The Kill (18 page)

“Okay, if Uncle Richard did ask you to work with him that day—just you—would that have been odd?”

“That we’d work alone?”

She nodded.

“No.”

“So there’s no reason to think Uncle Richard arranged for it to be just the two of you so he could talk to you privately about his will?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know.”

God, how could he be so nonchalant about it? “Manning, it’s important. Why are you acting like you don’t care? Don’t you want out from under the cloud of suspicion?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Yes.”

“Of course I do.” His tone was flat.

“So help me out here. Let’s try to figure out a way to show that you didn’t know about the will.”

“What if I did?” His blue eyes bore into hers, as hard and cold as a shaft of steel. “What if we discover that Richard did plan to tell me about it the day he was murdered?”

Abigale’s throat closed up and she forced herself to swallow. “Then we’ll figure out a way to show it didn’t matter.”

His expression softened and he hunched forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I didn’t kill him, Abby. It’s driving me nuts not being able to remember where I went or what I did that evening. But whatever else happened, I
know
I didn’t kill Richard. I told that to Mallory today. I’ll take a lie detector test if he wants me to. Whatever it takes. I can’t live with this.”

His voice cracked and he paused, running a hand across his mouth. “Richard was like a father and big brother to me, all bundled into one. When you left, Richard was the one who helped me get through it. Not Mother. Not my friends.
Richard
. He stood behind me and he stood up for me when everyone else in the community was pointing fingers. You think I’m a mess now? You don’t even want to imagine where I’d be if Richard hadn’t intervened.”

Manning pushed out of the chair and walked to the bar. Abigale expected him to pull the whisky bottle out of the cabinet, but he grabbed his coat instead. “I’ve got to go,” he muttered, heading for the door. “Thanks for listening.”

“Manning…wait…can we talk for another minute?”

He stopped and half-turned toward her, a pained look on his face. Cleary, he was finished talking.

“Not about Uncle Richard’s will. About something else.” She heard the tremble in her voice, and could tell from the look he gave her that he’d noticed it, too. “About us.”

Manning studied her for a moment, then walked back and dropped down in the chair across from her. Their eyes met. “Go ahead.”

“I went for a walk in the woods behind Fox Run today. I saw Scarlet’s grave. The cross you put there.” Tears stung Abigale’s throat, swam in her eyes.

“Abby, let’s not—”

She held up a hand. “Please. This is something I’ve wanted to say for a long time.”

He looked as if he’d love to get the hell out of there, but he mumbled, “Okay.”

“I know I’ll never be able to make it up to you,” she continued. “Never be able to make it right. Life doesn’t give us a do-over. But for what it’s worth, I’d give anything to be able to turn back the hands of time.
Anything.”

“Make it up to me?”

She nodded.

His brow creased into a frown. “What are you talking about? It was my idea to go on the moonlight ride.”

“But I insisted on riding Scarlet. You wanted me to ride one of the old schoolies.”

“Christ, Abby, so what? Would it have been better if one of the schoolies had broken its leg and had to be put down?”

“That’s just it. One of the schoolies wouldn’t have. If I had listened to you, we would have gone on a moonlight ride, had a blast, and the worst that would have happened is that Margaret might have caught us and made us clean tack for a week. But I insisted on riding Scarlet. A horse I didn’t own, that I had been given the privilege to show thanks to your mother going to bat for me with the Symingtons. And you warned me not to.”

Manning opened his mouth to say something, but Abigale ignored him. “You warned me that it wasn’t a good idea. That Scarlet was too spooky out of the show ring, that she didn’t have enough trail experience. But I wouldn’t listen. And then, when she got all freaked out and wouldn’t cross the river and you suggested we go back to the barn, I still fought you. I begged you to take the long way home, up the Snowy River trail.
The Snowy River trail
. What was I thinking? I was so intent on proving that I could ride Scarlet better than anyone, that she loved me so much she’d do anything I asked her to. And then the hoot owl flew off and she spooked off the trail into the sinkhole—”

“Don’t do this, Abby.”

She plowed on, hot tears pouring down her cheeks, “I will never, ever forget the look in Scarlet’s eyes when she stopped scrambling, gave up trying to get out of the hole. It was as if she knew right then she wasn’t going to make it. She lay there and looked up at me, her big eyes as much as saying,
Hey, I took care of you in the show ring. Now you need to help me.”

Manning shook his head. “There was nothing else you could do. Her leg was broken. She was going into shock. You did all you could for her by staying with her and keeping her calm.”

Abigale had cradled Scarlet’s head in her lap while Manning rode for help, watched shimmering moonlight fade into a dull dawn as the vet put the mare down—as the tractor growled through the woods, digging Scarlet’s final resting place in the murky earth. “
Nothing else I could do? I
could have left her in her stall to start with.”

“But you didn’t. We didn’t!” Manning’s eyes flashed and his face tightened with anger, or painful memories. “It was an accident. Let it go. No one blamed you.”

“Exactly. That’s just it. I was whisked back to Switzerland, where no one knew what I’d done. You were the one who had to live with it. You and Margaret.”

Manning blew out a breath. “It wasn’t that bad. People forgive and forget. The Symingtons never filed a claim against Mother.”

“No, but they pulled all their horses out of her barn. Uncle Richard told me. And Julia told me how rough it was for you. That people still talk about it.” She pressed her lips together, swallowed hard. “I will never forgive myself for letting my father say those things to you, Manning. I’ll never forgive him.”

“He was just trying to take care of you.”

“No.” Abigale swiped her fingers across her cheeks. “My father—God rest his soul—was trying to manipulate my life. When I got back to Switzerland, he refused to let me have any contact with you. He told me I was behaving like a lovesick child, said that you had clearly moved on to greener pastures, as evidenced by the fact that I never heard a word from you.”

Manning’s eyes narrowed. “I called you. More than once. Your father told me you refused to speak with me. So I wrote to you.”

“I never refused your calls, Manning. And I never received your letters. My father confiscated them. Apparently my mother felt guilty about it—just not guilty enough to tell me. She packed up your letters and sent them to Uncle Richard. I found them this afternoon, upstairs in my old room.”

“Jesus.”

“I am
so
angry at my father. And my mother, too, for that matter. What right did they have messing with our lives like that?”

“I guess they thought I was a bad influence.” He snorted and shook his head. “Which I was. I talked you into sneaking out of the house. Riding through the woods in the middle of the night.”

“It was more than that. I think my father was afraid we were getting too serious. What was it he said to Margaret, something to the effect they were damned lucky you hadn’t gone and gotten me pregnant and
really
screwed up my future?”

Manning shoved his fingers through his hair. “Look, Abby, I don’t appreciate the way your father handled it—deceiving both of us—but I can’t say I blame him. I’d probably be just as protective with my daughter.”

“He wasn’t protective. He just wasn’t going to risk having anything derail the future he’d mapped out for me. From the time I was a little girl—hell, maybe from the time I was born—he’d dreamed that I would attend the Hotel School at Cornell. Return to Switzerland to help him run our hotel. Eventually take over when he retired. God forbid he’d let something as insignificant as my happiness—or yours—interfere with that.”

Manning gave her a tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t know what else to say. It was a long time ago. We can’t change what happened.”

No, they couldn’t
. “You’re right. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

A
bigale stood by the front door, watching the taillights of Manning’s car grow smaller until they disappeared into the night. Wherever he was going, she suspected it involved the company of a bottle. And she almost couldn’t blame him. Even if Manning hadn’t had a cloud of suspicion hanging over him, the last thing he needed in his life was the burden of running the hunt. She’d been in town only a day and she could already see that. What had Uncle Richard been thinking? Didn’t he know it would turn Manning’s life upside down, dumping that kind of responsibility on him, especially without giving him some kind of warning? Without finding out if he would even want it?

And what about leaving Dartmoor Glebe to her, when she hadn’t even set foot on the property in years? Of all people, Uncle Richard knew her life revolved around her photography. That she was finally living her dream. He was the one who had gone to bat for her with her mother, convincing her mother to give her blessing for the assignment in Iraq. What could he have possibly expected her to do with Dartmoor Glebe? Live here?

The paintings on the walls seemed to close in on her, as if taunting her for her lack of gratitude. What kind of person was she, worrying about the turmoil her uncle’s bequest had caused, when anyone in her right mind would jump for joy at such a gift?

She longed to call her mother and pour her heart out, but there was no way she could do that. Not now, with her being so sick. Loneliness washed over her, and suddenly, she ached for the safe harbor of Emilio’s embrace. Yearned for his ability to help wipe away her grief, as he had done so many times in Afghanistan when she’d been overcome by the horror she’d viewed through her lens. The thought of hearing his velvet voice spread warmth through her. She glanced at her watch and saw it was the middle of the night in Afghanistan. Emilio wouldn’t mind if she woke him; she knew that. He was used to getting leads at all hours of the day and night. But was it really fair to run to him and cry on his shoulder, after she’d insisted on a clean break?
No
.

Darkness had crept into the house, and Abigale flipped on lights as she walked to the kitchen. The back window faced the barn and she saw the Dutch doors to the stalls were fastened, but a soft glow shone from the hayloft and a shaft of light beckoned through the aisle doors. A glimmer of an idea tugged at the hollowness in her chest. Maybe there was someone else she could talk to…

She snatched her coat from the mudroom and hiked the short distance to the barn. The whine of country music floated from inside and Abigale grabbed the handle of the aisle door and threw her weight against it, tugging it open just enough to slip through.

About halfway down the aisle, a slender dark-haired man dressed in coveralls whistled to the music as he swept a corn broom over the rubber pavers. He slid open the stall door of a sleek black horse and brushed a tidy two-by-two-foot square in the shavings at the opening to the stall.

“Hello,” Abigale called as he pulled the door closed.

He looked up and waved, then trotted over to the radio and lowered the volume. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s all right. Don’t let me interrupt. I was just wondering if Smitty is around.”

“Smitty’s down yonder at the kennel, but he should be by shortly. You must be Abigale,” the man said, leaning his broom against the stall front. He was about her height and looked to be in his fifties, with the leathery skin of someone who’d spent most of his life outdoors. He tugged off his work glove and extended his hand. “I’m Michael.”

“Nice to meet you.” Abigale was surprised at the force with which his callused hand engulfed hers. She bet he didn’t spend much idle time around the barn.

“I’m sorry for your loss, your uncle passing like he did,” Michael said, scrunching up his face. “I’ve worked for Mr. Clarke for going on near twelve years, and I just want you to know he’s the best man I’ve ever had the privilege to call my friend.”

Abigale’s throat swelled. “Thank you.”

“He was—” Michael’s voice cracked and he clamped his mouth shut, snorting a breath through his nose. “I guess I don’t have to tell you.” He gave a quick nod, putting an end to the unspoken sentiment. “Anyway, like I said, I expect Smitty’ll be sticking his head in here before too long. If you want to hang around, I’d be happy to give you a tour.”

“Sure, I’d love that.”

The black horse banged his front hoof against the stall door and Abigale glanced at Michael. “I’m not holding up their dinner, am I?”

“Nah, they were fed an hour ago. He just wants attention.” Michael slid the door open and thumped the horse affectionately on the neck. “This here is Henry. He’s Mr. Clarke’s favorite.”