Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series) (22 page)

"Start at the beginning and go to the end." Lonny said it lightly, but his face looked worried. Belatedly, I realized he probably thought I was upset with him, or wanted to date another man.

"It's nothing to do with us," I said quickly. "It's just that something happened, and I'm not sure if I should tell anybody."

Lonny looked puzzled, as well he might. He spoke cautiously. "Gail, I don't want to intrude on your privacy, you know that. If something's bothering you and you'd like to tell me, I'd like to hear it. If I can help, I will."

Something in the direct, sincere way he said it touched my heart, and despite my best efforts, my eyes filled up with tears. Lonny was very quiet. He reached a hand out across the table, and I took it and held it, feeling the warmth and affection pass like an electrical current between us. It was as though I were plugged into a dynamo, generating comfort. After a minute, my tears receded and I sat up straighter. Patting Lonny's hand gently, I said, "Thanks."

"Anytime."

The waitress came to take our orders and I was spared further explanations, at least for the moment. I chose clam linguini, my favorite of all Francesca's excellent choices. Lonny ordered spaghetti carbonara.

When she walked away, I took a deep breath and forestalled any questions by saying, "I bought another horse today."

"You did what?" Lonny knew my financial situation; he sounded amazed.

"I know, I know. But I couldn't help it." Briefly I told him the story of the show in Salinas, Plumber's injury, Anne Whitney's reaction, and my own decision. "I don't know what in the world I'm going to do with him," I finished up, "but I own him now."

"Gunner's about ready to be put back in training, isn't he?"

"Pretty close."

"Bring him out to my place, then, and we can get him going as a rope horse. You can bring Cindy's horse out there, too, if you want."

"I figured." He smiled back at me, but then his face got serious again. "Gail, this isn't what was bothering you, is it?"

No point in lying. Lonny would know. "No, it's not."

"Do you want to tell me?"

I sighed. Looked at Lonny and wondered about trust. I trusted Lonny as much as I trusted any human being. I believed he would never knowingly choose to hurt me. But how would he react if I told him about Paul Cassidy? Would he try to take over, make my decisions for me, tell the sheriff's department whether I wanted him to or not? Could I trust him to leave me in charge of my own life, even when my life was in danger?

I thought so, but I wasn't sure. On the other hand, I hadn't come up with any solutions to the problem, other than living in fear, which wasn't very satisfactory. Maybe Lonny would have an idea; maybe he could help.

Staring at him, I tried to decide whether confiding in this kind-looking man who touched me with such tenderness and passion was the thing to do. Part of me wanted to, wanted to believe he could solve my problems and keep me safe, as well.

Yet the instinct to trust no one but myself was strong in me, almost stronger than logic. I'd become self-sufficient after my parents died, out of necessity, not choice; now it was a way of life, a habit. Getting into a relationship with Lonny had stretched my boundaries, but we seemed to have solved that problem by retaining a fair degree of autonomy and separate space in our lives. We had some real connectedness between us. Still, when danger threatened, my instinct was to pull into myself.

I had to face the facts. I was reluctant to confide in Lonny more because of my own possibly neurotic desire to remain independent-a determination not to need anyone else to survive-than because I was afraid he would tell the wrong person, or fail to respect my decisions. It was possible, I told myself grimly, that my neurotic instincts were going to get me killed.

And then again, I rationalized, what could Lonny do that I couldn't? Give the sheriff's department that license number? I cringed at the very thought. Stay with me night and day? Paul Cassidy would simply kill him, too. Cassidy had said he would kill anyone I told. I would be putting Lonny's life at risk for no good reason.

Lonny had stayed quiet through the long moments of this inner monologue, munching bread and salad, waiting for me to work things out. Concern deepened the lines of age around his mouth. I took a big swallow of wine and looked at him.

It was his eyes that decided me; I'd never known a man with eyes as straightforward and intelligent as Lonny's.

"Somebody threatened to kill me," I said.

I recounted my meeting with Paul Cassidy over salad and dinner, leaving out only the fact that I'd memorized his license number, telling Lonny directly that the man had scared me enough to keep me from talking to anyone, including Lonny himself.

Lonny showed sympathy for that. Covering my hand with his, he squeezed gently. "I don't blame you for being scared."

"There're a couple of things I don't understand, though. Paul Cassidy implied he didn't shoot at me and miss that night in Bonny Doon." I grimaced. "And I found out from Hilde Fredericks that that cabin belonged to Amber St. Claire's uncle. I have a feeling Amber must be connected, and I can picture her hiring some hit man to bump me off if she wanted. But why? It doesn't make any sense. And I sort of believe that guy when he said he didn't do it. I have the feeling he wouldn't have missed."

We'd finished our dinner by this time and Lonny looked at me seriously over the empty plates. "Gail, I don't think the best approach to this is to go on playing detective."

As I'd realized before I told him, Lonny didn't have any answers to this situation that I didn't have myself. He also didn't know I had the Jaguar's license number. If he knew, I thought, he'd be sure I ought to go to the cops and hope they could arrest the guy. Trouble was, I just didn't believe they'd get it done.

Lonny was calling the waitress over to order coffee when my pager beeped, unpleasantly shrill in the crowded restaurant. A few diners stared at me curiously. I got up, telling Lonny, "There's a phone in the bar; I'll be right back."

It didn't take me two minutes. Back at the table I told him, "'It's a horse that's been colicking off and on for a month, probably sand in the gut. It could be a problem. Horses that colic over and over like this usually need surgery in the end. I have to go up there right away."

"I'll go with you."

I studied him. The idea was appealing, but I wondered if it was smart. "I know this lady. She doesn't have anything to do with the Whitneys. She can't be involved. And if Paul Cassidy is watching me, I ought to behave normally, as if I hadn't told you a thing. And normally, you wouldn't go with me on a call."

"I still think I should go."

"I don't think so, Lonny." I put a hand on the leather bag next to me and said quietly, "I've got my gun in here. I'll be okay."

"Gail, the gun isn't going to help."

"What will help is if I behave normally," I half-snapped at him, then apologized. "I know you want to help me. I appreciate it; I really do. But I think I'd better go by myself. I don't want that guy to think I told anybody."

Lonny regarded me with obvious frustration, then shook his head. "It's your choice. Will you come to my house afterward?"

"You bet. You can comfort me."

He smiled suddenly, that surprisingly youthful smile that seemed to endow him with the zest of a teenager while the wisdom of forty-seven years was reflected in his eyes. As a combination, it was hard to beat. For a second, I forgot all about Paul Cassidy and my mind went back to three nights ago and the way my body had responded to Lonny's.

He took my hand and stood up with me. "Take care of yourself. 1 want a chance to do some comforting."

"I can't wait."

TWENTY

I drove up Highway 17 toward Summit Road with my mind churning like an eggbeater. Talking to Lonny had made me feel better, but it hadn't answered any questions.

The mysterious "people" Paul Cassidy worked for, the "people" who I assumed had ordered Ed and Cindy killed-were they involved with Amber St. Claire? Were "they," in fact, simply Amber St. Claire? Or was the shooting at Amber's uncle's cabin merely a bizarre coincidence, nothing to do with the Whitneys' murders and Paul Cassidy's threat? It seemed unlikely, but I supposed it was possible. Even so, Amber must be connected to that shooting, if nothing else.

I decided to give a new scenario a try. Amber either shot at me herself or had someone do it for reasons unknown; separate from that, Paul Cassidy killed the Whitneys, then warned me off because somehow or other he'd realized I was poking around the murder investigation. The "people" Paul Cassidy worked for wanted Terry White arrested for the crime and an end to the investigation. That raised certain ideas.

If I looked at things that way, it explained why Paul Cassidy had warned me off and not killed me. Killing me would only stir the investigation up again, as the connection between my finding the bodies and my being shot might be all too obvious.

Once again, that left the question, Who were these "people"?

I'd been so absorbed with Amber that the simple answer had eluded me. What had Bret's little flame Lynnie said? "Do you think it was a hit? ... Because of what Ed sold."

Paul Cassidy certainly had the look of a man who worked for organized crime. And if Ed had offended his supplier in some way, it could explain why he'd been shot. Perhaps Cindy had been killed just because she was there. But then, who had shot at me that night and why?

I was rolling down Summit Road now, driving slowly, my mind on my problems, my eyes on the twisting curves. No fog this far inland-a high hard-white moon, half-full, shone in a blue-black sky. I could see the dark silhouettes of redwoods and firs against the silvery blanks of open fields. Houses here and there with their lights on only made the night seem blacker.

Summit Road was fairly well populated; it ran along the ridgeline of the Santa Cruz Mountains, halfway between Santa Cruz and San Jose, and was a convenient spot for those who worked in the Silicon Valley and wanted to "live in the country." Like Scotts Valley, Carl Whitney's town, which sat at the foot of the mountains, the Summit Road area had experienced a lot of growth in the last ten years.

Brenda Carrera lived on a neat one-acre plot with a house, barn, corral, and two Arabian mares. Shalimar, the older one, had colicked roughly a month ago and had never really gotten over it. She kept having recurring bouts of pain and I had advised Brenda to send her to the veterinary surgery center at Davis if she kept it up, as I had already prescribed all the medical treatments available to me.

Recurring colic of this sort was usually either caused by sand or stones or worm damage in the gut; in Shalimar's case, I suspected sand, as the Summit Road area was very sandy and I had treated many horses up here with similar problems.

Brenda was waiting for me outside her barn, her eyes big and worried in the beam of my headlights. She was at my side, talking, before I had even gotten out of the truck.

"Gail, I'm sorry to get you out, you look so nice-I must have dragged you away from a party, but she's doing it again and I think she's worse, I really do."

"No problem. I'll have a look at her."

Collecting the stuff I thought I'd need, I headed toward the barn, holding everything a little gingerly, I have to admit. I'd forgotten to throw jeans and a sweatshirt in the truck, and doing ranch calls in my good clothes was not my favorite thing. My clothing allowance wouldn't stand for the replacement costs.

Shalimar did indeed look bad. A little gray mare with a keen head, she usually had an alert, friendly expression; tonight her eyes were flat and blank, with that inward look to them that meant a horse was focused on its own pain. There were big patches of sweat on her neck and shoulders and the ground in her pen was torn up. As I watched, she began kicking at her belly with a back leg, then dropped to the ground suddenly and began to roll.

"Quick," I told Brenda, "bring a halter."

Brenda was back just as Shalimar got to her feet. I put the halter on the horse and said, "Try to make her move if she starts to roll again. I need to check her out, so as long as she'll stand there, leave her alone."

The mare's pulse and respiration were severely elevated, her gums dark and her gut sounds nonexistent. Based on her history, I was pretty sure she needed surgery.

"Brenda," I said, "I think it's time to take her to Davis, if you want to save her."

Brenda looked agonized; I knew how she felt. She held down a reasonably good job at Hewlett-Packard and could afford a big veterinary bill, but it wouldn't be easy. Still, she loved her horse.

There was a moment of silence while Brenda stared at the mare. Shalimar was breathing hard but standing still, for the moment. Brenda touched the sweaty neck lightly. "All right, I'll go."