by Karis Walsh
Although, to be honest, the stalls in the barn below her would be an improvement over her home. She loved her little space, with its photographs and Impressionist prints on the walls and her police manuals and mystery novels stacked by her bed, but this room would be a pleasant interlude while she was here. Even with a stable full of horses underneath, the room smelled fresh and piney. Don said her place smelled like a dead moose had been smoking cigarettes under the stairs. A slight exaggeration, of course.
“The bedroom is through that door, and the bathroom is here on the left,” Merissa said. She stood next to Billie, and her subtle scent of almonds drifted below the overt and artificial lemon and pine cleaning products. “There’s a washer and dryer in the tack room, but we use it for horse blankets and saddle pads, so you probably won’t want your clothes in there.” Merissa fumbled in her pocket. “I put a key to the main house on the ring with the one to the apartment. If you go through the side entrance, the laundry room is the first one you come to. You can use it anytime you’d like. I didn’t expect you so soon, and I haven’t had a chance to stock the fridge with food.”
Billie held up her hands to stop Merissa’s speedily delivered words. She sounded nervous, and with good reason. She’d originally been told the horses would arrive in two weeks and that Billie would come by a few times a week to ride and groom them. Suddenly, Billie was moving in and Cal would deliver the horses tomorrow morning. Billie had gone from being someone who would be around if Merissa needed to talk, to a guard posted outside her house. They had barely reached a truce at their last meeting, during the training session, and Merissa was probably as thrilled to have her here as Billie was.
“This is beautiful, Merissa,” Billie said. “I stopped by the grocery store on my way here, so I have all I need for now. I’ll try not to be an intrusion while I’m here.”
Merissa sank down on the couch. She was wearing jeans and a pink sweatshirt, with her hair tied back. She looked young and worried. “You won’t be. I meant it when I offered to let you stay, and I’m looking forward to having some new horses and training methods around here. But something changed. I could hear it in Abby’s voice when she called, and Cal’s when she called immediately after. Why won’t anyone tell me what’s going on?”
Billie sat next to her and almost groaned as the soft cushions enveloped her. Definitely an improvement over her hard, green seventies-style sofa. She didn’t want to frighten Merissa, especially when they still had no idea who had killed Dennis and if it really had been premeditated—even though Billie didn’t have a doubt in her mind after seeing the fear on Percy’s face and finding out how warranted it was. But even worse in her mind than scaring Merissa for no reason was not giving her the information she needed to keep safe and protect herself.
“The car you recognized when we drove around the city together belonged to my neighbor,” she said.
“Your neighbor? You live on the Hilltop?” Merissa asked the first questions with a casual curiosity, but then she seemed to put several pieces in place at once. “Near the block we were planning to develop?”
Billie raised her eyebrows and didn’t answer.
“Oh. On the block we were planning to develop?”
“The very same.”
“So…” Merissa drew out the word for several seconds. “When I called it a—”
“Disgusting eyesore, I think is the phrase you used,” Billie supplied the words for her with an exaggerated look of despair. “I won’t lie. It hurt. You were right, but still. Ouch.”
Merissa winced, but she was holding back a smile. “I’m sorry. Very tactless of me.”
“I agree. You really should see the inside of the place before you pass judgment on it.” She poked Merissa’s upper arm with her index finger. “You’ll need a round of shots first, of course, but then you should be safe to visit.”
Merissa laughed and pushed playfully at Billie’s hand, but her smile was fleeting. “Now back to your story. Was your neighbor involved in the shooting somehow?”
Billie wanted to say no, but she shrugged instead. She gave Merissa an abbreviated version of the events following the sighting of the car—Carlyle’s arrest and Percy’s shooting—downplaying her more behind-the-scenes activities.
“You think someone was trying to kill Dennis?” Merissa’s eyes widened as she came to the same conclusion Billie had. “Or me? I was planning to drive us to Seattle. If someone was hired to shoot the driver of the car, maybe Dennis was a mistake and the bullet was meant for me.”
“Don’t go there,” Billie warned, although the same worry had flooded her nightmares the few hours she had managed to sleep the night before. “We still don’t know if it was intentional or who the target really was. I’m here just in case, but you should take some precautions as well.”
Merissa nodded, her face resolute. Maybe she would completely break down when she was alone, but in front of Billie she seemed to be holding together well. Billie was relieved. She’d gone through hell after she called in Percy’s shooting. Abby had yelled at her in the middle of the station for thirty-seven minutes—Don timed the tirade—even though she didn’t have any right to berate Billie for the same actions she had been committing for years. It still wasn’t widely known on the force, but every member of the mounted team knew about Hargrove’s illicit investigations into her family’s misdeeds in the department. She had even sought to rectify a lot of them on her own, finally calling on her team members for help when Kira’s life was at stake. Billie wasn’t trying to save the love of her life like Abby had been doing. She’d just wanted to absolve her neighbor and ensure Merissa’s safety, although until now she had never fully understood the gut-clenching need to protect that Abby must have felt when Kira was in danger.
After all the screaming, Abby had fought like a fiend to keep Billie from getting into serious trouble, resulting in Billie’s forced vacation at the Casa Merissa. She rarely used leave and had enough stored up for the next two months. She just had to stay here and keep both her nose clean and an eye on Merissa. She could do it, no problem. The pain of not doing her part as a cop was tempered by the idea of having weeks to ride and play with all six horses. She’d never had such luxury. As long as no one shot at them and she and Merissa stayed away from any controversial urban renewal topics, of course.
“What should I do?” Merissa asked. Her hands were clenched between her knees and she wore a worried frown. Billie stood up and held out her hand.
“Can you give me a tour of the barn while we talk?” she asked. Merissa took her hand and let Billie pull her to her feet. Billie had made the suggestion because she thought Merissa might be more at ease if they interjected horse talk in between Billie’s suggestions, but one touch of Merissa’s hand and she decided it had been a good idea to get off the comfy sofa where they had sat so close to each other. Another concerned expression on Merissa’s face, and Billie might have been tempted to reach over and cup her cheek. Slide her hand along Merissa’s jaw and let her fingertips graze those pink, luscious lips.
Billie dropped Merissa’s hand and they each took a step back at the same time. Merissa cleared her throat and gestured toward the stairs. “After you,” she said.
Billie led the way to the barn aisle. To her right and left, large box stalls lined the aisle. A feed room and tack room were directly opposite her staircase, and the causeway leading to the second row of stalls was a few feet up the aisle and to her left. The barn was a huge H, and the short but wide causeway was lined with grooming stalls and a wash rack.
“Your horses will be in these stalls,” Merissa said. The six stalls were airy and bright, with Dutch doors in the back of each one, leading into a private paddock. Merissa had put them in prime spots, close to the causeway and everything Billie would need to groom and care for them. She figured these stalls were usually full, and the normal occupants had been moved to give her and her horses the most convenient spots.
“Your turn,” Merissa said. App
arently the tour and Billie’s safety lecture were going to alternate.
“Don’t go anywhere alone if you can help it. Take me with you, or ask a friend. At the very least, let me or someone else know where you’ll be.”
Merissa gave the suggestion some thought. Billie understood her hesitation because she liked her own independence and would chafe under the restriction of checking in with someone or having a chaperone at all times, but she was beginning to realize how difficult it would be to guard Merissa. Just one suggestion from Billie, and Merissa already looked ready to stage a formal protest.
“I can do that for a short time, I guess, but I don’t like it,” Merissa said. She walked down the aisle, introducing Billie to the few horses that were inside. The day was brisk, but partly sunny, and most of the animals were in the pastures. Merissa walked across a loop of the same gravel drive that wound around the property and pulled open a large sliding door. Billie gasped at the size of the indoor arena. She’d ridden at the fairgrounds, in the metal and cement lined Paulhamus Arena, but Merissa’s had it beat both in size and atmosphere. Arching wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and a low tongue-and-groove cedar fence separated the riding area from a series of bleachers. On the far side was a space for storage, and Merissa opened the locker doors to show her where the polo mallets and balls were kept. There were also piles of brightly colored poles and standards for building jumps, a few stacks of cones, and some plastic barrels.
“You can use whatever you need for training your horses. There are more jumps in the outdoor arenas, and you saw the cross-country course when you drove in.”
Billie looked over the equipment, mentally designing obstacle courses for her rookie horses, but Merissa was watching her expectantly so she continued with her mini-lecture.
“I always should know where you are, but don’t let anyone else anticipate your movements. Don’t travel the same route twice in a row, don’t ride the same trail every afternoon, and don’t leave the house or office at predictable times.”
Merissa sighed. “I’m not accustomed to having so many rules,” she said.
Billie gave a snort of laughter. She was right—Merissa wasn’t going to be compliant at all. “So many rules?” she repeated. “I’ve only given you two so far.”
“So far?” Merissa imitated Billie’s bemused tone. “You mean there are more?”
Merissa changed the subject again, apparently not ready to hear more of Billie’s demands on her privacy and autonomy. She pointed at a small cottage situated between the arena and the smaller barns on the hillside. “Jean-Yves Lucier lives there. I met him at a horse show when I was at university in Montreal. When I came back here, I asked him to come with me and take over as manager and head groom. He takes care of the upper barns, and there are three others who help him in the main one. You’ll meet all of them in the next day or two, I’m sure.”
They went around the far side of the arena. “We have trails cleared on the wooded section of the farm. You can access them through that gate and up the hill. Do you see the big tree stump? It’s at the entrance to the trail system. There are different forks along the way, but they all loop back to the same place, so you can’t get lost on them.”
“How long have you been riding?” Merissa asked as they walked to one of the big, grassy paddocks. She stopped and leaned her forearms on the top rail of the fence. A coal-black mare was grazing along in the far corner, and what little sun there was made her coat glow like polished onyx.
“About three years,” Billie said. She didn’t want to elaborate. She’d started riding at a therapeutic center when she could no longer handle her PTSD on her own. She had dropped out of life, barely getting to work on time, barely making it through the day. She’d never been much of a drinker, but the temptation to lose herself in a bottle was overwhelming. At first, she’d simply sat on top of the horse while volunteers led her around and around the ring. Eventually, she’d started noticing the animal moving underneath her, and one day she picked up the loose reins and started to take control again. The healing was slow and ongoing. The difference between her riding experiences and Merissa’s—with her fancy barn and French Canadian stable manager—was almost laughable. But when she watched Merissa’s expression soften while she looked at the black beauty in front of them, she wondered if they weren’t more similar than she thought.
“I’d have guessed a lot longer after watching you ride,” Merissa said. “You must have had good teachers.”
Billie felt her face heat at the compliment. “I did. Cal’s taught me about classical equitation and being a balanced rider. And Rachel has more of a natural horsemanship approach, and I’ve learned a lot about horse psychology from her.” Billie didn’t mention the instructors at the therapy program, although she sent them a silent and heartfelt thank you in her mind. She had learned the basics from them—not just in riding, but in living through pain.
Merissa looked at her for a moment, as if about to ask more questions, but Billie’s face must have said the topic was closed. Merissa turned and gave a piercing whistle instead.
“Wow,” Billie said as the mare floated over to them in a breathtaking trot. She seemed barely to skim the surface of the grass as she moved. Billie tried to come up with a more intelligent observation about the horse’s movement or conformation, but she couldn’t come up with a thing. “Wow,” she repeated.
“I know,” Merissa said as she stroked the horse’s neck. “Billie, I’d like you to meet Mariposa. I imported her from Argentina. And if Cal asks about her, she has a swayback and only three legs.”
“I take it she’s going to be your secret weapon on the polo field next season.” Billie rubbed the mare’s forehead, and she lowered her head over the fence and pressed it against Billie’s chest.
Merissa watched them in silence for a moment. “Any more advice?” she asked.
Billie twisted the mare’s forelock around her fingers. “Listen to your intuition. If you feel uncomfortable with a situation or person, don’t second-guess yourself. Trust yourself and no one else.”
“Not even you?”
Billie thought about that. Had she made the right choices for Merissa so far? “No,” she said. “Not even me.”
Chapter Eleven
Merissa was cleaning a stall the next morning when her phone vibrated in the pocket of her jeans. She propped the manure fork against the wall and read the name on the display. Karen. Merissa had only spoken to her twice since the shooting, and each time Karen had been too distraught to talk long. She and Dennis had been married for over forty years. Merissa knew they’d had trouble on and off in their marriage, but Dennis had said they were growing closer over the past few years. His last words were meant for her, and when Merissa told Karen about them, she had filled in the blank and told her Dennis said, Tell Karen I love her. Even if that wasn’t what he’d really meant to say, Merissa had no qualms about her little tiny lie.
“Hi, Karen,” she said when she answered the call. “How are you?”
She automatically adopted the same annoying tone most people took with her these days, as if she were a child who needed a pat on the head. How are you holding up, Merissa, dear? Merissa usually wanted to smack them, but here she was using the exact same baby-talk voice with Karen.
“Not well. Not well at all. Oh, Merissa, I miss him so much.” Karen sobbed on the other end of the line, and Merissa stood there, unsure what to say beyond some soothing words and sounds. She waited patiently until Karen was in control again.
“My lawyers are going to the office today,” she said with a sniff. “They’ll go over the books and Dennis’s files to find out if we need to pay any bills or collect money. I was hoping you could be there to make sure they have what they need. You know I’m not good at that sort of thing.”
Merissa frowned. Karen did just fine with the financial side of the business, always showing up when a client’s account was in arrears, but she liked to play the helpless game sometimes. D
ennis had loved it, and always rushed to her aid. Merissa wasn’t as fond of the act, but if lawyers were rifling through files at the office, she wanted to be involved.
“Are you planning to sell the business, or keep running it?” Merissa asked. Karen seemed to recover once she was talking about money, and Merissa decided to ask the question she had been dwelling on for a while now.
“Oh, dear, I couldn’t possibly keep it going as well as Dennis did. I’ll have to sell. You were his favorite employee, and I’m sure he’d want you to have the first option to buy. Once my lawyers have gone through the accounts, we’ll decide on a fair price and let you decide.”
Merissa believed Dennis had been closer to her personally than to any of his other employees, but she also knew she was the only one who could possibly afford to buy the firm. Of course Karen would come to her first. Merissa had been hoping decisions about the fate of the Morgan Group would be tabled for a few months, until she could make her own decision about her future and not be forced to follow the path everyone seemed to assume Dennis had had in mind for her. Besides, her grandfather would return and haunt her if she didn’t make sure the business’s affairs were in order before she made the choice whether or not to take over.
Dennis had kept sole control over the financial side of his firm, and Merissa wanted a chance to examine everything before she made an offer. If she made an offer. The extra time would have given her a chance to decide what she really wanted to do, but Karen was pushing too fast. Merissa had loved working for Dennis, and the work was satisfying and thrilling, but a big part of her joy was tied up in her friendship with Dennis and his role as her mentor. There was a big difference between working for someone she respected and who taught her so much, and making a long-term commitment to buy the company.