“I’ll do everything I can, Marcus,” she promised. She closed her eyes for a minute.
When she opened them, Marcus was gone.
Great. In death, Marcus—always the most polite of men—had suddenly decided to be rude.
3
Dustin arrived at the Horse Farm. There was a massive sign on the narrow paved road that led to a long dirt drive, a sign announcing that he’d reached the Horse Farm.
It was an impressive place. Acres of rolling fields surrounded it, gorgeous hills crested in the background and rich forests stood beyond the pastures and meadows. When he got there, he saw that to the right of the drive were the massive stables, painted a cheerful bright red. To the left was the office and rec building; it, too, was large, but built ranch-style with only one story. Parking in the dusty drive out front, he headed for the office. Opening the door, he found old western furniture, walls covered with prints, paintings and newspaper clippings of horses, and overstuffed leather sofas. He saw a games room with people playing Ping-Pong and heard the whack, whack, whack of the ball going back and forth. A young woman breezed by him with a quick “Hello!” and hurried on to the back. “I’m challenging the winner!” she called.
A woman in her mid-or late thirties stepped aside to allow the young blonde to move past, to the games room. She shook her head but smiled tolerantly.
“Sorry, Mama Cheever!” the younger woman said.
“It’s fine, Liz. Go save your spot.” There was something both matronly and businesslike about her. She wore western-style boots, jeans and a colorful cotton shirt. She’d seen Dustin arrive and was coming toward him. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Maybe that was it. She had a long, sharp-featured face that rather resembled a giraffe’s.
“Agent Blake?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Sandra, Sandra Cheever. Or Mama Cheever, as you heard, which I still don’t get. I don’t cuddle patients, don’t tuck them in—I don’t even brew tea, for God’s sake. But I do handle the paperwork and the scheduling around here. We have everything we need except your signature for the files. These days—especially working with animals—we have to get waivers. But your office took care of everything else.”
“That’s great. What do I do? Where do I start? I’m ready to sign.”
Hands on her hips, she cast her head at an angle to study him.
“It’s good to hear your enthusiasm,” she told him. “I was afraid you’d be hostile to the situation—that it was a ‘come here or lose your job’ scenario.”
“I’m from Nashville, but you know that. You probably know everything about me,” Dustin said. “And I love horses. This sounded better than any other offer I’ve had, so yep. I’m enthusiastic.”
“Excellent. Then I’ll just bring you in to see Aaron. He’s our managing director.”
She lifted a hand to point at a door with a placard that read Aaron Bentley.
“Just tap and go on in,” Sandra said, grimacing as they heard a loud squeal from the back. “I’m going to go supervise. They’re good kids. When they’re here, anyway. But...they can get a bit crazy.”
Sandra hurried to the back. Dustin watched her go as he tapped on the door.
“Come in, it’s open!”
Dustin stepped into the office. It was old-fashioned, to say the least. While the desk bore a laptop computer and a printer, an old blotter still sat on it, too, along with a memo tray piled high with papers. The room had two big leather-covered chairs in front of the desk and a worn couch to the rear. Windows looked out over one of the pastures.
The man standing behind the desk was about six feet tall, bearded and balding. His beard was neatly clipped; he seemed far better organized in his personal appearance than he did in his office management skills. Thin gold-rimmed glasses sat on his nose. He smiled seeing Dustin and walked around the desk, offering his hand.
“You must be Agent Blake. I’m sorry. One of us should have been out there to greet you.”
“Oh, a nice woman named Sandra did greet me. And yes, I am. But please call me Dustin.”
“We go by first names here, so that’s great. I’m Aaron. Aaron Bentley. We’re glad to have you here, Dustin. We’ve broken ground with many different groups, you know. About ten years ago, we started working with veterans—the physically wounded, and those who have wounded minds. We help children with disabilities, addicts of all ages, you name it—horse therapy can work wonders. But you’re our first law enforcement official. Let’s sit down for a moment.”
Aaron returned to the swivel chair behind his desk, while Dustin sank into one of the old leather armchairs. It was comfortable. As messy as the office might look, that apparent chaos actually contributed to a sense of ease.
“I spoke with your supervisor, a Mr. Jackson Crow,” Aaron said, folding his hands in front of him. He didn’t glance at papers or fiddle with anything on his desk. He gave his absolute attention to Dustin. “He said you were having nightmares and that he believes you’re—”
“Burned out?” Dustin suggested.
“No. Experiencing one of those spells where you’re having trouble weighing the good you’re able to provide against the horrors you have to see. I admit, when I first got the call, I suspected you’d been involved in some dreadful situation where innocents had been killed. But he tells me you’re one of his best agents and that he wants you to take some time off. He also said you don’t do well with traditional psychiatrists or therapy and that he hopes this will work for you.”
“Ah, did he tell you that?” Dustin murmured. He’d had a general idea of what Jackson Crow had planned on saying; he didn’t know how close to home it might be.
“I smoked once, Aaron. Years ago. Cigarettes, I mean. I went to a hypnotist to stop. Thinking about water and staring at a bull’s-eye on the wall did nothing for me. I merely wanted to kill the hypnotist.”
“Well, this isn’t like that, but...we do have group and individual therapy. We also do camping trips to the little brook a couple miles from here. You don’t have to think about the water—you can walk right into it if you choose. Frankly, I’m not sure we’ll be what you’re looking for, but we’re anxious to see if we can help men and women in your situation. If nothing else, a little R & R is always good for someone who is constantly under life-or-death tension.”
“I’m glad to be here. You know I live in northern Virginia—D.C. area, really—and I love it. But Nashville and these hills—well, this is home.”
“Good, good!” Aaron seemed genuinely pleased. “Now I should tell you that we’re in the middle of a real shake-up. We’ve just lost our founder—Marcus Danby. It’s a tough time for all of us. So...your people knew he was dead when they called. The fact that you wanted to go ahead, anyway, is a testament to Marcus. At any rate,” he said briskly, “I put you in with a small group this morning. I understand you met one of the kids, Joey, last night. Young man, acting out. Terrible loss in his family. Anyway, I won’t tell you any more. Come on out. I believe that Liv’s at the stables and the troops are gathering.”
As they went out the front door, another man was coming in. Aaron paused to introduce the two of them. “Dustin, meet Mason Garlano. You met Drew and Mariah Naughton last night, so once you’ve spent your first session with Liv, you’ll know all of us except for Sydney Roux. He takes care of the horses and the stables with Drew.”
Mason Garlano had sleek, curly dark hair and dark eyes. He was in his twenties, with a slightly exotic flair and unmistakable charm. He quickly shook Dustin’s hand. “We’re glad you’re here—and hope you enjoy your visits.”
Dustin thanked him and followed Aaron to the stables.
At first sight, Olivia Gordon was little short of spectacular. He understood immediately why the adolescents he’d met the night before were so crazy about her.
She resembled her cousin, Malachi, except that everything that made Malachi Gordon appear rough and rugged came out as pure beauty in Olivia. They had the same sable hair, a color that was rich and shiny. Hers was long, waving down her back.
Jeans and a blue denim shirt had never been worn so well.
When she turned to look at him, he saw that her eyes were a crystalline blue. They seemed to have a million different facets, all of them subtle shades of blue and green.
Her eyes widened when she met him. “So, uh, welcome. You’re the FBI man?”
He grinned. “Yep.” Did that mean she understood why he was there? He assumed so. “A pleasure to meet you. I believe I’m with your group now?” he asked.
She nodded, glancing at Aaron. “I hear you work in the D.C. area—or you’re based there, anyway. Do you know my cousin? Malachi Gordon?”
“Yes, I do. You two have quite a resemblance.”
“We’re double-cousins. Our mothers were sisters and our fathers were brothers,” she told him.
“Hmm. Well, that must explain it.”
They gazed at each other, but were interrupted by a small body that raced past him—and threw his arms around Liv.
“Oh!” she gasped, and then laughed, hugging the intruder. “Brent, turn around now. I want you to meet a new member of our group. This is Dustin. Dustin, please meet Brent.”
Brent had Down syndrome. He studied Dustin unabashedly and smiled, thrusting out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dustin.” He enunciated his words carefully.
“Brent, pleased to meet you, too, buddy,” Dustin said.
“I’m here, I’m here!” A woman came trotting out to the paddock.
“Hey, Patty,” Olivia said.
“Am I late?” the woman asked. She looked at Olivia but then stared at Dustin. “Hi.”
“You’re not late,” Olivia said. She introduced Dustin. The woman kept staring at him.
“Joey should be here any minute,” Olivia said. “I’ll be right back.”
She made her way to the stables. “Hi, Patty,” Brent said.
Patty smiled at him. “Hi, there, Brent.” She looked at Dustin again. “So, you’re really with the FBI ?”
Dustin nodded.
“What have they got you in here for?” she asked him.
“I’m not even sure how to explain it,” Dustin told her. She was still smiling as she studied him. He slanted his head. “What is it?”
“Sorry!” she said. “I’m in court-ordered therapy because of some...problems I had. I’m glad. I need my life back. I have a little girl and I want custody of her. At least shared custody. Her dad’s half the reason I’m here—nope! I’m the reason I’m here. But now I get to say I was in with an FBI agent, and that makes it...I don’t know. It makes it better somehow. I mean, people who do important things, people like you, can have problems just like me.”
“Well, uh, good,” Dustin said, a little helplessly.
“Especially after what happened to Marcus,” she added.
He didn’t get a chance to say any more. Joey was there. Dustin was glad to see that he seemed to have a special place in his heart for Brent and made a point of greeting him.
Olivia Gordon reappeared, leading a massive bay gelding with a glossy coat. He had to be about seventeen hands high.
“This is Cheyenne. He was bought as a three-year-old for a young rider. He was too much for her and the father sold him to a hack ranch. He was never handled properly and started throwing riders. One of the stable hands thought that whipping him would work and Cheyenne threw him into a field. He was then put in a paddock and basically ignored until—” she paused for just a second “—until Marcus Danby came upon him. We’ve had him about three months now and we’re working with him today because we’re working on boundaries. So, first, one by one, get to know him.”
Dustin had to admit he wasn’t sure how getting to know a horse was going to be therapeutic for an adolescent boy, a Down syndrome child and a woman in court-ordered rehab. Or how a difficult horse could help anyone with “boundaries.” Or why the three of them seemed like a good combo.
But as their time together progressed, he realized that what Olivia was telling them was true. They each worked with the animal, leading him, stopping with him, leading him again. She taught them to respect the horse—but to maintain control. They were given a distance to cover; they weren’t to stop because Cheyenne tried to bully them into walking over to the grass. Neither were they to jerk on his reins or in any way harm the horse.
It was interesting—even for Dustin—because the horse was a powerhouse of muscle. They were encouraged to speak to one another. And they were all encouraged to give the horse encouragement, to applaud his compliance. When Olivia ended the session, she released the gelding and he immediately bolted for the field. Cheyenne ran about for a few minutes. And then he ran back to them. He nudged Brent, and Brent laughed delightedly and returned the animal’s affection.
“How did you get him to do that?” Patty asked Olivia.
“I didn’t. He chose to come back,” Olivia said. “Okay, we’ll take Cheyenne to the stables now. Grooming time.”
It was an intriguing exercise. Olivia supplied brushes and they decided among themselves who’d do the mane and tail and how they’d share this one-person task.
Then their two-hour session was over. Olivia told Brent to say hello to his mom for her, said goodbye to Patty and informed Joey that they’d be ready for his ride in half an hour. She turned to Dustin. He was struck again by the beauty of this slender woman who seemed to have so much confidence, such easy control.
She was obviously waiting for the others to walk away so she could speak to him privately. But they were talking and laughing among themselves.
He moved closer to her. “I’m here because of Malachi,” he said quietly.
She glanced quickly around. “Someone could have called me and told me that yes, it was being handled.”
Her taut response gave him a start. He lowered his voice. “You could answer your phone,” he told her. “Although one would’ve thought that if you’d called an agent for help and another agent showed up, you’d put two and two together. Then again, if you answered your phone, you might have spoken with both of us.”
She looked away. “Yesterday wasn’t a good day for us. We got the autopsy report in the morning.”
“Yes, I know that, Ms. Gordon. Because the day before, I was about to head out on a serious case—kidnapping and murder in the Northwest. Instead, I’m here—where an addict might or might not have gone back to his old ways.”
She flashed a glance at him, her eyes shimmering with hostility. “I’m sorry. I would think the murder of any human being was important and worth investigating. If we’re not gruesome enough for you, I do apologize. But you are here to investigate. I—”
She paused, moving a step closer. She might work with horses in a stable, but she wore some kind of subtle perfume that made her smell like the whisper of flowers in the breeze.
“I have two individual sessions this afternoon. You’re not one of them. Everyone starts off with a session like you just went through, to see if they feel this will be of benefit to them. That will allow you to fit in here, which is the point. So, now you can investigate. What are you going to do?”
He frowned at her, somewhat irritated that she’d gotten under his skin. All his life he’d walked a straight line. He felt he had sympathy for those left behind after a death, although he wasn’t and never had been a counselor in any way. But he didn’t let emotion invade his work. In his position, he couldn’t. He’d wind up...
In therapy, he thought dryly.
“Well?” she asked. “What will you do this afternoon?”
He angled his head thoughtfully. “I’m going to play Ping
-Pong. What time do you get off, Ms. Gordon?”
* * *
When Olivia finished with her last session, she discovered that Dustin Blake was still at the facility. He was playing doubles; he and Joey were partnered against Sean and Matt.
Officially, the Horse Farm was there for equine therapy. But any “guest”—as they officially called their patients or clients—was welcome on the grounds during open hours, which usually ended at six. They’d long ago noticed that their guests were comfortable at the Horse Farm and, because of that, many stayed long hours reading in the back room or playing games.
Olivia wondered if perhaps he’d been waiting for her. But she paused by the reception area, pouring herself a cup of coffee and watching him. She’d managed to call Malachi on her cell during her last ride, and he’d managed to call her back. Yes, if she’d answered her phone, she would have learned that Blake was the agent who’d been sent.
He was a curious choice, she thought. He was hardly nondescript. The man stood at about six foot four. He had the kind of lean, hard muscle that might be seen on a basketball player. His every movement hinted at agility. His face was chiseled, his jaw square, and he had flashing dark eyes that seemed to view the world around him with a certain amount of skepticism. No one could miss him. Hardly the type to slip in and out of anywhere unnoticed.
But then, he’d come here as what he was—or mostly as what he was. Aaron was practically giddy that the bureau had chosen their facility as a place for the man to unwind, chill out or vanquish his demons. Nowhere in the paperwork had it been suggested that he was addicted to alcohol or other substances, but you didn’t have to be an addict or suffering from a physical or congenital disadvantage to benefit from the Horse Farm. Marcus Danby had believed that the best therapy brought various kinds of people together. For instance, a stressed-out business exec could learn that patience and tolerance for an autistic or otherwise handicapped child was something that should come naturally. Equally, a young man like Brent could show true acceptance and affection to a drug addict or alcoholic who discovered that friends—real friends, or the ones who’d enabled their addictions—were afraid to be there for them anymore.
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 3: The Night Is WatchingThe Night Is AliveThe Night Is Forever Page 65