The lawyer regaled Elliott with stories of his father that he had heard dozens of time. So he tuned out the solicitor. Instead of listening, he mentally drafted an outline of conditions for an estate sale at Christie’s. The collection had caused too much dissention in the family. He’d call the auction house in London to start working out the details.
With a plan in place and an opening in the conversation, Elliott escaped, leaving behind the solicitor with his ill-fitting toupee and droning voice.
Elliott’s leg burned with the heat of an iron poker sizzling in the fire. At his urging, David sped through town, rushing back to the B&B. As soon as they entered the library, Elliott grabbed a small medical kit from his briefcase and withdrew a syringe.
David snatched the syringe from Elliott’s hand. “Give that to me.”
He set his teeth. “I can do it.”
“You’ll stick the needle in yer dick.”
He didn’t have the energy to argue, so he lifted his kilt. When the needle punctured his skin, he flinched. There was nothing gentle about David’s touch.
David took a measure of the amount of medication left in the bottle. He nodded as if putting the demarcation line to memory. “Do not do this yourself.”
Elliott knew how many syringes the remaining medication would fill. If he took the drug as prescribed, the bottle could last a few days.
David put the medical kit away. “Where’s Kevin? The lad said he’d be here when we got back.”
“He had lunch plans.”
“He needs to get his sorry ass back here.”
Elliott snarled. “I don’t need a damn babysitter. Louise’s hovering is enough to send me to the whiskey bottle.”
“So that’s yer excuse now?”
Elliott rounded on his friend. “Don’t you have a crime to solve?”
“No.”
“Then go visit your sister.”
“She’s working.”
“Then go write your memoir.”
David clamped his jaw and gave Elliott a steely-eyed glare.
Elliott’s lips twisted into a sly smile. “Alice told me.”
David’s chest rose as he took a deep breath. “If a lad can’t trust his mother—”
“She’s proud of what you did in battle. Not many have earned the Victoria Cross. That’s an honor unlike any other.”
“Pride can get a man killed.” David’s voice went from brusque to edgy.
“You’re not on the battlefield now,” Elliott said.
“Life’s a battlefield. Those who forget get hurt.” David walked toward the door, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be back to take you to dinner. Get some sleep. It’d be good for yer blood pressure.”
Elliott waved David away. “Get out of here.” Then he eased into the desk chair, booted up his laptop, and started through a long list of emails. In the middle of a reply to one of the shareholders, his cell phone rang. “Fraser.”
“You need to sit down,” Doc said in a shaky voice.
Stomach acid gathered at the back of Elliott’s throat. “What the hell’s going on there?”
“No easy way to say this.” Doc cleared his throat. “Galahad’s dead.”
Sean and Mary MacKlenna are dead. Your father’s dead. Galahad’s dead. A tsunami-like wall of shock roared through his body, and his fist hit the desk. “We’re fooked. What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Maybe you don’t, but somebody does. I want a conference call with everyone who saw Galahad from the moment he got off the plane. Include the management staff. Work with Allie to set up the call. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
He punched the end-call button and stared at the phone gripped in his calloused hand with its protruding blue veins. Hands like his father. When had that happened? He dropped the phone, hating what he saw, but his hands itched to lob his pain into the stratosphere.
A Churchill Downs snow globe sat in the center of the desktop, a visual reminder that he had lost his beloved Kentucky Derby winner.
It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let Galahad leave the farm. He picked up the globe and tossed the glass ball back and forth between his hands. Strike three. You’re out, laddie. Elliott drew back his arm and hurled the globe toward the fireplace.
The sound of shattering glass brought Louise rushing into the room. “What the hell?” First, she glared at Elliott, then she glared at the fireplace where glycerin water sizzled in the flame. Twin spires lay broken on the hearth.
“You broke my globe? How could you?” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve had that snow globe for twenty-five years.” She picked up the twin spires and silver-plated label, clutched the pieces to her breasts. “Never—” she said, her voice quivering, “—have I known you to throw a damn thing. Why this? Why now?”
He set his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead in the heels of his hands.
She sniffed back her tears. “The way you’ve acted today is so unlike you. What in God’s name has happened?”
Silence lengthened as he lowered the flame heating his temper until only a fine, blue light remained. It wouldn’t take much to turn up the heat again. He grabbed his crutches and joined her at the fireplace. Using the broom hanging with the fireside tools, he began to sweep up the glass. “Galahad died in his stall.”
“What?”
“My horse is dead. And I don’t know why.”
She snatched the broom out of his hand. “I’ll do that.”
He took the spires and label from her, rolled the pieces over in his palm, checked for damage, then slipped them into his shirt pocket. “I need a drink.” He splashed whiskey into a glass and tossed the drink back in a single swallow. “I’ve got a conference call in a few minutes.” He hobbled back to the desk with a powerful swell of grief expanding inside his chest, building pressure that wasn’t healthy for his heart or his stomach. “Galahad’s dead. I smashed one of your treasures. What else can happen?”
His phone beeped with an incoming text message. With heightened intuition, he knew he was about to find out.
Doc sent a text message with an attached picture of the horse lying flat out in his stall. Elliott gripped the phone in his hand, afraid he’d throw it across the room, too. Later, after the call, he’d smash the messenger against the wall. But what good would that do? A branding iron had seared the image of his dead horse into his brain. Short of a lobotomy, the haunting picture would remain embedded in his memory.
Why’d Doc send this? I didn’t need to see a picture to believe Galahad’s dead.
The phone rang. Elliott glowered with distaste. The device had become evil incarnate, and he didn’t want to touch it.
Louise headed toward the door. “Take yer call, but please don’t break anything else.”
He picked up the phone with the tips of two fingers and stepped away from the other breakables on the desk. “Fraser.”
“It’s Doc. I’ve got Harrison, Peter, Jake, Allie, and Sandy here with me. We’re on speakerphone.”
Elliott had no time for niceties. “Were you in the van with him from the airport, Peter?”
“Yes, sir,” the groom said. “I wouldn’t let nobody else go pick him up. He’s my horse.”
“Tell me what happened from the moment he got off the plane—” Elliott paused, scratching his forehead. “Where’d he fly into? Lexington or Cincinnati?”
“Lexington,” Peter said. “He was just like always. Ears up, frisky. The groom on the plane said he cleaned up his feed. Didn’t see nothing to be concerned about. Once he got home, he settled in just fine. I went in and out of the barn, but I watched him real good. I was gone fifteen minutes. When I came back, he was down. I sounded the alarm. Doc got there and said he’s dead.”
“I was there when they put him in the stall,” Doc said. “Drew some blood. But I told you that in my text.”
“Where’s he now?” Elliott asked.
“In his stall. We’re waiting on the horse hearse
to take him to the diagnostic lab for the autopsy,” Doc said.
“The shareholders will want to know what happened, and you’re telling me he showed no signs of being sick. He just up and died.”
“That’s what we’re telling you,” Doc said. “They’ll run more tests at the diagnostic center. We’ll get something more definitive.”
A pause infiltrated the conversation. Elliott pictured his team sitting around the conference room table with downcast eyes. They’d been through worse. The last time he’d been at the table with them, grieving the loss of Sean and Mary MacKlenna. Elliott took a deep breath. His staff needed direction. They needed him focused on the farm, not on the burn in his leg, the ache in his heart, or the weight of frustration.
“I want a complete toxicology workup, Doc. And Harrison, notify the insurance company. Sandy, I need a press release. Short and sweet. But don’t let it out until I’ve notified the ten shareholders that their horse is dead. I’ll send an email and copy you on it.”
The marketing director’s nails clicked against a keyboard as she typed.
“Officially,” Elliott continued, “the statement will read that Galahad arrived in good order from standing his second southern hemisphere season in New South Wales. The morning of his death, he showed no signs of illness or injury. He died in his stall at ten o’clock a.m. Necropsy results are unavailable at this time.
“Then, Sandy, say something about the brilliance of his best offspring ranking him as one of the most important contemporary stallions. Close with we’re very saddened to lose him and that he’ll be buried at MacKlenna Farm.”
The clicking nails stopped. “Got it.”
“Allie, send me a list of the shareholders’ email addresses.”
“It’s on its way,” his executive assistant said.
“Peter, bulldoze a trail from the barn to the center. We’re got to get those test results.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I want more than what you can do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jake, I want a twenty-four-hour security guard posted at all the barns. If that means we hire more guards, do it.”
“Are you thinking—”
“We’ll take that off-call. Anything else?” When no one spoke up, Elliott disconnected.
It took Jake, Director of MacKlenna Farm security, thirty seconds to call him back. “What’s on your mind?”
“If someone wanted to hurt the farm, killing Galahad would accomplish that.”
“You think someone killed him?” The normally unflappable security officer’s voice leapt half an octave.
“Galahad was a sound horse. I’m paranoid—”
“And cynical—”
“—enough to believe a wee bastard could have killed him,” Elliott continued, ignoring Jake’s comment. “We’ll wait for the lab results, but prepare for the possibility there’ll be another attack.”
“Do you have somebody in mind?”
“Yes—”
“Not Gates. He’s been dead for years.”
“Maybe a family member or a cellmate. The police never recovered the fifty thousand dollars he stole.” Elliott fell silent, his heart pounding. He’d never wanted to hurt anyone in his life until Wayne Gates butchered his leg and came close to killing him and Kit. Elliott picked up the letter opener sitting on the desk blotter but dropped it, afraid of the damage it could do if he lost control again.
“I’ll double the guards,” Jake said.
“We should have a preliminary report in a couple of days. If they find a genetic problem . . .” Elliott grew quiet as worry catapulted through him, leaving him too shaken to stand. He collapsed in the chair. “If Galahad passed a defect to his offspring, we might have a bigger problem.”
“I’ll stay in contact with Doc and call you if I get any news,” Jake said.
Elliott tossed his phone on the desk and stared out the window. The last flicker of sunlight retired beyond the horizon, leaving the holiday lights twinkling behind the falling snow. Staying in Scotland seemed pointless. He removed the spires and the label from his pocket. The crash had blunted the tips, but there were no cracks or breaks. The silver label engraved with the 104th Run for the Roses had a few scratches. A jeweler could buff them out. He slipped them back into the pocket. For now, the pieces would remain there—a physical reminder of his temper.
The tapping of heels against the hallway’s marble floor yanked him from wallowing in a muddy puddle of self-recrimination. He turned toward the sound, and his mood lifted. Meredith stood in the doorway, one foot in the room, one foot out, frozen in place by an internal pause button.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
He hobbled to the other side of the desk. “Come in. I’ve monopolized the room all day.”
She dropped her coat and computer bag on the chair. A bottle of wine materialized from beneath her coat. “How about a drink? I’ll play barman this time.”
“Only if it’s whiskey, and I need a double.” He joined her at the bar. “Let me open that.” He read the label. “A Barolo?”
“I like to try new wines. Have you tried this before?”
“No, I’m just familiar with the name.” His eyes settled on her glossy, kissable lips. Nothing would do more for his spirit than to make love with her. He was racked by shameful lust. Elliott, you’re a wee bastard. Open the wine.
Louise rushed back into the room, threw a quick tight glance at him with eyes that still held on to the hurt he’d caused. She turned her attention to Meredith. “We’re booked in for dinner at Number One at seven o’clock. Would you like to join Elliott, my partner Evelyn, and me tonight?”
Meredith shook her head. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“I made the reservation for four,” Louise added with a tone of expectation.
Elliott handed Meredith a glass of wine. “The girls haven’t seen each other in a week. They’ll ignore me.”
She sniffed the Barolo, then swirled the wine and studied the brick-hued liquid. “Do you need rescuing?”
He didn’t, but he sure as hell needed a distraction. “You won’t let me down, will you?”
After taking a sip, her tongue darted across her lower lip. “Blueberries, plum pudding, milk chocolate. You sure you don’t want a taste?”
The smooth, debonair Elliott would be kissing her, tasting the damn blueberries on her tongue, but on crutches, he’d only embarrass himself with a klutzy move. “So what’s it to be? Are you abandoning me to my fate?”
“How could I refuse, especially at Christmas?”
“Wonderful.” Louise darted from the room just as she had entered—in hurried-rabbit-mode.
Meredith glanced at her watch. “I’ll take my wine upstairs and relax for a while. After reading nineteenth-century handwriting all afternoon, my head’s killing me.”
“Louise has a stash of over-the-counter medications.”
“I always carry ibuprofen.”
“A runner’s go-to drug,” Elliott said.
“Is that from experience, or did you tag me for a runner?”
“Both.” He tried to keep regret out of his voice. “But in the interest of full disclosure, Louise told me you went for a run this morning. Only serious runners go out in weather like this.”
Meredith snatched a handful of nuts from a container on the bar. “I have a Boston qualifying race in late February. I can’t afford to miss a training day, but I did cut the run short.” She nibbled on the nuts. “What time are we leaving for the restaurant?”
“The car will be here at six-thirty.”
“That gives me two hours. Just enough time to return some emails.” She grabbed her coat and computer bag, then saluted him with her glass.
Elliott watched her go before returning to his spot in front of the window. The snow fell harder now, creating large snowflakes perfect for making snowballs. Flashbacks to the last snowball fight he’d had with Kit. For someone so agile, s
he never could dodge a snowball. A tear formed at the corner of his eye.
If only he didn’t have a bum leg. If only the calendar could flip back a year—before everyone left him. If only Galahad hadn’t died.
How had so much happened in twelve months? His horse’s death would change everything at the farm—again. It might ultimately cost Elliott his job. He didn’t work for the money. He worked because he had loved the MacKlennas and he loved the farm. He was inexplicably tied to the land. A decade earlier, he had tried to leave, but a siren’s call pulled him back. A shot of burning pain slithered down his leg, reminding him that he almost died answering that call.
He exhaled a deep, audible breath. He didn’t like waiting games, but that’s what he’d be doing until he received the necropsy report. He scrolled through the pictures on his cell phone until he found the one Doc had sent. “Son of a bitch. If someone killed my horse, I swear I’ll kill the asshole.”
Chapter Eight
Louise’s B&B – December 23
MEREDITH UNLOCKED THE guest room door, tossed her keys, and unloaded her computer and handbag. “Ah,” she said, easing onto the bed. She’d be mortified if she spilled a drop of wine on the red comforter, although red wine wouldn’t show. Neither would blood. Not that she planned to bleed, but she was nursing a blister on her toe caused by a new style of running shoes. She knew better than to try a different brand while training for a race.
Relaxing, she sipped wine. Her thoughts went to Elliott, a handsome man with a soft full mouth. A gnawing in her gut reminded her that anything more than an evening out with him was impossible. Her complicated life didn’t need more entanglements. Instead of the man, she tried to focus on the gorgeous, sexy wine that turned into an aphrodisiac on her tongue.
The Barola held an almost seamless mouth feel with some nice notes of salty nuts, a much different taste than her labels. What would Cullen Montgomery think of Cailean? Would the winery’s founder have approved of this expansion of their portfolio, taking a financial risk? It had been her father’s vision, but that had been before the financial crisis and slump in sales. In her gut, she believed it was the right thing to do. The wine would be her legacy.
The Last MacKlenna Page 5
