And there was that other nagging question in his mind. Why Lochlain? Why had the murder and arson happened there? He needed to find that link. The only connection he could see with Lochlain Racing so far was that the homicide victim was the father of Daniel Whittleson, who worked as Lochlain’s head trainer.
Secretly, Dylan was relieved Louisa was in hospital.
It bought him time to dig deeper before having to officially charge her and get her in front of a magistrate.
He rubbed the back of his neck again, trying to ease the stiffness. What he really needed was a full-on homicide team working this, as would ordinarily be the case. But until the APEC stuff eased off, he was it.
And that was the other thing Megan was right about—D’Angelo was going to go for him personally, potentially crucifying him on points of police procedure, like putting the probationary cop outside Louisa’s door.
Damn, but he was in a no-win situation.
Megan sped along the country road, autumn wind in her hair, the vineyards, vibrant with reds, oranges and gold, flashing by in a blur.
She’d spent the morning with D’Angelo and Louisa at Elias Memorial, rehashing the arrest, going over every little detail that had led up to the heart attack. When they’d finished, D’Angelo had pushed his glasses up his Roman nose and told them with his classic trademark equanimity that he would personally make Detective Sergeant Dylan Hastings his target in getting this arrest overturned.
D’Angelo had been particularly pleased to discover the probationary rank of the constable guarding Louisa’s door. He’d noted this was against NSW policing regulations, adding that police staffing problems in the Hunter LAC were going to be their ace in the hole.
So was the fact Louisa had not yet been officially charged.
D’Angelo’s criminal team was now in the process of putting together a case to nullify the arrest, focusing on police ineptitude, Dylan’s in particular.
Megan felt conflicted by this.
That wasn’t justice. Not in her book. That was legal chess.
It went to the heart of why she’d dropped criminal law.
In her mind, the one and only way to exonerate her aunt and put a simple end to this was to find the real killer, and the cop sure as hell wasn’t going to be looking any further—he thought he had his suspect.
Which was why Megan was on the road to Lochlain Racing now. She wanted to see the arson site herself, speak to owner Tyler Preston, find something—anything—that might help solve this case.
But a cold and faint finger of doubt touched her again as she turned onto a dirt road, slowing for some riders, the sun warm on her arms.
What had Dylan meant by saying Louisa had bought justice before? And why had Louisa’s pistol been used as the murder weapon?
Megan drove up the Lochlain driveway, and pulled up under a tall stand of gum trees alongside one of the farm outbuildings. As she got out of the car, the first thing she saw was a young teen in a navy-and-white school uniform on some risers near an empty dressage ring in the distance. She was bent forward, face buried in her hands, crying. Not just crying, but sobbing, her frame physically racked by emotion.
Megan glanced around. There was no one in the immediate vicinity. She hesitated, then walked up to the girl. And as she neared, something in her heart squeezed.
The child reminded her of herself at that age.
Perhaps it was the thick honey-blond hair in two pigtails, the proximity of a dressage ring, the scent of horses in the air—all combining to prod loose a certain memory thread. It was at about the same age as this girl, Megan had lived to ride.
Dressage had been her performance class, a passion passed down from Granny Betty to her mother to her.
She’d lost touch with the sport after her mum and dad’s accident. Life had changed after that. She’d been sent off to boarding school, the horses sold. But right at this moment she felt the old passion stirring oddly, deeply, inside her once again.
“Hey there,” she said, edging onto the wooden bench alongside the girl. “You okay?”
The teen stilled, then sniffing and wiping her face, looked up cautiously. Her cheeks were streaked and blotchy, but she had incredibly beautiful big green eyes. Again an odd sensation gripped Megan. She had a weird feeling of looking back in time, at herself.
“My name is Megan Stafford,” she said softly. “Can I help?”
The girl swiped her eyes, looking embarrassed, then shook her head.
“Did something just happen?”
She glanced away, stared at the empty ring, her gaze shifting slowly towards the fire-damaged barns that had been cordoned off with construction fencing and checkered blue-and-white crime tape. Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears and she moistened her lips. “My horse, Anthem—” she said, eyes fixed on the charred ruins “—was injured in the fire.”
Megan’s heart clutched. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Did…did you lose her?”
The girl bit her quivering lip as tears spilled silently down her cheeks again. “I…might. She’s got smoke inhalation damage. I don’t know if she’s ever going to be okay, and…” She was racked by another deep sob. “I can’t be with her because the vet is in there with the other horses now. Anthem was doing all right, and…and then suddenly there was a whole lot of fluid in her lungs yesterday…” Her voice choked as a wrenching surge of raw emotion took hold of her.
Megan instinctively put her arm around the teen, drawing her close, just holding her, stroking her hair. She recalled how many times in her own youth she’d wished her mother had been around to do just this, hold her—how alone in the world she’d felt after her parents had died.
Megan hadn’t thought about this in a long while.
After a few minutes the girl looked up sheepishly with red-rimmed eyes. “Thank you,” she said, wiping her face. “I’m sorry. I…I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.”
“It’s okay, hon. You need to let these things out.” Megan had a sense the child had also desperately needed the tactile comfort of another human. “Are you here all alone?”
She nodded. “I got off the school bus here because I was hoping they’d let me see Anthem. I usually ride her on Tuesdays, but…” She sighed deeply. “They’re so busy with all the other horses and Anthem is not a Thoroughbred. I’m worried they’re not watching her closely enough.” She glanced up. “Anthem’s depressed. I think she needs special attention or…she might just give up.”
“I’m sure they’re treating all the horses the same, sweetie.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If we had money, I’d take her someplace she could get individual care. I bet if she was an expensive racer they’d have gotten her out of the fire earlier. She wouldn’t have been left until last.”
“I’m sure it didn’t happen like that.”
She looked up with an expression that made Megan’s heart ache. “I’m sure it did.”
“Why is Anthem stabled here?”
The girl sucked in a shaky breath as galahs, pink and white, flitted and chattered in the tree above. “Tyler Preston, the owner, was giving me lessons.”
“Dressage?”
“No, Anthem and I have been working on that ourselves. Tyler teaches a couple of us local kids the basic stuff. He’s really good—he used to have his own TV show. He gave my friend Zach a part-time job as a groom, and his payment is the lessons. Zach uses one of Tyler’s horses when he rides here, but he has his own at Huntington Stud, where his dad works as a trainer. And because my dad has a stupid job and doesn’t make enough money, he can’t afford stabling costs or lessons anywhere, so Tyler offered for free.” Her big green eyes flashed up to Megan. “You see? Anthem is not a priority, and I’m worried the vet is going to neglect her since he’s so busy with the prize horses.”
“I tell you what, I’ll talk to Tyler and get the low-down, how about that? I’m here to talk to him about the fire anyway.”
The teenager stared at Megan in bemused sile
nce as she digested this. “Why would you do that for me?” she asked very quietly.
The question caught Megan off guard. “Why wouldn’t I?” She hesitated a moment, then smiled gently. “Besides, you remind me of someone I used to know, someone who used to love riding with all her heart.”
“What happened to her?”
“She forgot to follow her heart. Come—” She held out her hand. “We’ll go talk to Tyler, and then I’ll give you a ride home. Where do you live?”
“Pepper Flats, near the village,” she said, getting up, dusting off her school uniform. “My name is Heidi. How do you know Tyler, Megan?”
“I don’t. Louisa Fairchild is my great-aunt and I’m visiting, and…well, I’m helping her out with a bit of a problem.”
They walked together over the gravel driveway toward the main house. “So you’re not riding at all at the moment, Heidi?” said Megan.
She shook her head.
“You know, Louisa has some really good dressage horses and she might be able to spare one. Would you be interested in riding at Fairchild for a while? Just until Anthem is better, of course.” She grinned. “Besides, I’d enjoy the company. I think I’d like to ride again myself.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Megan sucked in a deep breath redolent with the scents of the fall air—eucalyptus, the tinge of distant smoke, hay, horses. It was a grounding scent, earthy. “I stopped when my parents died,” she said. “They were killed in a car accident, and my brother and I were sent to boarding school. Life sort of changed after that. We didn’t really have a family anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
She put her arm around the teen. “Hey, it’s okay. Brookfield ended up being a great school and—”
Heidi jerked to a stop. “You have got to be kidding me! You went to Brookfield art school?”
“Yes.”
Her hand went to her chest. “Oh, my gosh. That’s where I want to go.”
“It’s a good school. I’m sure you’d like it.”
She pulled a face. “We can’t afford it.”
“There are bursaries. I could always talk to someone.”
She stared, open mouthed. “You really could do that?”
“Well, I might if you show me some of your art and tell me a bit more about yourself,” she said with a warm smile. “You haven’t even told me your surname—”
“Megan!” a powerful male voice called out to them.
They both turned to see a tall dark-haired man in a cattleman’s hat, his left arm in a sling, striding towards them, three border collies at his heels.
“That’s Tyler. I thought you said you didn’t know him?”
“I called ahead. He’s expecting me.” Megan grinned. “And I guess he recognized Louisa’s Aston Martin.” She laughed. “Louisa claims it’s the Thoroughbred of motor cars.”
“That’s our place,” Heidi said, pointing to a rambling brick house behind which a field of tall dry grasses bent softly in the breeze. In the distance kangaroos grazed under eucalyptus trees fringing a ridge.
Megan slowed the convertible, pleased to finally be getting the hang of changing gears. In spite of its flash she liked the way the car’s manual shift connected her with driving—it made her feel more grounded. Everything about this valley seemed to be changing her in subtle ways, reminding her who she really was. What she liked.
Turning into the driveway, Megan caught a glimpse of a swimming pool at the rear of the house. She pulled to a stop in front of the brick garage. A tire swing hung from the branches of a gnarled deciduous tree, dog toys dotted the front lawn, and someone had carefully tended a lavender-fringed bed of iceberg roses that were peaking with a soft blush of pink. Feminine flowers, thought Megan. “Your mother must have a real green thumb,” she said, opening the driver’s-side door.
Heidi shot her an odd look. “My gran planted those.”
“They’re beautiful.” In fact, there was something genuine about the whole scene. It held a warm sense of family so welcoming and simple that it snagged Megan’s chest forcibly, and she had to stop for a second to analyze why.
Perhaps it was because she’d come to the Hunter Valley looking for her own roots and a sense of her own family, hoping to find it by discovering what had happened between Betty and Louisa. Maybe she even harbored a subliminal desire to bond with her great-aunt herself.
But as Megan climbed out of the convertible, the front door of the house flung open, and she froze.
Storming out of the house, bare-chested, damp tousled hair, bleached jeans slung low at his waist, a hairy mutt at his heels, and daggers in his clear blue eyes was…Detective Sergeant Dylan Hastings.
Her jaw dropped.
“Is that your dad!” she whispered to Heidi. Then it hit her—he’d said he had a fourteen-year-old child.
She’d just given the cop’s daughter a ride home.
This warm family house belonged to the detective trying to nail her aunt for murder, the man who’d declared personal war on the entire Fairchild clan.
Her heart began to hammer and her body turned warm at the sight of the half-naked, sun-bronzed cop stalking over the lawn towards the Aston Martin. She swallowed, bracing for a confrontation because it sure as hell looked like that was what he had in mind.
But he went straight for Heidi, lifting her feet off the ground as he bear-hugged his kid with all his might. “Jesus, Heidi!” he said, setting her down and stepping back, taking her face firmly in his large hands. “You have got to stop scaring me like this. Enough is enough, okay? I’ve been calling the school, your friends.” He hugged her close again, his blue eyes glimmering with powerful emotion.
A lump squeezed into Megan’s throat and she felt a strange pang of yearning. He glanced at her then, over his daughter’s blond head, and his eyes turned cold, hard. Angry. He stepped back from his child slowly. “Go inside, Heidi. I need a word with Megan.”
Heidi’s eyes lit up as she glanced between the two of them. “You know Megan?”
Neither Megan nor Dylan said anything.
Heidi wavered, confused. “Dad…Megan has offered me a horse on Fairchild Acres. She said I can ride every day after school until Anthem is better. And you’ll never guess what.”
“What?” he said quietly, eyes focused on Megan.
“Megan went to Brookfield! She said I could maybe get a bursary, that she could talk to someone with the alumni association.”
“Go inside, Heidi. I want to talk to Megan. In private.”
Exasperation filled Heidi’s eyes. “Why?”
“Just do it. Now.”
“You never let me do anything, you know that! I know what you’re going to say to her, that you don’t want me going to boarding school in Sydney, that you want to trap me in this damn house and valley forever, babysitting my grandmother!”
He looked at his daughter in shock. “What did you say?”
“It’s always no, no, no!” Tears began streaming down Heidi’s face again. “My mother wouldn’t do this to me!” she yelled, stomping towards the house.
Dylan’s neck and shoulder muscles bunched visibly as he clenched his jaw, fists closing at his side.
Megan stepped forward. “Heidi, wait—”
But Dylan shot her a fierce warning glare that hummed with such angry tension it physically slammed Megan back.
As Heidi reached the front door, a woman in her late sixties stepped into view. “Timmy? Is everything all right?”
“I’ll be right in, Mum,” said Dylan. “Just…give me a minute.”
The woman faltered, glanced at Megan, then shut the door.
Megan felt her jaw drop.
This handsome, stubborn hunk of a cop lived with his mother. And he hadn’t batted an eyelid at being called Timmy.
“What is this?” he demanded, wagging his hand between the two of them as soon as they were alone. “You trying to get at me through my kid now? Trying to insinuate yourself into my investigation, my l
ife, by involving my family? I don’t want her to be a part of this investigation, understand? And I do not want Heidi on Fairchild property. Not now. Not ever.”
He turned to go, but spun right back, clearly not finished. “It’s that D’Angelo, isn’t it? He put you up to this. Because that would be his style. Underhanded schmuck.” He marched towards his front door.
“Dylan, wait, please.”
He stiffened at her use of his first name, turned slowly to face her, his sun-browned muscles now gleaming under the hot autumn sun.
Breaking Free (Thoroughbred Legacy #10) Page 6
