by Nora Roberts
The Virginia papers were a bit more informative. Naomi never denied firing the fatal shot. She claimed, through her attorney, that Bradley had attacked her and she had resorted to the weapon in self-defense.
The facts were reported that Naomi and Bradley had a friendly relationship, and had been seeing each other socially for weeks. And, of course, that Naomi was in the midst of a messy custody suit over her three-year-old daughter.
A week after the murder, there were more headlines:
VIRGINIA WOMAN ARRESTED FOR MURDER
New Evidence Derails Claim of Self-Defense
And damning evidence it was. Kelsey’s blood chilled as she read of the photograph taken by a detective hired by her father’s lawyers to obtain ammunition for the custody battle. Rather than an illicit affair, the detective had recorded murder.
He’d testified at the trial as well. Stubbornly moving from page to page, she read on. About witnesses who agreed, under oath, that Naomi and Bradley behaved, in public, as intimate friends. That Naomi was an expert marksman. That she enjoyed parties, champagne, the attention of men. That she and Bradley had quarreled the evening of his death over his flirtation with another woman.
Then Charles Rooney had taken the stand and told his story. He’d taken dozens of photographs of Naomi, at the track, at the farm, at various social events. He was a licensed private investigator in the state of Virginia, and his surveillance reports were carefully documented.
They formed a picture of a reckless, beautiful woman who craved excitement, who was eager to break the bonds of an inhibiting marriage to an older man. And one who, on the night of the murder, invited the victim into her home, where she was alone and dressed only in a negligee.
Rooney was unable to swear to what was said between the two, but his photographs and his observations said a great deal. The couple had embraced, brandy was poured. Then, they appeared to argue and Naomi had stormed upstairs. Bradley had followed.
Eager to fulfill his duties, Rooney had climbed a handy tree and aimed his telephoto lens at the bedroom window. The argument had continued there, becoming more heated. Naomi had slapped Bradley’s face, but when he’d turned to go, she’d pulled a gun out of the nightstand drawer. The camera had captured the shock on his face, and the fury on Naomi’s as she fired.
Kelsey stared at the photo for a long time, and at the headline above it that shouted GUILTY! Carefully, she made more copies, then shut off the machine and gathered her files and notes. Before logic could interfere with emotion, she found a pay phone and dialed.
“Three Willows.”
“Naomi Chadwick, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Kelsey Byden.”
There was a small, strangled sound quickly muffled. “Miss Naomi’s down at the stables. I’ll buzz her.”
Moments later an extension was picked up. Kelsey heard Naomi’s voice, cool as sherbet over the line. “Hello, Kelsey. It’s good to hear from you.”
“I’d like to talk to you again.”
“Of course. Whenever you like.”
“Now. It’ll take me an hour to get there. And I’d prefer that we be alone this time.”
“Fine. I’ll be here.”
Naomi hung up and wiped her damp hands on her jeans. “My daughter’s coming, Moses.”
“So I gathered.” Moses Whitetree, Naomi’s trainer, trusted employee, and longtime lover, continued to study his breeding reports. He was half Jew, half Choctaw, and had never taken the mix for granted. He wore his hair in a long graying braid down his back. There was the glint of a silver Star of David around his neck.
Whatever there was to know about horses, he knew. And he preferred them, with few exceptions, to people.
“She’ll have questions.”
“Yes.”
“How do I answer them?”
He didn’t glance up, didn’t need to. He knew every nuance of Naomi’s face. “You could try the truth.”
“A lot of good the truth’s done me.”
“She’s your blood.”
It was always so simple for Moses, Naomi thought impatiently. “She’s a grown woman. I hope she’s her own woman. She won’t accept me simply because we share blood, Moses. I’d be disappointed if she did.”
He set his paperwork aside and rose. He wasn’t a big man, only a few pounds and a few inches over his onetime dream of being a jockey. In his worn-down boots he was eye level with Naomi. “You want her to love you, to accept you, but you want her to do it on your terms. You’ve always wanted too much, Naomi.”
With tenderness she touched a hand to his wind-bitten cheek. It was impossible to stay irritated with him. He was the man who had waited for her, who never questioned her, who had always loved her.
“So you’ve always told me. I didn’t know I would need her so much until I saw her again, Moses. I didn’t know it would matter as much as it does.”
“And you wish it didn’t.”
“Oh, I wish it didn’t.”
That he understood. He’d spent most of his life wishing he didn’t love Naomi. “My people have a saying.”
“Which people?”
He smiled. They both knew he made up half of his sayings and twisted the other half to suit his purposes. “Only the foolish waste their wishes. Let her see what you are. It’ll be enough.”
“Moses.” A groom looked into the office, then tipped his hat toward Naomi. “Miss. I don’t like the way Serenity’s favoring her near foreleg. Got some swelling, too.”
“She ran well this morning.” Moses’s brow puckered. He’d been up before dawn to watch the early workouts. “Let’s take a look.”
Moses kept his office in a small area at the front of the stables. It was cramped and often smelled of horse urine, but he preferred it to the airy space his predecessor had used in a whitewashed building near the west paddock.
Moses often said the earthy smell of horses was French perfume to him and he didn’t want any fancy digs away from the action.
In truth, the stables were nearly as sparkling as any luxury hotel, and usually busier. The concrete slope between the lines of stalls was scrubbed and spotless. The individual stalls were marked with an enameled plaque with the name of each horse scrolled in gold. It was an affectation of Naomi’s father’s that she’d continued when she’d taken over running the farm.
There were scents of horses, of liniment, of hay and grain and leather—a potpourri Naomi had missed sorely during her years in prison and one she never failed to appreciate.
It was, to her, the scent of freedom.
As Moses passed, horses stuck their heads out of stalls. He, too, had a scent, one they recognized. His boots might have clattered quickly along the slope, but there was always time for a quick stroke, a murmured word.
Stable hands continued their work. Perhaps pitchforks or currycombs moved with more enthusiasm now that the man was in view.
“I was going to take her out to pasture when I saw how she favored the leg.” The groom paused beside Serenity’s box stall. “Noticed the swelling and thought you’d want to take a look for yourself.”
Moses merely grunted, passing his hands over the glossy chestnut coat. He studied the filly’s eyes, smelled her breath, murmuring to her as he worked his way down from cheek to chest to leg.
There was swelling just above the fetlock, and some heat. As he applied some slight pressure, the filly jerked back and blew a warning. “Looks like she’s knocked into something.”
“Reno was riding her this morning.” Naomi remembered that the jockey had made a special trip to the farm for the workout. “See if he’s still here.”
“Yes’m.” The groom scurried off.
“She had a beautiful run this morning.” Eyes narrowed, Naomi crouched beside Moses and examined the lame leg herself, gently lifting it forward and back to check for shoulder strain. “Looks like an overreach,” she muttered. There was discoloration, a sign of blood clotting under the
skin. The bone was probably bruised, she thought. If they were lucky, there’d be no fracture. “She was due in Saratoga next week.”
“She might still make it.” But he didn’t think so, not on that leg. “We can get the swelling down. Better call the vet, though. An X ray wouldn’t hurt.”
“I’ll take care of it. And I’ll talk to Reno.” She straightened, hooking an arm around the mare’s neck. They were an investment, a business, but that didn’t negate her love for them. “She’s got the heart of a champion, Moses. I don’t want to hear that she can’t race again.”
Less than an hour later, Naomi watched grimly as the filly’s injury was treated. Already a stream of cold water had been applied directly to the wound. Now Moses himself was massaging the bruise with a mixture of vinegar and cool water. Her vet stood in the stall and prepared a syringe.
“How long before she can start training again, Matt?”
“A month. Six weeks would be better.” He glanced toward Naomi. Matt Gunner had a long, pleasant face, kind eyes. “The bone’s bruised, Naomi, and there’s some tissue damage, but there’s no fracture. You keep her stabled, keep up the massage, some light exercise, and she’ll do.”
“We were going at a fast pace,” Reno put in. The jockey stood just outside the box, watching the procedure. He’d changed from his morning workout into one of the smart tailored suits he preferred. But he was a racetracker. There was nothing of more concern to him, or the others, than a Thoroughbred’s delicate legs. “I didn’t notice any change of gait.”
“Neither did I,” Naomi added. “Reno says she didn’t stumble. I was watching the run this morning and I would have noticed if she had. This filly has a quiet temperament. She’s not one to kick in her stall.”
“Well, she took a hard knock,” Matt said. “If your groom hadn’t been alert, it would have been a great deal worse. This’ll ease the pain. There you go, girl. Easy now.” He slid the needle under Serenity’s flesh just above the wound. She rolled her eyes, snorted, but didn’t struggle. “She’s strong and she’s healthy,” Matt said. “She’ll run again. Moses, there’s nothing I can tell you about treating that leg that you don’t already know. You give me a call if it heats up. Otherwise . . .” He trailed off, staring over Naomi’s shoulder.
“Excuse me.” Kelsey stood back, clutching her purse and her file. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I was told up at the house I’d find you here.”
“Oh.” Distracted, Naomi dragged a hand through her hair. “I lost track of time. We’ve had a small crisis here. Matt, this is my daughter, Kelsey. Kelsey Byden, Matt Gunner, my vet.”
Matt reached out, the syringe still in his hand. He drew it back, flushed. “Sorry. Hello.”
Nerves aside, she had to smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“And Moses Whitetree,” Naomi continued. “My trainer.”
Moses continued to massage the mare’s leg and merely nodded.
“Reno Sanchez, one of the best jockeys on the circuit.”
“The best,” he said with a wink. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you,” Kelsey said automatically. “You’re busy here. I can wait.”
“No, there’s nothing more I can do. Thanks for coming so quickly, Matt. Sorry I interrupted your day, Reno.”
“Hey, no problem. I’ve got plenty of time before the first post.” He looked at Kelsey again with undisguised admiration. “You’ll have to come to the track, see me ride.”
“I’m sure I’d enjoy it.”
“Moses, I’ll be back to check on her myself again later. Why don’t we go up to the house?” Naomi gestured, careful, very careful not to make contact, then led the way out the rear of the building.
“You have a sick horse?”
“Injured, I’m afraid. We’ll have to scratch her from her races for the next several weeks.”
“That’s a shame.”
Kelsey glanced toward a paddock where a yearling was being put through his paces on a longe line. Another, with a rider up, was being led by a handler toward the walking ring. A groom was giving a glossy chestnut a bath, spraying streams of water over the gelding with a hose. Other horses were simply being walked in wide, repetitive circles.
“Busy place,” Kelsey murmured, aware that eyes had turned her way.
“Oh, most of the work gets done in the morning, but it’ll be busy again when the track closes this afternoon.”
“You’re racing today?”
“There’s always a race,” Naomi said absently. “But right now we’ve still got mares dropping foals, so what doesn’t get done in the morning happens in the middle of the night.” She smiled a little. “They always seem to have them in the middle of the night.”
“I guess I didn’t realize you had such a large operation.”
“In the last ten years we’ve become one of the top Thoroughbred farms in the country. We’ve had a horse do no less than show in the last three Derbies. Won the St. Leger and Belmont. Took the Breeders’ Cup two years running. One of our mares took a gold in the last Olympics.” Naomi cut herself off with a laugh. “Don’t get me started. I’m worse than a grandmother with a wallet full of snapshots.”
“It’s all right. I’m interested.” More, Kelsey mused, than she’d realized. “Actually, I took riding lessons when I was a girl. I guess most of us go through a horse-crazy stage. Dad hated it, but . . .” She trailed off, suddenly understanding why he’d been so unhappy when she’d developed the traditional girlhood obsession with horses.
“Of course he did,” Naomi said with a thin smile. “It’s perfectly understandable. But you had your lessons anyway?”
“Yes, I hounded him for them.” She stopped, and looked straight into her mother’s eyes. She could see the small, subtle signs of aging that she’d been too nervous to notice at their first meeting. Fine lines fanning out from the eyes. Others, either from temper or worry, gently scoring the high, creamy forehead. “It must have hurt him to see me, simply to see me day after day.”
“I don’t think so. However Philip came to feel about me, he adored you.” She looked away then because it was easier to stare at the hills. A horse whinnied, high and bright, a sound sweeter to Naomi than any aria. “I haven’t asked you about him. How is he?”
“He’s well. He’s the chairman of the English department at Georgetown now. Has been for seven years.”
“He’s a brilliant man. And a good one.”
“But not good enough for you.”
Naomi lifted a brow. “Darling Kelsey, I was never good enough for him. Ask anyone.” Naomi tossed her hair back and continued to walk. “I’m told he married again.”
“Yes, when I was eighteen. They’re very happy together. I have a stepbrother, Channing.”
“And you’re fond of them, your family.”
“Very.”
Naomi crossed the same patio, used the same terrace doors as she had the first time. “What can I get you? Coffee, tea? Some wine, perhaps?”
“It isn’t necessary.”
“I hope you’ll indulge Gertie. She made cookies when she heard you were coming. I know you don’t remember, but you meant a great deal to her.”
Trapped, Kelsey thought, by manners and compassion. “Tea and cookies then. Thanks.”
“I’ll tell her. Please sit down.”
She didn’t sit. It seemed only fair that she take a closer look at her mother’s things. At first glance the room was quietly elegant, a world apart from the bustle and manure-coated boots of the stable area. The low fire burned sedately, rose-colored drapes were pulled back to welcome the sun. That sun shone on a dozen or so lovely crystal horses in clear and jewel hues. The Oriental rug on the polished chestnut floor picked up the colors of the drapes and the creamy tones of the sofa.
Nothing ostentatious, nothing jarring. Until you looked again. The walls were covered in watered silk, the same cool ivory as the upholstery. But the paintings, large and abstract, were explosions of bold and restless color. Violent
works, Kelsey thought, sated with passion and anger. And signed, she saw with a jolt, with a bloodred N C.
Naomi’s work? she wondered. No one had mentioned that her mother painted. No amateurish works these, Kelsey decided, but skilled and capable and disturbing.
They should have unbalanced the steady dignity of the room, she thought as she turned away. Yet they humanized it.
There were other telling touches throughout the room. A statue of a woman, her alabaster face carved in unfathomable grief, a glass heart in pale green with a jagged crack down the center, a small bowl filled with colored stones.
“Those were yours.”
Guiltily, Kelsey dropped a pebble back into the bowl and turned. Gertie had wheeled in the tea tray and stood, beaming at her. “I’m sorry?”
“You always liked pretty rocks. I kept them for you when you . . .” Her smile wobbled. “When you went away.”
“Oh.” How was she supposed to answer that? “You’ve worked here a long time, then.”
“I’ve been at Three Willows since I was a girl. My mother kept house for Mr. Chadwick, then I took over when she retired. Moved to Florida. Chocolate chip was always your favorite.”
The woman looked as though she could devour Kelsey whole. The desperate yearning in her eyes was difficult to face, the desperate joy beneath that, worse. “They still are,” Kelsey managed.
“You come sit and help yourself. Miss Naomi got a phone call, but she’ll be right along.” All but humming with happiness, Gertie poured tea, arranged cookies on a plate. “I always knew you’d come back. Always knew it. Miss Naomi didn’t think so. She fretted about it all the time. But I says to her, ‘She’s your girl, isn’t she? She’ll come back to see her mama all right.’ And here you are.”
“Yes.” Kelsey made herself sit and accept the tea. “Here I am.”
“And all grown up.” Unable to help herself, Gertie stroked a hand over Kelsey’s hair. “A grown-up woman now.” Her lined face crumpled as she let her hand fall. Turning quickly, she hurried from the room.