Romancing the Seas

by Cait O'Sullivan

  Grumbling, she scrawled the word “Me” and her phone number under her shelter’s logo. She hated bowling. “Why am I doing this, again?”

  “Because you promised.” Then that gentle smile dropped, and Leann started scribbling down the latest phone message.

  Here it comes.

  When Ray leaned forward, Leann shielded the note. One deep breath later, she pushed the SAVE button and looked up. With a reluctant flourish, she tore the report from the pad. “Looks like your dream is now your eight A.M. nightmare.”

  And there it was. Raylie swore a horse just kicked her in the gut. “Oh, God, why?”

  Leann stuck out the paper. “Two Standardbreds found dead at Starstruck Stables.”

  The headache surged to life.

  Damn it, she hadn’t even tensed up yet.

  • • •

  After taking a few minutes to digest the bad news — and breathe away her headache — Raylie sipped her coffee and flipped through her day’s work with the other hand. Dead cat, dog without shelter, two dead horses — a shiver of cold raced down her back as her pulse thrummed loud in one ear. Johanssen’s house again.

  She moaned, tipped back her head. “How many this time?”

  Eyes closed, Leann shook her head and said, “At least thirty cats. Phone guy reported her. Turned out one of them ate the cord.”

  With a derisive snort, Ray said, “Probably the only food in the house.”

  “Yeah, guess they didn’t like the marbles she fed them last time. Too hard to chew.”

  Futility roared within her. “You know, I didn’t spend my life wanting to save animals only to have the same situation in the same house play out over and over again. When’re we gonna get a sympathetic judge? Every six months we’re yanking fifty cats out of there.” Her jaw hardened; she pinned her cup to her desk. She always knew she wanted to be an animal cop, because she always wanted to get the bad guys who hurt the innocent animals. As a child, though, she never realized that that meant dealing with dead and dying pets and some of the skuzziest people on the planet.

  Cops had it a lot easier. They could always do traffic.

  “I know, I know.” Fingers laced over her hip, Leann leaned back and said, “Know what else I think?”

  Jaded. That’s how she felt right now. Jaded. “I should have been a vet?”

  She smiled. “You’re stalling. No pun intended.”

  Ray groaned. “Horse. Stall. I get it.” Splayed fingers raked through her hair, and she wondered if that made her horns better or worse. “Starstruck. I’ll go there first.”

  Surprise made Leann’s perfect eyebrows arch high. “You’re choosing a dead animal over a savable one?”

  Faux pas number one. A small shrug moved one shoulder. “It’s the dream, Leann. I got to check this out. The last two times it happened were headline arrests.”

  A resigned nod was Leann’s only response. Then she said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Ham Head is still behind bars, so who am I to argue?” A small wry smile tooled around on Leann’s face. “I used to jump, you know. Standardbreds aren’t cheap, especially his.”

  Mid-sip, she stopped. “His?”

  “Ashton’s. FYI, he’s a hottie. And somehow still single.”

  She shook her head, palms out, stepped back. “I’m devoting myself to animals and my job. Animals I understand. People, never. Even animal people don’t get me. Like how I can own one pet but tend to fifteen. Or remember which foster pet gets what meds at what dose and when. But people? All they want to know is when I’m going to start dating again.” She felt her thumb rub up along her ring finger. Her empty ring finger. Empty eighteen months now. “So, what are you getting at?”

  Evasive, Leann shrugged. “Just said he’s a single hottie.”

  Raylie swallowed, felt her anger claw its way up her back. “You know what I say about hot men: Jump ’em, pump ’em, dump ’em. They can’t sustain.” Except — all her friends married the guys they dumped … after they went crawling back. Raylie would be smarter than them.

  With another wry smile Leann said, “Girlfriend, I’d bet you Mole Asses that Ashton knows his way around a woman’s body.”

  Ignoring what owning a horse would do to her frayed nerves, Raylie countered, “Yeah? Why would you think that?”

  A dreamy look swaddled Leann’s eyes as she said, “I’ve seen that way that man moves. He almost swaggers. Not a girl in the stable wouldn’t kill to know that man in a carnal way.” The look she sent Raylie revealed all.

  “Right. Hot men like that are too stuck on themselves to take care of their women.” She almost crushed her cup into a puddle of foam and java, wishing she had been able to dump Derrick when he turned toxic.

  But that would have meant abandoning Angie, something she never could have done, and he knew it, damn his wretched soul.

  The phone rang, and Leann grabbed it, a head shake with eye rolls tossed in for effect. “Pause for Paws Cruelty, can you hold, please?” She nodded and pushed HOLD. Without looking up, she said, “Two words: Great. Catch.” Pushed a button. “Thank you for holding. How may I help you?” With a grimace, she waved Raylie out the door. Obedient but curious, Ray took one large step backward into the hall. “Oh, Ms. Johanssen, I’m sorry, Officer McPherson just left the office. Yes, no, I understand.”

  As Leann fielded the call, Raylie silently shook as if sobbing, then made a noose from Cheddar’s leash and pretended to hang herself in the hallway.

  Leann almost smiled. “Ms. Johanssen, Ms. Johanssen, remember all those low-cost spay/neuter vouchers we sent you last year? Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. I know. It must be so difficult to feed so many. Ms. Johanssen, that’s why we tried to get them all fixed. Remember? No, Ms. Johanssen, you weren’t away. Who would’ve fed your cats? It says here we spoke on April twelfth. Yes, it’s right here. Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Can you hold for one teensy tiny second?” She nodded into the phone and pushed the button. Squaring up with Raylie, Leann said, “I can tell you right now you’re wasting your time, thinking Ashton’s your suspect. I’ll bet my paycheck on it.”

  An unladylike snort preceded Raylie’s smile. “Right. You’ll bet me your horse he’s good in bed and only your paycheck that he’s innocent? Property owners with dead animals are never innocent. You know that.” An expansive wave indicated the menagerie filling the office as proof of what they dealt with on a daily basis. “Why? Who turned him in?”

  Solemnly, Leann pushed the receiver to her chest, as if holding it there would cushion her words. Or, she realized, that what she was about to say was oh-so-endearing. “He reported the deaths himself, Ray.” She turned and went back to her call.

  Rattled by that, Raylie took the keys for car number two and left. Although she knew few people could handle Ms. Johanssen’s ramblings better than Leann — those two had practically become buds over the years of confiscations — Leann’s endorsement of the man she planned to arrest for neglect and starvation made Raylie frown.

  One glass door separated her from the tropical oven, and one last sip fortified her. Cheddar raced up and down the hallway with Bingo, the Border Collie, also rescued, keeping time. Snort the enforcer raged in stiff-legged fashion at the youngsters whenever they had too much fun. Tossing her cup of joe into the trash, Raylie headed out.

  It was going be another scorcher. Gray haze filled the skies as only a Kentucky July could accomplish. For the past week, every morning looked like a thunderstorm threatened, and every day that promise left, laughing and unfulfilled. So different from upstate New York. In Syracuse, those gray clouds meant business.

  Starstruck was first up on the menu. Eight fifteen A.M. Morning warm-ups would be done, so there’d be no reason why Mr. Ashton couldn’t talk to her. She turned the key in the ignition of her green and white work van and aimed for New Spoke Road, telling herself it was only the hum
idity that was prickling her scalp and had absolutely nothing to do with her dreams.

  But as she left flower-filled suburbia and passed mile after mile of white-washed fencing, she could feel the tension narrowing within her, until it gathered into a tiny knot somewhere around her solar plexus.

  She swore the place smelled like money.

  A wrought-iron gate complete with video camera blocked the double-wide driveway. She got out and pushed the intercom, straightening her uniform and angling her badge toward the lens.

  “May I help you?” The voice crackled with static.

  “Officer McPherson. I’m here about the two dead horses.”

  The woman’s voice on the intercom seemed tentative. “Are you … with the police? They said they wouldn’t come.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m with Pause for Paws Humane Society, Cruelty Division.”

  The intercom clicked off as she apparently consulted with another. Then the door buzzed and swung open, and Raylie got back into her car to drive through.

  It was like entering another world, one where gold lined the streets and flags were made of twenties. Livery hands guided massive bays to and from the paddocks, some wearing mesh fly guards around their eyes like equine Zorros. Motorized flatbeds puttered up and down the dirt driveways bearing bales of alfalfa and straw, and young men hopped down to deliver rations to the never-ending rows of brown heads poking out of stalls.

  A deliberate cruise down each row revealed healthy animals with glossy eyes and coats. Brushed manes, some braided, decorated the eager friendly faces. She got out, despite her racing heart and the cold sweat trickling down her back, and forced herself to peek over a few occupied stall doors.

  Clean, fluffy straw. Fresh water in scrubbed buckets. Leftover grain, as if the horses knew it would still be there when they got back.

  Not the typical place one would expect starvation.

  Swallowing her fear, Raylie wiped off the pasty sweat from her lips and returned to her vehicle.

  She guided the car in front of the massive barn, and got out to watch a trainer in one half working a young colt on a lunge line, while the other side had a young lady riding English, guiding her gray Paso Fino mare around tiny orange cones in a series of complicated steps.

  Again the memory surged, replayed over and over until Derrick’s death permeated her very pores. Raylie’s hands fisted at her sides. Every muscle in her body tensed as her eyes darted around. She wanted to run. She wanted to cry.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  She turned to the weathered old man at her right, wearing — she couldn’t believe it — denim overalls. Her voice felt choked when she asked, “Who do I talk to about the dead horses?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that would be the owner. He’s right down that hallway, there.”

  Another bay, tacked with a blue-striped saddle pad and ready for a ride, was led by a little girl from that very hallway. Blue striped. Blue striped.

  Her headache raged. Her throat clenched shut. She was about to step into hell.

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