are both from Kentucky?”
Blake headed up the aisle with their IDs.
“I don’t know where he’s from,” Piper answered, aiming a glare at Palmer. “But I’m from Lexington, or right outside it anyway, Meadow County. Look, all you need to know is that he stole my horse and I’m here to take it back. If anyone needs to be arrested here, it’s him.”
Palmer drew himself up as if trying to look more imposing. But the effect was ruined by the smattering of straw stuck to the side of his head. From the smell coming off him, Colby had a feeling there was a fair share of horse manure in that straw. He wrinkled his nose and took a quick step back. Dillon wasn’t as subtle. He waved his hand in front of his nose and gave Palmer a disgusted look.
“He stole your horse?” Colby asked Piper. “The one you called Gladiator?”
“He sure did. It took me weeks to figure out where he’d taken him. I chased them halfway across the South.”
“I did not steal that horse.” He reached inside his coat pocket.
Suddenly two pistols were pointing at him, Dillon’s and Colby’s.
Palmers eyes widened and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “I just wanted to show you the bill of sale.”
“Hold still.” Dillon holstered his gun and patted Palmer down while Colby aimed his pistol at the ground.
“He’s clear,” Dillon announced. He pulled a sheaf of papers out of the man’s inside jacket pocket as Colby holstered his gun again. “Is this what you wanted to show us?”
“Yes.” Palmer waved toward Piper. “It’s my employer’s bill of sale, Wayne Wilkerson. He owns the place next to the Caraway ranch and had me bring over the bill of sale to pick up Gladiator on his behalf. Aren’t you going to search her, too?”
“Colby will take care of that.” Dillon studied the papers.
“While you’re at it,” Palmer snarled, “you can charge her with vandalism or something. My truck alarm went off in the parking lot and I found it with the hood up. I didn’t see any damage or anything missing, so I tried to start the engine to make sure everything was okay. It wouldn’t start. Took me thirty minutes to figure out that someone had shoved a rubber washer onto the battery post to block the electric current. It doesn’t take a brainiac to figure out who’s responsible.”
“Thank goodness, since that would completely disqualify you,” Piper snapped.
Colby hid his smile by rubbing the light line of stubble that ran up the sides of his face to his hairline.
Palmer’s face reddened and he took a threatening step toward Piper.
The woman had the audacity to take an answering step toward him.
Colby swore and jerked her back to a safe distance while Dillon stepped between them.
“Cool it, or I’ll slap you in cuffs,” Dillon ordered, addressing Palmer. “And it’ll be that much longer before we straighten out this mess.”
Palmer glared at Piper, his earlier fear of the knife apparently forgotten. But he didn’t try to approach her again.
Dillon arched a brow at Colby, an unsubtle reminder to do his job.
Feeling his face flush with heat for letting his professionalism slip yet again around the intriguing woman, he told her, “Ma’am, I need to check you for weapons. Tempers are obviously running high around here and we don’t want any firearms getting in the mix.”
“I’m not armed,” she said but suffered through the frisk without complaint.
Everything about her posture and expression screamed that she was the wronged party, making Colby feel like a jerk for touching her. If Palmer—or his alleged employer, Wilkerson—had stolen her horse, then she was the innocent here. He quickly finished his search and stepped back.
“Looks legit,” Dillon announced. “The papers are notarized and look like the bills of sale I’ve got at home. On the surface, I’d say that he’s telling the truth. Wilkerson owns the stallion, and that last paper clearly states that Palmer is his representative to take care of the horse.”
“Since I would never, ever sell Gladiator, those papers are obviously fake.” Piper reached into her jacket and pulled out a cell phone. “I might not have the pedigree papers with me, but I’ve got proof that he’s been my horse his entire life.”
She unlocked her phone and pressed the screen, then held it so that Colby and Dillon could see it. She swiped her fingers across the face, showing an impressive collection of pictures of a young colt transforming into a mature stallion. The same stallion standing in the next stall.
“Those pictures appear to show that you’ve owned the horse in the past,” Colby said. “But that doesn’t prove that you didn’t sell him and have seller’s remorse.” He took the papers from Dillon and scanned them. “The stallion was sold four weeks ago?”
“Impossible,” she said. “I was out of state when Palmer tricked my ranch manager into believing I’d authorized the sale and that he was taking him somewhere on behalf of Mr. Wilkerson. Old man Wilkerson doesn’t even breed horses anymore, so that was obviously a lie. But he wasn’t home when one of the ranch hands went over there to verify Palmer’s claim. So Billy felt he had no choice but to let Gladiator go. When I found out what had happened, I filed a complaint with the police. But they haven’t been able to reach Mr. Wilkerson to straighten things out. They said until they talk to him, there’s nothing they can do. I had to track down Gladiator myself. Now that I’ve found him, I’m not leaving here without him.”
“Billy?” Colby asked.
“Billy Abbott. My ranch manager.”
“Got it. Where did the alleged sale take place?” Colby handed the papers back to Dillon, who pocketed them.
“At my ranch,” Piper said.
“Horse or cattle?”
“Horse. I run a breeding program.”
“Thoroughbreds? Racehorses?”
“Some, yes. I also raise exotics—rare or unusual breeds in this part of the world, including draft horses. They’re my bread and butter, steady income while we try to produce the next Kentucky Derby champion. But that’s like winning the lottery. The last Derby winner our ranch produced was back when my dad ran the place, when I was just a baby.” She frowned. “I don’t see how any of that matters, though.”
“Just getting some background information. You mentioned this Wilkerson guy like you’re pretty familiar with him. Is he a friend?”
“I wouldn’t call him a friend, no. We wave when we see each other across the fence or on the road. But we don’t typically socialize.”
“He’s your neighbor?”
“Yes. His property abuts mine.”
“But he can’t be located. He’s missing?”
She
