The woman, Celia, looks our way and gives a little wave. “I’ve got her paperwork right here. I’ll just be a minute.”
We step aside to let the young man help another client.
“If you’ll wait right over there, someone will call you back in a few minutes. We’re on schedule today, so it shouldn’t be long,” Celia dismisses the woman she just registered. She shakes her head as she waves us over. “Marsh. You look like hell.” She holds up the folder that apparently is Butter’s medical record.
Another woman appears, and Celia gives up her post. She apparently had been filling in during the other woman’s break, because Celia’s name tag identifies her as the operations manager. I note that it doesn’t say chief of operations. A typical ploy to keep from paying what a man would earn in the same position. I mentally scoff. And a male COO wouldn’t deign to work the front desk so the front-line employees could take a break.
“I’m pretty sure Dr. Michaels is still finishing up a surgery. I’ll let his staff know you’re here.”
“I’d like to see Butter before I talk with him.”
Celia purses her lips. “Okay. I’ve put the word out, but my contacts are already stretched thin. Nobody’s in the position to take on a horse that’s a medical liability. This latest recession has left too many healthy horses homeless because their owners can’t afford to care for them any longer.”
“Thank you,” Marsh says. “I want to see where we stand before any decisions are made.”
“Go on back. He’s in C barn.”
Celia swipes her security badge and lets us into a maze of hallways that Marsh navigates like she lives here.
I’m tempted to trail Marsh so I can stare at her butt, which looks great in those tight jeans. But many of the rooms we’re passing have huge viewing windows so you can see into the operating rooms and laboratories. A dog is getting acupuncture in one room we pass. Another is laid out on an operating table while a surgeon works on his back leg. We take a left down another, wider hallway, and I nearly stumble when we pass a huge operating room where a horse is anesthetized and positioned on his back with his legs cuffed to chains that dangle from the ceiling, holding him in place. Sounds like BDSM but isn’t.
“Do you have to come here often? They seem to know you.” I’ve held back my questions as long as I can. “And you seem to know your way around.”
“No.” Her answer is terse, her lips drawn into a thin line.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’m thinking about her ass and making casual conversation while she’s facing a decision that may break a fourteen-year-old’s heart. I want to hang my head and slink back to the car. “I’m sorry.” I keep my voice low, as if I might wake up an anesthetized patient if I speak too loudly. “I run off at the mouth in tense situations. I’ll shut up.”
Marsh doesn’t answer but slides open a barn-type door at the end of the hallway and motions for me to go through first. A light touch to my back tells me I’m forgiven. I turn to catch her eye and acknowledge her unspoken message, but Marsh is already searching for Butter.
The stalls are concrete block on three sides and hard wire mesh on the side that fronts the barn’s corridor. I think of those space movies where one side of a jail cell is just a force field so the jailer has a clear view of the captive. The empty stalls have concrete floors, with drains in the middle like a really big shower stall. Some have rubber mats covering the concrete. The occupied stalls have a thick layer of sawdust on top of the rubber mats.
Marsh lets out a short whistle, and an answering nicker farther down the corridor locates Butter for us.
A tall chestnut with a gorgeous head and ears that tip inward nickers again as Marsh approaches.
“Hey, old man. How’s the gut feeling today?” She opens the door to the stall and steps in, holding it open for me to join them.
Butter searches her hands, then looks at me, as if evaluating whether I might be carrying one of those dreaded tubes they feed through a horse’s nose to get to his stomach. I hold out mine, showing I have nothing in them, and he snuffles my fingers.
“So, you’re feeling hungry?” Marsh coos to the horse in soothing tones. “That’s a good sign. They told me you haven’t been eating yet.”
“He hasn’t.”
We both turn toward the voice behind us, where a man in rumpled scrubs stands. He reaches up to pull off a surgery cap that has E. Michaels embroidered across the front.
“Dr. Michaels.” Marsh holds out her hand to him as he enters the stall. He shakes it and looks my way. “This is Lauren, one of my clients.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shake his offered hand and bite down on my tongue. A client? Is that what I am to her? Driving her here should at least rate a friend label. If the circumstances were different, I might have left her there to find her own way back to the stables. Butter seems to catch my change in mood and moves closer, snuffling my jeans, then lipping at my shirt. The big shit. It’s hard to hang onto my dark cloud with his whiskers tickling my ear as he tries to nibble my hair. I scratch his withers to distract him.
“So, his prognosis?” Marsh isn’t going to waste the doctor’s time.
Doctor Michaels shakes his head. “He seems to be recovering fine, except that he isn’t eating. We’ve given him electrolytes several times to make sure he doesn’t dehydrate. But if he won’t eat…” He smiles when he notices me fending off the inquisitive horse. “He does seem to be feeling better.”
“He’s a social eater,” Marsh said. “He’s used to being in a barn where he can see the horses in the stalls next to him. It might help if there was a horse across the aisle where he could see it.”
“We can try that, but I think he’s happy enough with the present company. Maybe we should keep her in the next stall.”
I feel something scratching my arm and nearly fall when Butter, stalks of hay sticking out of his mouth as he munches, tries to rub his itchy head against my shoulder. Thank God. My brain had instantly screamed spider, and a scream would have come out of my mouth if it had been a leggy arachnid instead of hay stalks tickling my arm. It’s not that I’m afraid of spiders, but the thought of one crawling on me makes me shiver.
“Hey, he’s eating.” I’m stupidly stating the obvious.
Marsh smiles, and I realize how much I want to see that expression on her face again and again. It’s a rare occurrence, and I’d last seen it when I choked on the Jägermeister. No. That wasn’t entirely correct. She smiles at the kids in her riding classes and at their parents when she talks with them. But this is a genuine one that lights her fantastic eyes. It’s like the sun dawning. I’m so enthralled with it I almost miss what Dr. Michaels is saying.
“I wasn’t sure surgery was a wise choice at his age, Marsh,” Dr. Michaels said. “Especially given his history of colic. I guess he’s proved me wrong.”
“I’ll talk to the owner about retiring him. I just haven’t been able to get in touch with him yet.”
“That would be best,” Dr. Michaels says. “Give him another couple of days with us. If he continues to eat and produces manure, someone here will call you to come get him.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Marsh shakes his hand. “I appreciate everything.”
* * *
The silence stretches uncomfortably long as I drive us back to Langston Stables. Uncomfortable for me, at least. Marsh seems perfectly content with the silence. When I can’t stand it any longer, I search for a conversation starter.
“So, if the owner retires Butter, will they take him from your stable?”
“Probably. Butter is no longer the eighty-thousand-dollar eventing horse he bought when his son was starting out in the sport. He has several months of healing, and then he could be a dressage horse for a beginner. But the guy who owns him is paying board and training fees on the horse his son is currently riding. I’m guessing he’ll look for a buyer a
nd sell Butter off cheap to someone who can wait months for him to heal and take the gamble that he won’t colic again.”
“It’s a shame Grace can’t get her dad to buy him for her. She really loves that horse, and I can see why. He’s a sweetie.”
Marsh stares out the window, her face mostly turned away from me. “Grace has the potential to ride at the top of the circuit. Her father showed on the amateur circuit until he went to law school and didn’t have time for horses anymore. He knows that moving up in the sport means finding the next horse that can take you closer to the top tier. Butter is a second-tier horse that peaked at least six years ago. He was perfect for Grace to learn on and win some local ribbons with, but she’ll need a better, younger horse to move up in the rankings. And I think, skills-wise, she’s ready to do that in the junior competitions.”
“What if she doesn’t want to give Butter up?” I know it’s silly to equate the two, but this sounds too much like dumping your girlfriend for the next hot woman who comes along. “What if keeping him is more important to her than winning trophies?”
“That’s not her decision to make. She’s a kid. Her father’s the one footing the bill, and he knows what she needs to succeed. It’s what I would recommend, too.”
“That sucks.” I knew I was scowling, but damn, it wasn’t fair.
“That’s how you make progress.” Marsh’s face was stone. “She’ll get over him once she mounts a prime-eventer and feels what that kind of ride is like.”
I grind my teeth to keep from screaming at her. How could she hold that crying child and comfort her, then conspire with the father to take her horse away. I was that kid, then that teen, and finally that young woman who was managed by the men in my life. I feel sick to my stomach. I want to save Grace from all the people who think they know what’s best for her. But she isn’t mine to save.
Stony silence prevails for the rest of our ride, and I don’t turn the car off or get out when we arrive. Marsh doesn’t move either.
“I’ll see you Wednesday. You’ve learned all you can from Alex, so I’m taking over. Your morning lessons will switch to four in the afternoon from now on.”
Just like that? She isn’t asking. She’s instructing without regard to the fact that equestrian lessons are not a priority in my life. I didn’t like being told what to do. Too many people have done that most of my life.
“I’ll check my calendar to see if I can come then.” I stare straight ahead. I will not look at her. I will not look at her. But, damn, I can feel her studying me. Inexplicably, my eyes are drawn to hers by some magnetic force, some power she seems to have over me.
“I’d like you to come, Lauren. But the choice is yours.” She gets out of the Volvo.
It’s my choice, except that she seems to dictate what choices I have available. I don’t care how sexy her ass looks as she walks into the barn without so much as a glance back or a “thanks for the ride.” I feel like poor young Grace with other people making decisions for her. I have vowed that will never happen again.
Maybe I’ll choose to not come back.
Chapter Nine
I don’t need to look at the clock again because it will read 4:05, just like it showed four o’clock five minutes ago. Sleep is not going to happen. I’m wide awake after three hours of restless dozing. No matter. I don’t have anything on my calendar for the day ahead, and since I live alone, I can prowl the house, work in my office, and nap the next day as I want. Nobody’s here for me to disturb or to ask why I’m sleeping in the middle of the day.
Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling isn’t productive, so I rise and throw on my worn, well-loved Pride T-shirt and baggy athletic shorts. Dressing shabby is another holdover from my rebellion against my father.
I flick on the coffee machine and roam through the house while it heats. The sprawling, two-story farmhouse situated on ten acres of expansive lawn and hardwood forest is my fortress against the world. I’ve spent a year personally supervising its renovation so it’s exactly as I want. I contemplate taking a cup of coffee to my favorite rocking chair on the wide wraparound porch and watching the sun come up. But it might be a couple of hours before sunrise, and the dark outdoors doesn’t call to me. My office door does. I need to work. Coffee first.
I nibble on buttery toast and sip my coffee while I scan the news headlines, then several “true” crime sites for ideas. My mind, however, keeps drifting back to Marsh. Damn her.
I change internet browsers to see if a search on her name will bring up anything my default browser doesn’t. Bingo. Most results are the same, but the new search turns up an item in a gossip blog called Paddock Talk. I have to subscribe to get into their archives, but I’m finally having some success.
According to this blog entry, a gelding named Jakobi, owned and trained by Kate Parker and ridden by Marsh Langston, was favored to win an international competition at the Carolina Equestrian Park in North Carolina. Marsh and Jakobi had won the dressage and the cross-country phases, but on the morning of the final phase—show-jumping—Jakobi was found dead in his stall. The official necropsy deemed the cause of death was an overdose of selenium, the same thing that had killed twenty-one polo ponies in Wellington, Florida, several years before.
According to the blogger, Marsh normally rode for Margaret Talmadge, who also had a horse favored in the competition. Ms. Talmadge implicated Marsh in the crime, telling local law enforcement they had argued because Ms. Talmadge had ended a personal relationship with Marsh, who was desperate to get back in her favor—possibly desperate enough to poison Ms. Parker’s horse to clear the way for Ms. Talmadge’s horse to win. Marsh was arrested and jailed when a syringe and empty selenium vial were found in the pocket of her barn jacket.
Marsh was released after one night in jail when the district attorney announced he would not prosecute the charges, because no fingerprints—Marsh’s or anyone else’s—had been found on the vial. Several witnesses, the DA pointed out, testified that the jacket had been hanging in the tack room since the first day Marsh and Jakobi arrived, providing ample opportunity for anyone to slip the vial into the pocket and implicate Marsh. The rest was simply unproven accusations by Ms. Talmadge.
The blogger hints, however, something was kinky about the personal relationship between Marsh and Ms. Talmadge. Something more than the fact they are both women.
I shudder, but not in a bad way. More like intrigued and possibly turned on. What are you really like in bed, Marsh Langston? And how deep into kink? I’m not into pain, but the thought of a little role-play and light bondage wakes up my libido, which normally is averse to mornings. Stop. I do not need to go there. I still haven’t decided if I want to go back for another lesson. I’m angry with her, my brain insists. My libido, however, isn’t on board. What if sex with her is really hot? I don’t know what appeals to me most—getting topped by her or maybe topping the top.
Stop. Right now. Work. I’m supposed to be working. Edith will be expecting some chapters to edit soon, but I don’t even have an idea fleshed out. Or do I?
If I take a step back and ignore my personal interest—okay, infatuation—with Marsh, this cold case is the perfect grain of truth to turn into a pearl of best-selling fiction.
* * *
Alex holds up a finger for me to wait, changes to another contact, and moves the phone to his ear. “Hey, where are you?” He listens, then curses under his breath. “I was hoping you were still at the house. Marsh has a migraine. It’s bad. I know. I have no idea. Does she still have meds? Good. I’ll just need to figure out how to get her to her house. A dozen kids are here waiting for their lesson.” He listens for a bit. “No. I’ll manage here at the barn.” He looks at me, his ear still to the phone.
“Where’s Marsh?” Contrary to my many, repetitively reviewed reasons of why I should stop my riding lessons and forget about Marsh, I have arrived for my four o’clock lesson on We
dnesday as instructed…I mean, invited. But Alex is telling me that Marsh is sick. I flash back to how tired she looked the last time I saw her, how faded her eyes appeared.
Alex’s frown softens, then relaxes into a smile. “Don’t worry about it, babe. I have someone here I can enlist to help,” he said into the phone. “Love you back, handsome.” He ends the call and looks at me.
“What?” I don’t mean to sound so demanding, but my impatience is getting the best of me. “Marsh is sick? Where is she?”
He puts his hands up, and I realize I’ve pretty much backed him up against his horse, who is patiently waiting to be unsaddled, hosed down, and turned out. “Down, Sherlock.”
Did he just call me Sherlock?
He points to where a group of eight-to-twelve-year-olds are grooming and saddling horses. “Marsh needs me to handle her next class.”
“Where is she? Is she all right?” I’m starting to sound like a continuous loop. Where is she? Where is she?
“She’s in the barn office.” He grabs my arm when I turn to go there. “Wait.”
I want to stomp my foot like an impatient horse. I’m filled with an unreasonable sense of urgency to find her. Jesus, we haven’t even had a real date, and I’m acting like…like…I don’t know what. Like we are lovers. I force my emotions down and turn back to him. “What can I do to help?” I’m positive I was the one he mentioned on the phone as the intended help.
“Marsh occasionally suffers from debilitating migraines.” He shakes his head, looking at his feet as he combs his fingers through his hair, his body language screaming frustration. “It’s been a couple of years since she’s had one. Not since…”
He clamps his mouth shut so abruptly the click of his teeth is audible. What did he almost say? He stares at his feet and shakes his head once, as if to reset.
“I have no idea what could have triggered this one, but it would have to happen when Harrison is tied up with a waiting room full of patients.”
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