The Kill (25 page)

A
bigale spun toward Manning as soon as Michelle’s truck rounded the curve and disappeared down Foxcroft Road. “That was embarrassing.”

“What was?”

“Your attitude.”

Manning frowned, his lips parting with an oh-so-innocent air. “What was wrong with my attitude?”

“You were rude.”

“How was I rude?” he demanded. “I thanked her.”

“Uh-huh. And refused her offer to stay and help us load the horses.”

“We don’t need her help loading the horses.”

“No, of course we don’t. Why would we want help? Better for you to handle it all by yourself, broken arm and all.”

“I don’t have a broken arm.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

Manning narrowed his eyes and looked away. “Michael will load the horses. That’s what he does. He doesn’t need help.”

“Especially not from a woman.”

“Is that what you think, that I didn’t want her help because she’s a woman?”

“I think that your ego is bruised because you fell off, and your stupid male pride won’t let you accept help.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is that you wouldn’t let her carry your saddle. And the way you got all pissed off when she wouldn’t give you the halter to put on Henry.”

“God, Abby.” Manning looked away as he blew out an angry laugh; then he locked eyes with her. “Ego has nothing to do with why I wouldn’t let her carry the saddle.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.
Really.”
He shoved Henry’s lead rope at her. “Hold him.”

Abigale shifted Braveheart’s reins to her other hand and grabbed the rope, watching as Manning stormed over to where the saddle straddled the top fence board. He leaned his right shoulder against the saddle and lifted the flap with his left hand.

“Come here.”

She led the horses over to the fence.

“See that?” Manning asked.

Abigale eyed the saddle and felt his glare on her. “Both billet straps are broken.”

“Not broken.”

“No?”

“No.” He nodded at the straps. “Feel them.”

She looped Braveheart’s reins over her arm and ran her fingers over the torn leather. The left half of each strap was jagged, as if ripped apart by force. But from the stirrup hole in the center to the right, the tear was smooth.

Abigale looked up at him. “They were cut.”

He nodded, his eyes flashing a stormy blue. “Cleanly sliced. And cleverly concealed under the buckle guard, so the cuts wouldn’t be noticed when buckling the girth. The straps were solid enough to hold until Henry jumped that oxer. Which I guess was the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they had broken at a walk or even a trot, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Odds were, by cutting just halfway across to the center hole, the straps wouldn’t break until the horse put more strain on the girth—going over a jump, or galloping uphill. Obviously increasing the chance of injury.”

Manning’s fall flashed through Abigale’s mind: that agonizing eternity when he’d sailed into the air, then plunged slowly toward inevitable impact. She shuddered, thinking how lucky Manning was he hadn’t broken his neck. Mud smeared the sleeve and shoulder of his jacket; it was streaked down his back so thick it held clods of grass. The damp, earthy smell mingled with the seductive scent of saddle leather and the subtle aroma of Manning’s cologne. The urge to touch him was almost irresistible. She eased slightly away. “I can’t believe this. Who would want to harm you?”

“It wasn’t intended for me.” Anger weighed his mouth down and darkened his voice.

“What do you mean?”

Manning lowered the saddle flap, grabbed the cantle, and tilted it toward her. He ran his thumb across the block letters engraved on the brass nameplate: REC.

It all made sense, then. Manning’s mood. Why he’d been so territorial about the saddle. “It’s Uncle Richard’s saddle.”

“Yeah.”

“Why were you riding in it?”

“My saddle’s at Fox Run. Besides, Richard had this saddle custom-made to fit Henry’s back. I use it whenever I ride him.”

Their eyes locked, sky and earth, and Abigale felt her world swirl around her as the significance of the discovery hit home. “Oh, my God, Manning, it wasn’t a random killing. A robbery gone bad. Someone targeted Uncle Richard.”

“No doubt he was targeted,” Manning replied. “But tampering with a saddle and cold-blooded murder are worlds apart. Sure, Richard could have been badly injured, even killed, when the saddle broke; but if someone wanted to murder him, that’d be taking a long shot. Tampering with the saddle seems more like something someone would do out of spite.”

“Or as a threat.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “But if someone was trying to put pressure on Richard—to threaten him—what accelerated the situation to make them shoot him? Why was he murdered before he rode in the saddle? Before the threat had a chance to play out?”

“Unless…he did ride in the saddle.”

Manning arched an eyebrow.

“You said it yourself, that it wouldn’t have broken—didn’t break—until you jumped and put stress on it. Maybe it was cut before Uncle Richard hunted that day, but it didn’t break.”

“It’s possible, I suppose. But we hunted hard and fast that day. Plenty of action. Besides, if it was cut and didn’t break, why did things escalate?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. But there was something going on that Uncle Richard was worried about. With the hunt, I think. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s tied to this.” She relayed what Michael had told her about Uncle Richard saying there was a fox in the henhouse.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Uncle Richard never said anything to you about it?”

“No.”

“Maybe he confronted someone that day. Hunting. Or before, or after. Or that afternoon at the racecourse.” Anger and frustration clawed at Abigale, making her want to scream. “Damn it. The more we learn, the less we know.”

“Except it looks less and less certain that Richard’s murder had anything to do with a highway worker.”

Yeah. And more and more crucial they discover whether Uncle Richard planned on meeting anyone besides Manning at Longmeadow the day he was murdered
. “Have any details about Monday come back to you?” she asked. “Bits and pieces? Anything?”

Manning’s eyes darkened. He shook his head, then looked away.

“
O
h, great,” Manning muttered as they pulled up to the barn. “A welcoming party.”

Abigale followed his gaze and saw Margaret stride up the barn aisle toward them with Duchess at her heels. “It’s just your mother.”

Manning snorted as if she’d said something amusing. He shoved the door open and climbed out of the truck.

Abigale eyed Manning and Margaret as the two of them walked to the back of the trailer. Margaret was doing all the talking. Manning looked as though he was bracing himself for attack. She took her time getting out of the truck, then stood back and watched as Margaret helped Michael unload the horses. The clank-clank-clank of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed from the far end of the barn and she saw Larry, the boy who worked for Michael, halfheartedly sweeping the aisle. Thompson longed a bay horse in the nearby round pen. The vet drove up just as Michael unloaded Henry off the trailer.

“Don’t that just figure,” Michael said. “The vet never shows up on time, except when I’m running behind.”

“That’s all right, Michael. We’ll put the horses away,” Margaret said. “You go do whatever it is you need to do with Doc Paley.”

Michael ran his eyes over both horses, as if reluctant to relinquish the duty. “They need a good going-over, to make sure they didn’t hurt themselves none.”

“Got it,” Manning said, grabbing Henry’s lead, the hint of a smile relieving some of the tension in his face. “Go on.”

“All right,” Michael said reluctantly, still eyeing the horses as he walked over to the vet truck. He shouted over his shoulder at the barn, “Hey, Larry, get Rocky out of his stall and bring him on out. Doc Paley’s here.”

Margaret chuckled. “You know Michael’s going to go back and check both horses as soon as he’s finished with Doc Paley.”

“Yep,” Manning agreed.

“Speaking of injuries…” Margaret waved a hand at Manning’s mud-covered back. “Looks like you took a pretty good tumble.”

“Yeah, the billet straps broke over a jump.”

“You hurt?”

“Just my pride,” Manning replied, shooting a sideways glance at Abigale.

Abigale caught Margaret’s eye, gave a little shake of her head, and pointed her index finger at Manning’s right arm.

“You sure about that?” Margaret asked.

“I’m fine, Mother.”

“Well, you don’t look fine to me. You look like your right arm’s hurting you something fierce. And you’re pale as a ghost.” Margaret stepped forward, squinting as she gave him a closer inspection. “You’re sure wearing a good bit of real estate. Even got mud in your hair. Your helmet come off?”

Manning didn’t respond.

Margaret glanced at Abigale and raised an eyebrow. Abigale nodded.

“All right, so you’ve probably got yourself a concussion. Let’s go on in the tack room and take a look at your arm. Abigale, you okay taking care of Braveheart?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Margaret snatched Henry’s lead rope from Manning and called to Thompson, who was leading his horse across the drive toward the barn. “Can you lend a hand here?”

Abigale let Thompson use the wash stall first, grazing Braveheart while she waited. After giving him a liniment bath, she ran a comb through his puffy mane and thought about how hard it must be to braid. She smiled as she allowed herself the indulgence of painting his plate-sized feet with hoof dressing; she could almost hear Uncle Richard scolding her as he had the first time she’d used that
goddamned oil
on the feet of one of his hunt horses, telling her that hoof dressing interfered with scenting in the hunt field, that it was a show-horse thing. But Braveheart wasn’t going hunting today. Abigale slid the brush across his hooves, making sure the shine reached clear around to his heels. She felt strangely soothed by the way the dark goo filled the nail holes above his shoes.

She led Braveheart down the aisle to his stall, loving the way his wet coat gleamed with dark gray dapples, smelling of menthol from his bath. She slipped the halter off and watched the big horse nosedive into a fresh pile of alfalfa. Sliding the stall door shut, she hung the halter and coiled the thick black lead rope around itself like a spring, securing it by tucking the end through the bottom loop the way Uncle Richard had taught her.

The barn was peaceful now. The blacksmith had packed up and left, and Michael was outside, trotting a horse for the vet. Thompson had finished with Henry and disappeared into the tack room about five minutes before. Abigale inhaled, capturing the smells of hay and shavings, fly spray and horse manure. Heaven.

She swept and hosed down the wash rack, packed the brushes and hoof pick she’d used back in the grooming box, and carried the box to the storage closet. The door was cracked open with the light on. She swung the door wide as she stepped inside, almost smacking into Larry’s broad back.

“Oops, I’m sorry,” she said, jumping back as he spun around. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

Larry gaped at her. A flush crept up his stocky neck and flared across his chubby face. “Uh, I … I, uh, I got Mr. Clarke’s saddle out of the truck and was just putting it in here,” he stammered. “Mrs. Southwell’s in the tack room and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“That’s all right, Larry. Sorry I startled you.” She swallowed a smile, imagining he was taking his sweet time with the saddle to avoid less desirable chores.

Abigale eyed the saddle as she plunked the grooming box on the shelf. It was splayed upside down on the horse vacuum. The sight of the severed billet straps turned her stomach, fueling the burn of anger. She backed out of the closet and knocked lightly on the tack-room door.

“Come on in,” Margaret called.

Manning was seated near Margaret on the couch, holding an ice pack to his arm. Duchess sprawled on the floor by their feet. Thompson leaned against the counter by the sink, his hand wrapped around a glistening bottle of Deer Park water.

Margaret waved her inside. “We were just talking about—why are you limping?”

Abigale flashed a look at Manning and caught a glow of conspiracy in the smile he gave her. “Because I stuffed my size-eight feet into size-seven boots,” she replied.

“Well, for God’s sake, take them off,” Margaret said. “The bootjack’s over by the coatrack.”

Abigale was red-faced and out of breath by the time she’d managed to tug her feet out of the boots. “These are up for adoption,” she said, plunking them down next to a pair of mud-crusted muck boots.

“Custom Vogels.” Margaret nodded approvingly at the boots. “You’d get a pretty penny for those if you put them on consignment at Middleburg Tack Exchange.”

“Fine by me.” Abigale sank down in a club chair and tried to wiggle some feeling back into her toes. “I’ll donate the proceeds to the panel fund,” she said, referring to the money set aside for maintaining trails and building coops in the hunt territory.