When at last the worst of the storm had passed, she took a ragged breath, stirred slightly against him, and whispered, “I loved her so much.”
“I know,” was all he could say.
Her voice went thin with another rush of tears. “Steve knows it, too. Next to Blue, she’s always been my favorite, and he knows it.”
What could he possibly say to dispel the horror of that? A man to whom she’d once entrusted her heart had deliberately and coldheartedly destroyed two gorgeous, living and breathing creatures to settle a score. No matter how many times Tucker circled that in his mind, he couldn’t accept that any sane person could do such a thing.
“She was so special,” Samantha murmured. “Truly a gentle soul.”
In that moment as never before, Tucker understood exactly how much Samantha’s horses meant to her. They had never been mere stepping-stones in a pathway to glory and blue ribbons. To her, each and every horse in her stable was a cherished friend.
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save her. I’m so sorry.”
She turned her face against his shirt and began to weep again. Tucker rocked her and stroked her hair, experiencing her pain as he’d never done with another human being. When she finally quieted, he slumped against the cushions and just held her close.
Eventually exhaustion won the war, and she slept. Even though Tucker knew other serious matters awaited his attention, he sat there and held her awhile, savoring the feeling of having her in his arms. Finally, when he could put off the unpleasantness no longer, he gently shifted her off his lap to lie on the cushions. As his arms slipped from beneath her, she sobbed softly, still weeping even in her dreams.
He hated to leave her, but like it or not, he had business to take care of, first and foremost to get in touch with Frank and let him know what had happened. Jerome obviously hadn’t thought to call him. Otherwise the place would already be crawling with Samantha’s family members.
Tucker returned to the kitchen. After a cursory search of the cabinet drawers that turned up no phone book, he fiddled for several seconds with the portable phone, trying to find Samantha’s speed-dial list. No luck. Irritated, Tucker slapped the communication device back down on the counter and spun on his heel to exit the house.
Once outside on the lighted front porch, he bent to retrieve the shotgun. Murderous anger ran cold through his heart as he checked to make sure Samantha had jacked a cartridge into the chamber. Just in case, he thought as he descended the steps. If Steve Fisher was still on the property and meant to perpetrate any more mischief tonight, he might meet with a little more opposition than he expected.
After a hurried walk to the stables, Tucker found Jerome still inside Cilantro’s stall. The older man sat beside the horses, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. He didn’t move when Tucker entered the enclosure.
“I’m sorry, Jerome,” Tucker said hoarsely. “I know you’re grieving and need this time alone. But I need to get in touch with Samantha’s family, and I don’t know any of their numbers.”
Jerome settled a trembling hand on the mare’s neck. “Of all of them, I’ve always loved her the best,” he said hollowly. “She was my special girl.” He lifted a tear-streaked, age-lined face, looking a decade older than he had the last time Tucker had seen him. When he spotted the shotgun, he didn’t so much as blink. “You going after the son of a bitch?”
“No,” Tucker pushed out. “We both know that isn’t the way.”
Jerome nodded and wiped his weathered cheeks. “I want to go after him. But in the doing, I’d only hurt Sammy more. That girl has suffered enough at Steve Fisher’s hands.” He sighed raggedly and visibly struggled to collect himself. “I don’t understand this, Tucker. I’ve watched these stables like a hawk for days on end, and tonight we locked up well before dark and armed the security system. How could the bastard have gotten in?”
Tucker glanced at his watch. He’d noted the exact time of each horse’s death and was amazed to see that only a little over thirty minutes had passed. Shifting the shotgun into the crook of one arm, he crouched down to meet Jerome’s gaze. “We can figure out the how of it later. Right now I need you to listen up, Jerome. For Sammy’s sake.”
The foreman swallowed hard. “Where is she?”
“At the house. She needs her family. I have to get in touch with them. I think she should have her father here before we call the police. Can you give me their numbers?”
Jerome sighed again. “No one’s home. They’re all at the auction.”
“What auction? Damn. They must have cell phones with them. I have to get them home.”
Jerome recited a number. Frank Harrigan answered on the first ring.
Tucker was about to return to the house to check on Samantha when she reentered the arena. He quickly crossed to the back of the building, scanned the office for interlopers, set the shotgun just inside, and turned the lock before shutting the door. If that bastard Steve Fisher was lurking in the darkness, Tucker sure as hell didn’t want him to get hold of a gun.
Samantha looked like a disaster survivor, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her face so drawn that her delicate bones stood out in sharp relief beneath her pale skin. Instead of heading for Cilantro’s stall, she began making rounds, checking all the feed bowls for residue and examining each horse for any sign of poisoning. Glad to see her recover her equilibrium so quickly and also relieved to have something to do, Tucker grabbed his satchel and joined her. Soon Jerome was trailing behind them.
“How could he have gotten in?” the foreman kept asking, his voice faint, his expression dazed. “There isn’t a door or gate in the whole place that isn’t secure after we set the alarm.”
Tucker knew the window of time for a large dose of arsenic to do its damage ranged anywhere from a few to several hours. The horses had died at eleven o’clock. It was entirely possible that someone had slipped Cilantro and Hickory the poison long before the stable had been locked up around seven. It was equally possible that the arsenic had been ingested later, as little as two or three hours ago. In short, he had no answers.
“Was the security system installed when Steve used to live here?” Tucker asked.
“No,” Samantha informed him. “Dad had it installed right after I kicked Steve out.”
“Do you arm the house system during the day?”
She gave him a bewildered look. “Not normally. I’m in and out too often to bother.”
“Is there a special place you keep important papers that Steve knows about?” Tucker quizzed.
She nodded. “There’s a safe in the downstairs office.”
“Does Steve know the combination?”
“Yes, but I’m not following why that’s important. He was given any important documents that were his when the marriage was dissolved.”
Tucker glanced up from checking Nutmeg’s gums. “I was thinking you might have the security code written down somewhere, and if so, it only makes sense that you’d keep it under lock and key.”
She shook her head. “It isn’t written down. I used my baptismal date, three/eleven/’seventy-seven. Jerome and everyone in my family know it by heart.”
“Isn’t it possible Steve knows it, too?”
Her face, already pale, went absolutely white. “He might. He always made light of my religion, so I didn’t think—” She broke off and swallowed. “He might know it. If not, it’s on my baptismal certificate in the safe.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Jerome whispered. “How the hell do we change the code?”
“I can’t remember the exact procedure,” Samantha said. “We’ll need the alarm manual. I’ll run over to the house and get it.”
“No,” Tucker quickly inserted. “Tell Jerome where it is and let him go.”
“It’ll be quicker if I do,” she argued.
Tucker shook his head. “No way, honey. Call it an overreaction, but I don’t want you wandering around out there alone. He could still
be somewhere on the property. I don’t think he’ll confront Jerome, but he might you.”
“He’s right,” Jerome said. “A man who does something like this isn’t right in the head. He hates you. Why, I’ll never understand, but there you have it.”
Samantha scanned the arena, her gaze filled with fright. “If he could still be on the property, we need to check the building.”
Tucker realized she was right. “We’ll do that while Jerome goes over to the house for the alarm manual.”
“It’s in the kitchen drawer under the microwave,” she told the foreman.
When Jerome had left, Tucker initiated a search of the stables. He considered retrieving the shotgun from the locked office but decided against it. Weapons had their uses, and Tucker supported the rights of law-abiding citizens to possess firearms. But he didn’t feel comfortable carrying a gun with murder in his heart. His fists were weapon enough, and it was highly unlikely that he might kill someone with them.
As if she read his mind, Samantha asked, “Where’d you put the shotgun? If Steve’s anywhere around, I don’t want him to find it.”
“It’s in a safe place,” he assured her. “I locked it up in the office.”
She walked at his side as they covered the stables. Each time Tucker opened a door he felt her tension, yet she didn’t always hang back, allowing him to enter first. On the one hand, he wasn’t sure that was wise, but on the other, he had to admire her nerve.
When every nook and cranny had been investigated, she said, “All clear.”
Tucker nodded, and in unspoken agreement they resumed their rounds of the stalls to check on all the horses.
As they worked, Samantha said, “I’m sorry about my behavior earlier, Tucker. Out on my porch, I mean. When I said I’d shoot if you didn’t move out of my way, I truly didn’t mean it. It was only an empty threat.”
Tucker had nearly forgotten the incident. Recalling it now made him want to smile. If he’d been asked to name one particular trait that defined her as a person, her inherent kindness toward all living things would have been the first to come to mind.
“I knew it was only a threat,” he assured her.
“You did?”
She looked so incredulous that he lost the struggle and grinned at her. “You don’t have it in you to harm anyone, Samantha. I’d bet my life on that.”
A troubled look entered her eyes. “I wish I were as certain of that.”
“Trust me. I’m an excellent judge of character.” He ran a hand along Nutmeg’s spine, checking for fever by touch. “I’ve worked with horses nearly all my life, and one thing I’ve noticed about all of yours is their sweet, loving personalities. That doesn’t happen by accident. These horses have never experienced cruelty, only patience and kindness, and it shows in their manner.”
Two bright spots of color flagged her pale cheeks. “I like horses far better than I do most people. Maybe that explains it.”
He chuckled. “I feel pretty much the same way. Horses don’t lie, they don’t cheat, they’re eager to please those they love, and if they happen to kick you in the teeth, you were either careless or had it coming. I always know where I stand with a horse. I can’t say the same about a lot of humans.”
She pushed at her hair, then spent a moment nibbling her bottom lip, which was puffy from crying. “I still need to apologize. My behavior was inexcusable. I went a little crazy, I guess.” She shrugged and sent him a helplessly bewildered look. “I’ve never killed anything. Why I thought I could go after Steve with a shotgun, I’ll never know.”
“You’re under a lot of pressure,” he reminded her. “I’ve seen Clint with his dander up. He loves his sister, and seeing you hurt, directly or indirectly, pisses him off so bad he can barely see straight. I know it must be frightening for you to think he may go off half-cocked and do something stupid.”
Her lashes drifted low, then fluttered up again.
“But that isn’t the way,” Tucker said softly. “We can’t stoop to Steve Fisher’s level. Not you, not Clint, not me, as much as the thought appeals right now. If we allow him to push us into that, he wins. It’s as simple as that.”
Tears filled her eyes. “You’re right,” she whispered, “and I’m grateful you were there to make me remember that.” She stared off for a moment. Then she blinked. “From the start, all Steve ever brought into my life was ugliness. That changed me in ways I’m not even sure I realize. You think I’m incapable of hurting someone. But you don’t know. You just don’t know.”
Tucker waited, hoping she might say more. She checked Nutmeg’s pulse and then continued. “That last night—when I finally worked up the courage to kick Steve out—I tried my best to kill him,” she confessed. “Not with a knife or gun or anything like that. He was hit ting me, and when I fell, he grabbed me by the throat to drag me back to my feet.” She touched the hollow of her collarbone. “He wouldn’t let go. He just kept squeezing harder and harder, and I couldn’t breathe. I thought he was going to strangle me.”
Tucker clenched his teeth against a rush of rage and pretended to concentrate on Nutmeg’s respiration.
“I can’t remember how I got loose,” she acknowledged thinly. “All I remember is beating him over the head with one of the kitchen chairs. After he went down, I kept on hitting him, fortunately all over his body, not only on his head. Something inside of me snapped, I guess. I couldn’t make myself stop until the chair was in pieces and he was unconscious on the floor.”
His voice taut, Tucker asked, “Then what’d you do?”
“I dragged him out of the house, dropped him on the dirt, and spit on him.” A lost, puzzled look entered her eyes. “I didn’t call for an ambulance. I didn’t check to see if he was breathing. I just went back in the house and locked all the doors, hoping he was dead.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
A startled laugh escaped her, and then suddenly they were both snorting with mirth. She laughed until she was holding her sides. Tucker laughed until his legs went weak and he had to lean on the horse to stay standing.
It wasn’t really funny. It was, in fact, the most awful story Tucker had ever heard. But the laughter provided them both with release, and they gave themselves up to it. When they were so weak they could no longer remain erect, they sank onto the straw and braced their backs against the plank wall.
After a long silence, she whispered shakily, “I saw hell that night.”
Tucker glanced over at her suddenly solemn countenance, and all desire to laugh abandoned him. She truly had seen hell; he could see the truth of that in her eyes.
“It’s not anything to do with being punished by fire,” she informed him softly. “Hell is when everything good within you is snuffed out—just gone as if it never existed—and all that’s left is pure evil.”
Tucker drew up a knee to rest his arm. “You aren’t evil, Samantha.”
Her gaze clung to his, the expression in her eyes revealing hope so faint it barely shone through the shadowy veils of shame.
“How can you think it’s evil to fight to save your own life?” he asked gently. “You were being brutally attacked, and your survival instinct kicked in.”
She shook her head. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “You don’t understand. I committed murder in my heart. I didn’t call an ambulance. I never even looked out a window to see if he was still alive. Instead I went upstairs to the bedroom and locked the door.”
“The very fact that you went upstairs and locked yourself in tells me all I need to know.” He paused to lend that emphasis. “You were probably in shock. That happens when a person comes within an inch of losing her life. As for beating the man with a chair, that was a pure adrenal rush coming to your rescue. He’d almost killed you. Somewhere in your panic you knew he’d finish the job if you gave him the chance. It was him or you, an inarguable case of self-defense. Instead of feeling guilty, you should be grateful God gave you the strength to break away from him an
d the presence of mind to grab a chair as a weapon.”
She wiped her cheeks with quivering fingertips. “You think?”
“I know,” he assured her. “If you’d really meant to kill him, you would have. You certainly had the chance. Instead you dragged him outside and left him to regain his senses. I’m not saying you didn’t whale the tar out of him, only that you didn’t inflict a mortal wound when you easily could have. As for not calling an ambulance, deep down you knew he would be all right.”
“I did?”
Tucker managed to dredge up another smile. “Of course you did. Why else would you have locked all the doors and barricaded yourself in the bedroom?”
Frowning thoughtfully, she looped her slender arms around her knees. “I suppose you’re right. I guess, deep down, I did know. There’d be little point in locking the doors against a dead man.” She glanced over at him. “Thank you for making me see that. I feel as if a thousand pounds have been lifted from my shoulders.”
Tucker shifted on the straw. “I’m happy to be of ser vice.” He waited a moment and then added, “As for the rest…” His voice trailed away. “I know it must be a disturbing memory. You just have to keep it in its proper perspective. You’re not evil, Samantha. You weren’t that night, and you aren’t now. Never think it.”
He heard a slight catch in her breathing and glanced over to find that she’d closed her eyes again. “You okay?”
She nodded and made an inarticulate sound low in her throat. “You know the worst part? All this time later, after regretting what I did that night at least a hundred times, now I find myself wishing I’d killed him.”
Tucker completely understood why. “Yeah, well, you didn’t,” he pointed out. “What’s more, you aren’t going to, and neither am I. When Steve Fisher goes to hell, neither one of us is going along to keep him company.”
She sent him a searching look. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told about that night,” she whispered. “Not my dad, not anyone.”