“If I can’t buy him back, can you stop him from being transported?” she asked, but she didn’t jerk away from his touch.
But still, he pulled his hand back. “So long as the legal owner has okayed the transport, there’s nothing I can do. The horse is private property. He’s not being abused. If I suspect anything illegal is going on I can file a warrant, but I checked the paperwork and everything’s above-board.”
“There’s no wiggle-room here?”
“Not in this, Coraleen. The law is the law.”
He shoved the key into the ignition and started the engine. In the rear-view mirror, he could see Sherman lead a chestnut horse out of the trailer. Visada swished his tail and jerked on the lead rope, his eyes white and wild, ears flashing forward, sideways, back. He whinnied, loud and long.
He was calling for Coraleen, Remy realized.
With an aching heart, he shifted the Jeep into First and stepped on the gas as Coraleen squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands over her ears.
At least she hadn’t asked who Visada’s real owner was. Because he wasn’t sure he wanted her to have the information before he had a chance to talk to the owner. And find out why the hell Reinhardt had lied about giving the horse to Macer.
Because Macer Pettigrew had never owned Visada. Allan Reinhardt had been the owner, all along.
Remy pulled into Meadowview and stopped the Jeep in front of the Goldpan Pub. He needed to talk to Reinhardt, and he’d give his bottom dollar the man was inside, holding court with Ned, Albert, and the like. “Stay here,” he ordered Coraleen, yanking the key out of the ignition. “I have an errand to run.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “And I can’t come with you?”
“Coraleen!”
At the sound of a woman’s voice calling out Coraleen’s name, he turned to see Chessie Gibson, hippie sundress flowing around her legs as she jaywalked (jay-jogged, more like it) across the street, running in their direction. Coraleen whipped off her seat belt and leaped out of the Jeep, then sank into Chessie’s enthusiastic embrace.
“I’ve been trying to find you all day!” Chessie exclaimed. “I got back home early this morning.” She turned to Remy. “This girl needs a phone.”
“That she does.” Remy flicked his gaze to the Goldpan’s entrance.
“Hey,” Chessie added, turning her attention back to Coraleen, “I was trying to get ahold of you to tell you the job’s yours.”
That grabbed Remy’s attention. “What job?” he asked.
“I can’t accept it, Chessie. I’m not staying in Meadowview,” Coraleen argued.
“What job?” he demanded.
“I need a business manager for Sweet Meadow Scents,” Chessie said to him. “I spent the last few days interviewing city folk who said they’d rather stick needles in their eyes than move to a town as small as Meadowview. Well, they can bite my hiney. I have the perfect candidate right here in town.” She smiled at Coraleen. “You have a degree in business administration and you’re wonderful. And don’t tell me you won’t take the job. I hear from Juliet you’re refusing to move back to Meadowview because of your past. That’s stupid.”
A grin flickered across Remy’s face. “I agree.” He shifted from foot to foot, eager to get inside and confront Reinhardt but not wanting Coraleen to know what he was up to. “Uh, listen, Chessie, there’s something I need to do right now. Maybe you can talk Coraleen into staying in Meadowview while I go—”
Chessie waved a hand. “No prob, I get it. Sheriff’s duties call. I’ll hang out with Coraleen while you go uphold the law.” She cocked her head and gave him an inscrutable look. “But Remy? Just don’t hold it up too high.”
Unsure what she meant, Remy simply flashed her a grin. “You’ll wait here for me?” he asked Coraleen.
She made a face but nodded, then turned back to Chessie. Some of the pain that had creased her face after he’d driven her away from a whinnying Visada had lightened at the sight of her old friend. Trusting Chessie to take care of Coraleen, Remy squared his shoulders and headed into the Goldpan. Time to get to business.
He blinked at first, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. There. At the back of the building, at the far table, sat Reinhardt, surrounded by Ned, Albert, and a few other local businessmen. Remy came up to the table and placed one hand on his gun belt, resting the other lightly on the tabletop. A respectful demand for attention.
“What can we do for you, Toussaint?” Reinhardt asked, wearing a false smile. “Trying to win a few votes? I’m afraid you’ve already lost mine.”
“You knew people were looking for Coraleen’s horse.”
Reinhardt frowned. “Is that a question?”
“No. But this is: Why would you keep it from her that you owned her horse?”
“Visada isn’t her horse,” the former judge snapped out. “Never has been, never will be.” Then he sucked in a deep breath, as if calming himself. Pasting the now-familiar false smile back on his face, he stood and threw a few dollar bills down on the table, then shifted to get by Remy. “And besides, it’s none of your business,” he added.
“Everything that happens in this town as my business,” Remy said firmly.
“Actually,” Reinhardt said, “I think what you’re trying to say is that you want to make everything that happens with Coraleen Pettigrew your business. Been thinking with your dick, am I right?” He nudged Ned, who chuckled uncomfortably.
That was enough. Remy blocked his way. “Don’t talk that way about Coraleen. And what’s going on with that horse?” he demanded. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“What I’m telling you, Remy, is that you need to mind your own business. And you need to stop associating with known criminals. You know what happened with your father.”
God damn the man. Remy growled out, “So help me god, Reinhardt—”
“That horse is mine. Always has been. Macer never even owned him—I just boarded the horse at his place.” The man pushed forward, trying to shoulder past Remy.
Remy put up a hand to stop Reinhardt. “So that’s why there was no record of sale at the auction of Macer’s stuff? You were still the legal owner when Macer died?”
“Bingo. Now get out of my way.”
Something tickled the back of Remy’s mind. “Hold on. Why would you board that particular horse at Macer’s place? Macer had a barn and corral, sure, but no other horses. You, however, have numerous racehorses on your own property, some you race, some are retired. So why board Visada at Macer or Sherman’s places when you have a perfectly good home for him at your barn?”
Reinhardt didn’t bother with the fake smile. He lowered his brows and raised a lip in a snarl. “You do not want to be involved in this, Remy. You have no right to detain me, so get out of my way.”
With that, Reinhardt pushed past him and stormed out the door.
Leaving Remy to know what he had to do: Get to the bottom of whatever the hell was going on with Coraleen’s horse and Reinhardt.
And he had to do it fast. Before Visada was shipped off to god knows what fate, and before Coraleen left him…for good.
First things first. He got Bill on the phone. “Bill? I need you to expedite a search warrant. Allan Reinhardt’s place.” He’d get answers, damn it, no matter what.
One quick call to County Records had Charity Jones informing Remy that the bank still owned Macer’s property. And got him another mention that her daughter was still in town. An additional call to the bank’s president granted him permission to check out the barn.
“Gotta love small towns,” he murmured, then motioned to Coraleen to join him in the Jeep.
She quickly hugged Chessie good-bye and and jumped into the vehicle as he revved the engine. As soon as her door was shut, Remy whipped the wheel around and squealed out onto Market Street. Coraleen put on her seat belt, then remained quiet as he hovered right at the speed limit through town, then punched it after turning onto Riverb
end Road.
For a couple of miles she sat in silence, then, after the road narrowed from two lanes to one, she said, “I’m assuming we’re going to Pop’s old place and not the river.”
When he nodded, she asked, “But why?”
“I’m not sure,” he responded slowly. “Were you aware your grandpop never actually owned Visada? Reinhardt always maintained ownership.” He took his eyes off the road momentarily to glance at her.
She frowned. “I thought Pop owned him. That’s weird. Wait.” She leaned forward in her seat. “Are you telling me Reinhardt still owns Visada?”
“He does. His name was on the paperwork Sherman had in his office. That’s what I was doing in the Goldpan—confirming with Reinhardt he still owns Visada. And he does.”
“Slow down,” Coraleen said, placing a hand on his forearm. “Look.”
A quarter mile away from Macer’s place, Jacob Bullard was walking along the road. A little difficult to not notice the kid, since Jacob had his thumb stuck out and was gesticulating wildly. Remy pulled over and yelled at the kid to get into the Jeep.
“Put on your seatbelt,” he ordered. “And if I catch you hitchhiking again, I’m hauling your ass into juvie.”
“You shouldn’t say ‘ass.’ Coraleen doesn’t like it,” the kid replied.
If Remy wasn’t in such a foul mood, he would have smiled.
“That’s right,” Coraleen said, using her prim and proper voice. “Don’t swear, Remy.” She hitched around in her seat to face the boy. “You either, Jacob. Where are you headed?”
Remy flicked his gaze to the rear-view mirror.
Jacob shrugged. “Wherever. I’m bored. Hey Remy, how about you deputize me and we go catch some bad guys?”
At that, Remy did laugh. “That’s a no. And I’ll bring you back to town, but Coraleen and I need to do something first.” He focused back on the winding road ahead of him, then slowed and crossed over onto Macer’s long drive.
Less than a minute later, he pulled to a halt in front of Macer Pettigrew’s old barn.
“Wait here,” he told Jacob. “Coraleen and I need to check something out.”
“But I’m bored. I can help.”
Remy ignored him and hopped out of the Jeep, Coraleen behind him. He itched to take her hand in his but instead stayed a respectful distance away. Together, they made their way to the barn. The building was old—painted a faded red, with a big gambrel roof and high windows. A few boards had come off, and as he opened the door a loud rusty squeak filled the empty space. He could hear the flutter of wings in the rafters—pigeons, or a dove, most likely. A long hallway ran the length of the room, with stalls on either side. In the middle stood a room with a few windows that looked out into the interior of the barn.
“The office?” he asked Coraleen, jutting his jaw in the room’s direction.
“Yeah,” she said. “What is it you’re looking for there?”
“No idea,” he responded honestly. Something bad was going on with Reinhardt and the horse, but what? He was there because he was desperate. Coraleen had felt the urge to come out here to hunt for a clue—he trusted her instincts.
Entering the dim room, he felt around for a light switch, found one, flicked it upward. Light filled the space. At least the bank hadn’t turned off the electricity yet. He glanced around, taking in the tidy desktop, small metal file cabinet, and bookshelf filled with books and knickknacks—remnants of Macer’s life. A cork board hung over the desk, and on it various pictures of Coraleen and Visada were tacked up. He looked more closely—there was the newspaper article of him and Coraleen after he’d rescued her and Visada. He smiled.
Coraleen came up behind him to stare at the picture. “I still can’t believe you got the department to helicopter Visada out. Pop must have had to pay through the nose for that rescue, not to mention having Visada’s broken canon bone fixed. Those vet bills had to have cost a lot. God,” she said, her voice growing quiet, “I feel so guilty. I mean, I’m glad Visada lived, but that had to have set Pop back.”
“Your pop didn’t have to pay.”
“But who paid, then?”
He didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want her to know the truth, but because he didn’t want her to feel indebted to him. The cost had wiped out all his savings, but had been worth it to see the kid he’d rescued ride around the community she loved, on the horse she loved even more.
Nah, the fact he’d paid to rescue and rehabilitate Visada would be his secret, forever. The woman took paying back her debts way too seriously. He didn’t want anything to come between them.
And as much as Coraleen claimed there was no relationship between them, as much as she denied hope, he refused to let hope die. He’d find a way to win her back. Somehow.
All he had left was hope.
“This is so cool, dude,” Jacob’s voice came from behind him.
Remy whirled around and frowned. “Thought I told you to stay in the Jeep.”
Like Remy had done to Jacob earlier, the boy ignored him and stepped further into the room, drawn to the pictures of Coraleen and Visada. He pulled a few down and flicked through them as Remy made his way around the room.
“Hey, Coraleen, didn’t you say your horse won some big race?” Jacob asked.
Remy pulled open a drawer in the filing cabinet and tried to concentrate on the papers in front of him.
“He didn’t do so great at the beginning of his career,” Coraleen said. “He kept losing over and over again. But then he won a big purse, with a huge margin.”
“But he hurt himself after and didn’t race again? Uh…whoa. That’s so weird.”
“What, that he was pulled off the track? Happens a lot,” she answered.
“No,” Jacob said. His voice had elevated. “That’s not what’s weird.”
Remy stopped flipping through the files and glanced over at the boy, who held several photos in his hands. “What’s going on, son?”
“Maybe nothing. It’s just…” Jacob pointed to a photo of Visada. “Coraleen’s horse looks exactly like a horse that won a bunch of big races a while back. His name was Frenti.” He turned to Coraleen. “When did Visada race?”
“About thirteen years ago, I guess.”
Remy caught Coraleen’s gaze. Held it for a second, and when she slowly raised an eyebrow, it was clear she was as puzzled as he.
“Not sure what you’re getting at,” Remy said.
Jacob nibbled on his lip. “It’s just…you don’t usually see a horse suck on the track and then suddenly win big. And it’s kinda weird that he was retired right after that one race. And Frenti was racing at that time.”
He pulled a photograph off the cork board and held it out to Coraleen. “This is your horse, for sure? And is that a six or an eight on his tattoo?”
Studying the photograph, Coraleen frowned. Remy came close and looked at the photo. The picture showed the underside of a horse’s lip, the focus on a letter and number combination tattoo, but one of the numbers seemed faint. Blurry.
“That’s Visada,” she responded. “I recognize his tattoo—the last number was always hard to read. And it’s an eight.” Her voice went deep. Low. Intense. “What is going on, Jacob?”
“Dudes, give me a phone. One with Internet. I need to look something up.”
Remy handed the teenager his phone, then waited, impatient, glancing at Coraleen, who wouldn’t stop gnawing her lip. The boy flicked through the phone, scrolling and thumb-typing furiously, with the intensity and dexterity of a true teen. Finally, he looked up.
“You ever hear the term ‘ringer’?” Jacob asked the two of them.
Coraleen gasped and flung a hand over her mouth.
Remy was clueless. “I’m confused.”
“Was that horse Frenti a chestnut?” Coraleen demanded of Jacob. “What kind of a racer was he—a winner? Is he alive? Was the last number in his tattoo a six?”
“Jesus Mary and Joseph!” Remy exploded. “Is no one goi
ng to tell me what’s going on here?”
Jacob kept looking straight on at Coraleen. He swallowed, so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Frenti was a chestnut,” he told her. “No other markings, like Visada. Won everything he started in, and with huge leads. He’s been dead for years. And his lip tattoo ended in a six.”
Coraleen turned to Remy, her mouth agape. She’d turned white and seemed to be barely breathing.
“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?”
She swallowed, then said, “This means, Remy, that Visada is most likely a horse named Frenti.”
He shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Somehow Reinhardt got ahold of the faster Frenti and substituted him for the slower Visada,” she explained. “Put him in as a ringer. When the horse won big at that race—the same race Reinhardt made a bunch of money off of in a huge bet—he ‘retired’ the horse. Remy, it was a cheating scam.”
His heartbeat thudded loud in his ears, once, twice, three times, four—
Holy hell. “That’s why Reinhardt was so set on getting rid of Visada, and quickly, now that your grandpop’s dead and you’ve come back to town,” he said to Coraleen. “Obviously Macer had no clue he had a ringer on his property, and it’s pretty clear Reinhardt was never concerned Macer might figure the switch out.”
“But when I started putting feelers out, letting everyone know I was coming to Meadowview to get my horse as soon as I got out of prison, he got scared, right?”
He nodded. The man had to be worried his secret would get out somehow.
“Remy, that’s why Reinhardt wants Visada dead. No more evidence of the cheating scandal. You have to save him!”
He shook his head, trying to think. “Reinhardt still owns the horse. Only wait—Reinhardt owns a horse named Visada—but the horse you found in Sherman’s pasture, the one you’ve always known as Visada, that’s really Frenti, right? But damn!”
“What is it?” Coraleen asked.
Always the One: (Meadowview Heroes # 2) (The Meadowview Series Book 6) (Meadowview Heat) Page 18
