had come either directly from Shea or from donations she’d wrangled. Annie pulled her keys out of her pocket. “Trust me, most of it is spent and we had no trouble doing it. Unbelievable how many things need replacing or fixing at that sorry shelter.”
“Your cabin, for instance?” Shea said.
“My cabin is fine, thanks.” Annie addressed Jesse again, wanting to change the subject quickly. “I’ll send a list home with Shea.” She looked at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”
“Of course.”
Annie fiddled with her keys as she backed up in the direction of her truck. “Great. See you then.” She said quick goodbyes to most of the McAllisters along with many thanks, but before they could even try to convince her to stick around for dessert she climbed into her old green pickup.
No matter what she did or how long she left the windows open, the cab always smelled like horses. She didn’t mind. Horses had been a comfort to her all her life, and even though they were an amazing amount of work, especially this time of year, she couldn’t have wished for better company.
Horses didn’t care that she was on the run, that she’d messed up her life beyond repair. They loved her, anyway.
It didn’t take long to reach Safe Haven, and the first thing she did was check on the animals in the stable. She had an abandoned stallion that was starting to pick up some weight and get a little shine to his coat, and she added some grain to his feed trough. She spent longer checking on the mares, both of them with full teats but only in the prep stage of foaling, so there was time.
An hour later, she was finished with the barn chores and walked the couple hundred feet to the cabin everyone was so obsessed with. Inside, the overhead light sputtered to life, giving her a shadowed view of her home.
No, it wasn’t much, but it served its purpose. She could run her computer, plus she had a coffeemaker, a microwave, a toaster oven and a minifridge. Hell, she’d lived for years with less at the Columbia University dorms. The tiny claustrophobic bathroom wasn’t a big deal anymore, though she missed having a tub. But the shower got reasonably hot, and she’d replaced the cracked mirror. And the toilet…well, that could use replacing, too. But not until the emergency supplies were stocked and the tractor had a new engine.
Once upstairs in her loft, she turned on the lamp by her bed, and only then realized she should have changed out of her good jeans and one nice shirt before she’d done chores. No use worrying about that now, though. It was late for her, and the alarm would go off before first light, so she pulled on her nightshirt, and by nine-thirty she was under the covers reading a paperback thriller.
A chapter in, her eyelids started sinking. Thankfully, sleep wasn’t hard to come by anymore. The key was to keep herself in a constant state of exhaustion. She’d become an expert at that, too.
FOR THE SECOND TIME IN AN HOUR, Tucker Brennan found himself more focused on the view of the stables outside his window than the business at hand. There were several wranglers busy with chores, just like on the rest of his ranch. He would have preferred being out there building up a sweat instead of sitting in his office, filling his day with the business of running the Rocking B.
His Monday morning had gotten off to a rough start. He’d slept through his alarm, then spilled coffee on his lap during breakfast. Maybe he should have gone out last night. There were a number of women he could’ve called who wouldn’t have minded a last-minute invitation. But it was never that easy, was it?
“There’s a fundraiser for City of Hope next month.”
Tucker turned his chair so he faced his personal assistant, who was seconds into an eye roll. Darren smoothed over the near-gaff by clearing his throat. Tucker didn’t let his own frustration show, knowing full well this probably wasn’t the first time Darren had brought up this particular agenda item. Or the second.
“It’s at the McDermott?”
“Yes. Black tie,” Darren said. “The Dallas Symphony Orchestra will be performing before the gala.”
Tucker clicked over to his May calendar where Darren had already highlighted the date. He had three other formal events in May and the thought of another one didn’t appeal. “Send them a check, please. Personal.”
“Match last year’s?”
It had been sizable. “Yes.”
They continued to go down the list of requests, which seemed to grow exponentially year by year. While Darren did most of the correspondence concerning the ranch operations, Tucker liked to write personal messages where it counted. Like the one to an old warhorse of a rancher from Idaho who was about to retire. With no heir, he was going to auction off sixty thousand acres, along with his cattle and horses and all his equipment, and Tucker meant to purchase a great deal of the stock.
He barely acknowledged Darren leaving the office and set to work composing a letter to the rancher, handwritten, just like the old days, because Cotton and his late wife, Lula, had sent out Christmas letters every year until she’d passed away in 2009.
Just as Tucker started the second paragraph, a notification popped up on his computer. He went to delete the intrusion with one quick click, but the words stopped him.
He saved his screen and switched to Google, where he’d set up dozens of alerts a year ago, having no faith whatsoever that he’d ever hit pay dirt. He’d gotten hundreds of hits because there wasn’t anything all that unique about the chosen keywords, but he never skipped a one. This particular alert was for the name Ann, even though the object of his search had been born Leanna Warner. The other keywords were horses and fundraising.
Tucker wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered, because that was too close to Leanna’s true history. But he’d been thorough and he never let himself get his hopes up. He clicked on the link.
A blonde woman sat in the corner of a photograph. She wasn’t looking at the camera, but to her left. Saving the photo, he brought up the Warner file he kept under a separate password. He’d gathered everything he could about the woman a year ago, right after his brother, Christian, had given up his tough-guy act and confessed that he’d been hoodwinked… . By a slick fundraiser who was tall and slender and had a face that made men do foolish things.
Leanna was a card-carrying member of the Association of Fundraising Professionals with an office in Park Slope. She’d started out with a big firm, eventually opening her own office.
She and Christian had done quite well building up a sizable fund to benefit a number of charities. Only, none of the dividends reached the account. Instead, the investment profits had disappeared. Vanished. So had Leanna Warner, but only after the New York district attorney’s office, acting on a complaint, had gone after Christian.
While there was a lot of circumstantial evidence putting the money in Christian’s hands, there was no proof, no paper trail. Not that the D.A.’s office had stopped looking. They had made it clear Christian would remain a person of interest until they found Leanna and took her testimony. In the two years since the embezzlement, including the year Tucker had been conducting his own investigation, there hadn’t been a single clue as to her whereabouts.
Tucker still wasn’t sure there was one now. The pictures he had of Leanna showed an elegant, sophisticated New Yorker. she’d been one of the Manhattan hungry, seeking her fortune and status among the elite. If her plan had been to cut and run, she’d done herself
