CHAPTER EIGHT
The sun came dimly to the skies of Chatham County, so lost behind black clouds that Abigail Vane barely noticed it; it was a faint presence in a heavy sky, a suspicion of orange in the still air, of color hung in the trees. Rain fell straight down, a hiss in the tall grass that was loud enough to deaden most other sounds, hard enough for Abigail to feel on the backs of her hands, the crown of her head. It stung her face as the horse ran, and as the morning stalled, black and loud and ceaseless. After two hours, her body was chilled, her fingers so cramped she could barely open them. Her back ached and her legs burned, but she didn’t care, didn’t feel. She wanted to push. She wanted to ride hard, and let the wind of a fast horse steal the scream from her throat.
At the end of the field, she reined in, horse snorting as it danced sideways and worked the bit in its mouth. Her pants were coated with mud and horse sweat, her feet heavy in the stirrups. A wall of hardwoods loomed in the rain: oak and beech and maple, trees so tall and broad that night remained complete beneath them. She swiped at the hair that clung to her face, and then turned the horse to face back down the length of the field. From one end to the other, they’d worn a track of crushed grass and churned mud, a violent gash in the valley floor. And the horse still wanted to run. He tossed his head, rolled his eyes, and Abigail felt a wildness in him that suited her mood. He was a dangerous animal, seventeen hands tall with a streak of viciousness she’d never seen in a horse.
But he was fast.
Goddamn, was he fast.
She sawed once at the reins, then put her heels in his flank and let him go. His nostrils flared, and his hooves put a thunder in the mud. They reached the end and turned. Ran it again. Her lungs were burning when the Land Rover pushed out of the trees. It was old, with paint scratched through to metal, and Abigail knew who was behind the wheel even before it lurched to a halt. She turned the horse, her hand sliding once along its hot, reeking neck. The animal jerked its head, but she patted it a final time, then walked it to the vehicle, where she found a lean, broad-shouldered man standing at the hood. He was sixty years old, but hard and straight, with large-knuckled hands and the kind of smile you had to look closely to see. But there was no smile this time. He wore khakis and leather boots, a burgundy tie under rain gear the color of moss. Disapproval pinched his features, so that when Abigail leaned from the saddle, she said, “I don’t want to hear it, Jessup.”
“Hear what?”
“A lecture on safety or propriety or how a woman my age should behave.”
“That horse. In this visibility.” Jessup Falls pointed at the horse, his voice tight. “You’re going to break your damn neck.”
“Such language.” Her eyes sparkled, but Jessup was immune.
“You’re going to break your neck and it will be up to me to carry you out of here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m being angry. Jesus, Abigail. That horse has injured two trainers. He almost killed the last one.”
She waved off his concern, and slid from the horse. Rain clattered through leaves and pinged off the truck. “Why are you here, Jessup?”
Jessup’s skin had grown ruddy with the years, his hair thin and white, but other than that, he was the same man she’d known for so long: her driver, her bodyguard. Abigail circled the horse, boots squelching in damp soil. She’d aged, too, but more gracefully. Her skin was lined, but looked more like thirty-seven than forty- seven. Her hair had its natural color. She still turned heads.
“Your husband is up,” Jessup said. “He’s asking for you.”
She slowed as her face angled toward the far hill, where hints of the massive house showed: a slate roof and gabled windows, one of the seven tall chimneys.
“Are you okay?” Jessup’s voice was softer, his anger spent.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Jessup cleared his throat, unwilling to state the obvious: the soaking clothes and the mud, the horse lathered yellow at the neck. Abigail was a fine rider, but this was insane. “Julian, for one,” Jessup said.
“How is he this morning?” She kept her voice crisp enough to fool anyone else. She leaned close to the horse, one palm on the broad, flat plane of its cheek. She wished she had an apple or a carrot, but the decision to ride had been impulsive. Five in the morning. Rain falling in sheets.
“I don’t know.”
“Is he worse?”
“I honestly don’t know. No one knew where to find you, not your husband or the staff. No one. The first place I checked was the stable.”
“Has he said anything?”
“Not that I know.”
She stroked the horse as water dripped from her face. It was colder now that she was off the horse; in the dim light, her skin looked blue. “What time is it?”
“A little after seven.”
Abigail turned to look more closely at his face. She saw that he was unshaven, and that the skin beneath his eyes was dark enough to seem bruised. An image gathered in her mind: Jessup awake most of the night, sitting unhappily beside an untouched whiskey, pacing dark hours in the small room he kept. His worry for Julian would be real, as would his concern for her, and for a moment, she felt deep affection for the man whose own emotions were so obvious. “I should go,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not like that.”
“Like what?” She palmed a streak of mud from her face.
“Barely dressed.” Jessup smiled awkwardly. “The rain has made your shirt quite transparent.”
Abigail looked down and saw that he was right. Jessup retrieved a long, waterproof coat, then stepped forward and draped it over her shoulders. It smelled of canvas, hunting dogs, and burned powder. She reached out an arm to pull the coat tighter, and Jessup caught her deftly by the hand. His eyes settled on the yellow-green marks on her wrist. They were large and finger-shaped. The moment stretched between them, and he said, “When?”
“When, what?” Her chin rose.
“Don’t bullshit me, Abigail.”
She pulled her hand free. “Whatever you think happened, you’re mistaken.”
“Did he hit you?”
“God, no. Of course not. I’d never allow it.”
“He got drunk and put his hands on you. That’s why you’re out here.”
“No.”
“Then why?” Anger sharpened his features.
“I just needed something bigger.” She patted the horse again. “Something clean.”
“Damn it, Abigail…”
She handed him the reins and made it plain that the subject was closed. “Walk him back to the stable for me. Cool him down.”
“Talk to me, Abigail.”
“I’m more of a doer than a talker.”
Jessup’s face showed his displeasure. “Just like that?”
She looked up, and let rain strike her face. “You still work for me.”
“And the truck?” His neck stiffened, and a wounded look settled in the dark centers of his eyes.
“I’ll take the truck.”
She walked to the truck without looking back, but felt him there, unhappy and staring.
