The Kill (23 page)

“What makes you so sure Manning won’t be able to handle the finances?”

Thompson snorted a little laugh. “Are you serious? Well, let’s see, I can think of a handful of reasons right off the bat. There was his racing fiasco. I hear that set Margaret back a hundred grand or so. Then there was his stint at playing professional polo. That would have driven Margaret to the poorhouse in a hurry if Richard hadn’t stepped in as Manning’s sponsor.”

He held out his hand and spread his fingers, ticking off each damning piece of evidence he named. “Then there’s the fact that he doesn’t have a real job. Sure, he teaches a lesson here and there, but what little money he makes from that he probably squanders on booze. Granted, he made a bundle selling that horse he bought at the track and turned around as a show horse. But not a week went by before he blew it all on a sports car. I think Manning has some romantic notion of himself as the Great Gatsby, and he hasn’t come to grips with the fact that his bank account is more befitting a character in a Steinbeck novel.”

Abigale drew in a breath, ready to pounce back in Manning’s defense, bring up what Julia had said about the success he’d had in California until Margaret and Richard had tricked him into coming home. But she bit back the words.

“Oh, Christ. I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Thompson asked.

She managed a tight smile. “No offense taken. You were just voicing your opinion.”

“No,” he said with a groan. “I was out of line. For the second time tonight, I beg your forgiveness.”

A
bigale slept fitfully, tortured by unwelcome dreams, swirling images of Scarlet and Manning. She woke herself with a garbled moan, clawing her way to consciousness past a foggy figure brandishing Uncle Richard’s Luger. A weak stream of sunlight peeked through the curtains and she saw from the bedside clock that it was almost seven-thirty.

Her head throbbed, probably from the coffee schnapps she’d downed to help her fall asleep after Thompson had left. She flipped onto her back, trying to summon up the motivation to get out of bed.

Something pinged against the window. Not rain. It sounded more like sleet dancing across the panes. She opened one eye and squinted at the stream of sunlight. That made no sense.
Ping
. There it was again. Against just one of the dormer windows.
Ping. Ping. Ping
.

She jerked fully awake. It sounded like…No. It couldn’t be.

Abigale flipped back the covers and raced across the room. Kneeling on the cushioned window seat, she flicked the curtains apart with one hand. The glass was dry, with no hint of precipitation. She leaned closer, then jumped back as a torrent of gravel hit the panes. She yanked on the curtains, sending the brass rings skidding across the curtain rod.

Manning looked up at her, a wide grin spread across his face. He stood between a jittery black horse, the one Michael had told her could be a handful to ride—Henry, she thought his name was—and the big gray, Braveheart. He gripped both sets of reins in one hand and a fistful of gravel in the other.

Abigale flipped the double locks on the window and cranked it open.

“Sleeping in, I see,” Manning said, smiling at her in a way that reminded her of him as a boy.

“God, Manning, I was sound asleep.” Abigale cringed at the sound of her voice, still thick with sleep. She could only imagine what she looked like. She yanked her hair back and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“Yeah, I figured. Either that or you were ignoring me. Used to be, it never took me more than a couple of tosses to get your attention. I’ve been out here pitching pebbles for a good five minutes.” He flung the gravel on the drive and wiped his palm against his breeches.

Abigale stared at him, feeling trapped in a time warp. Joyful memories bubbled to the surface, only to collide with darker, painful ones. “What are you doing here?”

He nodded at the gray horse. “I tacked up Braveheart for you. Let’s go for a hack.”

“
Now?
Don’t you have to be at Longmeadow?”

“Not for another couple of hours.” He jiggled both sets of reins and gave her a crooked grin. “Come on.”

She made a face and Manning chuckled. “Still not much of a morning person, huh?”

“Manning, I hardly got any sleep. I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.”

“Riding’s better than coffee. Come on.”

“I haven’t been on a hunter since—” Their eyes met and she stopped, then shook her head. Manning cocked an eyebrow, as if challenging her to finish the sentence.

“Other than a trek through the mountains in Afghanistan, I haven’t ridden in years,” she said quietly.

“Then it’s time you got back on.”

M
anning let both horses graze on the lawn while he waited for Abigale, mindful of the fact that Michael would groan when he saw grass slobber on the bits. Abigale stepped out the front door ten minutes later, a velvet hard hat tucked under her left elbow, coffee cup clutched in her right hand.

“My feet must have grown a full size since I last had these boots on. My toes are already numb.” She glared at Manning as she marched toward him, her riding boots crunching against the gravel drive. “And don’t you dare look at my breeches. They’re one size too small, too. At least.”

Manning raised his hands in mock surrender. “I wasn’t,” he replied, noting appreciatively how the beige fabric clung to the firm muscles of her thighs, stretched tight across the curve of her hips and buttocks.

Steam rose from the cup and Abigale raised it to her lips and blew across the top, then slurped a generous sip.

“Feel better now that you’ve had some caffeine?” he asked.

“I’m getting there.”

“Good.” He lopped Henry’s reins over his arm and gave the horse a gentle shove out of the way as he pulled Braveheart up next to Abigale. “This is Braveheart. He looks like a tank but rides like a dream. You’ll love him.”

Abigale gulped down half the cup of coffee, then set the cup on the front step and patted the horse on the neck, smoothing his thick mane with her graceful fingers. “I met Braveheart last night when I went down to the barn. He’s adorable.”

“Good. So you already know each other.” He snapped the stirrup leathers down. “These should still be adjusted to the correct length.”

“That’s my saddle!” Abigale exclaimed.

“Of course. What did you expect?”

“I—I don’t know. I just didn’t expect Uncle Richard to keep all my things. Everything’s just like it was when I left. Even my room.”

Imagine that, Abby
, Manning thought.
Almost as if Richard was waiting for you to come back
. He said, “Come on, I’ll give you a leg up.”

Manning waited while she put on her riding helmet and gloves, then cupped his hands for her knee and boosted her easily into the saddle. She toed both boots into the stirrups and he eyed her legs from the front of the horse. “Length okay?”

“I think they could come down a hole.” Abigale dropped her left foot from the iron and tugged up on the stirrup leather to loosen the buckle.

“I’ll get it,” Manning said.

He slid the leather through the buckle, dropped it a hole lower, then did the same on the other side. “How’s that feel?”

Abigale wiggled her feet and the irons hit just below her ankle bones. “Good.”

Without thinking, Manning positioned her foot in the stirrup and gave her a pat on the knee. A perfectly innocuous gesture, but part of an old in-gate ritual he and Abigale used to carry out just before she entered the show ring. She’d insisted it was a good-luck charm, that Manning was her “true north” and his touch guided her around the hunter course. It seemed corny now, but it had sure fed his ego at the time. The familiarity of the act caught at his chest, igniting an ache he’d thought he was rid of. Abigale must have remembered it, too, because her muscles tensed beneath his hand.

“Sorry,” he murmured. He slid his fingers beneath the girth to make sure it was tight, then backed away, tossed the reins over Henry’s head, and swung lightly into the saddle. “I thought we’d head out the back way toward Dogwood Mountain. Then if we have time we can loop around through Seven Chimneys on our way back.”

Abigale’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t baby me. I know you’re avoiding Seven Chimneys right off the bat because of the galloping field. You think I’m not up to it.”

Manning fought a smile. She’d nailed him on that one. “That’s not it at all. I just thought you’d enjoy a hack through the woods. The color is at its peak.”

“Bullshit.”

S
even Chimneys was as pristine and peaceful as Abigale had remembered. They entered through the gate at the back of the lower pasture and followed the creek as it meandered through the cow pasture toward the vineyard on the other side of the farm. The creek was swollen from the storm and the horses’ hooves made soft sucking noises, like loud wet kisses, as they walked along the mossy bank. Henry spooked at a cow that let out a mournful moo as they approached, scooting sideways into Braveheart, but the big gray just snorted softly and plodded ahead. Henry settled back to a walk alongside him.

Manning hadn’t spoken much since they’d left Dartmoor Glebe, other than to give an occasional warning about trappy footing, or to draw her attention to a herd of deer, at least a dozen of them silhouetted on a nearby rise, and a peregrine falcon that flew overhead. She didn’t object to the lack of conversation. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; quite the contrary. They’d settled into it with a familiar ease.

They reached the galloping field and Manning glanced over at her and arched an eyebrow.

“Need you ask?” she said, shortening her reins.

“Henry gets a little strong when he’s behind. Mind if I lead?”

“Go right ahead.”

Manning eased Henry into a canter and she leaned forward and clucked at Braveheart to follow. The field stretched across almost five acres of well-manicured turf, allowing a horse to stretch into a brisk gallop, but Manning kept Henry checked at a canter as they loped across the gently rolling terrain. Abigale knew he was keeping the pace slow for her benefit, but she didn’t care. Braveheart had a long, flowing stride that left her feeling as if she were sitting on a cloud, each powerful thrust of his haunches rocking them forward with a steady rhythm that made her want to whoop aloud.
Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. Da-da-dum. Poetry in motion
.

The wind whispered against her face and she gulped in a lungful of the fresh morning air, catching a whiff of fading grasses and musky earth. Goose bumps rose on her arms as the plaintive calls from a flock of southbound geese floated down from the pale sky. Nothing equaled the sheer sense of freedom she felt on the back of a horse. Nothing. Not the rush of her skis, spraying powder as she carved down a mountain-face of virgin snow; nor free-falling from a plane, in that terrifyingly glorious eternity before her chute whooshed open. Both were pure adrenaline fixes, but lacking the completeness she felt on a horse.

Braveheart was enjoying the canter, blowing contentedly with each stride, and she ran a gloved hand along his neck. The tangy scent of his sweat stung Abigale’s nostrils and a warm glow spread through her chest. She was home again.