Sinfandel Read Online Free Page A

reports suggest the weapon was a rifle.  Witnesses report seeing a car in the vicinity and police are asking for any information.”
    I started on the other eye.  “Wonder if it was a Mustang,” I mused to my reflection, focused on a lone white strand of hair mixed in with my brunette curls.
    “Witnesses report the car is a blue and white Mustang.” 
    I dropped the mascara in the sink and gaped at the radio.
     
    Andy Carmichael’s truck pulled up to my ranch gate at precisely seven.  If nothing else, he was punctual.  I opened the gate for him.
    “Go ahead and park behind the Prius,” I said as he pulled through.  “I’ll meet you at the barn.”
    In the barn, Buster stood in the crossties with my western saddle on his back and a bridle hanging from the horn.  I filled a saddle bag with bottled water and snacks.  Emlie, under English saddle, was tied to the hitching rail, waiting to be bridled.
    “What’s this?” Andy said as he stood in the breezeway of the barn, a suspicious eye on the horses.
    “This is Buster, and that’s Emlie.”
    “We’re not… I thought you said you had quads.”
    “I do.”
    “Where?”
    “Right here.  They each have four legs and produce exactly one horsepower.”
    He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.  “I’m not checking twenty-five acres of vines from the back of a horse.”
    I brushed by him, close enough for him to catch a whiff of the Elizabeth Arden Green Tea perfume I’d sprayed on this morning.  I eased the snaffle bit into Emlie’s mouth and slipped the headstall over her ears.  “Suit yourself.”
    Once again, I passed close enough that he had to take a step back as I returned to the crossties.  I patted Buster on the hip.  Since Andy hadn’t turned around to leave, I bridled Buster and handed him the reins.  “You ride?”
    “I just told you I’m not riding your horse.  If you don’t have quads, then I’ll just come back another time with mine and we’ll try this again.”
    “You can come back another time, but you won’t be polluting my vines with exhaust from your vehicles.  I plan on qualifying this vineyard for organic wine production with the USDA.”
    He rolled his eyes like he was addressing an idiot.  “Lady, I know a little about organic certification, and there’s no rule about motor vehicle exhaust.”
    I checked the cinch, let down the stirrup iron on the English saddle and led Emlie through the vineyard gate, then mounted up and waited.  “If you’re not going to ride, would you mind unsaddling him and putting him back in the paddock?”
    Andy Carmichael glared at me as if I’d just asked him to give birth to the gelding, then he checked his cinch— revealing that he knew a thing or two about horses—and hoisted his tall, lean body into the saddle.  Not that I cared or anything, but he looked good on Buster.  He’d probably look good on a burro.
    “Just so you know, my rate doubles for organic vineyard management,” he said as he rode Buster through the open gate.  He did a double-take—at my eyes, I’m sure—as he passed me. 
    I smiled.  “Good.  I’ll expect you to work twice as hard.”  I closed the gate, mounted up, and wondered if the credit limit on my Mastercard would cover his fees.   
    The vineyard was planted on gently rolling hills.  The vines clung to heavy-gauge wire that was stretched the length of each row and fastened to six-inch diameter posts buried deep into the ground at both ends.  Black plastic drip irrigation lines ran along the ground and water dripped at the base of each vine.  Clusters of deep red Zinfandel grapes hung from the vines like ornaments. 
    Overhead, a pair of buzzards circled like big black gliders, which wasn’t an unusual sight out here in the country.  Jack rabbits and squirrels often played—and lost—the risky “cross the road” game.  Without the buzzards to cleanup road kill, country roads would be littered with their