Reining in Murder by Leigh Hearon Page A

her life, Bess’s gaits had dwindled down to one and a half: walk and a sort-of-trot. No amount of kicking, clucking, leaning forward, or whistling could disturb Bess’s sureness of mind that the pace she provided was perfect.
    With Sam, Hannah learned that a little nudge and “kiss” took him from a fast walk to a brisk trot. She squealed with pleasure as Sam bump-bumped her around the sixty-foot-round pen. Hannah had never trotted before and didn’t seem to mind the jolting rhythm. Even so, she held on firmly to the saddle horn while Annie kept hold of the long lead line attached to Sam’s bridle. By the time the other members of Annie’s herd had gathered by the paddock in anticipation of their evening meal, Hannah had learned to relax into the trot and no longer looked like a puppet on a string.
    â€œPlease, please, can’t I cluck next time?” Hannah wheedled as she carried the bridle while Annie lugged the saddle to the tack room. Hannah didn’t have delusions of wanting to be a chicken; she’d learned that afternoon that while a kissing sound meant trot to Sam, a cluck meant canter. She was sure she was ready. Annie wasn’t.
    â€œFirst, you have to trot Sam around the pen five times without the lead rope,” Annie reminded her. “And we have to make sure your parents agree that you’re ready to try.”
    Watching the small child’s face, Annie softened the blow. “But now you can help me bring in the horses and feed them.”
    Hannah raced off for the lead ropes and halters.
    The bay apparently had enjoyed his time outside even if he had spent the day in a paddock with a donkey. He walked calmly and politely into his stall and waited patiently for his dinner—more hot mash, with a dash of watered-down hay. Annie wondered what the bay’s life had been like before coming to the Olympic Peninsula. Had he been confined to a stall twenty-two hours a day, brought out only to exercise? So many thoroughbreds were, and it infuriated Annie to think of the boredom they must feel. She’d always thought owners who kept their horses stalled should be forced to live in a closet.
    The answering machine light blinked when Annie entered her home that evening, but it was only Dan Stetson, asking if she’d relayed his message yet. After dinner, she tried Hilda’s phone once again, but she didn’t bother leaving a message this time. Nor did she have the energy to call Dan. Instead, she went to bed. In the sixty seconds it took her to fall asleep, Annie decide that the next morning she’d simply deliver the bay herself, phone call or not.
    By midmorning, Hilda had still not called. And no one ever seemed to pick up the Colbert Farm phone line. Well, she might as well let Dan know what was going on with his precious witness. She called the County Office Building and got Esther, the county’s sole dispatch operator who, on slow days, filled in as receptionist.
    â€œDan’s in Tacoma, testifying in that meth-lab case,” Esther informed Annie. “He’s likely to be there most of the day. But I’ll tell him you plan to haul the horse when he calls in. Funny how that woman doesn’t seem to want to get her horse back, isn’t it?”
    Funny was one word Annie would not have thought of to describe the situation.
    Annie wasn’t looking forward to trying to trailer the bay again. But pride and sheer obstinacy wouldn’t allow her to call Tony or anyone else who might help her.
    She sighed, hooked up the trailer to her truck, and headed to the stables, dreading the task to come.
    Then an epiphany struck, and Annie knew just how she would solve the little problem of loading.
    First, she called Wolf, who bounded toward her, recognizing the trailer as an emblem of daring adventure about to begin.
    Next, she asked Wolf to herd Trotter into the trailer. This was one of Wolf’s favorite jobs. Anytime Annie and her