The Kill

by Jan Neuharth

  Her head throbbed, probably from the coffee schnapps she’d downed to help her fall asleep after Thompson had left. She flipped onto her back, trying to summon up the motivation to get out of bed.

  Something pinged against the window. Not rain. It sounded more like sleet dancing across the panes. She opened one eye and squinted at the stream of sunlight. That made no sense. Ping. There it was again. Against just one of the dormer windows. Ping. Ping. Ping.

  She jerked fully awake. It sounded like…No. It couldn’t be.

  Abigale flipped back the covers and raced across the room. Kneeling on the cushioned window seat, she flicked the curtains apart with one hand. The glass was dry, with no hint of precipitation. She leaned closer, then jumped back as a torrent of gravel hit the panes. She yanked on the curtains, sending the brass rings skidding across the curtain rod.

  Manning looked up at her, a wide grin spread across his face. He stood between a jittery black horse, the one Michael had told her could be a handful to ride—Henry, she thought his name was—and the big gray, Braveheart. He gripped both sets of reins in one hand and a fistful of gravel in the other.

  Abigale flipped the double locks on the window and cranked it open.

  “Sleeping in, I see,” Manning said, smiling at her in a way that reminded her of him as a boy.

  “God, Manning, I was sound asleep.” Abigale cringed at the sound of her voice, still thick with sleep. She could only imagine what she looked like. She yanked her hair back and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck.

  “Yeah, I figured. Either that or you were ignoring me. Used to be, it never took me more than a couple of tosses to get your attention. I’ve been out here pitching pebbles for a good five minutes.” He flung the gravel on the drive and wiped his palm against his breeches.

  Abigale stared at him, feeling trapped in a time warp. Joyful memories bubbled to the surface, only to collide with darker, painful ones. “What are you doing here?”

  He nodded at the gray horse. “I tacked up Braveheart for you. Let’s go for a hack.”

  “Now? Don’t you have to be at Longmeadow?”

  “Not for another couple of hours.” He jiggled both sets of reins and gave her a crooked grin. “Come on.”

  She made a face and Manning chuckled. “Still not much of a morning person, huh?”

  “Manning, I hardly got any sleep. I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.”

  “Riding’s better than coffee. Come on.”

  “I haven’t been on a hunter since—” Their eyes met and she stopped, then shook her head. Manning cocked an eyebrow, as if challenging her to finish the sentence.

  “Other than a trek through the mountains in Afghanistan, I haven’t ridden in years,” she said quietly.

  “Then it’s time you got back on.”

  CHAPTER

  43

  Manning let both horses graze on the lawn while he waited for Abigale, mindful of the fact that Michael would groan when he saw grass slobber on the bits. Abigale stepped out the front door ten minutes later, a velvet hard hat tucked under her left elbow, coffee cup clutched in her right hand.

  “My feet must have grown a full size since I last had these boots on. My toes are already numb.” She glared at Manning as she marched toward him, her riding boots crunching against the gravel drive. “And don’t you dare look at my breeches. They’re one size too small, too. At least.”

  Manning raised his hands in mock surrender. “I wasn’t,” he replied, noting appreciatively how the beige fabric clung to the firm muscles of her thighs, stretched tight across the curve of her hips and buttocks.

  Steam rose from the cup and Abigale raised it to her lips and blew across the top, then slurped a generous sip.

  “Feel better now that you’ve had some caffeine?” he asked.

  “I’m getting there.”

  “Good.” He lopped Henry’s reins over his arm and gave the horse a gentle shove out of the way as he pulled Braveheart up next to Abigale. “This is Braveheart. He looks like a tank but rides like a dream. You’ll love him.”

  Abigale gulped down half the cup of coffee, then set the cup on the front step and patted the horse on the neck, smoothing his thick mane with her graceful fingers. “I met Braveheart last night when I went down to the barn. He’s adorable.”

  “Good. So you already know each other.” He snapped the stirrup leathers down. “These should still be adjusted to the correct length.”

  “That’s my saddle!” Abigale exclaimed.

  “Of course. What did you expect?”

  “I—I don’t know. I just didn’t expect Uncle Richard to keep all my things. Everything’s just like it was when I left. Even my room.”

  Imagine that, Abby, Manning thought. Almost as if Richard was waiting for you to come back. He said, “Come on, I’ll give you a leg up.”

  Manning waited while she put on her riding helmet and gloves, then cupped his hands for her knee and boosted her easily into the saddle. She toed both boots into the stirrups and he eyed her legs from the front of the horse. “Length okay?”

  “I think they could come down a hole.” Abigale dropped her left foot from the iron and tugged up on the stirrup leather to loosen the buckle.

  “I’ll get it,” Manning said.

  He slid the leather through the buckle, dropped it a hole lower, then did the same on the other side. “How’s that feel?”

  Abigale wiggled her feet and the irons hit just below her ankle bones. “Good.”

  Without thinking, Manning positioned her foot in the stirrup and gave her a pat on the knee. A perfectly innocuous gesture, but part of an old in-gate ritual he and Abigale used to carry out just before she entered the show ring. She’d insisted it was a good-luck charm, that Manning was her “true north” and his touch guided her around the hunter course. It seemed corny now, but it had sure fed his ego at the time. The familiarity of the act caught at his chest, igniting an ache he’d thought he was rid of. Abigale must have remembered it, too, because her muscles tensed beneath his hand.

  “Sorry,” he murmured. He slid his fingers beneath the girth to make sure it was tight, then backed away, tossed the reins over Henry’s head, and swung lightly into the saddle. “I thought we’d head out the back way toward Dogwood Mountain. Then if we have time we can loop around through Seven Chimneys on our way back.”

  Abigale’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t baby me. I know you’re avoiding Seven Chimneys right off the bat because of the galloping field. You think I’m not up to it.”

  Manning fought a smile. She’d nailed him on that one. “That’s not it at all. I just thought you’d enjoy a hack through the woods. The color is at its peak.”

  “Bullshit.”

  CHAPTER

  44

  Seven Chimneys was as pristine and peaceful as Abigale had remembered. They entered through the gate at the back of the lower pasture and followed the creek as it meandered through the cow pasture toward the vineyard on the other side of the farm. The creek was swollen from the storm and the horses’ hooves made soft sucking noises, like loud wet kisses, as they walked along the mossy bank. Henry spooked at a cow that let out a mournful moo as they approached, scooting sideways into Braveheart, but the big gray just snorted softly and plodded ahead. Henry settled back to a walk alongside him.

  Manning hadn’t spoken much since they’d left Dartmoor Glebe, other than to give an occasional warning about trappy footing, or to draw her attention to a herd of deer, at least a dozen of them silhouetted on a nearby rise, and a peregrine falcon that flew overhead. She didn’t object to the lack of conversation. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; quite the contrary. They’d settled into it with a familiar ease.

  They reached the galloping field and Manning glanced over at her and arched an eyebrow.

  “Need you ask?” she said, shortening her reins.

  “Henry gets a little stron
g when he’s behind. Mind if I lead?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Manning eased Henry into a canter and she leaned forward and clucked at Braveheart to follow. The field stretched across almost five acres of well-manicured turf, allowing a horse to stretch into a brisk gallop, but Manning kept Henry checked at a canter as they loped across the gently rolling terrain. Abigale knew he was keeping the pace slow for her benefit, but she didn’t care. Braveheart had a long, flowing stride that left her feeling as if she were sitting on a cloud, each powerful thrust of his haunches rocking them forward with a steady rhythm that made her want to whoop aloud. Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. Poetry in motion.

  The wind whispered against her face and she gulped in a lungful of the fresh morning air, catching a whiff of fading grasses and musky earth. Goose bumps rose on her arms as the plaintive calls from a flock of southbound geese floated down from the pale sky. Nothing equaled the sheer sense of freedom she felt on the back of a horse. Nothing. Not the rush of her skis, spraying powder as she carved down a mountain-face of virgin snow; nor free-falling from a plane, in that terrifyingly glorious eternity before her chute whooshed open. Both were pure adrenaline fixes, but lacking the completeness she felt on a horse.

  Braveheart was enjoying the canter, blowing contentedly with each stride, and she ran a gloved hand along his neck. The tangy scent of his sweat stung Abigale’s nostrils and a warm glow spread through her chest. She was home again.

  Far too quickly, they reached the end of the field, and Manning twisted in the saddle and looked back at her as he brought Henry to a walk. He must have read the look on her face, because he flashed a broad smile. “I told you Braveheart was a pleasure to ride.”

  “I love him. He must be a blast to hunt.”

  “He is—hey, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Abigale brushed her fingertips across each cheek. “The wind made my eyes water.”

  Manning knew better; she could read it in the tender look her gave her. “You should hunt him while you’re here.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  He swung open the gate into the next pasture and waited for her to ride through. “They put in a cross-country course up by the vineyard. Want to hop him over a couple of jumps?”

  Jumping Braveheart was like flying in slow motion. He didn’t have the speed of a thoroughbred, but his huge stride gobbled up the distance and he sailed over each fence as if it were just another canter stride.

  “It feels like I’m sitting on a couch,” Abigale said with a laugh as she pulled him up next to Manning.

  He smiled. “That’s why Richard bought him. His back was starting to bother him and he needed a comfortable ride. Richard didn’t like to admit he was in pain, except maybe to Mother, but I noticed he was choosing to hunt Braveheart more and more. He pretty much backed off on hunting Henry, except when he was leading second field and wasn’t going to jump much.”

  “Is Henry green over fences?”

  “Not in terms of quitting. Henry will jump anything you point him at. But he’ll pick a long spot or add another foot or so to the height of the jump if he thinks it looks spooky. It’s hard to sit him when he overjumps like that, but he’s a phenomenal athlete. He should probably be an open jumper rather than a field hunter.”

  He gathered up the reins. “Want to see him over a fence?”

  “Sure.”

  Manning trotted a low log jump, then let Henry canter to a hedge. The horse slid over the jump, quick and catlike.

  “Wow, his knees were up around his ears!” Abigale exclaimed.

  “Watch what he does over a bigger fence,” Manning said, cantering toward an oxer that looked to be a good four feet high with a three-foot spread.

  Henry’s ears pricked forward and he leaned into the bridle. “Easy,” Manning murmured, checking him back. She could see that the horse wanted to leave long, but Manning steadied him and made him wait. They hit the perfect spot and Henry arced gracefully over the jump, clearing the front rail by at least eight inches, his front legs folded tight and square. As he stretched across the oxer, Abigale heard a muffled pffttt. An instant later, she saw the girth dangle beneath the horse’s belly.

  The events after that seemed to happen in slow motion. Henry landed and scooted away from the jump, his head low between his front legs. Manning worked to get Henry’s head up but seemed unaware that the girth had broken.

  “The girth!” Abigale shouted.

  “What?” He turned his head to look at her, and in that moment Henry kicked up his heels and let out a buck that sent Manning and the saddle flying. It looked to Abigale as if Manning was launched ten feet in the air before plummeting to the ground.

  Manning’s right forearm took the brunt of the blow; then his head smacked the ground, hard, as the momentum slammed him onto his back. His velvet hunt cap flew off and tumbled away. Manning still gripped the reins in his left hand as he was dragged on his back, bumping across the field behind the fleeing horse. Abigale heard herself scream.

  Manning jerked the reins and Henry rocked back on his haunches. For an instant it looked like the horse would stop, then the right rein snapped near the bit; the thoroughbred kicked out and shot back into a gallop, ripping the broken reins from Manning’s grasp.

  “God damn it!” Manning rolled to one side, then scrambled to his feet.

  Abigale trotted Breaveheart over to him. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” He raised his arm, winced, then gestured toward Henry. The horse was on a flat-out run, still trailing the broken reins, racing toward the tree line at the far end of the field. “You have to stop him. He’s running toward Foxcroft Road.”

  “Isn’t the field fenced in?”

  “There’s a coop. He’ll jump it.” Manning’s breath came in short gasps, the color drained from his face. “If he gets to the road, God only knows where he’ll end up.”

  Abigale gathered her reins but hesitated. “I don’t feel right leaving you here all alone.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Manning—”

  “I’m fine. I just got the wind knocked out of me. Now go!”

  CHAPTER

  45

  Henry slowed when he got to the tree line, and Braveheart’s huge, galloping stride quickly ate up the distance between them. The thoroughbred screamed as he trotted along the fence, looking for a means of escape. Braveheart seemed to kick into overdrive and whinnied to his stable mate, a deep, throaty call that heaved his sides against Abigale’s legs. Henry swung his head in their direction, just long enough to raise Abigale’s hopes that he might stay in the field; then the horse found the coop, popped over, and galloped out of sight.

  Abigale was close, no more than ten strides from the coop, when she heard the screech of brakes, tires squealing against asphalt. She sat back and tried to pull up Braveheart, but he grabbed the bit in his mouth and plowed for the jump.

  “Whoa!” Abigale yanked on the reins, but she might as well have been a fly on his back for all the reaction she got. All she succeeded in doing was to throw him off stride.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, her breath rushing out with a hiss. Her long absence from the saddle had caught up to her. No way seventeen years ago would she have let this horse—any horse—run her to a jump.

  Braveheart came in tight to the coop and managed to clear it, but tossed her out of the saddle. She lost both stirrups, landing hard on the pommel. Pain shot through her crotch, bringing tears to her eyes.

  The big horse must have sensed she was off balance and seemed to stall in mid-stride, allowing her to wiggle back into the saddle and slip both feet in the stirrups. She gathered Braveheart at a walk and blew out a shaky breath.

  “Good boy,” she murmured, patting him on the neck.

  They were on a narrow path, the muddy surface littered with Henry’s deep hoof prints. Through the thicket of trees, she caught a glimpse of a silver pickup truck stopped on the road about twenty feet ahead, then heard the pu
tt-putt-putt of a diesel engine and the shrill yapping of dogs. Abigale trotted the remaining distance to the road, dreading what she would find.

  The driver’s door hung open and a slim woman stood with her back to them by the front of the truck, hands on the hips of her faded jeans. Three terriers danced around her feet. She spun around as Braveheart’s steel shoes clomped onto the paved road.

  “He went that way,” the woman called, shielding her eyes with one hand and pointing at a gravel drive on the opposite side of the road.

  Abigale saw angry tire marks on the asphalt behind the truck, but the front of the vehicle appeared to be undamaged. “He wasn’t hit?”

  “No, thank God. I was able to brake in time.” Her voice had the slight trace of an accent. French, Abigale guessed.

  “Where does that lane lead?” Abigale asked. The drive was wide enough for only one vehicle at a time, with narrow grass shoulders on both sides that ran abruptly into wobbly-looking American-wire fencing. Dense woods flanked the lane on the left and a pasture ran along the right. Abigale saw a round metal trough perched in the center of the pasture at the top of the hill. Black cattle grazed knee-deep in the yellow-green grass.

  “It’s the back entrance to Beaver’s Ridge Farm. They only use it to access this cow pasture.”

  “Is there a gate?”

  The woman shook her head slowly. Sunlight filtering through the trees caught glints of gold in her spiky dark hair. “There is, but I don’t think they’re religious about keeping it closed. There’s a cattle guard to keep the cows in. And a people gate next to it, so riders can get through. But it’s probably hit-or-miss whether or not the vehicle gate across the drive is closed.”

  Abigale felt a lump form in her chest. “Great.”

  “Think he’ll try to jump the cattle guard?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Hope he has more sense than that,” she replied. “Want me to stay here in case he heads back this way and gets past you?”