Chapter Three
After talking with Trick, Sydney’s mind buzzed with possibilities, and worries.
She knew Emma Stone had once been the region’s premier barrel-racing trainer, her reputation forged in all the blue ribbons she’d won, but Emma had retired years ago to raise her kids with her husband, Gabe.
If Ethan Harrison didn’t help her, Sydney didn’t know where she’d turn.
Someone had to teach the young mare the furious dance around barrels.
She drew in a shaky breath, the late-afternoon sky already bruising to purple, and steered her SUV down the long driveway onto Ethan’s spread.
The property lay quiet beneath a stiff breeze that rattled the bare limbs of winded oaks.
In the afternoon light, three sprawling red barns rose from the pasture about twenty yards from the log home.
Sydney parked on a gravel patch, listening to stones skitter beneath her tires, and let herself study the place.
It was beautiful and she couldn’t wait to go into the barn to see the horses shifting in their stalls, and hay bales stacked along a wall.
One of her favorite places to be was inside a barn.
Pulling her jacket close, she climbed the front steps and knocked on the wood door.
No answer. She rapped again, louder, but only the wind replied.
Warily, she jogged down the steps and crossed the yard toward the nearest barn, boots crunching dried grass and gravel.
The air had a chill to it, snow or sleet was coming soon, and Sydney, born and bred in Clifton’s fickle seasons, didn’t flinch at the chill .
She pushed through the wide barn doors. The scent of sweet hay mingled with warm leather and the musky breath of horses.
Light filtered through high windows, dust motes swirling in lazy spirals.
As she padded along the central aisle, a sudden shout made her spin toward an enclosed corral at the barn’s rear.
A lanky young cowboy was locked in a combat with a bay gelding that reared and spun, hooves striking the ground in angry bursts.
The rider flew off, landing with a thud in the sawdust. The horse snorted and pawed; the kid sat up and shook hay from his hat, grinding his teeth in irritation.
Sydney eased closer and perched on the lower rail, hands resting on the top board, scanning for Ethan. A dozen cowboys paused when they saw her. Finally an older man, his hat brimmed with sweat lines and salt-and-pepper whiskers, ambled over.
“Ma’am? Do you need help?” His voice was low, lined with kindness.
“I’m looking for Ethan,” Sydney said with a smile. “Is he around?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s in his office.” He tipped his hat and beckoned. “Come on, this way.”
She hopped down and followed him down the barn’s aisle, to a door with a single pane window glowing gold. He rapped on the door; a cordial voice invited them in. He opened it and stepped aside. “Ethan, this young lady has come to see you.”
Inside, under the warm glow of a desk lamp, Ethan Harrison looked up. His dark hair caught the light, and the corners of his emerald-green eyes crinkled in a grin. He pushed back his chair and rose, strides sure and welcoming.
“Sydney, good to see you.” He encircled her in a friendly hug that smelled of leather .
“You too, Ethan. Got a minute?”
“Always for you.” He looked back at the old cowboy. “How’s the breaking going, Maury?”
“Just fine, for the horses. I think they enjoy throwing those young cowboys off. But they’ll be gentle enough soon.” Maury tipped his hat, nodded to Sydney, and slipped out the door.
Ethan gestured to a wingback chair upholstered in soft tan leather. “Take a seat.”
Sydney sank into the chair, watching him pull his chair closer, sit down, and looked at her. “What can I do for you?” He folded his hands on top of the desk.
“I need someone who can train a horse for barrel racing. I checked with Trick, no openings. Stephanie’s out, she’s pregnant. Emma’s retired. I’m running out of options.”
Ethan sighed. “You know I don’t train anymore, right?”
“I do, but I don’t have anyone else. I hate to beg, but…”
“When do you need her under saddle?”
“As soon as possible. She’s a Morgan mare, groundwork done, she’ll walk, trot, lope the pattern.
A man’s buying her for his nine-year-old daughter; the girl’s been racing since she was six on a neighbor’s horse.
They want their own mount, but I warned him it might take time, depending on the horse. ”
Ethan rocked back, tapping the mouse. “Let’s see… I could squeeze her in the first week of April. I can’t promise an exact finish; you know how that goes.”
“I do,” Sydney said, relief softening her voice. “That slot works perfectly.”
He leaned forward, his fingers dancing over the keys. “All set. You want to haul her here or shall I pick her up?”
“Would you mind? I’d be grateful. ”
“Not at all. Give me your number; I’ll text when I can get her.”
Sydney smiled, heart light. “Thank you, I wasn’t sure what I’d do if you couldn’t.”
“Happy to help.” Ethan stood and smiled. She stood, then walked out of the office.
Outside, the wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped, and Sydney’s breath rose in little clouds.
She climbed into her vehicle smiling, the worry sliding off her shoulders.
She fired up the engine and headed home, already picturing that Morgan mare learning to dance around barrels in the spring sun.
****
Case guided the chestnut mare through the sun-dappled pasture, the tall grass whispering against her legs.
He’d already sent Rawley and Kian the photo of the missing mare, yet each time the scanner beeped over a promising head, the microchip didn’t match.
All the horses they’d tested so far belonged to the sprawling Gibbs ranch.
Still, something about Bobby Gibbs niggled at Case’s instincts; his teasing, overconfident smirk didn’t sit right. Case tugged at his brim, determined to dig deeper.
He swept his gaze across the field and spotted Rawley leading the bay gelding among a cluster of horses.
Rawley moved smoothly as he pressed the scanner against each horse’s shoulder.
Case fought back a grin as he watched Rawley talk to the horse, then move to the next one.
The man did love horses. Nearby, Kian threaded the grey through another group of grazing animals, sunlight gleaming on their coats.
Hours passed under the slow crawl of late afternoon light, and a knot of frustration coiled in Case’s gut.
Finally, they finished scanning every horse in sight and rode back to their trucks parked on the gravel drive.
The horses flicked their tails as they were guided into the trailer, the clatter of hooves and slapping gates echoing off the barns.
Just as Case latched the door, the front door swung open and Bobby Gibbs descended the wide wooden steps with a folded sheet of paper in hand. He extended it without a word.
Case unfolded the list. “Employee roster,” he said.
“Yep,” Bobby answered, shrugging against the late-day breeze. “That’s everyone out here.”
Case studied him. “Any horses in the barns right now?”
Bobby’s grin faded. “Nope.”
Case’s brow furrowed. “Really? We counted only fifty heads in the pasture.”
“They’re there,” Bobby insisted. “Guess you missed them.”
Rawley stepped forward and leaned on the truck’s fender, arms crossed. “If I walk into those barns and find horses, obstruction charges will follow.”
Bobby smirked, gaze cool. “Then get a search warrant.”
Case slid behind the wheel as Rawley climbed in beside him. They followed Kian as he pulled the trailer onto the road.
“That kid’s hiding something,” Rawley muttered, tension in his voice.
“I agree,” Case said. “I’d bet he stole that mare to please his girlfriend.”
Rawley sighed, then rubbed his eyes. “I’m beat. ”
“Or hungry,” Case teased.
Rawley laughed. “Like I told Deke before, add horny to that, and you’ve got me pegged.”
“I don’t know how you don’t gain weight as much as you eat,” Case said, grinning.
Rawley chuckled. “I work it off.”
“I don’t want to hear any more than that,” Case said with a laugh.
Back at the office, the elevator doors opened onto their floor, and they entered the offices.
The subdued hum of conversation, phones ringing and clicking keyboards were all that was heard.
Case knew every agent in this department did their jobs the best they knew how.
Rawley hung his hat and settled at his desk.
“I’ll go through more of these names,” he offered.
Case sank into his chair and began pulling up records. Most of the ranch hands checked out, until one name caught his eye; a young man who’d moved from Butte just a little over three months ago. A quick search revealed he’d attended high school with Bobby Gibbs before packing up and heading south.
Why return now, only to land work at the Gibbs ranch? He leaned forward; sure he’d finally found the thread that could unravel whatever Bobby was covering up.
“Do you see the name, Brent Tillman, on that list?” Case inquired, his voice tinged with urgency as he addressed Rawley.
“Let me see,” Rawley replied, running his finger methodically down the list of names. He paused, his eyes meeting Case’s with a glint of discovery. “Yes, it’s here.”
“He might be our link,” Case said thoughtfully. “He graduated with Bobby Gibbs, then moved from Clifton to Butte. But now, it seems he’s back in Clifton, working at the Gibbs ranch.”
“That can’t be a coincidence,” Rawley remarked, his tone laden with skepticism.
“I agree.” Case nodded.
“I can look into him, if you want,” Rawley offered, glancing back at his computer screen.
“Alright, I’m going to dig into Bobby. Maybe I can trace any contact they’ve had before Tillman came back,” Case proposed.