the
mist-dampened ground, Natalie simply nodded. "I'll be good." She
eased the reins and sat back only a minute amount, feeling the horse's
eagerness as he bounded forward. "Hey, guy," she murmured, "this
isn't a race."
He didn't want to trot and, to punish her, managed a stiff
gait that jarred her teeth as if she were driving a road that was wall-to-wall
potholes.
Nonetheless, she held him to it, and as they left the gates
of the ranch behind, Foxfire's ears flicked forward and the ride smoothed. At
best, Arabians had a bouncy trot, showy in the ring but not comfortable. They
had been bred for endurance, for traveling all day in the arid desert without rest
or water.
Once the trail intersected the broader one used by horsemen,
runners and bicyclists, Natalie let the stallion stretch into an easy lope. The
gray mist clung to treetops and hid the mountains from her, beading on long,
autumn-gold grasses in the fields that sloped toward the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
Foxfire's hooves thudded on the damp earth in a rhythm, a mantra. The cool,
moist air cleansed her; the power gathered beneath her gave Natalie an
intoxicating sense of control and invincibility.
Illusory, of course, she was reminded when a small bird
exploded from the underbrush to chase a hawk above, and the stallion shied,
shaking his head and kicking his heels, twisting beneath her in momentary
rebellion. She loosed the reins, urged him with tightened legs to go faster
and, in his eagerness, he forgot his pique. The adrenaline rush made Natalie
feel gloriously alive.
Best of all, she couldn't afford for even a second to let
her mind wander, to picture the body in the study, to wonder when she could go
home or if she wanted to. The chestnut stallion demanded that every grain of
her attention be on him. She needed to read his every quivering signal and
search the glistening Oregon grape and brown fronds of ferns beneath hemlock
and cedar for any creature or oddity that might spook him. Her body had to flow
with his. Too much tension, and the next time he leaped sideways she'd be flat
on her back on the trail, hard packed despite today's mist, breath knocked out
of her.
Oh, yes, her difficult horse and a damp day and the deserted
trail had been exactly what she needed.
I t's 11:02
p.m. , do you know where your daddy
is?
Weary to the bone, John pulled into the detached one-car
garage off the alley and headed for the back door. The kids would be long since
asleep, he hoped. Hell, even his mother rarely stayed up past ten. Natalie, he
didn't know about. Wondering heightened his senses slightly as he inserted the
key in the lock. He didn't hear voices, real or canned from the TV, and from
the street he'd seen no light on in the living room.
He tried to be home for meals and to tuck his children into
bed at night. Their mother's diagnosis of multiple sclerosis was tough enough
for them, since it meant losing her as a part of their daily lives, having to visit
her in a place where illness couldn't be forgotten and they were reduced to
awkward kisses on her cheek and polite responses to her questions about school
and friends. They needed to be able to count on Daddy.
But his job wasn't nine-to-five, not in the first throes of
an investigation. Some of the lowlifes he'd needed to talk to didn't come out
from under their rocks until after dark. He was lucky to be home this early.
His mother's sporty Chevrolet was parked to one side of the
driveway. Even as irritated as he'd been at her this morning, John was grateful
that his kids had her and their uncles, that he wasn't their only close family.
But he was damned if he'd let her use chilly judgments and icy disapproval to
hammer his son into the avenging angel she'd wanted her own sons to be. Hell,
wasn't that what they were, cleansing the streets of the devil's spawn?
The house was quiet when he stepped in, one light left on in
the kitchen, a note taped to the microwave. He crossed quietly. Even Natalie
must be
mist-dampened ground, Natalie simply nodded. "I'll be good." She
eased the reins and sat back only a minute amount, feeling the horse's
eagerness as he bounded forward. "Hey, guy," she murmured, "this
isn't a race."
He didn't want to trot and, to punish her, managed a stiff
gait that jarred her teeth as if she were driving a road that was wall-to-wall
potholes.
Nonetheless, she held him to it, and as they left the gates
of the ranch behind, Foxfire's ears flicked forward and the ride smoothed. At
best, Arabians had a bouncy trot, showy in the ring but not comfortable. They
had been bred for endurance, for traveling all day in the arid desert without rest
or water.
Once the trail intersected the broader one used by horsemen,
runners and bicyclists, Natalie let the stallion stretch into an easy lope. The
gray mist clung to treetops and hid the mountains from her, beading on long,
autumn-gold grasses in the fields that sloped toward the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
Foxfire's hooves thudded on the damp earth in a rhythm, a mantra. The cool,
moist air cleansed her; the power gathered beneath her gave Natalie an
intoxicating sense of control and invincibility.
Illusory, of course, she was reminded when a small bird
exploded from the underbrush to chase a hawk above, and the stallion shied,
shaking his head and kicking his heels, twisting beneath her in momentary
rebellion. She loosed the reins, urged him with tightened legs to go faster
and, in his eagerness, he forgot his pique. The adrenaline rush made Natalie
feel gloriously alive.
Best of all, she couldn't afford for even a second to let
her mind wander, to picture the body in the study, to wonder when she could go
home or if she wanted to. The chestnut stallion demanded that every grain of
her attention be on him. She needed to read his every quivering signal and
search the glistening Oregon grape and brown fronds of ferns beneath hemlock
and cedar for any creature or oddity that might spook him. Her body had to flow
with his. Too much tension, and the next time he leaped sideways she'd be flat
on her back on the trail, hard packed despite today's mist, breath knocked out
of her.
Oh, yes, her difficult horse and a damp day and the deserted
trail had been exactly what she needed.
I t's 11:02
p.m. , do you know where your daddy
is?
Weary to the bone, John pulled into the detached one-car
garage off the alley and headed for the back door. The kids would be long since
asleep, he hoped. Hell, even his mother rarely stayed up past ten. Natalie, he
didn't know about. Wondering heightened his senses slightly as he inserted the
key in the lock. He didn't hear voices, real or canned from the TV, and from
the street he'd seen no light on in the living room.
He tried to be home for meals and to tuck his children into
bed at night. Their mother's diagnosis of multiple sclerosis was tough enough
for them, since it meant losing her as a part of their daily lives, having to visit
her in a place where illness couldn't be forgotten and they were reduced to
awkward kisses on her cheek and polite responses to her questions about school
and friends. They needed to be able to count on Daddy.
But his job wasn't nine-to-five, not in the first throes of
an investigation. Some of the lowlifes he'd needed to talk to didn't come out
from under their rocks until after dark. He was lucky to be home this early.
His mother's sporty Chevrolet was parked to one side of the
driveway. Even as irritated as he'd been at her this morning, John was grateful
that his kids had her and their uncles, that he wasn't their only close family.
But he was damned if he'd let her use chilly judgments and icy disapproval to
hammer his son into the avenging angel she'd wanted her own sons to be. Hell,
wasn't that what they were, cleansing the streets of the devil's spawn?
The house was quiet when he stepped in, one light left on in
the kitchen, a note taped to the microwave. He crossed quietly. Even Natalie
must be
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