hope or a reason to collapse.

“My husband isn't a statistic,” she said softly, the sweetness in her face curdling into something desperately protective. “He’s a man who hates bourbon, loves wild horses, and has been missing for ninety-six hours.”

I gripped the railing harder, the cool wood no longer a comfort. “I know,” I managed, my voice losing its podcast-ready lilt. “I’m sorry. I’m Patsy.”

“I know who you are,” Susannah said, a small, weary shadow of a smile touching her lips. “I listen to your show. And it’s hard to miss that bright pink rig you arrived in.”

Loretta exhaled through her nose, a sound of pure, unadulterated professional pain.

Mattie stepped toward Susannah, not as a spy with an agenda or my co-host shooting down wild theories, but as a woman who had been in those shoes. A woman who knew exactly what it was like to have a husband vanish into thin air.

“Let’s stop standing in the sun,” Mama said, her voice a calm anchor. “We have work to do.”

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