The Stars Shine Bright (5 page)

He nodded but dropped his eyes, unable to hold my gaze. Was he ashamed of betraying Cooper? I wondered. Or was he calculating the resale, the amount Cooper would pay him to learn that I had stayed the night, against Eleanor's wishes.

Right now, I didn't care. I was in the barn for the night. Plenty of time to snoop while the grooms slept. But as I was heading for Solo's stall, I once again heard someone talking inside it.

“Don't worry,” she said. “I'll make sure they take care of you.”

I stood at the half-door, watching them. The chestnut horse was still on the sawdust, but now the girl from Abbondanza was nuzzling the animal's perspiring neck. Her long platinum hair blended with the mane like frosted extensions.

I opened the door.

“Oh!” She scrambled to her feet. “I'm sorry—I didn't—”

“I'm staying with her.” I shifted the sleeping bag to my left hand and extended my right. “We haven't really met. I'm Raleigh David.”

“Ashley.” She shook my hand. Her fingers were child-sized but strong, the skin coarse. “Ashley Trenner.”

I had so many questions for her, particularly about her employer, Salvatore Gagliardo. But she was nervously stuffing her small hands into the back pockets of her jeans and dragging the toe of her boot across the sawdust. I decided to hold my tongue. She seemed like the kind of girl who filled silences. I set down the sleeping bag.

“I just wanted, you know, to see how she was doing.”

I nodded.

“I heard Brent say somebody should stay with her tonight. And, well, no offense . . .”

“For what?”

She dragged her boot again. “Juan.”

“What about him?”

“He won't stay. Not all night. So I was gonna . . .” She stopped. “You think I'm spying on your barn.”

“It is unusual that a groom from a competing barn wants to help.”

“I'm not spying.” Her voice rose, almost whiny. “Nobody gets it. I don't care about winning. I care about the horses. And I have to, the way some people treat them around here. It's inhuman.”

I let the literal meaning pass. “I appreciate your concern, Ashley.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, thanks. But don't tell Cooper I was here. He'll go ballistic.”

I was about to say, “You have my word,” when a thought wagged its finger at me.
Your word? You're living a total lie
.

“How about we make a deal,” I said. “I won't tell anyone you were here and you won't tell anyone I stayed.”

Her smile looked wan, like she agreed with the proposal but wished an agreement never had to be made. When she stepped out of the stall, the horse's glazed brown eyes followed her. A pang of guilt squeezed my heart. The horse would probably prefer her company tonight. But it was just one night. Ashley could stay tomorrow.

“Don't leave her.” She gazed down at the sweating animal. “Promise, hope to die?”

“Promise,” I said.

But I didn't hope to die.

Chapter Four

W
hen my eyes opened, I didn't know what it was. Lying under the sleeping bag, with the ailing horse at my back, I could feel my heart beating too fast.

Then I heard it again. A train whistle. And with it, the dream rushed back.

I had been standing on a cliff overlooking the James River. My fiancé, DeMott Fielding, stood beside me, and an Episcopal priest was reciting marriage vows. When it came my turn to repeat the words, a crowd of women in floral dresses pushed forward. I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a howl, like the cry of a lonely wolf.

And now I could hear how it harmonized with the train's whistle.

I stared at the plank wall. No way could I ever tell my fiancé about that dream. Not unless I wanted another fight. Reaching back, I laid my hand on the horse, lying length-wise across the sawdust. Her breathing was labored, loud, filling the small space with a chugging sound that made it seem like the locomotive was coming through the barn. Beneath my palm her ribs expanded with each inhalation. I could feel the ligaments between the bones, vibrating, wet, and ragged.

Not good.

I raised my arm, trying to read my watch. 2:33 a.m.

“Oh rats,” I muttered.

Over the last two months, I hadn't managed more than an hour or two of sleep at one time. Each night my startle reflex threw me awake, tossing me from dreams where I dropped through thin air and plunged over waterfalls and tumbled off cliffs. Like the cliff where I howled my marriage vows. On the one night I needed to stay awake, I'd fallen asleep. And the bustle here started every morning at 4:00 a.m. My opportunity to investigate the barn was almost gone. And now the horse needed help.

Terrific
.

I kicked my boots from the flannel bag. The horse shifted and I glanced over. Her chestnut coat was shiny, like wet ocher paint.

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm going for help now.”

The words burned at the back of my throat. Dry, hot. And the horse was drawing back her head. The deep brown eyes bulged. The whites were visible.

Fear.

“I'm sorry, I fell asleep.”

I stood up and started for the door. But it was closed. Both top and bottom. I felt a sudden disorientation, like all that sleep had made me stupid. I wondered if I'd closed it before going to sleep. But I didn't. And I knew for a fact I didn't pull the bolt shut. I couldn't have locked the door from the outside.

The horse made a whimpering sound. When I looked over, her hooves were pawing the air. And greasy gray ribbons rose from the sawdust in the corner. Smoke.

Fire.

“Fire!”

The horse suddenly rocked back, shoving herself to a wobbly stand.

“Fire!”

I called again, but my voice was drowned out by the sudden scream of the smoke alarms. The horse staggered forward, blocking my path to the door. My eyes stung. I yanked off my jean jacket, holding it over my nose, and crouched in the sawdust. The flame was leaping inside the smoke, then dying, sparking and falling away like trick birthday candles. Flame retardant. On the sawdust. But no retardant was fireproof. Not on dried wood shavings.

The horse turned and curled back her lips. Her scream sounded human. Female. Terrified. And in the small confined space her body looked monumental.

“Fire—” I coughed. “With Solo!”

I could see red veins in the white crescents of her eyes. She staggered backward. Her back bashed into the wall.

Juan—where is Juan?

She stumbled forward and lifted her back leg, kicking the wall. Hitting it again and again until the wood splintered. I could smell her fear, oily and bitter beneath the smoke. Adrenaline fear. Killing fear. She kicked again, harder, and the wooden planks shuddered against my back. Powered by fright, she was growing stronger, not weaker. And now the other horses were kicking too. The sound echoed like rock crushers, pounding through the alarm's mechanical wail. I blinked at the sting in my eyes and watched her lungs. They were expanding like giant bellows and each breath sent out another high cry. She was punch-drunk with panic, staggering again. I crouched lower. Two steps to the right and she could pin me in the back corner. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

She could kill me.

The horse stamped her hooves into the sawdust, some frightened dance, gearing up for the next blow. I shoved my hand down into my boot. The Glock's barrel raked my skin. She turned her face to me. Her bulging eyes showed so much white she looked blind.

I lifted the gun.

She reared, raising her front legs. In the firelight I could see the metal shoes glinting, telegraphing the pain, the death she wouldn't even notice. I heard another scream.

Hers or mine, I didn't know.

But it was the last thing I remembered before squeezing the trigger.

Chapter Five

M
iss David?”

My mother was smiling. Her cheeks rosy, pink, and happy.

“Miss David?”

She nodded and sighed.
Oh, I miss David
, she said.
I miss him so much
—

“Hey, Miss David. You in there?”

I opened my eyes. For several seconds I stared at the face leaning into mine. The eyes were teal blue. And they matched his shirt. I stared at him until something ripped across my heart.

“Jack?”

“That's correct, Dr. Jackson.” He lifted the plastic ID badge clipped to his hospital scrubs.
Mark Jackson, MD
, was printed below a picture of Special Agent Jack Stephanson. “Glad you recognized me, Miss David.”

“How did—?”

He shined a penlight in my eyes. “Feeling better?”

I felt sick. And raised my hand to block the light. “That hurts.”

But it was nothing compared to the pain searing down my right side. I gasped.

“Cracked ribs,” he said with utter detachment. Like a real doctor. “Miss David, do you know where you are?”

I could only whisper. “Harborview.”

“Correct, you are in Harborview Hospital. You were admitted at four o'clock this morning.”

I reached for the tender spot on my right side. The skin felt hot, swollen. I looked at Jack, but he was watching the open door. Two nurses hurried past, their shoes squeaking down a hall of shiny white vinyl. He turned back to me. His eyes were aquamarine.

He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For finding a way for us to play doctor.”

“You're not—” I pushed myself up, ready to let him have it, when the pain sliced down my side again. I winced.

“That bad?” he asked.

“No.” I forced back tears.

“It wouldn't hurt so much if you held still.” He paused. “Not that you're capable of that.”

“Wow. Some doctor you are.” I tried to glare at him, but the pain kept blinking back the sting in my eyes.
Hold tight
. If the waterworks started, I didn't know if I could stop. Slowly, I tried two breaths and touched my ribs again, telling myself to pretend all the agony was physical. When the tears were back under control, I withdrew my hand. And gasped again.

“What's wrong?” he said.

I stared at my left hand. The ring finger. It was bare.

“Where's my—” But I stopped.

“Your what?”

Engagement ring
.

But the hazy memory was coming back. Eleanor. Early this morning. She removed the ring, worried about theft. Despite the wave of relief, my heart kept pounding. Imagining what my fiancé would say if I lost his ring. One more fight.

“I can prescribe some pain meds,” Jack said. “But I think what you need is a full-body massage.”

“I need a real doctor.”

“You don't think I can pass?”

“No.”

But the terrible truth was, Jack did look like a doctor. Some good-looking, overconfident MDeity with an ego the size of Africa. And why not? The undisputed star of the Seattle Violent Crimes unit was cocky, savvy, and just over six feet. His body had the sculpted musculature of an anatomy chart, and his chiseled face framed bright eyes that could shift from green to blue and back again. I was forced to work with him twice, and both times I had to watch women launch themselves at him, flinging their dignity away because they'd found a Ken doll with a concealed gun permit.

Not that I cared. Our relationship, as our supervisor McLeod said, was “purely plutonic.” Sometimes malaprops were spot-on. This guy was from another planet, some cold, dark part of the galaxy. And I wished he would go back.

“Something wrong with your phone?” I said.

“What?”

“You're taking a huge risk coming in here.” Our contact since the UCA started had been by cell phone only. I kept the conversations punctual and courteous.

“I had to—I needed—Hey, I'm your case agent,” he finally managed. “Don't you dare question me. And
you're
the one in trouble.”

I gave him my best glare, but he was looking over at the door again. His name tag dangled from the scrubs. Around the FBI office, Jack was known as a compulsive ladies' man. I almost felt sorry for the nurses, imagining what
Dr. Jackson
had planned for them. He turned back suddenly and caught me staring at the badge. He grinned.

“Harvard Medical School.”

“Big deal. Raleigh David's a millionaire.”

“Okay, moneybags, tell me why you were in that horse stall.”

“She was sick.”

“Who?”

“The horse.”

His eyes were turning green. “You know what the suits upstairs always worry about?”