said, realizing the break-in sounded somewhat similar to what Doc had experienced with his records.
“No.” Doc shook his head. “I don’t.”
Paavo nodded, then said, “You’ve told me noone knows the cause of Hal’s death—that the body was too decomposed to find decent forensic evidence—but what’s the official explanation?”
“Hal had a history of strokes, so the sheriff took the easy way out and said the death was from ‘natural causes.’”
Paavo asked the question uppermost in his mind. “Do you think Hal was murdered?”
Doc and Joaquin traded glances. “Yes,” Doc said, “I do. Don’t ask who or why. I’ve given it a lot of thought, but I just don’t know.”
“Enough talk,” Joaquin’s low voice growled. “Ready to ride?”
“Guess so,” Doc said as he took a gun and holster from his desk and slid them onto his belt. Something told Paavo it wasn’t four-legged danger that worried Doc.
Doc’s gaze fell on Angie. “Can you ride, Angie?” he asked.
A long pause followed. “I’ve ridden,” she replied, lifting her chin.
Uh-oh. Paavo knew that look. “Probably pony rides when she was a girl. I don’t know about this.”
“That’s not true, Paavo,” she protested. “I’ll be just fine.”
“You never told me you knew how to ride,” he said. And she’d told him almost everything … except about old boyfriends, which she kept a deep, dark secret. He always wondered why.
She shrugged. “The subject never came up.”
He was ready to argue that that had never stopped her before, when Doc said, “I’ve got a mare up in years—like me. She’s gentle and forgiving. We could take my pickup, but it’s tougher to drive over that terrain than it is to ride.”
“Believe me,” Angie said, smoothing her colorful designer’s idea-of-Western-garb outfit. “I know all about riding horses.”
Doc and Joaquin glanced at each other.
Paavo knew what they were thinking: clothes like Angie’s shouldn’t be allowed within five hundred feet of a horse. He hated to think of how her fashionable boots were going to look after a simple jaunt to the stables. “The lady says she can ride.” He looked at the men and nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Oh—wait!” Angie cried. “I’d better get my cowboy hat. It’s still in the car.”
Chapter 6
Soon, three tall, beautiful horses stood saddled and ready to go. The fourth, an old roan mare with a gray muzzle and bald patches, was much smaller than the others. The mare’s hooves splayed outward—the opposite of pigeon-toed—and one ear stood upright while the other was bent forward.
“This is Ophelia,” Doc told Angie, patting the mare’s neck. “You two should get along swell.”
Angie wasn’t sure how to take that statement. Wasn’t Ophelia Hamlet’s crazy girlfriend who drowned herself? As she approached, the horse gazed at her as if assessing her skills.
She’d reassured the men she could ride. She didn’t tell them that her only experience consisted of two lessons, English saddle. Eyeing the mare nervously, she plunked a Ralph Lauren Western-style straw hat, dyed a rich red color, onto her head. Just the thought of how difficult it had been to find that hat in San Francisco made her appreciate it all the more.
The mare now wore an expression of complete amusement.
Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She wasn’t about to miss this ride out into the desert. Not if she could help it.
On the other hand, the idea of pleading the need to return to Ghost Hollow in order to help Clarissa with the cookout had a definite appeal. Angie would much rather be cooking than riding.
At least Ophelia had no way of knowing that once, as a kid, Angie had stupidly tasted some canned dog food—not until years later did she learn it was horsemeat.
With one foot in the stirrup, her hands around the saddle horn, she tried to pull herself into the saddle when Ophelia decided to stroll. Hanging on, Angie found herself
“No.” Doc shook his head. “I don’t.”
Paavo nodded, then said, “You’ve told me noone knows the cause of Hal’s death—that the body was too decomposed to find decent forensic evidence—but what’s the official explanation?”
“Hal had a history of strokes, so the sheriff took the easy way out and said the death was from ‘natural causes.’”
Paavo asked the question uppermost in his mind. “Do you think Hal was murdered?”
Doc and Joaquin traded glances. “Yes,” Doc said, “I do. Don’t ask who or why. I’ve given it a lot of thought, but I just don’t know.”
“Enough talk,” Joaquin’s low voice growled. “Ready to ride?”
“Guess so,” Doc said as he took a gun and holster from his desk and slid them onto his belt. Something told Paavo it wasn’t four-legged danger that worried Doc.
Doc’s gaze fell on Angie. “Can you ride, Angie?” he asked.
A long pause followed. “I’ve ridden,” she replied, lifting her chin.
Uh-oh. Paavo knew that look. “Probably pony rides when she was a girl. I don’t know about this.”
“That’s not true, Paavo,” she protested. “I’ll be just fine.”
“You never told me you knew how to ride,” he said. And she’d told him almost everything … except about old boyfriends, which she kept a deep, dark secret. He always wondered why.
She shrugged. “The subject never came up.”
He was ready to argue that that had never stopped her before, when Doc said, “I’ve got a mare up in years—like me. She’s gentle and forgiving. We could take my pickup, but it’s tougher to drive over that terrain than it is to ride.”
“Believe me,” Angie said, smoothing her colorful designer’s idea-of-Western-garb outfit. “I know all about riding horses.”
Doc and Joaquin glanced at each other.
Paavo knew what they were thinking: clothes like Angie’s shouldn’t be allowed within five hundred feet of a horse. He hated to think of how her fashionable boots were going to look after a simple jaunt to the stables. “The lady says she can ride.” He looked at the men and nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Oh—wait!” Angie cried. “I’d better get my cowboy hat. It’s still in the car.”
Chapter 6
Soon, three tall, beautiful horses stood saddled and ready to go. The fourth, an old roan mare with a gray muzzle and bald patches, was much smaller than the others. The mare’s hooves splayed outward—the opposite of pigeon-toed—and one ear stood upright while the other was bent forward.
“This is Ophelia,” Doc told Angie, patting the mare’s neck. “You two should get along swell.”
Angie wasn’t sure how to take that statement. Wasn’t Ophelia Hamlet’s crazy girlfriend who drowned herself? As she approached, the horse gazed at her as if assessing her skills.
She’d reassured the men she could ride. She didn’t tell them that her only experience consisted of two lessons, English saddle. Eyeing the mare nervously, she plunked a Ralph Lauren Western-style straw hat, dyed a rich red color, onto her head. Just the thought of how difficult it had been to find that hat in San Francisco made her appreciate it all the more.
The mare now wore an expression of complete amusement.
Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She wasn’t about to miss this ride out into the desert. Not if she could help it.
On the other hand, the idea of pleading the need to return to Ghost Hollow in order to help Clarissa with the cookout had a definite appeal. Angie would much rather be cooking than riding.
At least Ophelia had no way of knowing that once, as a kid, Angie had stupidly tasted some canned dog food—not until years later did she learn it was horsemeat.
With one foot in the stirrup, her hands around the saddle horn, she tried to pull herself into the saddle when Ophelia decided to stroll. Hanging on, Angie found herself
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