Authors: Erica Spindler
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Romance, #Contemporary Women, #General
The First Wife
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To my family: the one I was born into and
the one I’ve acquired.
Love you.
Horses. Horse country. Showing, riding, training. Barns, tack, horsespeak. All completely
foreign to me. Thanks to the many who opened their farms and stables, sharing not
only their knowledge, but their love of these magnificent animals and the unique lifestyle
of the horseman/woman. My eyes and heart have been opened.
Francie Stirling, owner, trainer and barn manager, Stirling Farm: Thanks for your
time, sharing your stories and my introduction to dressage. Your beautiful farm and
training facility inspired much of
The First Wife
’s fictional Abbott Farm.
Richard Freeman, owner and stable manager, Oak Hill Ranch. Thanks to you and Sara
for allowing me access to your world class breeding facility and champion warmbloods.
It was an experience I’ll never forget.
Regina Milliken, assistant stable manager/trainer, Oak Hill Ranch. You were amazing—and
amazingly patient. Thank you for all the time, your stories and allowing me a glimpse
into the life of a true horsewoman.
Brooke Posey, young horsewoman extraordinaire, for letting me experience a show day
through your eyes. Thanks also to Marie Rudd, for setting it up, and Kathleen Posey,
owner, Serenity Farm, for allowing me to spend the day in the barn soaking up the
pre-show energy.
Sunny Francois, Louisiana Horse Rescue Association, for an insider’s introduction
to Louisiana horse country. Thanks to Jean Lotz, AAUW, for the introduction.
Lynda Byrne, for having me out to your place and arranging my “hands-on” research
experience. To riding instructor Catherine Insley, Over the Moon Farm, and her gentle
retired polo pony Tesoro.
On to the criminal mind …
Huge thanks to behavioral neurologist—and writer—Thomas Krefft, M.D., Northlake Neurological
Institute, for information on traumatic memory loss.
Bill Moran, ex-cop and hunting enthusiast, for information on shotguns, rifles, and
hunting accidents.
Folsom, Louisiana, police department for the look around and answered questions. I
dropped in uninvited, interrupted your lunch and you didn’t shoot me—appreciate it,
guys!
Captain George Bonnett, St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office, for the tour and the
many insights.
Personal appreciation:
For Sirens Nicole Grace, Trista Hook and Amanda LaPier for allowing me to “kill” them.
And to all my Sirens for the love.
Editor Jennifer Weis and the amazing SMP crew; Agent Scott Miller, Trident Media Group;
Assistant (and friend) Peg Campos; and my writing gal-pals, J. T. Ellison and Alex
Kava.
And finally, gratitude to my family for loving me—even when I’m on deadline—and my
gracious God, for the gifts.
Friday, April 18, 2014
3:31
A.M.
Bailey Abbott’s eyes cracked open. Light, so bright it stung. Pain. Her head and neck.
Throbbing. She told herself to cry out, but no sound came.
Where was she?
A soft hum and ping, coming from somewhere nearby. Bailey shifted her gaze. She lay
in a bed. Stainless steel rails. Clear plastic tubing that led up to a sack of liquid.
The hum she’d detected from a monitor near the bed.
Hospital. The realization whispered across her thoughts as her eyes closed once more.
7:26
A.M.
The sound of voices drew Bailey back. Men’s voices. She tried to open her eyes, but
her lids refused to raise.
“Why hasn’t she come to, Dr. Bauer?”
Urgency in the voice.
“I understand how upsetting this must be for you, but you have to be patient. Mrs.
Abbott suffered a traumatic brain injury, right now she’s doing exactly what she should
be doing. Healing.”
Brain injury? Who were they talking about? Not her. Surely.
She longed to tell them, to get their attention, but her body refused to respond to
her thoughts.
“Give me something, Dr. Bauer. Please. I’ll settle for an educated guess. Anything
to hold on to.”
“What I see looks very good. Judging by your wife’s level of consciousness, the way
she’s responding to stimuli, her TBI is mild. It could have been so much worse.”
Mrs. Abbott … Your wife …
Logan …
The voices dimmed. Bailey tried to grab on to something solid, but the dark rose up
and dragged her back.
10:20
A.M.
Bailey became aware of voices. Jarring. Angry.
“What do you expect from me, Billy Ray? She was riding and got knocked off. That’s
all I know.”
“Rodriguez is dead.”
“That has nothing to do with her. The sheriff’s detectives said—”
“She had a lot of blood on her, Abbott.”
“You’re telling me? I was the one who found her.”
“That’s right, you were.”
“Which means what?”
Barely controlled fury.
It frightened her.
“Like I said, it was a lot of blood.”
“She busted her head open. It bled.”
“Maybe it wasn’t all hers?”
“What are you going to suggest next? That she shot Rodriguez? Or, wait for it, that
Bailey’s accident is mysteriously connected to—”
“True’s disappearance.”
“For God’s sake! Give it a rest.”
“So, let me take a look around your property.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“What are you trying to hide?”
“Get a warrant, you crazy son of a bitch.”
“What’s going on in here!”
A woman’s voice. Hushed but furious.
“You’ll have to leave, Officer. Family only.”
Officer … something she … tell him …
“Fine. But know this: Abbott, as soon as she’s awake, she’s mine.”
“That’s a thing with you, isn’t it, Billy Ray? Wanting what’s mine?”
Important … now, before it was too …
But then the silent place swallowed her once more.
10:36
P.M.
A deep, rhythmic rumbling. It wormed its way through the fog, wrapping around her
and drawing her out of her soft cocoon.
Bailey’s lids lifted. The dimly lit room came into focus. Sterile and unwelcoming.
She shifted her gaze in the direction of the rumble. A dark-haired man in an armchair.
Asleep.
Handsome. Strong jaw, dark with several days’ worth of stubble. Too tall and broad
to sleep comfortably in the chair.
Logan.
She whimpered. The sound echoed in her head, like the heavy clang of a bell. His soft
snoring stopped and he sat straight up.
“Bailey?” He was on his feet, beside the bed. “Baby, are you awake?”
She shrank back. Into the bedding, then deeper yet, back into her safe cocoon.
Saturday, April 19
5:24
A.M.
Light broke through. Stingingly bright. “This way!” it seemed to call. “Here to safety.”
Bailey resisted. This was the safe place. Soft and close. Protected. But the light
beckoned, insistent. Sound with it. And a tingling sensation, as if her entire being
had come back to life.
Resistance proved futile. She ran toward the sound and light, hands outstretched.
Bailey opened her eyes and said his name.
Three Months Earlier
Grand Cayman
“Do you believe in fate, Bailey Browne?” he asked. “That two people can be destined
to meet?”
They sat side by side on the beach, she and this handsome stranger she had spent the
past eight hours with. The most unexpected, exciting and romantic hours of her entire
life.
She turned to meet his dark, intent gaze. She should tell him she thought such notions
silly. Play it cool and sophisticated. But cool and sophisticated weren’t her style.
“Yes, I believe it,” she said, voice husky. “What about you, Logan Abbott?”
He hesitated, a hint of vulnerability coming into his expression. “I didn’t. Not until…”
Tonight. Until you.
The words hung unspoken in the air between them. Heady. Tantalizing.
They had been fated to meet.
He found her hand, laced their fingers. “Have you ever seen the sun rise over the
Caribbean?”
“Never.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “It’s beautiful?”
“The most beautiful. You could stay and watch it with me?”
“Okay.” Bailey tipped her head so she could see his strong profile. “You’ve seen a
lot of sunrises, haven’t you?”
“All over the world.”
“Have you ever seen it rise over a Nebraska cornfield?”
He laughed. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”
Bailey liked the sound of his laugh, deep and raspy, like a growl. She snuggled closer
to his side. “You might want to put it at the top of your list,” she teased. “It’s
pretty spectacular.”
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. “Only if you promise to watch
it with me?”
She could lose herself in this moment, Bailey realized. In the sound of his voice,
the feel of his lips against her skin.
Simply slip away. Disappear forever.
“I promise,” she whispered, and he drew her with him down to the sand.
* * *
Bailey studied him while he slept. They hadn’t made love. They’d watched the sunrise,
then come back to her room and slept, wrapped in each other’s arms.
He took her breath away, he was so handsome. Dark hair and light green eyes, classically
sculpted features, beautifully shaped mouth. Mysterious, she thought. The tortured
hero of novels. Wounded deeply by someone special to him. Waiting for just the right
woman, the one who could make him whole again.
Were all women as hopelessly romantic as she? Bailey wondered, fighting the urge to
trail a finger over his chiseled lips. Drawn to the very thing that would eventually
destroy them?
He opened his eyes. His mouth tilted into the small, lazy smile she already loved.
“Good morning.”
“You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
Heat stung her cheeks. “You were!”
“Nope.” He laughed. “Playing possum.”
She gave in and trailed a finger over his perfect mouth. “So you could tease me?”
His smile faded. “Because I didn’t want this moment to end.”
Inexplicably, tears stung her eyes. She blinked against them, feeling foolish.
“Don’t,” he said.
“What?”
“Try to hide from me. I want to know everything about you, Bailey Browne.”
“I’ve already told you everything.”
“Hardly.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Why the tears?”
“Is this real?” She searched his gaze. “It’s as if my dreams have conjured you, our
meeting. All of it.”