Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (4 page)

Relentless
is dedicated to the women and men of horse rescue. But specifically to the rescuers featured in this book who took the time to talk to a stranger, listen, and agree with enthusiasm to read Bren's story. Your insight and knowledge have made this book a more accurate account of the hard work, long hours, and never-ending commitment which is horse rescue.

Will there ever be a day when horse slaughter is only a past transgression of an earlier era of ignorance and greed? I know it is possible because of your strength and willingness to continue to fight and bring awareness to the ugly truth that is horse slaughter.

I find myself richer in friendships and dedicated to a cause I didn't know was mine until having met each one of you. Thank you for the opportunity to share your story.

Amy Harke-Moore, it has been a true blessing having you in my life. You have made becoming a writer a reality for me. Thank you for your knowledge of the English language and your patience. You are not only a very gifted editor but also a dear friend.

Ally Peltier, your experience in the publishing world has been invaluable in making this book all it can be. Your eye for detail in the finer points of plot, conflict, and tension has given this story the edge it needs to compete among the many romantic suspense novels that line the bookstore shelves.

Carolyn Haley, thank you for being the perfect set of eyes. Your sense of organization, character/location, and time lines has given this project the final touches it needed to ensure consistency throughout. The book absolutely shines thanks to you.

Duncan Long, your ability to create a cover I could only dream about leaves me in awe. You are a rare find and a joy to work with. Thank you for bringing my characters to life.

Ronda Taylor, you've managed to take the impossible and make it a reality. Your sense of style and design have made this book a work of art. Thank you for indulging me in the many changes that have gotten us to this point. The interior of this book is everything I'd hoped it would be.

To all my horse rescue reviewers. Thank you for your expertise and knowledge with regard to horses, rescue, and the slaughter industry. As always, any and all mistakes are my own.

To the Martha Dailey Lookout Club, it takes a village to raise a writer. Or is it a critique-driven writers' group? The friendships and good humor I've shared with you have been one of the highlights of my writing career. I thank you all for your abundance of praise, and, yes, criticism. You've given me what a writer needs in her toolbox—self-confidence.

To the "Fabulous Four"—my father Turk Divver, his wife Pat Moran, my brother Joe Divver, and my favorite cousin Danny Divver. Thank you for believing in me and making this book a reality. I love you guys.

Dawn Rachuba and Lisa Powers, thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to indulge me and read my many drafts. The two of you are what real friendship is all about. You're the best.

And, finally, to my husband Mark of twenty-two years and my beautiful daughter Katie. Without your love, support, and understanding,
Relentless
would not be a reality for me. I love you both.

When author P. J. O'Dwyer asked me to contribute a foreword for her new book which revolves around the hidden underworld of equine rescue, my interest was piqued. The field of equine welfare and cruelty had become one of my personal and professional specialties.

In O'Dwyer's
Relentless
, she creatively brings to light an issue that for over ten years I had been researching and investigating. P. J. O'Dwyer's story in
Relentless
thus struck a responsive chord in me. If I could help by lending my voice to the work, I told P. J., I would gladly do so.

It was through the discovery that America's majestic wild horses had been and continue to be brutally eliminated under the guise of humane protection that I first learned that our nation's domestic horses are also being violently killed/slaughtered. During the making of my film,
Saving America's Horses: A Nation Betrayed
, I encountered a steady stream of beautiful thoroughbreds flowing into the slaughter pipeline and wondered how such magnificent, sensitive, and intelligent beings could be derailed from such a life of glamour and plenty into a nightmare of betrayal absent of all humane protections. I was astonished at how many American horses of every breed and discipline disappear every week to face this barbaric fate.

In the process of unraveling the layer after layer of the incomprehensible corruption, I realized the vast majority of our country's population is in the dark about the violent and criminal nature of this seedy trade. I found that the only way to deal with the underbelly of this issue is through transparency—to establish what's happening, document it, and get it into the open where it can be dealt with.

In 2006 Congress put language in an Agriculture Appropriations Bill that cut off funding for horse meat inspections as a short term fix, until a federal ban could be passed. This effectively shut down horse slaughter in the U.S., but the industry opened new slaughter plants in Canada and Mexico where our American horses have continuously been exported for slaughter to this day. Proponents have since continued to push for the reopening of horse slaughter plants back in the states.

Relentless
is valuable because it will help to raise awareness about this issue. O'Dwyer's fictional portrait of a horse rescuer's struggle to survive brings heart and soul, emotion and character to those braving the criminal elements within the horse slaughter trade. An unexpected romance adds to the chaotic daily life of Bren Ryan, whose love for horses spurs choices that place her in life threatening situations. It's a story of stolen horses and stolen hearts juggled with equal amounts epic stubbornness and hope. The extremes explored both rivet us and reach deeply into the breathless moments that engage a visceral reflection on the meaning of life.

Having firsthand experience in the underworld of equine rescue and as a lifelong horseperson, I applaud O'Dwyer for capturing the rich sense of fulfillment, commitment, and hard work associated with the daily care of equines.
Relentless
brings to surface the powerful bond we've shared with these loyal partners and companions and calls to humanity for the need to protect them.

—Katia Louise

Filmmaker, Speaker, Credentialed Educator, Horsewoman

B
ren Ryan climbed into bed with her seven-year-old son Finn, pulling the covers up nice and tight. She wrapped her arms around him. Outside his window, the spotlight she'd made a point of leaving on at night caught snowflakes fluttering down from a dark December sky, and she trembled.

"Mom?" Finn's voice shook.

She angled him away from her, slipping her fingers through his blond hair, her palm resting on his cool forehead. "You feeling okay?"

He glanced up, a smattering of freckles dusting his pert little nose, presently twisted with worry. "Did it hurt?"

"Hurt?"

"Dad. Did it hurt when he died?" Finn raised his eyebrows, an endearing gesture they teased him about when his glasses slipped down his nose.

She held him tight. It had been almost a year since Tom's death. Finn never asked much about the particulars. Maybe that was because there was enough speculation in their small town of Clear Spring, Maryland, to fill his ears and feed his curiosity.

But she'd done the exact opposite, gaining a reputation for being overwrought, some would say unstable, and relentless in chasing a theory she couldn't prove. Unfortunately, her recent decision and method to remind everyone they still had an unsolved murder and a killer running free would have its drawbacks. "It was quick, Finn. You know how you feel when you're hanging upside down on the monkey bars?"

He nodded.

"He just felt pressure, and then he fell asleep."

Bren clenched her teeth. She would sugarcoat it for Finn but not for her friend, Kevin Bendix, the sheriff of Washington County. She'd been avoiding his calls today and the confrontation that would put them at odds.

Finn settled in against her chest and remained quiet. Bren rested her chin on top of his head. Except for their breathing, it was silent, the slow beat of Finn's heart against her forearm soothing.

Bren took a deep breath and shut her eyes, trying to imagine Tom's footfalls climbing the stairs after he'd locked up for the night. She half expected to find him smiling at her in the doorway of Finn's bedroom, waiting to trade places.

A light tug on her hair brought her eyes open. Finn's small fingers were intertwined in a long, dark red strand of her hair. "Some kids on the bus today were teasing me and Aiden again." He glanced up. "They keep saying Dad's dead because you stole that old fart's horses."

She stiffened. "That's ridiculous."

Bren slipped out from under the covers and stood. "It's getting late, baby." She removed Finn's glasses, placing them on the nightstand, and reached for the light. "Good night, sweetheart."

"Mom?" His eyes, the size of two brown copper pennies, peered up from beneath thick lashes. "Did you?"

Her heart skipped a beat. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "No. People talk is all."

He nodded, and Bren relaxed.

"I'll go check on your brother." She kissed Finn's cheek. "If you need me, I'm right down the hall."

"Good night. Love you, Mom."

"Love you, too."

Bren turned off the light and moved into the hall, catching her teenage son coming from the hall bathroom.

"Aiden," she whispered.

He scowled at her and headed for his bedroom, disappearing inside.

She followed, coming to an abrupt stop when he closed the door. Bren reached for the knob, and it clicked. She jiggled it. "Aiden, open the door."

"I hate you."

"I didn't steal those horses, Aiden."

"Dad thought you did."

"Dad was wrong. Now open the door." The lock popped, and the knob turned in her hand.

"What?" Angry brown eyes pierced her through the crack of the door.

"It was the only way to wake this town up."

"Whatever."

That word, in particular, accompanied by Aiden's sarcastic tone, could set her teeth on edge. But tonight she ignored it. "I love you, A—"

He pushed the door shut, and Bren's grip tightened on the knob. She counted to ten.

Let him go. He's hurting.

Tears pinched her eyes. She hurt, too. How could she help her sons when she couldn't help herself? Trembling, she was not the constant her boys depended on or the competent thirty-five-year-old director of a horse rescue farm. She'd fought injustices all her life, protected those who couldn't protect themselves. Yet, all five foot six, one hundred and twenty-five well-toned pounds of her wanted to slither to the floor in defeat. Where was the fierce, wrongly widowed farm girl now? She released the doorknob and escaped down the steps to the kitchen.

The house hummed with the warmth from the furnace, but the chill wouldn't leave Bren. She scrubbed her arms, then reached up into the cabinet above the dishwasher and snagged the pretty-shaped bottle of Crown Royal they kept on hand for holidays and dropped it inside the large pocket of her robe.

She climbed the stairs of the old farmhouse she'd shared with Tom. Tears leaked down her face. She didn't want to continue doing this alone. The horse rescue farm they called Grace... the boys... life.

She wiped her face with the furry pink sleeve of her robe and entered her room. Her bed... hers and Tom's bed sat quiet and made with the comforter her mother had sewn sixteen years ago for their wedding. She hadn't slept there since Tom's death. No way could she disturb it—not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Rather than head down the hall to the guest bedroom, Bren settled down in the wooden rocker Tom had bought when Aiden was born. She couldn't escape his memory. It reached out everywhere, like tiny pinpricks, reminding her she was alive and Tom wasn't.

The cap of the bottle twisted off easily; she took her first swig. She winced when the Canadian whisky burned her throat.

She managed several more swigs and began to relax. Raising the bottle, she toasted herself. "Way to go, Bren. Nice job screwing with your boys' heads." The tears that had dried down her cheeks reemerged, wet and flowing. She took another swig and rocked and held the bottle up again. "To Wes Connelly, you miserable bastard. Whatever it takes, I'll torment your murdering ass until you're broken and behind bars."

Tom's handsome face flashed before her. He'd warned her. His remark the last night he was alive: "Stop antagonizing Wes. I've got too much to do around this farm to protect you from yourself." Headstrong and deliberate were her responses to everything, and Tom, amazingly, had been the guiding hand that had kept her from self-destructing. But Tom had been wrong about one thing.

He was the one who needed protection.

She lifted the bottle again, her hands sliding on the glass. "I'm sorry, baby." She let the bottle sink into her lap and closed her eyes. She continued to rock until she nodded off.