Home on the Rangeman
This is a sequel to "Devastation and New Start." I suggest reading the first story, but if you don't, I've tried to cover the basics in this story's first chapter.
Carlos Manoso was declared dead and buried at Arlington Cemetery in Washington. But he didn't die. He and Stephanie have completely changed their lives and now live on a secluded ranch. Unfortunately, dangers from the past intrude on their idyllic life.
Due to Ranger's name change and the "bad guy's'" many aliases, you might get confused.
The Cast of Characters:
Carlos Manoso, Ranger was declared dead. He now goes by the name Enrique Delgado. Stephanie calls him Rick.
Stephanie Plum is now Stephanie Delgado. She and Rick are married.
Jose Castillo, Butler Security agent, is Stephanie's pseudo-husband who goes by the name Enrique Delgado when Mr. and Mrs. Delgado are in public together. He bears a remarkable resemblance to the former Carlos Manoso.
The bad guy has many names: Salem Albadar, Silvio Alberra, Jules Armand, Samuel L. Bardora, and Amal. B. Dorales. Many are anagrams of Salem Albadar, his original name, we think.
Chapter 1 Paradise
My name is Stephanie. I've had many nicknames over the years; Trainwreck, Cupcake, Bombshell Bounty Hunter, Babe and a string of vulgar terms used by people who resented my work. I was once a bond apprehension agent or bounty hunter if you prefer. Initially, I was horrible at bringing in the fugitives. Either by accident or sheer perseverance, I began to have success. I avoided getting training to aid me as I didn't want others to think I was incompetent. I honestly thought I was a pretty good bounty hunter as my capture rate was near 100%. Granted my expenditures were often higher than the money collected due to ruined clothes, destroyed cars, and public spending on police and fireman call-outs, but that's another story.
I was born and raised in a section of southern Trenton, New Jersey known as Chambersburg. Ethnically Chambersburg was once very Italian. Even those without Italian olive oil running through their veins adopted Italian ways such as hand gestures, expressive words, and food. People there knew the difference between cannoli and cannelloni.
From 1872 to 1888 Chambersburg was an independent community until annexed into Trenton. John A. Roebling famous for building the Brooklyn Bridge in New York began a wire company in 1849 which continued until 1974. Steel used in the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco came from the Roebling factory.
In the Burg, women married young and were judged by their domestic skills. One's social standing depended on house cleanliness including the windows, one's ability in the kitchen especially with ziti, freshly ironed clothes, and clean appropriately dressed children. Church attendance was mandatory for wives and children.
Husbands stayed home from church to read the Sunday paper or to tinker with their cars. Their church was often membership in Knights of Columbus, a fraternal organization or drinking society. I never knew the difference. A husband's contribution to the family was to sire children and provide a paycheck.
Boys were princes and could do no wrong. If they did, their actions were summed up with a simple "boys will be boys." Girls were kept on a short leash and trained to be nuns, school teachers, nurses, with the highest calling being wives and mothers. I often felt I was dropped into the Burg from an alien planet as such a lifestyle was not for me disappointing my family, friends, and others.
After college and the quickest marriage/divorce in Burg history, I was still attached to the Burg guinzaglio, leash. Instead of having a respectable job, I fell into bounty hunting for my despicable cousin Vincent Plum. When it came to finding a new husband, I had not one but two boyfriends. None of us made a move to the altar.
I left the Burg almost five years ago, devastated when my world crashed down about me. The two love interests in my life died within several weeks of one another.
Ricardo Carlos Manoso, Ranger, died in some remote jungle on a secret government mission. He had always told me it could happen which was why he never wanted a committed relationship with me. We were "friends," at least that's what we said to other people and perhaps ourselves.
Carlos Manoso was buried at Arlington Cemetery, and a memorial plaque placed at the Manoso family crypt in Newark. I remember very little about Ranger's funeral. I vaguely remember all the military uniforms. As the time neared for the gun salute, Tank, Ranger's second in command at Rangeman Trenton and best friend, held me tight to his chest. That single compassionate task kept me from completely falling apart.
Weeks later, Joseph Anthony Morelli, the Trenton Police Detective and original the bane of my existence but then my boyfriend, perished in an airplane accident in Alaska. Joe, my mother, and most of the Burg believed I was destined to marry Joe and bear a new generation of Morellis. I was never wholly committed to the plan.
Joe's funeral had a casket, but no grave. There was nothing to bury, and the Morelli family couldn't see spending money on burying an empty coffin. After the service, the casket was returned to the mortuary. Once again the ceremony ended with a gun salute and once again Tank carefully pulled me to his chest. I was numb, no tears this time.
Immediately I heard, "Stupid Stephanie if she had married Joe like she was supposed to, she would have his house and life insurance." My mother almost began finding some new sucker to woe me. I had to leave Trenton. No longer could I face all the gossip and memories. I moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico to work for Butler Security.
It wasn't until I had moved across the country did I learn both Joe and Ranger were still alive. Joe had a new life, wife, and adopted daughter under the WITSEC program, witness protection. His undercover operation was blown apart by Burg gossip, and he was nearly killed.
Severely injured and near death, Carlos Manoso was brought back to the US under a new identity. Poisoned, but his organs functioned. The rest of his body didn't. He did not respond to touch, sound or even light. However, he was aware of being trapped internal blackness. Day after day, week after week, month after month he was unable to see, move or communicate.
One of his government handlers, Angela Manoso Butler and owner of Butler Security, rescued him and brought him to the VA hospital in Albuquerque. I didn't learn Angela's maiden name until nearly a year after I went to work for her.
To convince the world Carlos Manoso was dead; Angela gave him a new identity Enrique Delgado. The doctors did not know what caused his condition and had no treatment. All assumed he would die without regaining consciousness. Until his heart quite beating, he would remain in the hospital, his real identity known to four people: Angela and her husband Nick Butler, Tank, and Bobby in Trenton. Even is cousin Lester Santos did not know of the deception.
When my emotional health improved, Angela devised a plan for Bob the Dog and I to discover Enrique Delgado at the VA hospital as participants in the pet therapy program. Imagine my shock finding Ranger somewhat alive. My goal became bringing him back to the living. As he woke, I was there to comfort and encourage him.
After many months of rehabilitation, Ranger recovered, left the hospital and began his new life as Enrique Delgado. We married and lived briefly in Albuquerque, but moved to a ranch in southwestern Colorado to minimize his public exposure. Rick could not take the chance he would be seen and identified as Carlos Manoso. While the ranch was extraordinarily lovely, we wanted more room and more privacy. The Colorado San Juans Mountains are a haven for off-roaders, hunters, movie companies, hikers. We found solitude in Northwestern Colorado in a little-known valley, our own Shangri-La. Rick continues to be protected by Angela. Our ranch foreman is Steve Marchand, formerly with Butler Security. Jose Costillo, still a Butler employee becomes Enrique Delgado whenever Rick needs to be seen away from the ranch. My father also knows Rick is the former Carlos Manoso.
Daddy stumbled onto our secret when my mother hounded him to check up on their wayward daughter. No way would Helen Plum leave Trenton especially when she misunderstood Daddy and believed I lived in Mexico, not NEW Mexico.
Daddy came alone. Enrique/Rick/Ranger hadn't been out of the hospital long before Daddy appeared. Enrique was skinnier and had a beard, but my father recognized him. Raised in the Italian area of Trenton where the Mob was strong years before; my father knew how to keep his mouth shut. Also, my father was a former Army Green Beret and felt it was his duty to protect a fellow Army Special Forces soldier.
Rick and I married. At first, I continued to use the name Plum in case I needed to return to New Jersey. I don't know why I wanted to hold onto Plum. It brought me so much misery back in Trenton. I never traveled back, so when we moved to southern Colorado, I began using my legal married name, Delgado. New Mexico and Albuquerque were entirely different than Trenton. This former Jersey-girl was indeed a fish out of the water.
Now in rural Colorado, I am in a whole new universe where asphalt and tall buildings don't exist. Trenton pollution thick enough to make your lungs ache is gone, replaced with thousands of acres of vast-openness, towering trees, and mountains that hold snow until July. The sky is so blue it seems alien to someone born and raised in the grey-blue sky along the Atlantic coast. The night sky is ablaze with stars. I never knew so many were up there and never saw the Milky Way, not even on the Point Pleasant beach at night.
It is a solitary life but heart bustin' joyous when your only companion is a man you genuinely love and thought was gone forever. Is it a boring life without the distractions of civilization? Only if I let it be. I remember my mother's neighbor Mrs. Markowitz baked coffee cakes every day as she had nothing else in her life. Though she lived in a metropolitan area, she had closed her mind and heart to the world. Here every day is a new often unexpected experience. The unexpected is what this former Bombshell Bounty Hunter thrived on. Instead of chasing Trenton's scum through landfills, garbage or having my cars blown up, now I muck out at barn if I need an odoriferous experience. I no longer catch fugitives. I hunt down wayward cattle or catch trout in the many lakes and streams on our property. I don't rely on Boston cream doughnuts for happiness and haven't had a car or truck explode since leaving Trenton.
My family home was a narrow, 1,000 square feet, two-story Trenton duplex. Here we live in a 10,000 square feet house of massive Ponderosa pine logs, open floor plan, high vaulted ceilings, moss-rock fireplace, and hardwood floors. Jaw dropping mountain views are out all windows. The back porch has a large spa for soaking weary bones after a hard day tending the ranch. The front porch rocking chairs face a magnificent view of the valley below and incredible sunsets. At day's end, we sit and watch wildlife. The quiet washes away all the day's problems, if the cattle aren't near. They can be noisy. I never knew Ranger to relax. Here Rick will sit with his small smile to drink in a life he never envisioned.
The titled part of the ranch that is the part we and the bank own is 5,000 acres. We have permits graze the cattle on the adjourning 7,000 acres of Forest Service and BLM lands. If Rick wasn't so insistent on privacy, we could be running a public dude ranch. In reality, the one dude here is enough for me. The nearest neighbor is 10 miles from us. It is mind-blowing for someone raised in Trenton where homes touch one another and yards are nonexistent.
We have cattle though Rick tells me we can have more. Right now he wants to stay small. Having more animals means more workers and less privacy. The four of us can handle the work. Since Rick and I are still learning the business, we rely heavily on our ranch foreman, Steve Marchand. Steve was born and raised on a Texas cattle ranch, former Navy SEAL, and "former" Butler Security employee. I know he is also here as a guard hired by Angela and Rick, but it doesn't bother me anymore. Steve was my mentor when I worked for Butler Security in Albuquerque. His wife Catherine is our housekeeper, cook, sometimes ranch hand, and a former Marine. Rick insists all employees have military training. Good thing I'm his wife, otherwise I don't qualify to be near him.
That's not to say I've remained ignorant of the need for personal safety. Rick, Steve, and Catherine have badgered me into learning how to use various weapons. The bad guys here come with four legs and big teeth, like mountain lions.
Catherine has also taught me hand-to-hand combat. I was always a scrapper. One of my first take-downs was Kenny Mancuso outside Stiva's funeral home. It wasn't pretty. Finally, Joe Morelli finished Kenny off with a right hook, something I'd perfect later in my fugitive apprehension career. Rick misses sparring with Tank in the Rangeman gym. While Steve is an excellent alternative, I've learned enough to make adult wrestling part of our sexual foreplay.
The ranch spans elevation ranges from 7,000 to 11,000 feet, the plant species vary. Initially, I didn't know one plant's name, but over time I've learned most. If you told me five years ago I would study botany while living on a ranch in Colorado; I would have laughed. My studies began when Rick and I reclined on a bed of dark green stuff while we cloud-gazed. Yes, Rick, the former high-strung Ranger knows how to kick back and relax. The unknown vegetation we were upon had exquisite tiny bell flowers. That started my interest. A paperback copy of the Rocky Mountain Wildflower field guide identified the plant as kinnickinnick. In one of my forays into civilization, I stopped by the botanic garden in Grand Junction and sat in on a class on collecting, preserving, and identifying wildflowers. Pictures in books aren't detailed enough for identification, but handling and mounting the flowers on archival paper have further ingrained them into my mind.
As a sideline, I've also been studying pharmaceutical plants. I'm not interested in experimenting. I've found learning about medicinal plants is fascinating. Maybe there's a bit of me that wants to know what poison affected Rick. Since he was in the jungle, was the poison plant-based?
I took chemistry in high school and college enjoying deciphering and balancing formulas. It was the labs that gave me trouble. The graduate assistant leading the labs always kept the fire extinguisher near-by. I knew I'd never become a chemist, but the mental challenge and discovery were captivating. I switched to business but didn't apply myself. I got my degree without causing my father any more tuition payments. In my studies now, all the chemical terms have come back to me. Who knows, in a past life I might have been a chemist or witch.
Another interest is the wildlife on the ranch. Here are animals here I never knew existed. The biggest is the elk, think deer or even reindeer on steroids. The males make weird sounds in the fall as they gather a harem for mating. The deer are more abundant than in New Jersey. I've seen bighorn sheep high in the mountains on impossibly steep slopes. We see eagles in the skies above the rivers. Beaver and fish are in the rivers. Bears are numerous but keep their distance, mostly. When food is scarce, they come around. Coyotes occasionally pretty on the very young calves, though they would instead catch and consume ground squirrels. Their distinctive calls are heard from mid-spring to late fall. The pups are real chatterers. Wolves are in the area, but I've only heard them. Wolverines are scare, thankfully. Rick and I stopped the pickup one day to admire the wolverine beside the road. The little devil waddled to the truck and attacked the tire. Rick drove off, and the tenacious wolverine hung tight for several tire revolutions. Thump, thump. We stopped to watch the animal wandered off back into the forest apparently unharmed. Smaller animals such as skunks and porcupines keep Bob and Jacob, the two Golden Retrievers on their toes.
Bob Dog was co-owned by Joe Morelli and me. When Joe "died" Bob came to me. Jacob was a former champion show dog belonging to my landlord in Albuquerque. He and Bob were such friends and working companions in pet therapy, he was given to me, or actually to Bob. Both are urban dogs and find the wildlife here difficult. Jacob has figured out the skunks are not kitties to play with, Bob is still learning. Far too many mornings have begun bathing one or both of the dogs as they encountered the striped "kitty" on their early morning bathroom run. The spray is six different compounds, all sulfur hydrogen based, similar to rotten eggs only a thousand times worse. Tomato juice does not work at all to remove the stench. After cleaning, the secondary compounds, the thiol acetates, can be triggered each time the dog gets damp renewing the smell. We keep fresh hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap at the ready as we've found it is the only solution for skunk stink.
Yeah, that's me, the former Bombshell Bounty Hunter spouting off words like thiol acetates. Each day is a new adventure, and best of all, nobody is bombing my apartment, my car hasn't burned, and though there are no Boston cream doughnuts, I have the most delicious husband to savor every day.