Trickster we’re going in,” Olivia instructed him.
Joey turned and stroked the horse’s forehead. “You are beautiful, Trickster,” he whispered, then gazed up at Olivia. “Do I get to ride?” he asked.
“Next session,” she said. “As you reminded me, we’re already over our hour. But next time, we’ll definitely ride.”
They returned to the Horse Farm. She watched as Joey brushed Trickster, brought her to her stall and fed her.
She didn’t have the heart to go and wave goodbye to the others who were leaving.
In fact, she didn’t even go back to the office. Aaron and the rest of the staff would be worrying, trying to figure out how to handle it if the news got out about Marcus’s autopsy. It was probably too late if a kid like Joey had already heard. Next step would be deciding how they were going to spin the information about his death.
When Joey left with his group, she quickly checked on the horses. She was the only one in the stables and assumed everyone else had either gone into the office for further anxious discussions—or hurried home. She headed straight to her car and left, driving the 4.5 miles to the little ranch house she’d visited so many times as a child. She’d purchased the place from her uncle once she’d accepted the job at the Horse Farm.
Her home was old, dating from the 1830s. She loved the house, always had. A huge fireplace took up most of the parlor, the ladies’ sitting room had been turned into a handsome kitchen with shiny new appliances and off the hallway was a computer/game/what-have-you room. There were two bedrooms upstairs, along with a sitting room, modern additions when they were built on in the late 1850s. They were all comfortable and charming. Her uncle told her that the house had always been in their family; a cousin, son, daughter, niece or nephew had taken it over every time. He’d given her a great price and held the mortgage himself. She’d paid it off last year on her twenty-sixth birthday.
As she stood at the door, she heard Sammy whining.
The dog could have stayed at the Horse Farm; God knew, there were enough rescue pets there! But Sammy had belonged to Marcus, and his leg was just beginning to heal. No one had objected when Olivia had said she was bringing him home.
She opened the door and there he was, tail wagging as he greeted her. Olivia didn’t have to bend far to greet him in return. Sammy was a big old dog who appeared to be a mix of many breeds. He had the coat of a golden retriever, the head of rottweiler and paws that might have belonged to a wolf. He had one blue eye and one half blue, half brown—it was a freckle on the eye, she’d been told.
He gazed up at her expectantly and sat back on his haunches. His hope and simple trust just about broke her heart. “He’s not coming back, Sammy. I’m sorry.”
Sammy barked in response. She wondered just what dogs did and didn’t understand.
Olivia threw her keys on the buffet at the entrance and walked to the kitchen to give Sammy a treat. As he gobbled up the “tasty niblet of beef and pork,” she promised him that she’d be back downstairs in a minute. He couldn’t go running out into the yard because he was still recovering from the gash on his hind leg.
She dashed upstairs, stripping as she went. She breezed through her bedroom to the bath and stepped into the shower, adjusting the water temperature until it was as hot as it could get. She stood there, feeling it rush over her, for a long time.
She wished she could turn off her mind.
Leaning against the tile, she wondered about Marcus. “You didn’t!” she whispered aloud.
It was easy to believe that an addict had fallen back into drugs. It happened. Some relapsed and returned to therapy or recovered through their own determination and resolve.
But not Marcus! Marcus couldn’t have relapsed.
She began to feel saturated by the heat and decided she was about to wrinkle for life. Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, drying herself before slipping into her terry robe. Hurrying downstairs, she went back to the kitchen, ready to make a cup of tea. Rounding the stairs, she noticed that Sammy was quiet, just sitting there, staring at the front door.
“At last!”
Stunned and terrified, her heart pounding, she whirled toward the door. Her hand flew to her throat as she desperately wondered what weapon she might grab to defend herself.
But no one had come to attack her.
The speaker was Marcus Danby.
Or the ghost of Marcus Danby.
“Good Lord, woman! What were you doing up there? I mean, just how clean can someone be?” Marcus demanded. He moved toward her as he spoke. “Oh, come on! You saw me before. You see me quite well right now, just like you’ve always been able to see General Cunningham and Loki. You think I didn’t know? Of course I do! You’re like a ghost magnet, my dear girl. Close your mouth—your lower jaw’s going to fall off. Please, Olivia,” he said in a gentler voice. “I need your help. The Horse Farm needs your help.”
2
Stepping off the plane and entering Nashville International Airport, Dustin heard the twangs and strains of a country music song. The sound made him smile. God, he loved Nashville. The city was unique in its mix of the up-and-coming and pride in its history. Music reigned supreme but without self-consciousness; it was ever-present like the air one breathed. People tended to be cordial. And, hell, what was not to like about an airport that had a coffee stand and the welcoming sound of good music the minute he arrived?
He paused for a minute, listening, feeling the buzz of activity around him. In the past decade he’d lived in a number of different places but there was nothing like Nashville and nothing like coming home.
He picked up the paperwork for his rental car, then walked out of the airport and over to the multistoried garage to pick up the SUV he’d rented. A few minutes later, he was following the signs for I-40. Soon he was headed off the highway to a Tennessee state road, passing ranches, acreages with herds of grazing cows and pastures where horses kicked up their heels and ran or nibbled at the blue-green grass.
A little while later, he was on the dirt path that led to Willis House—the “retreat” where he had reservations. Willis House catered to those attending therapy at the Horse Farm and other nearby facilities. It wasn’t a specialized facility, but advertisements for the inn stated that it was a “clean” environment in the “exquisite and serene” Tennessee hills. People didn’t just come here because it was a “clean-living facility,” though. They also chose it because the area was so beautiful, or because they were visiting family or friends who were in therapy nearby.
The gravel drive was huge; there was certainly no problem with parking out here. He slid between a big truck and a small one and noted that the other cars in the lot included a nice new Jag, a Volvo, a BMW and a sad-looking twenty-year-old van.
Willis House was...a house. There was a broad porch with rockers, and he noted an old-timer sitting in one of them, staring as he approached.
“Hello,” Dustin said. The man wore denim overalls and a plaid flannel shirt. His face showed deep grooves of a life gone past.
The man nodded
