'It won't hurt, and you look like you could use it.' She watched me swallow the pills, then sat down beside me. 'Do you think your nose is broken?'
'Probably not, but if it is, there's nothing much to be done about it. The last time I… eh.' Damn, why'd I have to bring that up? I sure as hell didn't want to talk about that. 'It probably isn't.'
'Um.' Rachel swiveled around to face me, much as Elsa had done, minus the sexual come-on. She reached over and lifted the ice pack off the armrest. 'Here, you should keep this on your nose. Somehow, I figure when you get home you won't bother.'
Rachel scooted around so that she was on her knees beside me on the sofa. She braced her left hand on the backrest next to my shoulder and held the ice on my nose. Any closer and she'd be in my lap. I wanted to take the damn ice off my face and wrap my arms around her, but my stomach had other plans. My gut was churning like a cement mixer, and I thought I'd probably swallowed more blood than I'd realized.
'Rachel.' I reached up and took the ice pack out of her hand. 'Thanks for all your help. I think-'
'You're welcome.'
'It's the last thing I want, but I really need to head home.'
'It's getting late, isn't it?' She lifted her hand off the back of the sofa to check the time and lost her balance. I caught her as she toppled forward. We stared at each other, our faces almost touching. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and I couldn't help but grin at her. I slid my hands around her waist and helped her get vertical, though horizontal would have been a hell of a lot more fun.
I let her go, and she stood up. 'I'll walk you to your car, if you like,' I said.
'I like.' She ran her fingers through her hair, and if I wasn't mistaken, her face was flushed.
If she was embarrassed, she had no reason to be. Not with me. I struggled to my feet but got to the door before she did. When I held it open for her, she brushed past me and smiled as if at some private joke, or so it seemed.
Rachel slid behind the wheel of her Toyota Camry and wound down the window. Except for her vehicle and mine, now looking ridiculous parked by the road, the place was deserted. She looked at me looking at my truck and grinned. 'Would you like a ride to your truck?'
'No thanks. I need to go back and check the barns before I leave.' I stepped back as she started the engine and slipped it into gear. 'Have a safe drive home,' I said.
'You, too.'
I watched her drive off, checked the barns, then broke every speed limit home, all the while wishing that Mrs. Hill wouldn't find out about the fight but knowing she'd hear about it one way or the other.
The clock radio clicked on, and I groped for the off button. When I didn't find it right away, I yanked the cord out of the wall. Monday morning, and rain was hammering the tin roof above my head and slashing against the windows as gusts of wind battered the barn. But what did I expect? It was, after all, April first.
On the drive to Foxdale, the dreary, rhythmic scrape of wipers across windshield grated on my nerves. I turned on the radio-loud-and mulled over yesterday afternoon's unsuccessful trailer search with Detective Ralston.
Based on Ralston's premise that 'the obvious is oftentimes the most likely' and assuming that the horse thieves had been taking me to territory they were familiar with, we had worked in concentric circles that radiated outward from where I'd escaped the trailer. Almost half of the trailer owners weren't home. Most who were kept their trailers on the farms where they boarded their horses, necessitating yet another trip on our part. All reacted with genuine surprise at a police detective's appearance on their doorstep.
On the positive side, working down the list produced the expected domino effect we'd hoped for. Knocking off just one trailer's make and model immediately eliminated several names on the list. We worked through all of Montgomery County and part of Howard before calling it a day. Even still, the results were disappointing.
When Ralston asked when I could take off for another attempt, I selfishly avoided sacrificing any part of my next scheduled day off. Rachel and I had a date planned, and I'd justified my decision with the knowledge that I had some sleuthing of my own in mind.
Rain moved in sheets across the pavement. I squinted through the spray of water droplets and felt the beginnings of a headache. As I pulled off Rocky Ford and headed down the lane toward the parking lot, something in the large outdoor arena caught my eye. One of the jumps looked different, but I couldn't make out why from so far away. I backed into my usual space and pulled on a rain poncho. Cold rain stung like needles on my face as I trudged across the lane. I unlatched the gate and walked into the arena. The going was deeper, but as usual, the drainage system was doing its job. Even in a downpour, the footing was good for the horses.
I stopped at the base of the jump, or what was left of it. The message was bone-chillingly clear. The Foxdale jump, the one that most represented Foxdale, had been burned to the ground, the intricately-carved fox heads and hunt scene reduced to a pile of charred rubble and ash. Standing there as the rain splattered loudly on the plastic of my poncho and pounded in a deafening roar on the arena's metal roof, I'd had enough. I would have to find them, stop them. They wanted to play with fire, I'd make sure they got burnt.
I looked for additional damage and found none, but the message was poignant all the same. I grained the horses and started haying. When the crew straggled in around seven, I left them to finish up and went into the office. I pulled a worn card out of my back pocket and dialed Detective Ralston's number. After six rings, I was thinking about hanging up when he picked up.
'This is Steve Cline, at Foxdale.'
'What's up?' He sounded wide awake and enthusiastic if not downright cheerful.
'Someone torched one of the jumps in the outdoor arena last night. I didn't know if you'd want me to call you or not, but the jump they chose was one with Foxdale's logo on it. I took that to be a message of sorts.' When he didn't respond, I said, 'Assuming it's the same crew, it seems there's been a shift in their focus.'
'What do you mean?'
'Profit.' I rubbed my forehead. 'There wasn't any profit in what they did last night. Only malice.'
'There was malice with the cat,' Ralston said. He was right, of course. 'Is it raining there?'
'Coming down in buckets.'
'I'll call Linquist and let him know. The rain's probably destroyed any evidence, but it'll be good to get the incident on record.'
'All right.'
'Any other damage?'
'No. Nothing else has been touched.'
'Good. Someone will be out.'
When Ralston disconnected, I stared at his card lying on the blotter. What was I going to find next? What if they decided that torching a jump wasn't enough?
Chapter 10
I left a note for Mrs. Hill, emptied out my bin, and walked back to the barn.
Later that morning, after the crew had turned out the first batch of horses and we'd started in on the stalls, I grabbed a push broom from the storage area at the end of the aisle. When I turned around, I almost bumped into Dave.
He opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated. He hadn't gone to the party. Hadn't heard about the fight. Hadn't seen my face.
I looked more closely and saw he was angry, and I didn't think it had anything to do with me. 'What's wrong?' I said.
'What happened to the Foxdale jump?'
I crossed my arms and leaned on the broom. Not one of the crew had noticed except him. 'Someone was up
