Lane, you are saying things you dont mean"

You killed an innocent"

Reginald came out of the parlor with a silver tray of used glasses, took one look at the pair of them, and backtracked, disappearing once again into the now- vacant room.

{ 101 }.

Ah, yes, life at Easterly. Where privacy was less common than dia- monds and doled out only in relative terms. But at least he knew he could trust that man even more than he could his own family.

Not that that was saying much.

Im not doing this with you here, Lane rasped. And you are leav- ing this house. As soon as the Derbys run, your free ride is over.

Chantal arched one of her perfect eyebrows. Divorce me if you want, but I am going nowhere.

You have no right to be under this roof after that ring is off your finger.

The smile she gave him was chilling. Well just see about that. She nodded to the front door. Go wherever you like, run away" thats your thing, isnt it. You can rest assured, however, that I will be here when you get back.

Lane narrowed his eyes. Chantal was a lot of things, but delusional had never been one. She was too much of a self- promoter for that.

And she was staring back at him as if she knew something he didnt.

What the hell else had been going on while hed been gone?

O ut at the Red & Black, Edward sat in an old leather armchair in front of a television that was so ancient it still had bunny ears poking out on either side of its cereal- box- sized screen. The room he was in was dim, but gleaming" the result of the countless racing tro- phies that were crammed into the floor- to- ceiling bookshelves across the way.

The stables cottage had one bedroom, a bath with a claw-foot tub, a galley kitchen, and this area here, which was a library, study, living room, and parlor all rolled into one. There was no second floor, only an attic full of old horse-racing memorabilia, and no garage. Total square footage was less than the dining room of Easterly" and ever since hed moved in, hed learned the value of having a place small enough so you could hear and see almost everything. Back at the mansion, you never had a clue who else was in the sprawling house, where they were, what they were doing.

{ 102 }.

For someone like him, whose only mistress was night terrors and whose primary job was attempting to keep his brain from cannibalizing itself, the tight quarters were much easier to handle" especially around this time of the year. Such a shame hed been down in South America right before the Derby when hed been kidnapped. The anniversary of him getting held for corporate ransom ruined what had always been a most enjoyable weekend.

He checked his watch and cursed. Now that the sun was down, the evening hours presented themselves in a hazy twist, minutes lasting a century and a second at the same time. His night job? To somehow make it to sunrise without screaming.

At his elbow, the bottle of vodka was nearly finished. Hed started off with five cubes of ice in his tall glass, but they were long gone and he was drinking things neat at this point. Last night it had been gin. Two evenings ago hed had three bottles of wine: a pair of reds and a white of some variety.

During the initial, acute stage of his recovery, hed had to learn the ins and outs of pain management, how you timed your pills and your food so that riding the nerve impulses of a ruined body was not worse than the torture hed endured to earn his wounds. And that Mas- ters in Medication Management had translated nicely over to this sec- ond, chronic part of his recovery. Thanks to the early trial and error hed had with the bottles of pills, he was able to arrange things for optimal sedative effect: Every afternoon, he would have a meal of some sort around four p.m., and by six oclock, when the stables flushed out of employees, he could start drinking on an essentially empty stomach.

Nothing set his quick temper off faster than someone getting in the way of his buzz"

When the knock sounded out, he reached for the handgun beside the Grey Goose and tried to remember what day it was. The Derby was the day after tomorrow . . . so Thursday. It was Thursday night at some hour past sunset.

So this was not one of the prostitutes he paid to come service him.

{ 103 }.

They were Friday. Unless hed scheduled a twofer this week" and he hadnt done that.

Right . . . ? Or had he.

Reaching for his cane, he pushed himself off the chair and shuffled over to the front window. As he parted the drapes, the gun in his hand was steady, but his heart was pounding. Even though logically he knew there were no mercenaries here in Ogden County looking for him, even though he was aware that he was safe behind all of the locks and the security system hed installed, and in spite of the forty millimeter against his palm . . . his brain had been permanently rewired.

When he saw who it was, he frowned and lowered the weapon. Go- ing over to the door, he undid the chain, three dead bolts, and the latch and opened up, the hinges squeaking like mice" another warning mech-anism for him.

Wrong client, he muttered dryly at the small blond woman wear- ing old jeans and a clean muscle shirt. I order brunettes. In ball gowns.

For a reason he preferred to keep to himself.

She frowned. Scuse me?

I only take brunettes. And they are supposed to be dressed prop- erly.

He wanted long dark hair that curled at the end, a gown that reached the floorboards, and they had to wear Must de Cartier. Oh, and keep their mouths shut. They werent allowed to speak to him as he fucked them: Although the whores could get the outside almost right, the frag- ile illusion would be broken the instant their voices didnt sound like the woman he wanted but could not have.

He had enough trouble keeping an erection going as it was" in fact, the only way he could get it up at all was if he believed the lie for the duration it took him to pump his way to an orgasm.

The woman standing on his doorstep put her hands on her hips. I dont believe I know what youre talkin bout. But I know Im in the right place chere. Youre Edward Baldwine, and this is the Red and Black.

Who are you?

{ 104 }.

Jeb Landiss daughter. Shelby. Shelby Landis.

Edward closed his eyes. Goddamn it.

Ill appreciate you not takin the Lords name in vain in my pres- ence. Thank you.

He cracked his lids. What do you want?

My fathers dead.

Edward focused over her head, at the moon that was rising above Barn C. You want to come in?

If you put that weapon away, yes.

He tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and stepped back.

You want a drink?

As she came in, he realized how truly short she was. And she prob- ably weighed ninety pounds tops" soaking wet while holding a bale of hay.

No, thank you. I do not abide by alcohol. But I would care to avail mself of your facilities. Ive had a long trip.

Theyre over there.

Thank you kindly.

He leaned out his door. The pickup truck shed evidently driven here from God only knew where was parked on the left, the engine still tick- ing after shed turned it off.

As he shut the heavy weight and went through the procedure of re- locking things, a toilet flushed in the back of the house and the water ran.

A moment later, the girl emerged and went over to look at the trophies.

Edward returned to his chair, grimacing as he arranged himself.

When? he asked as he poured the rest of the vodka into his glass.

A week ago, she replied without looking over at him.

How.

Trampled. Well, the doctors say his heart gave out, but it was caused by a trample. That how you got maimed?

No. He took a long drink. So what are you doing here.

Now she turned around. My father always said I was to come and find you if anything ever happened to him. He said you owed him. I never asked for what.

{ 105 }.

Edward regarded her for a long time. How old are you? Twelve?

Twenty- two.

Jesus, youre young"

Watch your mouth around me.

He had to smile. Youre just like your old man, you know that?

So people say. She put her hands back on her hips. Im not lookin for no handouts. I need a place to stay and work to do. Im good with horses, just like my father, and bad with people" so youre warned up front on that one. I got no money, but my back is strong and Im not afraid of nothing. When can I start.

Who says Im looking for any help?

She frowned. My dad said youd need it. He said youd have to have more help.

The Red & Black was a big operation, and there were always vacan- cies. But Jeb Landis was a complicated blast from the past" and his kin was contaminated by association.

And yet . . . What can you do?

Its not rocket science to muck stalls, keep the horses in shape, watch the pregnancies"

He waved away her words. Fine, fine, youre hired. And Im just being a prick because, like you, I cant get along with people anymore.

Theres a vacant apartment next to Moes over in Barn B. You can move in there.

Point the way.

Edward grunted as he got back to his feet and he purposely brought his glass with him as he led the way to the door. Dont you want to know how much Ill pay you.

Youll be fair. My father said that dishonesty was not in your character.

He was being generous on that one.

Hardly. And he knew men and horses.

As Edward went through the unlocking procedure again, he could feel her looking at him and hated it. His injuries were the result of a hell he would have prefered to keep private from the world.

{ 106 }.

Before he let her out of the cottage, he stared down at her. Theres only one rule.

Whats that?

For some reason, he took stock of her features. She was nothing like her father physically" well, other than that small frame. Shelby" or whatever her name was" had eyes that were pale, not dark. And her skin wasnt the consistency of leather. Yet. She also didnt smell like horse sweat" although that would change.

Her voice, however, was all Jeb: That twang of hers was backed up by a solid core of strength.

You dont go near my stallion, Edward said. Hes mean to the core.

Nebekanzer.

You know him.

My father used to say that that horse had gasoline in his veins and acid in his eyes.

Yeah, you know my horse. Dont go near him. You dont muck his stall, you dont approach him if hes out to pasture, and you never, ever put anything over that stall door if you want to keep it. That includes your head.

Who takes care of him?

I do. Edward limped out into the night, the heavy, humid air mak- ing him feel like he couldnt breathe. And no one else.

As he tried and failed to take a deep inhale, he wondered if all those doctors had missed an internal injury. Then again, maybe the sense of suffocation was the image of this small woman anywhere near that hate- ful black stallion. He could just imagine what Neb could do to her.

She went ahead of him and grabbed a backpack out of the passenger side of the truck. So youre in charge here.

No, Moe Brown is. Youll meet him tomorrow. Hell be your boss.

Edward started off toward the barns. Like I said, the apartment next to his is furnished, but I dont know when the last person lived in it.

Ive slept in stalls and on park benches. Having a roof over me is enough.

He glanced down at her. Your father . . . was a good man.

{ 107 }.

He was no better or worse than anyone else.