Hardly Any Shooting Stars Left

“A wonderful read for anyone who enjoys action and memorable characters with larger-than-life personalities. The story unfolds against the background of contemporary life in the American West with an abundance of quirky, modern twists. Filled with humor and heartbreaking insights about loss, love, and deep misunderstandings, Froman gives her readers the gift of a fine book. A good story, well told and enhanced with insights about the value of differences. Definitely a keeper.”

—Anne Hillerman, New York Times best-selling author of the Leaphorn-Chee-Manuelito mysteries “I love a good mystery! When I also learn something new— about 3D printers and drones, in this instance—I know I’m in the hands of a skilled writer. That’s why I loved B. K. Froman’s Hardly Any Shooting Stars Left. A northwest setting, unique characters with struggles we can relate to. Add plot twists and turns and refreshing images and you have one fine, fine story I loved.”

—Jane Kirkpatrick, New York Times best-selling author of The Healing of Natalie Curtis “BK Froman has done it again with a shoot-from-the-hip witty mystery. If the Oregon setting isn’t inspiring enough, the story offers quirky entendres, murder, mayhem, and marvelous characters. Froman’s clever writing is always a cut above. This one has ‘Award Winner’ written all over it.”

—Anne Schroeder, author of The Caballero’s Son “Entertaining, page-turning mystery of twists and secrets.

Kudos to Froman for capturing a young woman’s struggle to find both her place and a killer in a small town of odd and strangely endearing characters.”

—Linda Ulleseit, author of Aloha Spirit

“Froman gives us a heroine of humor and courage who can face a murderer, high-tension, and the ghosts of her own past while navigating the old and new West.”

—Lynn Downey, author of Dudes Rush In “Funny and moving, told in clear-eyed, good-hearted style.”

—Patricia Lichen, author of Kidnapping the Wild One “A page-turning tale of old wounds and long-buried tension in the new West.”

—Helen Wand, author of Echoes of Forgotten Places “Hardly Any Shooting Stars Left melds mystery and technology into a tantalizing whodunit. Lexi Depriest strives to introduce reluctant ranchers to modern technology. When her boyfriend is found murdered at her 3D print shop, Lexi becomes entangled in a web of intrigue that threatens everyone and everything she loves.”

—Candace Simar, award-winning author of the Abercrombie Trail Series, Shelterbelts, and Escape to Fort Abercrombie

HARDLY ANY SHOOTING STARS LEFT B.K. FROMAN Birmingham, Alabama

Hardly Any Shooting Stars Left Iron Stream Fiction An imprint of Iron Stream Media 100 Missionary Ridge Birmingham, AL 35242 IronStreamMedia.com Copyright © 2022 by B.K. Froman No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Iron Stream Media serves its authors as they express their views, which may not express the views of the publisher.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021950069 All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™ Cover design by Hannah Linder Designs ISBN: 978-1-64526-372-2 (paperback) ISBN: 978-1-64526-373-9 (ebook)

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To Amy S., Linda W., Anne S. Thanks for lifting me up when I forget how to fly.

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exi Depriest spit into the sink, then rinsed her toothbrush. A high-pitched wail cut through the silence of her house. The shriek of the drone’s stability alarm made her drop her toothbrush and dash for the monitor in the den.

“No, no, no!” Grabbing the controller, she thumbed the left stick sideways while flicking the right stick forward. “Come on, get out of there.”

On screen, images of pasture and black cattle wobbled and turned. She thumbed harder, yelling as though she could push her will through the controls. The view twisted in circles, each slanted spin showing it neared the pond, the sun glinting off ripples on the surface. “C’mon, lift. Lift!”

The view jolted and stopped moving. The drone’s frontmount camera cast a cock-eyed image across mud and water, gazing toward the barn. Like a slow-moving train wreck, Lexi watched the view slowly tilt, panning upward until the camera faced the crisp, blue morning sky. Grumbling, she tapped buttons on her keyboard, saving the video images the drone had broadcast to the computer as it flew over the cattle.

“Six a.m. Time to go fishin’,” sang the rubber fish on the wall, a clock-face in its belly.

“Oh, shut up.” She threw the controller onto the desk, knocking over a framed photo. Sorry, Dad. She grimaced, hurrying to her bedroom, cursing her crappy luck. She’d already dressed for her presentation at Rotary.

Shucking out of her blue slacks and the maroon silk shirt, she

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Hardly Any Shooting Stars Left laid them in assembly-line order on the foot of the bed. At least they’d be ready for her quick-change when she came back.

On her way out the door, still buttoning her jeans, she passed the monitor. The screen image, spattered with mud, showed a cow snuffling and stringing slobber across the lens.

Great! Her luck was still crappy.

Grumbling, she trotted to the barn. Bigger than the house, the three-story white structure with its craftsmanship of dovetailed joints and stone-laid foundation showed it was the pride of whoever had built it. Stalls lined half of the bottom floor.

Well-worn ladders led to hay lofts, grain storage, and cobwebs in the upper stories.

The old ATV sat in a stall with buckets, tubs, and tarps piled on it. Lexi arm-swept them off, coughing from the dust.

She kicked open a swath in front of the vehicle.

The key dangled from the ignition where her dad had left it. A quick twist. Nothing happened. A few more torques and the engine still didn’t turn over.

“Figures.” It hadn’t been used since he’d died thirteen months ago. “Aaaargh!” She pounded the steering wheel.

Jumping off, she grabbed an empty gunny sack and jogged through the backdoor of the barn. With two fingers circled in her mouth, she gave a two-note whistle. The paint horse lifted her head and ambled from the pasture. Lexi grabbed a halter and ran to Molly, giving the blaze on her forehead a quick rub when they met.

“Hey, girl.”

Still clutching the gunny sack, Lexi put both hands on the mare’s back and jumped, rising to her chest before sliding back down.

Molly U-ed her neck and watched.

“I’m out of practice, okay?” Lexi jumped again. This time she managed to drape herself over the horse’s back like a wet string. But before she could pull herself into a sitting position,

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B.K. Froman Molly began walking, snorting, and sawing her head. Lexi slid back to the ground.

“I don’t have time for this. Stand still.” She grabbed a handful of mane, then sprang up. Teetering on top like a seesaw, she swung a leg over the horse’s back and squeezed her legs. Molly took off, the gunny sack flapping in the breeze.

It had been a while—a long while. Lexi kept her eyes open and one hand buried in the mane, remembering her twelveyear-old self riding with eyes closed, arms wide, embracing the wind.

Above her, the sun owned the heavens, drying the pastures from the thunderstorm several nights ago. The clean scent of new-washed earth clung to the morning, dewy grass muffling the beat of Molly’s hooves.

Clusters of Black Angus, with numbers freeze-branded on their flanks, looked up or skittered aside as she passed. Without thinking, she scanned the animals, just as the drone had been doing. Number 717 hung its head too low as though it were ill.

She’d check it against the video footage from the past two days.

See if it had a worsening condition.

Her dad’s voice echoed in her mind. “Robo-beef. It’s no way to ranch.”

“It’s either them or you,” she’d told him when she began using drones. “I can’t take care of both. Which do you want?”

“There’s never time enough to do it all.” He’d given her a half-smile, then looked out the window, his tubes and hoses lying against weather-creased skin that should have been out in the sun.

Lexi hated those last mental pictures. Him wishing he could be outside. Her wishing she could be in her shop.

Each morning, she sent a drone to programmed waypoints over the pastures, recording their cattle. Later, she reviewed the videos. The drone had eased her chores—until today.

“Whoa.” Lexi shifted her weight back, signaling the horse, then slid off before Molly had fully stopped. At the

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Hardly Any Shooting Stars Left edge of the pond, five steers circled the two-foot-wide drone.

Her boots sank into the muck, making squelching sounds with each step.

“Move!” She slapped hindquarters, working her way between cattle. Elbowing their heads out of the way, she carefully pulled the device from hoof-pocked manure and mud.

A frown crossed her face. A propeller arm should’ve protruded from the four corners of the drone, but now there were only three. Plunging her hand in sludge, she noodled for the missing piece. Nothing. Several steers left, their hooves splattering her as she held up the device, mud falling in chunks as she inspected it. One of the corner booms was gone, as though it had been chewed off. She ran her finger over the rough, jagged plastic. A lead pellet fell into her palm.

Her glare snapped toward the good-neighbor gate separating her property from the next ranch several acres away. No one was in the pasture, but a trail in the dew showed someone had been there.

“You hateful old coot!” Sure he was watching from his house, she held up the drone, shaking it, flinging mud around her. Molly sidestepped a few feet away. “You’re gonna pay for this!”

Stuffing the muddy drone in the gunny sack, she mounted— after three tries—and kneed the horse into a gallop, thundering back to her barn.

• At the back of the property, a skinny young man stepped from behind a tree. He resettled his hat from its pushed-back position. Man. Why should a young woman have such a temper? Usually it was old, dried-up, bossy women who were so bitter. It wasn’t right for a young gal to flare up like that. Her red hair might account for some of her peevishness, but still … some guy oughta teach her to calm down.

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B.K. Froman His eyes followed the horse and rider across the pasture, the hoofbeats fading into the barn. He looked around. It was a pretty place. Lotta work. He shook his head, pushing away the idea teasing his mind. He didn’t have time to get involved. He had work to do, and it meant a lot of money.

He might even have to kill some fool to make his plan work. His mouth tensed. That young woman and her temper could get in his way. He hoped not. But he understood how to make his intentions work. He could be patient.

Staring at the open door of the barn where horse and rider had disappeared, he decided he’d get what he wanted. All of it.

He shouldered his shotgun, turned, and stepped back into the woods.

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