Racing Toward Love (Horses Heal Hearts Book 2)

by Kimberly Beckett

  Ian reflected on the progress he had made since moving in with Michael a month ago, and was proud of the changes he had made in his life. His work with the horses calmed him like nothing else he had ever tried, and Michael’s willingness to trust him with his very expensive dressage horses gratified Ian immensely. He had stopped using alcohol as a sedative, and his nightmares had become less frequent. Now this had happened.

  The door to the outer station house opened, and Michael Stafford walked in, accompanied by one of the constables who had arrested Ian. Ian slowly got up, wincing at the pain the movement caused, and walked stiffly over to where Michael was standing.

  “What happened, Ian?” If Ian hadn’t already known the situation was serious, the concern and frustration evident in Michael’s voice and expression left no doubt.

  Ian looked over Michael’s shoulder at the constable, who nodded slightly and took his leave to allow the brothers some privacy. Ian sighed and beckoned Michael to come closer to the cell. He grabbed the bars of his cell with both hands and bowed his head, gritting his teeth in frustration. He spoke softly in case the constable had stayed within hearing distance of the brothers.

  “I didn’t go to the pub to make trouble, Michael. I swear it. After my therapy appointment in Guildford, I stopped at the pub on my way to your house to get something to eat. I had a beer, just one beer mind you, before my meal was served.” Ian went on to describe to Michael, in as much detail as he could remember, what had happened at the pub. Just as he was starting to tell Michael that the woman whose testimony could exonerate him had disappeared, Ian noticed the constable moving slowly in their direction, possibly in an attempt to listen to the brothers’ conversation. Before Michael could ask the obvious question, Ian whispered, “The woman I saved disappeared, Mike. We have to find her.” He flashed a glance at the constable behind them, and Michael nodded in understanding.

  Michael cleared his throat and spoke firmly, as much for the constable’s information as Ian's. “The first thing we have to do is get you out of here.”

  Ian grimaced. “The sooner the better. I have a splitting headache, and I think at least one of my ribs is broken.”

  “He’s being charged with manslaughter,” Constable Madden intoned, appearing just behind Michael. His attitude was one of smug superiority. “You’ll have to post bail to take him out of here.” Ian was glad they had been careful not to reveal the woman’s existence for the constable to hear. From what he had overheard at the pub, this constable could be sympathetic to the thugs who had attacked him. If the men who had beaten Ian found out through the police that the woman might be available and willing to testify, they might try to find her and do something to convince her she should stay quiet. It was imperative she stay safe.

  “How much will bail be?” Michael asked.

  “The magistrate has set bail at fifty thousand pounds, due to the seriousness of the charge. He will also have to appear here regularly to ensure he hasn’t left the jurisdiction, and he must leave us his passport. There’s also a good possibility he will have to wear an electronic monitoring device on his ankle, so we can make sure he doesn’t leave the jurisdiction until trial. He will most likely come up for trial in six or eight months.”

  “Fifty thousand pounds!” Michael exclaimed.

  Ian was chagrined by the hefty amount, but considering he probably had a number of bar fights on his record, the amount wasn’t surprising. He watched Michael to see what he would do. Michael quickly composed himself and responded to the constable with what appeared to be an attitude of confidence, but Ian, knowing Michael as well as he did, knew he was bluffing.

  “I don’t have that kind of money with me now, but I’ll be back as soon as I can with the funds. In the meantime, is there any way he can be seen by a doctor? I’m concerned about his condition.”

  “A doctor looked him over last night to make sure his injuries weren’t life threatening. As for his superficial injuries, I’ll see what I can do.” The constable led Michael back out to the desk area.

  Ian began to pace, suddenly feeling trapped and claustrophobic in the small jail cell. Hopefully, Michael could get bail together soon, and he would be out of this suffocating environment before he went completely crazy. He forced himself back to the cot, but he was afraid to go to sleep, knowing that without his sleep medication, he would again be awakened by the nightmare that had haunted his sleep ever since Neil’s death. He finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning, a local physician appeared with a constable at Ian’s cell to examine him and treat his injuries. It appeared he did indeed have two cracked ribs and a cut above his eye that required a few stitches. The doctor treated the cut and cleaned his other abrasions, but because his ribs weren’t displaced, left him alone with a caution to be careful not to jar or further aggravate his ribs until they healed. Later that day, Michael arrived and informed Ian he had posted bond, thanks to their parents.

  As the two brothers walked to Michael’s car, Ian, wearing the electronic ankle bracelet required by the magistrate, broke the uncomfortable silence. “I assume Mum and Dad weren’t too pleased about posting fifty thousand pounds to bail me out of yet another scrape.”

  “When I explained to them what happened, they were actually quite willing to sacrifice the money they were saving for renovations for the restaurant to get you out of that jail. Manslaughter is a serious charge, and we need you out of jail to help us find the woman who can exonerate you.”

  Knowing how much his parents loved the restaurant they had owned in the famed seaside resort city of Brighton since before the boys were born, Ian vowed to himself they would have no cause to be ashamed of him again.

  “Thanks, Mike. I owe you a debt for rescuing me from another misadventure.”

  Michael looked sideways at Ian and grinned. “As your older brother, I’ve grown used to rescuing you over the last twenty plus years. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t need my help once in a while.”

  “Then all I have to say is, ‘You’re welcome,’” Ian teased with a matching grin.

  Michael cuffed the back of Ian’s head affectionately, and then the two got into the car and drove toward Cranleigh.

  They were home within the hour.

  Chapter 4

  As Ian prepared to settle back into his room at Michael’s renovated manor house in Cranleigh, Surrey, he walked by Michael’s room and noticed he was packing. He stopped and leaned against the door frame.

  “Going somewhere?” Ian asked.

  “Yes, actually,” Michael replied. “I just learned there’s a stallion in Germany that may be the answer to my dilemma of how to get back into international competition. Lionel’s going with me while I give him a try to see if this horse is as good as his reputation and video make him out to be.”

  “Lionel, eh?” Ian asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

  “Yes, Ian. Lionel. Why do you ask?” Michael’s tone sounded defensive.

  Ian sighed. He didn’t know why, but his hackles raised when Lionel Hayes came around the house of late. There was something in Lionel’s demeanor that triggered Ian’s protective instincts toward Michael. Although he hadn’t relied on his instincts in combat lately, they were still reliable. Something about Lionel bothered him. He wished he could articulate his concerns in a way Michael would understand, so he might be more on his guard around the man, but so far, he had drawn a blank.

  “Never mind. It’s nothing. Good luck, then.”

  “Thanks! I’ve asked Mum to come and stay with you while I’m gone to ensure we comply with the conditions of your release. You should know that she’s anxious to see you and make sure you’re all right.”

  Ian smiled, knowing Michael was probably downplaying their mother’s concern. If Ian knew anything, he knew that Georgia Stafford was very protective of
her sons and would have come to Michael’s home to see with her own eyes he was all right, regardless of whether she was needed.

  As if on cue, Ian saw his parents’ car pull into Michael’s driveway and went down with Michael to greet their mother.

  After hugging Michael, Georgia Stafford turned to Ian and didn’t bother hiding her concern for her youngest son.

  “My poor boy.” She sighed. “Just look at you.” She gently touched the bruises on Ian’s face, noted the stitches, and gently pulled him into a hug.

  Ian grimaced as Mum’s hug compacted his ribs, but he was careful not to let on she was hurting him. He knew she meant well, and he didn’t want to tell her his injuries were more extensive than she could see. Michael took Mum’s valise out of the boot of the car and settled her in the upstairs bedroom closest to Ian’s.

  As Ian watched Michael settle their mother in her bedroom, he felt ashamed that at his age he still needed his mother’s comfort after his nightmares. “Mum, you don’t have to worry about me. My nightmares aren’t as bad as they were when I first came home from Afghanistan,” he lied.

  “Nonsense, Ian. I’m here, and I’m your mother. I want to help you get through this. It’s wonderful that your nightmares are not as frequent as they used to be, but until they’re completely gone, you need support. I’m happy to give it.”

  Frustrated at his mother’s stubbornness, Ian lashed out. “You weren’t so patient when I came home from the pub drunk and had nightmares.”

  When their mother gasped in shock at Ian’s accusation, Michael stepped in before his brother could say something he would regret. “Calm down, Ian. It’s not Mum’s fault you’re not living with them anymore. If you remember, your behavior at some of the pubs in Brighton, when you first came back from the war, was the reason you had to leave. Even you agreed it would be best for you to move here with me for a time to get away from that scene. Mum is here because she loves you and wants to support you. After all she and Dad sacrificed to make bail for you, the least you can do is allow her to help.”

  Ian was immediately ashamed of his thoughtless outburst and knew he needed to tell Michael and his mother that. The look of hurt on his mother’s face sliced him to the core. He bowed his head. “You’re right, Mike.” Ian turned to his mother and reached for her hands. As he held her hands in his, he looked directly into her eyes. “Mum, I’m sorry for what I said. I’m simply frustrated because of the situation I’m in right now, and I took it out on you. Please forgive me. I love you, and I thank you for being there for me when I need you.”

  Georgia stifled a sob as she squeezed Ian’s hands. “All is forgiven, Ian. I love you too. I always will. Please remember that.” She cleared her throat and looked to Michael. “What have you done so far to find the woman who can exonerate Ian?”

  Michael responded, “I’ve engaged a solicitor to take Ian’s case, and he has a private investigator he trusts to look for the woman. We should be hearing from him tomorrow.”

  The next day, Michael left early in the morning with his friend Lionel to travel to Germany. Later that morning, the investigator, Mr. Harold Morton, arrived. Ian welcomed him in, introduced him to his mother, and led him to Michael’s study, so they could work without interruption. Morton, a tall, incredibly thin gentleman in his mid-40’s with a hawk-like nose and thinning, light brown hair, impressed Ian right away with his demeanor.

  “All right, Mr. Stafford, let’s get down to business, shall we?” Morton began. “Tell me everything you can remember about the woman we’re looking for.”

  Ian described Megan’s physical characteristics as best he could remember them, and Morton took notes.

  “Now, Mr. Stafford, please describe as best you can the scene in the pub prior to the four men entering.”

  Ian frowned as he tried to remember the details from that day. “It was fairly deserted but for the woman, the bartender, a couple at a table near the back of the pub, and me.”

  “What was the woman’s demeanor?”

  Ian could more easily remember that. “She looked anxious. It was as if she was waiting for someone but dreaded them coming—if you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do, sir. How do you know she was anxious? Did she show signs of nerves?”

  Ian found his recollection sharpened as Morton asked his questions. He was impressed. “When I first came in, she examined me extensively, but then she appeared to dismiss me as the person she was there to meet. After a few minutes, she started fidgeting on the bar stool and stared at the pub entrance as if willing someone to arrive. That being said, she definitely wasn’t looking forward to seeing the men.”

  “Right. The men themselves—can you describe them?”

  Ian grimaced. He’d seen way too much of the thugs who had beaten him nearly senseless. “The leader was big, about six foot four and heavy, with a scar along the left side of his face. He had brown, thinning hair, and definitely spoke with an Irish accent. The others followed his orders without question until I broke the leader’s nose. After that, they seemed to panic and attacked me like a pack of dogs desperate to disable me. When I wrested my knife away and stabbed one of them, they lost their bravado entirely. It seemed they weren’t accustomed to skilled resistance. Before they left, though, the leader told the bartender to lie to the police, warning him that his uncle knew his family and would make trouble for them if he resisted.”

  “Interesting.” Morton reviewed his notes. Appearing satisfied, he stood and gathered his supplies in preparation for leaving.

  “Wait. There’s one more thing.” Ian remembered something he had heard in the exchange between the woman and the thugs. “I think I heard the leader call the woman Miss Brady.”

  Morton’s eyes lit up at that significant piece of information. “That’s good, Mr. Stafford. A name, even a common one such as Brady, will narrow my search significantly.” He reached out to Ian, shaking his hand firmly.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Stafford. This is definitely enough information to get started looking for your mystery woman. I’ll keep you posted on my progress.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morton. I look forward to hearing from you.”

  Chapter 5

  Seamus O’Reilly took a long puff on his premium-blend Cuban cigar and exhaled the aromatic smoke in the direction of the ceiling. He leaned forward, causing his plush leather desk chair to squeak in protest beneath his massive form. Today he was conducting business in his organization’s London office, located in a nondescript building on London’s East Side. The organization’s main offices were in the port city of Dublin, Ireland, where the O’Reilly family got its start in smuggling goods of all kinds hundreds of years ago.

  Ensconced as he usually was behind his elaborately carved mahogany desk, O’Reilly glared at the three men standing nervously before him. Taking a moment to pin each of the men individually with a contemptuous sneer, he growled, “Do you mean to tell me that four of you couldn’t handle one young woman?”

  “It was more than just the woman, boss,” Colin retorted defensively. “There was a man in the pub who came to her defense. He wasn’t any ordinary bloke, either. He had skills I’ve only seen in professional body guards or the elite military. It took four of us to best him, and even at that, we lost Mack.”

  “A shame, that,” Seamus replied. He looked to his assistant, Michael Collins, who was standing just inside the door to the office. “Michael, send Mack’s family our condolences, and see that his widow receives the usual pension.”

  “Yes, boss. Right away,” Collins replied and immediately left the room to see that Seamus’ order was fulfilled.

  Seamus was accustomed to his orders being fulfilled quickly and efficiently, or someone paid the price. As the undisputed leader of the O’Reilly crime family for nearly fifteen years, ever since his father was killed by the rival O�
��Connor gang, Seamus had ruled his vast criminal enterprise with an iron fist. None of his men crossed him or failed to follow through on their assignments, knowing that if they did, their lives might be forfeited.

  Even blood relatives weren’t immune to Seamus’s anger, and Colin knew better than to rely on their relationship alone to save him. Before Seamus had a chance to continue along this line of thought, Colin interjected, “We did see the man arrested for killing Mack, Seamus. The police hauled him to jail and charged him with manslaughter.”

  “And I suppose you and the boys will be going to court to testify against him,” he sneered. “Will you be telling the judge just what you were doing in the pub and what started the fight to begin with?”

  Colin avoided Seamus’s gaze and said, “Of course not, boss. We made sure the pub owner had a favorable account of the facts before we left. He’s willing to testify that the four of us were in the pub minding our own business when the blighter approached us, drew a knife, and then stabbed Mack without provocation. He would have taken down more of us if we hadn’t resisted and subdued him. The constables can rely on his eyewitness testimony to support their case.”

  “And what about Mack himself? Are you certain there is no way to tie him to us? As much as I hate to say it, we may have to allow the bugger to go free to protect our wider enterprise. It’s the race fixing that’s the most important thing here, not getting Mack’s killer convicted.”

  “Yes, Seamus,” Colin grudgingly replied. “If our witness falls apart, we’ll have no choice but to give up on revenge against the man, at least for the time being.”

  “I’m glad you agree.” Seamus couldn’t help letting a note of sarcasm creep into his voice. “Now, back to our primary objective: what do you suggest we do to get the Brady family’s cooperation?”