The Stable Affair Read online

  The Stable Affair

  Jessica Andersen

  The Stable Affair

  ISBN 1-55316-043-6

  Published by LTDBooks

  www.ltdbooks.com

  Copyright © 2002 Jessica Andersen

  Artwork copyright © 2002 Patricia Storms

  Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West

  , Unit 1, Suite 301

  , Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Andersen, Jessica, 1973-

  The stable affair [computer file]

  ISBN 1-55316-043-6 (electronic) ISBN 1-55316-958-1 (REB 1100&1200)

  Prologue

  “Sir? You know how you asked me to watch Sarah Taylor and call if she did anything unusual?”

  The Doctor grimaced and picked a speck of lint off the cuff of his crisp white shirt. He disliked this particular employee’s habit of conversing in a series of questions. “Yes, go on.”

  “Well, she’s moving out of her place in Boston, you know? I’m not sure where she’s going, but she packed up a bunch of her stuff in a big van and left this morning, so she must be moving, right?”

  “Your powers of reasoning continue to astound me.”

  “Uh. Yeah. Anyway, do you still want me to keep tabs on her? She’s headed north of Boston on Ninety-Three, okay?”

  “Yes. Have one of your men search the condo again for those notes. You stay with her for now and see where she goes, then call me back at this number.”

  The Doctor disconnected with one carefully buffed fingernail then dialed an internal extension. “Rumney? Miss Taylor is leaving town rather suddenly and I am a bit concerned. Has Mrs. St. Pierre

  ’s family made any additional threats since the settlement? Is there any indication that they might have contacted Miss Taylor?”

  “No, Sir. St. Pierre’s brother has been quiet since the hearing. I think he’s too busy playing daddy to make trouble.”

  The Doctor’s lips thinned, making him look particularly reptilian. “I don’t pay you to think, I pay you to watch and listen. However in this case you are probably correct. You can end the surveillance on the family. Call in your men and send me the bill.”

  When the room was silent except for the hissing of a hidden humidifier, the man steepled his fingers before his pale lips and contemplated a framed picture that hung amongst the diplomas on the wall. The photograph showed a slight girl with red-gold hair peering intently through the eyepieces of a fluorescent microscope. It was obviously a publicity shot of some sort, but the man spoke directly to the girl as if she was in the lavishly appointed office with him.

  “Well Sarah, what are you going to do now? Are you going to go somewhere far away and start a new life and forget that you ever worked in the lab? Or are you going to poke and prod and try to find out what really happened to Susan St. Pierre

  ? Don’t you want to know if you killed her?”

  In a way, Miss Taylor would disappoint him if she disappeared without a fight.

  Chapter One

  Sarah’s first day back at Pruitt Farm dawned bright and cheerful, with that deceptive New England springtime balm that could turn to slushy rain in an instant. She was up at daybreak. It was a habit she’d developed while working on the farm as a teenager and never lost, even during her recent years in the “real world.”

  Slipping easily back into the rhythm of the place, she skipped breakfast and made a cup of coffee to take with her to the stables. The barn manager was there before her.

  “Mornin’ Bob, where should I start?” She expected no effusive welcome from the quiet, thin man who had run her aunt’s farm for more than two decades, which was just as well since she didn’t get one.

  “You’re late, I’ve already fed and watered. You can start mucking out the shed row.” Chewing the ever-present wad of cinnamon gum, Bob stumped back toward the stallion barn without waiting to see how his orders were received.

  “You know,” Sarah said to a big gray horse as she forked wet shavings out of his stall and into the sturdy orange wheelbarrow, “just because he didn’t tell Aunt Tilly when he caught me riding the unbroke colts out in the big field when I was fourteen doesn’t mean Bob can order me around like I’m still a child.” Unfortunately that was exactly what it meant. She nudged her horse over so she could clean the other side of his loose box.

  “I was hired to teach lessons and ride the green horses, so what am I doing mucking your disgusting stall, you pig?” Almost Noble didn’t reply, but looked mildly offended and snorted juicily on the back of Sarah’s neck as she spread fresh bedding.

  “Well, I guess that’ll do it.” She casually wiped horse snot off her nape and checked the hatched scar on Noble’s side. It had healed well in the eighteen months since the trailer accident that had almost ended his life. “How’s it feeling today? Pretty soon it’ll be time to ride you again. We’ll have Doc check you out the next time he’s here.”

  With the deftness of long practice, Sarah backed the overfilled wheelbarrow into the narrow aisle and flipped around to aim it out the door to the manure trailer. She crouched down and used her well-muscled thighs to accelerate the heavy cart down the aisle, knowing she’d need to be running when she reached the slick ramp that led to the muck trailer.

  Her boots pounding on the concrete, Sarah had just reached optimal ramp speed when a figure stepped out of the intersecting hallway and directly into her path.

  “Look out!” She swerved to avoid collision and the full wheelbarrow overbalanced with a crash, twisting both her wrists as she fought to keep it upright. Her bad shoulder howled with pain while chunks of manure and globs of wet shavings flew out of the bucket and across the spotless aisle. The mess slopped onto the intruder’s shoes where it steamed merrily, emitting a noxious ammoniacal smell.

  “Aah!” He yelled a foul word and leapt back, taking most of the pile with him as he pranced around and tried to minimize the damage to his formerly impeccable clothing. He succeeded only in spreading the manure further up his pant legs.

  Under other circumstances Sarah might have laughed at the situation, just as she might have admired the stretch of starched oxford across his shoulders and the bunch and flow of lean muscle beneath his pleated dress pants. But it just wasn’t that kind of day. She was emotionally drained from the events of the past few months—okay, the last year and a half—and she’d slept poorly the previous night courtesy of several nasty dreams. The last thing she needed at that moment was some overdressed insurance salesman getting in her way.

  “Thanks for the four-letter identification. This is indeed manure, and you have several pieces of it in the cuffs of your nice clean pants. We don’t need any more insurance, so go away.”

  Sarah righted the wheelbarrow, sending another spray of soiled bedding lofting through the air. She began heaving the filth back into its proper place with a shovel, well aware that the intruder hadn’t followed her orders.

  He cleared his throat to get her attention. “Um… I’m not here about insurance.”

  Annoyed, she looked up and felt a frisson of sexual awareness that irritated her further. She’d always been a sucker for black hair and blue eyes. Because of it, she was careful to be nasty. “Well, we don’t want whatever you’re selling then. Go away. Unless you’re a client, which I highly doubt. No self-respecting horse person would be caught dead wearing clothes like that at a barn first thing in the morning.”

  The man’s face curled in a snarl that brought a snap to his cobalt eyes and briefly revealed a deep dimple in one cheek. “This isn’t my idea of working clothes either, girlie. I’ve got to go to court this morning, but I’m also supposed to follow some spoiled rich k
id around today. I stopped by…” He cut off with a snort. “I don’t know why I’m even bothering to explain myself to a stable hand. Now I’m going to be even later than I was. Thanks to you, I’ve got to go and change—I have shit on my pants!”

  Sarah’s Aunt Matilda peered cautiously around the corner, obviously drawn by the shouting. The man’s mouth snapped shut when he saw the older woman. “Mrs. Patters, please excuse my language. I was on my way to find you, but was held up by an accident.” He gestured at the muck that darkened his pants and smeared his shoes. “I also apologize for yelling at your employee even if she was being rude.”

  Sarah, well used to Tilly’s well meaning but usually misguided matchmaking attempts, began to smell a rat as her aunt smiled benignly at the man. “That’s a pretty weak apology, and I think you’d want to direct it elsewhere, but first let me introduce the two of you.” The older woman paused dramatically as if she were a master magician about to reveal untold secrets.

  “Oh brother, here it comes,” Sarah muttered under her breath.

  “Sarah, this is Dante Devers. I meant to speak to you about him last night when you arrived, but you were so tired I figured it could wait. He’s going to be photographing for Horseman’s Monthly and I said you’d take him around for a day or two and explain the circuit to him.”

  Yep. Sarah had known it was a setup, but forewarned is forearmed. She’d just be very careful not to encourage this Devers guy and he’d go away. “In a day? Not possible. Besides, I don’t want to. Tell him to go find somebody else to bother.”

  Sarah hadn’t missed the way Devers’ face had gone blank when he learned her identity. That must make her the “spoiled rich kid.” She sighed. It was so typical for outsiders to assume that anyone connected to the horse world was rich. There was an old saying: anyone who has made a small fortune with horses started with a larger one.

  She had also noticed that for a moment before his face had gone carefully neutral, the man had looked… well… angry. Sure he was irritated by the little manure incident, but the hatred Sarah had seen in his eyes had seemed more personal, more focused on her as an individual rather than just a woman with deadly aim and a wheelbarrow full of manure. A series of chills skittered up and down her spine and she suppressed a crawling shiver.

  But when she looked again, he was gazing at her with challenging blandness and Sarah decided that she must have imagined the moment. Tilda may not have the best taste in men, but Sarah trusted her not to invite a homicidal maniac onto the farm.

  “Well, the basics anyway,” Tilda plowed ahead. “And Dante, this is my niece, Sarah Taylor.”

  “A pleasure,” he said smoothly, flashing a smile that seemed to not quite reach his eyes. The grin brought out a second dimple to match the first and Sarah made a mental note not to say anything even remotely amusing when she was around this man. That smile was potentially lethal. “But unfortunately, my court date was postponed from yesterday so I’ll have to reschedule. When would it be convenient for me to come again and speak with your oh-so-charming and ever-so-clean niece?”

  Tilda sighed as if her patience was wearing thin, but Sarah could see a sparkle in her brown eyes. “The two of you will get along just famously, I can tell already. How ‘bout tomorrow? I don’t have Sarah scheduled to teach any lessons and I’ll be in town so I won’t have to hear the yelling or mop up the blood when you two start… uh… talking.”

  Dante drew himself up. “I assure you Mrs. Patters, as long as your niece can control herself there will be no more friction. I can’t understand what came over me.” He cocked an elegantly arched brow in Sarah’s direction. “Can I assume that tomorrow is acceptable to you?”

  Sarah shook her head and reminded herself to have yet another word with her aunt about trying to set her up. Granted, Tilly hadn’t liked Jay much, but Sarah still considered herself in mourning and wasn’t looking to start anything with anybody. Not even if that body did have dimples and dark blue eyes.

  “Tomorrow’s fine. I’m sure I can teach you the basics in a day unless you’re a complete moron.” Sarah’s tone was meant to imply that his lack of intelligence was a foregone conclusion.

  “Sarah…” Tilda’s tone was a gentle warning for her niece to behave.

  Still mildly annoyed at the whole situation—she didn’t have time to baby-sit some dumb hunk photographer—and wanting to give her aunt the hint, Sarah said in a conversational aside to Tilda, “You know, my ex-fiancé used to get overly polite and use big words when he was irritated with me, just like this guy. Since Jay was probably a thousand times smarter than your Mr. Devers, it must just be a Y-chromosome thing, don’t you think?”

  Sarah’s aunt just winced.

  Dante tried to count to ten before replying. He knew he was in a foul mood to begin with and he didn’t want to alienate Sarah Taylor after going to all this trouble to meet her, but something about the woman put him immediately on the offensive. He only made it to the count of five before his mouth opened of its own volition to take a stab at her. “Young lady, while I feel some sympathy for the poor fellow on his having been your fiancé, I must commend him on his good sense in not going through with it. What happened, did you chase him away with that nasty attitude, or was the smell alone enough to turn him off?”

  What was he doing? He was supposed to be making nice to Sarah Taylor, not attacking her. This was not going to help.

  She jerked her chin up hard and Dante noticed that her turquoise eyes had gone almost green. “He didn’t call it off. He died, and it was my fault. Thanks for the reminder, jerk.” Tossing her shovel aside, she walked down the manure-fouled corridor to a stall and let herself in, closing the door with a thump.

  Dante swore sharply at his mistake. The sketchy bio of Sarah Taylor that Daniel had given him was primarily focused on her activities at Boston General and hadn’t included that little tidbit. He couldn’t afford to have her hate him. Yet.

  When he moved to follow the girl, her aunt held up a warning hand. “I wouldn’t if I were you. She’ll need a moment to settle down. Go on and get your business dealt with, I’ll take care of Sarah. But do come tomorrow, she will have settled down by then and will be glad to talk to you.”

  “Mrs. Patters…”

  “My name is Tilda, Dante. Any friend of Dina’s is a friend of mine.”

  The motherly woman’s quick acceptance made Dante uncomfortable, and for the first time since his return to the country he questioned this course of action. Was it really his right to act as judge and jury when the courts had already exonerated Miss Taylor? He wavered for a moment until he remembered the little motherless child he’d left at home with Mrs. Phillips.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset your niece. I’m just having a bad morning and I took it out on her.” Dante ran a frustrated hand over his scalp and winced at the crunchy feel of the gunk Ellie had insisted on putting in his hair that morning as he dressed for the court appointment that would confirm him as the child’s guardian.

  He glanced at his watch and snarled as if his displeasure would make it run more slowly. He wasn’t used to having to be places on time. In the jungle, watches didn’t matter nearly as much as bug spray and water purifiers. “I really do have to go. Are you sure it’ll be okay if I come tomorrow? I could probably find someone else to talk to if you think I’m just going to make her mad again.”

  Dante held his breath after making the offer, knowing that he couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity. It had been difficult enough to pull off this cover at the last minute. It would be almost impossible to find another excuse to hang around Pruitt Farm.

  Tilda patted his arm and Dante relaxed a degree. “Don’t fret about it. You go ahead and I’ll settle things here. Toddle on over tomorrow morning about nine and Sarah’ll be civil or I won’t feed her this week.”

  Still he hesitated, a soft little corner of him regretting the undeniably rude comment that had sent the girl running. The hurt in her eyes had been real, and a
lthough the knowledge should have warmed him, it didn’t. “If you’re sure…”

  “Yeah, go on. We’ll see you tomorrow. Now scram!”

  Dante scrammed, and if he looked hard at the closed stall door before he left, who could blame him? He wasn’t a cruel man by nature, but he’d spent many sleepless nights staring at the cracked ceiling of his rented bedroom, imagining his revenge.

  As he pulled the battered Jeep Wagoneer out of the visitors’ lot, he passed a golden retriever basking in the sun. He nodded at the dog and couldn’t stop himself from thinking that Sarah Taylor’s severe ponytail might be the same color as the retriever’s coat, a sweet reddish bronze shot with streaks of wheat. For a brief moment he could picture that hair fanned out across her pale shoulders as she held out a narrow hand to invite him closer.

  “Christ!” He brought the Jeep to a shuddering halt in the middle of the road as he frantically worked to erase the image from his mind. He scrubbed a damp palm across his face, suddenly conscious of the aroma of fresh manure in the car. “Whoa there, Devers. She’s the enemy, not a real woman. Remember that, will you?”

  His voice echoed hollowly in the Jeep and Susan’s plastic Bugs Bunny doll swung from the rear view mirror staring at him with dead eyes that seemed to agree—Enemy.

  Tilda found her niece in Almost Noble’s stall. The older woman let herself in and sat in the shavings next to the girl. “You always came here when you were upset, so I always knew where to find you. What’s wrong? Was it what Dante said? I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Sarah shrugged and laid her hot, aching face against Noble’s left knee. It seemed like she had been battling tears ever since her arrival at the farm the night before. The familiar faces had stripped away some of the tough armor she had developed over the last months and she was hurting from wounds long denied. “My life is such a complete mess, Tilly. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here, I’m not going to be much use to you if I’m off having hysterics every few hours.”