by Leigh Hearon
“Well, I realize you’ve been taking care of my wife’s horse for an unconscionably long time. And I understand a vet bill is involved. I thought I could write you a check.”
For a cold-blooded killer, he sounds quite reasonable, Annie thought. And I might as well get paid before he goes to the pokey.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr.—I mean, Marcus.”
“Not a problem. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve discovered that Hilda wasn’t very good at paying her suppliers. I don’t know why, since she had plenty in her bank account. I feel it’s the least I can do.”
This man is just too kind, Annie mused. Maybe he hired a ruthless killer to whack Hilda.
“Well, I appreciate your offer, and I’ll take you up on it. Let me tell you how to find me.”
As Annie gave Marcus directions to her farm, she mentally mapped out the conversation with Dan that would follow this one. Ha! Not only was she the one who’d first entertained the idea of Marcus as the killer, she would lead him straight into the sheriff’s handcuffs.
Her next call was not quite as thrilling as she’d expected.
“Are you out of your Sam Hill mind, Annie? We know he’s coming in on the 5:25 out of San Jose. Don’t you think we boys work with our buddies out of state?”
The day before, Dan was worried that his “buddy” from the next county would butt in on his territory. Now that he had a suspect in mind, everyone was his friend, Annie thought sourly. And dollars to doughnuts it was Esther who’d been the one to find out that information.
“Well, I just thought you should know.” Annie’s tone was nothing if not haughty. “Just in case you come by and find a trail of blood leading to the bedroom.”
“We’ll be at your place no later than nineteen-hundred hours. And if you hear from him before then, give me a call, would you?”
“Oh, your boys will probably tell you as soon as he’s dialing my number.” Annie abruptly ended the call before Dan had a chance to answer.
Her mood improved a half hour later when she got a call from a friend a ferry ride away, pleading for help in teaching a young colt ground manners.
“He’s a sweetheart, Annie, but he needs your magic touch.” Samantha Higgins owned a boarding facility in Arn-dorp, a small Norwegian farming community just west of the Peninsula and about six miles from Annie’s farm as the crow flies. Sam was a professional horsewoman, and, in fact, president of the Northwest Trailblazers, the local riding club, but she occasionally took in new horses to train. When she wasn’t training animals, she invariably had her hands full teaching six-year-olds how to tack up a horse.
“You’re in luck, Sam—I have exactly one stall left. You sound far away. Where are you calling from?”
“The Worden Canal Bridge. I’ll be at your place in about fifteen minutes. With the horse.”
* * *
As soon as the lead rope was untied from the hook inside the trailer, the “sweetheart” leapt a full 360 degrees and lunged out of the trailer. The diminutive Arab was soaked with sweat. He’d also been plenty jittery on the forty-five-minute ride over. Annie conservatively estimated it would take Sam a good hour to clean out the trailer bed.
“Whoa, Jeremy! Whoa there, boy!” Sam grabbed the trailing lead rope and tried to stop the colt’s propulsion.
“In here.” Annie stood by the wide-open paddock gate. In the remaining minutes before Sam’s arrival, she’d emptied the last empty stall of winter vegetables and hustled Trooper and Trotter back into their own stalls, where they now stood, placated by unexpected midday hay.
With Marcus’s imminent arrest, Annie realized that Trooper might continue to board with her for weeks or even months to come. If that were the case, then Trooper would have to learn how to acclimate with her other horses out in the pasture. But there was no sense in rushing the process, and right now the paddock had to be free for the new addition to Annie’s equine family.
The colt rushed in, and Sam unsnapped the lead line seconds before being trampled underfoot. Annie swung the gate shut as Sam eased out of the paddock. For several minutes, the two women watched the colt race around the fence line without pause.
Annie spoke first. “Jeremy?”
“It wasn’t my idea.”
Another minute passed. The colt showed no sign of slowing down.
“Aside from having too much energy, what are his issues?”
“Oh, nothing that you can’t cure, Annie. He’s just turned three, and his owner has let him be a total baby his entire life. I’ve watched her feed him. She just brings out a bucket of grain and lets him put his face in it as she lugs it—and him—over to the feed bin. Jeremy thinks everyone is another colt to play with. He rears and bucks just to let you know he’s happy to see you. Frankly, I’m surprised his owner is alive to tell me about it.”
“Ever been under saddle?”
“I’ve barely gotten him under halter. His ground manners are nonexistent. He’s a lot of work, Annie. I hope you have time to take him on.”
Annie laughed. “So why’d you bring him out here without knowing the answer?”
“To tell you the truth, I’d loaded him this morning with every intention of taking him back to his owner. I was led to believe that all he needed was a little retraining. This is way too much for me to handle with everything else I do. Then, as I was waiting for the bridge to open, I thought of you and just decided to take the chance that you’d say yes.”
“He looks like a lot of work.”
“He is.”
“It will take a lot of time. And money.”
“That it will.”
“My lambing season is a mere month away.”
“I’ll help.”
The colt came to a sliding stop in front of Annie, reared up, and let out a deafening whinny.
“I’ll have to rename him.”
“Thanks, Annie. I knew you’d come through.”
* * *
By suppertime, Jeremy had been renamed Geronimo, and was following Annie around the paddock as docilely as a well-fed cat. At first, he’d reared every time Annie turned her back, once even touching her shoulder blades with his hooves, but he quickly learned that every time his front feet left the ground, he was pushed back into the corner. Geronimo was never quite sure how he ended up there, but it occurred often enough that he decided rearing wasn’t so much fun when it meant your butt got pushed against the rail.
Annie could guess at his thoughts. This new human is nice, and she smells good, too. Once, she even fed me carrots out her pocket, and all I did was stand there. Now she’s leaving, which means it’s time to race around the paddock again. But wait! She’s coming back, with a very strange horse. Geronimo whinnied. The strange horse whinnied back, but it was like nothing the colt had ever heard in his life.
This is turning into a very interesting day.
* * *
Once Annie was sure that Trotter and Geronimo were going to get along, she set to work getting dinner ready for the horses. With the new addition, the issue of where to put Trooper during the day was paramount in her mind. Geronimo definitely was going to be in the paddock for the foreseeable future, and most likely along with Trotter. She couldn’t risk putting the thoroughbred in with such a green horse, but the only alternative was the pasture with her other equines.
I need to remember to ask Marcus if that’s okay, she thought to herself, before realizing that the only decision Marcus soon would be making would be which expensive criminal defense attorney to hire.
The feed bins filled, Annie walked up her driveway and across the street to the stretch of mailboxes. Opening her own battered box, she pulled out bills, bills, circular flyers, more bills—and one letter with distinctive flowery handwriting in, of all colors, magenta—and no return address. Annie sniffed the envelope. Lavender. It could mean only one thing.
Annie sat down inside her kitchen and poured herself a small scotch. Letters from her half sister Lavender always required the h
elp of medicinal beverages. For the past fifteen years, she’d received quite a few epistles from her free-spirited, slightly offbeat half sister, and they all were precursors to the same thing: a visit, without a discernible end date.
Annie sighed as she ripped open the envelope and averted her head to avoid being overwhelmed by the fragrance inside. She picked up her glass, inhaled the fumes of her single malt, and, after a moment’s hesitation, bolted down half the contents.
Dearest Sister, Annie read, and barked derisively. Lavender insisted on calling her “Sister” instead of her given name, which Annie chalked up to her having read too much Jane Austen when she was young. But not only was the sobriquet in itself appalling, it presumed far too much, in Annie’s mind. There was nothing she could do about the fact that her father had run off with his secretary in his real-estate business when Annie was a gawky eleven-year-old. Nor could she do anything about the fact that said secretary promptly got pregnant and produced little Lavender. But it was too much to expect Annie to cotton to her unplanned and unwanted extended family with any real warmth or enthusiasm. Since most of her contact with her father consisted of stilted phone calls on birthdays and on Christmas, pretending to be nice wasn’t that difficult. After Annie’s mother died, the phone conversations stopped altogether, which was just fine with her. Unfortunately, Lavender felt an inordinate desire to keep in touch with a half sister she barely knew.
And Lavender was a lightweight; that’s all there was to it. Probably her name didn’t help, Annie thought. But since the age of three, all Lavender had wanted to do was to play Cinderella and practice how to look most adorable. With her long blond hair and perfect, small-boned features, it wasn’t hard. Annie’s father had been a pushover, she’d learned from Lavender’s letters. What had been an extravagance in his former household, such as buying Annie a pony, became de rigueur in his new life. Ponies, dogs, cats, bunnies, and whatever other animal captured Lavender’s curiosity for the moment were bestowed on her without a thought of what would happen to them once her enthusiasm faded. After the animal craze dwindled, Lavender took up lessons in hip-hop, pop singing, and other such pursuits, sure that she was meant to be the next Lady Gaga. The trouble was, Annie recalled, if anything took more than fifteen minutes of concentration, Lavender quickly lost interest. Even a year in Switzerland—something Annie would have sold her soul for—left Lavender with an atrocious accent and a French vocabulary that any fifth-grade student could top.
Dearest Sister, Annie began again. She tossed back the rest of the scotch before continuing to read.
You will be DELIGHTED to know that I am going to be in your world SOON!!! As you know, I have worked hard these many years to develop my natural gifts as a psychic and am very attuned to what the universe tells me. The very clear message that I have gotten is that I should be with you!! Also, there is a very spiritual Native American elder nearby who teaches how to communicate with animals and explore their previous lives. Isn’t that PERFECT, Sister? I’ll be helping you train horses by exploring their deepest thoughts and emotions. We will be SO GOOD together!! See you SOON!!
Love, your sister Lavender.
A poor imitation of a Celtic cross was inked in below her name.
Annie put down the letter and searched for her address book, pouring herself a hefty refill on the way. This little scheme had to be nipped in the bud. Immediately. Squinting at the many crossed-out numbers in her address book for Lavender, she finally selected the one that appeared most recent and dialed the number.
It was disconnected. Hell’s bells. How could she head Lavender off at the pass?
As she avoided thinking of the obvious, she savagely parsed Lavender’s letter. “Be in your world soon.” My ass, Annie thought. You’re in outer space permanently. “Natural gifts as a psychic.” Oh, yeah? Then hear this: STAY AWAY.
Annie sighed and reached for the address book again, this time searching for her father’s number. There was simply no one else to call who might know where Lavender was parked at present.
A female voice answered on the sixth ring, sounding breathless.
“Hello?”
“Is Douglas Carson in?”
“No, he’s out sailing right now. Can I take a message?”
“No. Well, yes. Would you tell him his daughter Annie called and needs to get hold of Lavender right away?”
“He has another daughter?”
“Well, technically yes, but that’s about as far as it goes,” Annie replied. “Just who am I talking to, anyway?”
“I’m Mrs. Carson. The third.” A small titter accompanied this information.
“Congratulations. You wouldn’t happen to know where Lavender is, would you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. She left the day before we were married. I don’t think she approved of me.” Another titter.
“And how long ago was that?”
“Almost a week. Doug and I are celebrating our first-week anniversary tomorrow!”
“You wouldn’t happen to know if Lavender was driving or flying, would you?”
“Well, she took the keys to Doug’s Aston Martin, which didn’t make him very happy, let me tell you.”
“Great. Forget the message.”
“I do hope we meet some time . . . what was your name again?”
“Carson. The same as yours.”
Annie hung up the phone.
She reluctantly put her glass of scotch away and headed to the barn. With a six-day head start, Lavender could show up at any time. Of course, she probably would have forgotten how to find her, but anyone in a forty-mile radius could point her to Annie’s farm. This is not good.
Thoroughly grumpy, Annie immersed herself in the business of feeding the horses and making sure their water buckets were full. Geronimo and Trotter were now best buds, grooming each other in the paddock. She decided to keep them in there for the night. No reason to make the colt feel more penned in than he already felt. Annie sensed that Trooper was a bit disquieted by his long-eared buddy’s change of allegiance, so she moved him to the stall closest to the paddock, where he at least could keep an eye and an ear on his now-old friend.
Engrossed in her own thoughts of how to work the colt the next day, Annie didn’t hear the stable door quietly open. The quiet “hello” that resonated a foot away caused Annie to shriek and drop the stable broom to the floor with a clatter.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The man who’d uttered the words looked down at Annie, his keen blue eyes unhesitatingly bearing into hers. He was at least six inches taller than she and carried himself well. The Armani suit didn’t hurt, either, but Annie suspected that even if he’d been wearing overalls, Marcus would still look good.
And what was no less startling, Wolf was right by Marcus’s heels, tail furiously wagging. It was obviously her Blue Heeler was dying to make friends with this stranger and, if he was lucky, convince him to throw him a stick.
Annie quickly glanced at her watch—6:00 P.M. Try as she might to feel concern over being in the same room as a cold-blooded wife killer, she couldn’t. Marcus breathed civility and good breeding. Besides, Wolf had already given him the canine thumbs-up.
Marcus held out his hand, which was quite large, with carefully manicured fingernails.
“I know I’m early, but hoped to find you at home. At the last minute, the airlines bumped me up to first class on a nonstop flight. I guess it’s one of the perks of owning one of the few Silicon Valley companies whose stock hasn’t tanked.”
He gave her a lopsided grin and did his best to look grateful. “I really wanted to thank you personally for caring for Hilda’s horse, under the . . . circumstances.”
Annie grinned back and stuck out her own hand, after wiping it on her jeans. “Pleased to meet you, Marcus. You’re just in time to see your latest equine baby before he goes to sleep.”
Walking over to Trooper’s stall, Annie wondered how she could be so calm in the face of
what surely was impending danger. She’d heard Marcus utter horrible words in his voice mails to Hilda, and as much as Annie disliked Hilda, she wouldn’t want anyone to be the recipient of such hateful language. Now Marcus had shown up hours ahead of schedule, and ahead of Dan, too. Yet she wasn’t looking for a way to get her shotgun. She was more interested in showing the man a horse. She glanced behind her. Marcus was calmly walking toward her, while Wolf did his best to lick his now-free hand.
The bay had been contentedly eating hay, but turned around to face them.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Annie asked, looking at Marcus. She noticed that Hilda’s husband had slightly graying temples on a full head of black hair and dark blue eyes that slanted downward, making his gaze look empathetic and a bit sad at the same time. If I’d been Hilda, she thought, I wouldn’t have let this guy spend most of his time in California. At least, not alone.
Marcus tentatively put out one hand and lightly stroked Trooper’s mane.
“He is beautiful, indeed.”
He removed his hand and then looked critically around the stable, now filled with horses quietly eating the last of their dinners.
“What a lovely place you have.”
Annie gave a half chuckle. “Compared to yours? How can you say that?” My goodness, Annie thought, I might as well be in eighth grade again.
Marcus turned and looked again at Annie. It was disconcerting just how far those eyes could look into another person’s face, she thought.
“Yes, Hilda has a beautiful structure, too. But here, you see the ways in which you’ve crafted this place into your very own. It shows who you are. Hilda’s was top-of-the-line, but it always seemed somewhat sterile to me, despite the millions of dollars that went into its construction.”
Annie stared at him, dumbfounded. Who was this man? And why had he been with Hilda?
As if anticipating her question, Marcus gave a quirky half smile. “You’re probably wondering how Hilda and I ended up together. Me, who doesn’t know one end of a horse from the other, for all practical purposes, and Hilda, who lives—who lived and breathed horses as long as I’ve known her.”
