His dark brows snapped together. “What does your religion have to do with it?”
“Everything.” She shrugged as she took another sip of wine. “We who practice can’t screw around without paying a price.” Sinking onto a chair across from him, she added, “You’ve spared me the ordeal of having to tell Father Mike all about it in confession tomorrow. I always go on Saturdays unless something comes up and I can’t make it.”
His bewildered expression gave way to stunned disbelief. “You confess having sex?”
Samantha shrugged. “I haven’t yet. I only ever indulged within the bonds of holy matrimony. But I would have to confess it if I…we…well, you know.”
“Damn.” He rubbed a hand over his face and blinked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She imagined all the women he’d slept with and wondered if any of them had ever felt twinges of guilt afterward. Probably not. Raised as she’d been, she was archaic in her attitudes, completely out of sync with modern-day morality or the dating practices of her contemporaries. She should have been born a hundred years ago.
She stared at the kitchen window, which looked out on the front porch. Beyond the glass it was ink-black. It occurred to her that she hadn’t reset the alarm. Now she’d have to go through the entire house when Tucker left to make sure all the windows were still locked. Just the thought of walking from room to room made her feel exhausted.
“It’s late, Tucker. I’m so tired I can barely think. It’s about time for you to go.”
He didn’t move, just sat there, studying her as if he’d finally finished assembling a puzzle, and she was an extra piece that didn’t fit anywhere. “I’ve done it anyway, haven’t I?”
She emptied her wineglass and set it on the table with a click. “Done what?”
“Blown it.”
She couldn’t think how to respond. “Tomorrow is another day,” she said, once again trying to smile.
“Shit.”
“It really is time to call it a night. I have to get some sleep.”
“I can’t leave, not on this note.” He sat forward on his chair, braced his arms on his knees, and looked earnestly at her. “What did I do that was so wrong? When did showing a woman respect become a capital offense?”
She didn’t want his respect. She’d needed him to desire her as much as she did him, and he hadn’t. Not enough to forget everything, as she had, anyway, and anything less than that wasn’t enough. She’d settled for half a loaf once. She never would again.
She pushed to her feet and went to the door. After drawing it open, she stood there, holding it ajar. “Good night, Tucker.”
“Can’t you just talk to me?”
“What would you like me to say?”
“‘Go to hell’ would work. I’m sorry, all right? If you want to have sex, I’m game. More than game. I’d like nothing better. I just thought—” He broke off and came to his feet. Collecting his tablet, he stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “Damn it, I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted to get it right for once in my life. Can’t you understand that?”
“Yes, only you didn’t.”
“Then give me some pointers. Don’t just show me the door.”
He looked so genuinely upset that Samantha softened. “Tomorrow,” she told him. “We’ll talk about it then.”
“Swear it?”
“I never swear. It’s against my religion.”
Moments later Tucker was standing outside in the dark, watching the lights blink out inside Samantha’s house. A part of him was sorely tempted to march back up the steps and pound on her door until she answered. Only then what? When he thought back over his dating experiences, beginning at sixteen, all he could remember was a blur of faces and a confusing jumble of female names. He’d long since lost count of how many times he’d scored—or at what point in his life he’d come to realize there had to be something more. He only knew that he’d eventually tired of the dance and started to yearn for what his brothers had found, one special woman and a relationship that really meant something.
Samantha was his special someone. He was convinced of that. Last spring, after reading an old family diary with his mother, he’d come to realize that magic between two people actually could exist—and that true love wasn’t a fantasy. His parents had it. His brothers had found it as well. He’d also come to believe it was something very rare and not to be taken lightly.
He’d stopped himself from making love to Samantha tonight because of that. She was a rare treasure. It was kind of like stumbling across a vintage bottle of wine worth hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars. You didn’t pull the cork and drink it from a paper cup while you wolfed down a hamburger. You saved it for a really momentous occasion, and even then you took small sips, savoring its taste and appreciating every swallow, wanting it to last.
He wanted what was growing between him and Samantha to last, and when he made love to her, he wanted it to be perfect, not a hurried joining on the sofa, with her feeling embarrassed and possibly used afterward.
“Is everything okay, Dr. Coulter?”
Tucker nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to peer through the darkness. A man in a khaki uniform emerged from the shadows. As he drew closer, Tucker recognized the dark-haired guard he’d met earlier outside the arena.
“I was just leaving,” he replied stupidly.
The fellow nodded. Glancing toward the now dark house, he said, “No need to worry about her. We’ve got this place buttoned up pretty tight.”
Tucker believed it. They even had cameras at the main gate. He bade the man good-night and headed for his truck. Halfway there, he turned to walk backward, wondering which of the upstairs windows opened into Samantha’s bedroom. One day soon, he vowed, he would be up there with her. Things hadn’t gone well tonight, but he was no quitter, and as she had said, tomorrow was another day.
Chapter Fifteen
Samantha cracked open one eye, peered incredulously at the digital display on her bedside radio, and slowly assimilated that it was half past eight in the morning. Normally shock would have jerked her upright. She never slept this late. But her head felt as if an entire platoon of soldiers with two left feet were marching through her gray matter.
Pushing up on an elbow, she groaned and clenched her teeth. The wine. She sat up very slowly, then carefully straightened her spine. Oh, God. As she made her way to the bathroom, she remembered the good old days, prior to Tabasco’s poisoning, when she had arisen sharply at four every morning, gone for a three-mile run, and been at the stables by five to make her rounds. Now nothing in her life was predictable or the same.
A few minutes later as she walked gingerly to the stable, she saw Carrie standing over Cilantro and Hickory’s grave. Changing directions, she went to join her newest employee in sad contemplation of the freshly turned earth. Atop the grave rested some wildflowers bound together by a rubber band. The sight of them made Samantha’s heart catch.
“Oh, Carrie, how thoughtful.”
The young woman brushed her wet cheeks. “She was my favorite. I always sneaked her a treat when I came to work.” Her heavily lined eyes filled with fresh tears, black mascara bleeding from the corners. “She was al ways waiting when I went inside, and she’d call to me.” Her lips quivered. “It was a cute whickering sound, and after she made it, she’d grunt and blow air through her nose.”
Samantha knew the sound, had heard it hundreds of times, and now contemplated the heartbreaking fact that she would never hear it again. “Thank you for bringing her the flowers. She’s here with us, I’m sure, and knows you thought of her.”
“They’re mostly just weeds.” Carrie gestured at the pasture. “I walked along the fence to pick them.”
Upon closer inspection, Samantha saw that the limp bouquet held dandelions, wild daisies, and short, anemic stubs of summer’s last clover, the blossoms of which had faded from pink to almost white and were frosted with rust.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said
, touching Carrie’s arm. “They’re the only kind of flowers Cilantro ever saw, so they’re far more appropriate than an expensive bouquet would be.”
Carrie turned an anguished gaze on Samantha. “She died really fast, right?”
Samantha considered the question. “In a matter of hours. All things considered, I suppose it was fast. I only wish she hadn’t suffered so much.”
“So she suffered a lot?”
Samantha nodded. She heard Carrie’s breath catch.
“I hoped maybe it was quick, that she didn’t feel much of anything,” the other woman said.
“Oh, how I wish. But, no. It was a terrible way for her to die.”
Carrie wheeled away. Samantha remained by the grave for a moment, thinking of her horse, and then she turned to follow her employee to the arena. En route she waved to Nona, who appeared to be leaving. Samantha supposed it was time for the morning shift change.
Once inside the building, she couldn’t find Jerome. Spying Nan out in Blue’s paddock, she swung up on the stall gate and hollered, “Have you seen Jerome anywhere?”
“He’s in the office.” Nan wore a plaid flannel shirt over her tank top this morning, a sure sign that autumn was on its way. “Don’t ask me what’s going on in there. It looked like a cowboy summit meeting.”
Frowning sadly, Nan entered the stall area. “I am so sorry about Cilantro and Hickory, Samantha. It must have about killed you to find them.”
Samantha hooked her arms over the top rail. Though Nan wasn’t as effusive in her sorrow as Carrie had been, her blue eyes reflected heartfelt regret.
“I’m better today,” Samantha assured her, then shrugged and tapped her temple. “I drowned my sorrows in a bottle of wine last night, and now I’ve got a doozy of a headache to keep my mind off it.”
“Good for you. Who ever said alcohol can’t cure our woes? Always works for me.” Blond ponytail swinging through the rear opening of her ball cap, Nan came to stand at the gate. “I know it’s not much consolation, but at least you can rest easy it won’t happen again.” She hooked a thumb toward the paddock. “Security guards are everywhere.” She grinned. “That Latino guy is pretty hot.”
“Hmm,” Samantha said, dimly recalling the dark, slender man on her doorstep last night. “That should make your workday more interesting.”
Nan sighed. “My luck, he’s married. The really cute ones always are.”
Samantha swung down from the rail. “Well, I’d better see what the summit meeting’s about. Keep your fingers crossed. I’m in no mood for more bad news.”
When Samantha entered the stable office where she did most of her paperwork, she was startled to find it nearly overflowing with men. Her father sat at the desk, facing a stranger in a blue suit. Tucker, her brothers, and Jerome stood wherever there was leaning room, Clint with an arm propped on the filing cabinet, Tucker next to a bookshelf, and the others lined up along the cedar-paneled walls.
Samantha felt Tucker’s gaze on her, and pictures of last night flashed in her mind—how he’d kissed her, where he’d touched her, and how she’d moaned and arched up to him for more. In the bright light of morning the memories were embarrassing, and her cheeks went hot.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Hi, sweetheart,” her father said. “Come on in and shut the door.”
When Samantha had done so, Frank pushed to his feet. “Let me introduce Ray Ballantine. He’s a private detective.”
The man in the suit stood up and turned to shake Samantha’s hand. He was rotund and short, not much taller than she was, with dishwater blond hair, light blue eyes, a pronounced overbite, and pudgy features, not at all the stereotypical pulp-fiction private eye.
“‘Ballantine will make it fine,’” he quipped. “If I can’t make it fine, I’ll at least make it better.”
Samantha felt as if she were shaking hands with a used-car salesman featured in really awful television spots. “Hello, pleased to meet you,” she said.
Frank resumed his seat, gesturing for Ballantine to do likewise. To Samantha, he said, “Tucker called me last night. We had a long talk, and we’ve decided that we can’t sit on our laurels while the cops are investigating this mess and leaping to all the wrong conclusions. We need a professional investigator working on your behalf, someone who’ll cut right to the chase and turn the magnifying glass away from you and directly onto Fisher.”
Samantha crossed the room and perched on the low-hung windowsill. Avoiding Tucker’s gaze, which made her skin burn, she focused her attention solely on her dad and Ballantine. Some clear plastic freezer bags filled with hay and what looked like dirt lay on the blotter between them.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Samples from the floor of Cilantro’s stall,” her father informed her. “More on that later.” Gesturing to Ballantine, he asked, “Are you okay with this, honey?”
It would have been nice to be consulted before a third party had been brought into the mix, but after nearly thirty years of being her father’s daughter, she had grown accustomed to decisions being made without her knowledge. “Isn’t hiring our own investigator a little premature? I don’t think the police are going to appreciate any interference.”
Ballantine spoke up. “I never interfere with an investigation. I assist behind the scenes, exploring alternative theories.” He smiled with dry humor, his two front teeth peeking out between his plump lips. “If I solve a case—and I often do—I volunteer my findings to the police, they follow up on the information, take credit for the bust, and everyone is happy. It isn’t uncommon in situations like this for people to hire a private investigator if they can afford it.”
Frank settled a worried gaze on his daughter. “They aren’t even looking at Steve, honey. At this point they believe you’re the culprit and see no reason to search further.”
Goose bumps rose on Samantha’s nape. “I’m their only suspect, in other words?”
“And you’re likely to remain their only suspect if I can’t turn up some dirt on somebody else,” Ballantine declared. With each pronunciation, his lips tucked in at the corners, drawing tight to reveal his two buckteeth. He put Samantha in mind of a roly-poly squirrel with overflowing cheek pockets. “It’s my practice to notify the police as soon as I’m brought in on an investigation,” he went on. “Shortly after your father phoned me last night, I spoke with Detective Galloway. He was quick to inform me that this case would be a waste of my time. Some pellet samples that he removed from the floor of your feed room yesterday tested positive for arsenic.”
Samantha’s heart jerked in her chest. “What?”
“It’s true, honey,” her father assured her. “Ray got it straight from Galloway. Someone scattered some kind of pellets on the floor of the feed room. I watched James sweep them into a plastic evidence bag yesterday. Apparently they hotfooted it back to the station and had their forensics tech work overtime to get an analysis back to them right away. It was outdated swine feed, just as Tucker suspected and noted in his report.”
Samantha stiffened her body and clenched her teeth. It was the only way she could stop herself from screaming. After a moment of deafening silence, she gathered the composure to ask, “Why haven’t they arrested me, then?”
Frank glanced at Ballantine, who cleared his throat and shifted on the castered chair like a child whose toes didn’t quite reach the floor. “I’m sure they’re working their way up to that, but for the moment the swine feed alone isn’t enough evidence to make any charges stick.”
“What more do they need?” she asked tremulously.
“It’s not necessarily a case of what more they need. They just have to rule out all other possibilities before moving in.” Ballantine rubbed his jaw. “The stable security at the time of the poisonings wasn’t impenetrable, and it was particularly lax during the day. An outsider, namely your ex-husband, could have sneaked in, poisoned the horses, and left evidence in the feed room to frame you—or it could have
been an employee who feels he’s been wronged, or even a friend. They have to tie up every loose end and convince the district attorney they’ve got an airtight case against you before they make an arrest. Failing that, they’ll have to take it before a grand jury for an indictment.”
“We need to know if my ex-husband was in Crystal Falls during certain periods of time,” Samantha said.
“Yes,” Ballantine agreed. “Mr. Coulter has already supplied me with the dates and times in question. I’ll do some computer searches when I return to my office and hopefully have some answers for you by early afternoon.”
Samantha sought Tucker’s gaze, then struggled to break eye contact, her skin tingling as if he were physically touching her. He looked tired this morning, she realized, with faint smudges beneath his eyes. A green checked shirt fit snugly over his shoulders, the open collar revealing the burnished column of his throat and a tuft of dark chest hair. Seeing it reminded her that she’d never gotten his shirt off him last night to actually see his torso. Oh, no. He reserved that privilege for other women.
Anger and hurt tangled together within her and com busted into a fiery heat. Realizing that her father and Ballantine were still talking, she tuned back to the conversation. “Have the police checked on Steve’s where abouts on the dates in question yet?” she asked.
Ballantine shook his head. “As of last night when I spoke to Galloway, no. Your horses died only thirty-three hours ago. I know it seems like an eternity to you, but in work shift time, only one business day has passed, and now it’s Saturday. They probably won’t get around to checking out Fisher until Monday.”
Samantha could scarcely believe her ears. “My whole life is turned inside out, my horses are dead, and they aren’t going to work over the weekend to get to the bottom of it? You’re joking.”
“They may put in a few case hours over the weekend,” Ballantine replied. “Galloway sounded pretty hot about how horribly the horses died, so this may rank high on his list of cases he’d like to solve. On the other hand, we’re talking about the Crystal Falls Police Department. It’s not exactly the NYPD, if you get my gist, and it’s nothing like in the television series.”