Chapter Seven
Sydney entered the red barn, the hinges of the heavy door groaning in protest against the pre-dawn chill.
Frost crunched beneath her boots as she stepped inside to clean the stalls.
The pale blue light of early morning filtered through dusty windows, barely illuminating the hay-strewn concrete floor.
Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, all night she’d tossed in her tangled sheets, Caysen Anderson’s face haunting her thoughts.
“Damn that man,” she muttered, her breath forming a small cloud as she trudged along the barn’s sawdust-covered aisle to the tool room.
The familiar scents of leather, hay, and horses surrounded her as she tugged on heavy work gloves, their rough interior scratching against her palms. She loaded a shovel and wooden-handled rake into the wheelbarrow, then pushed it toward the first stall, its wheel wobbling slightly.
Billy had already moved the horses to the paddock, their dark silhouettes visible through the frost-edged windows.
The bitter wind rattled the barn’s timbers, making Sydney quicken her pace.
Unlike some of the ranchers in the area who left their animals to weather the elements year-round, she couldn’t bear the thought of her horses standing in that bone-chilling cold any longer than necessary.
She treated those creatures like family, each with their own blanket, specialized feed, and daily brushing routine that made the ranch hands roll their eyes behind her back.
She knew they thought she went overboard, but her love for her horses was boundless, and as far as she was concerned, no creature deserved to be left out in weather this fierce. The wind howled like a wild beast, and the air was sharp and biting, hinting at the storm’s icy fury.
“Hey, Ms. Sydney,” a voice rang out, slicing through the chill.
She turned to see Ezra, her foreman, strolling toward her.
“Good morning, Ezra. How are you this morning?” she greeted him warmly.
“I’m cold,” he replied with a laugh, his breath visible in puffs of mist. “Do you need some help? I know you want to get the babies in out of the cold.”
Sydney chuckled. “You’re right, and I would love some help.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll gather the other equipment and start on the other side,” he said with a nod.
“Thank you, Ezra.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he responded, tipping the brim of his worn hat before heading into the tool room, his boots crunching over the straw on the floor.
Ezra and Billy had been fixtures on the ranch for the longest time, their presence constant.
They started when her father ran the place, a legacy stretching over thirty years.
Billy was nearing seventy, a testament to resilience, while Ezra, in his fifties, still carried the vigor of youth in his step.
Both men worked tirelessly, their dedication unwavering, often outpacing the younger hands who came and went with the seasons.
Once they both finished their tasks, she stepped outside to gather up the horses.
The crisp air nipped at her cheeks, and she laughed as the animals trotted eagerly toward her, their warm breath puffing into the cold morning like tiny clouds.
They knew they were headed inside, away from the biting chill of the outdoors.
She clipped a lead to one of the stallions, guiding him into the barn as the others followed obediently behind.
Ezra stood by each stall, swinging open the gates so the horses could find their places and settle in.
Once all the horses were snugly inside, munching on fresh oats and sipping from their water buckets, Sydney made her way to the house, eager for a shower.
The earthy scent of horses and manure clung to her, a fragrance she didn’t mind but preferred to wash away before heading into town.
She had plans to visit the bookstore and sort through some inventory.
As she stepped onto the porch, the wooden boards creaked softly beneath her weight.
She sat down on a weathered bench to peel off her muddy muck boots, then entered the warmth of the house.
Her bedroom beckoned her to the adjoining bathroom, where she stripped off her clothes and turned on the shower.
The hot water cascaded over her, soothing her chilled skin and enveloping her in comforting warmth.
Winter was a season she loved, but with its harsh arrival, she knew they were in for a challenging season.
After her shower, she wrapped her hair in a towel, drying it before tying it up in a practical ponytail.
She dressed in comfortable jeans, a soft T-shirt, and a cozy flannel shirt, then moved to the kitchen to pull on her coat and beanie.
As she swung the door open, a gust of frigid wind slapped her face, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.
She quickly descended the steps and slipped into her SUV.
The engine sputtered to life, and she shivered as the heater initially blew out cold air.
“Should have warmed it up,” she muttered to herself.
With the vehicle in gear, she navigated onto the main road, relieved to see it clear for now.
But the snowflakes were beginning to gather again, blanketing the ground with a fresh layer.
She knew her time in town would be limited today.
If the weather worsened, she’d send everyone home early and close the bookstore, prioritizing her employees’ safety over business.
****
Monday morning, Case entered the office with a strong cup of coffee in his hand, the steam rising like a distress signal.
He had told Celine at the coffee shop to make it so strong that it didn’t need a cup.
His bloodshot eyes burned with every blink, and the stubble on his jaw looked like it had been applied with sandpaper.
Between thinking about Sydney’s face and Mr. Cummings’ trembling hands, he’d be surprised if he slept an hour.
“Damn, you look like hell warmed over,” his brother Deke said, leaning against the desk, his Stetson tipped low on his head.
“Feel like I’ve been dragged behind a horse,” Case muttered, slumping into his leather chair that creaked in protest.
“Didn’t you get any sleep?”
Case looked at him and shook his head, the movement sending a dull ache through his temples. “No.”
Deke sat in the chair across from the desk, the morning sun through the blinds casting prison-bar shadows across his concerned face. “Why not? You got a woman on your mind?”
“Is that the only reason I wouldn’t sleep?” Case’s coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim as he set it down.
Deke grinned, crow’s feet deepening around his eyes. “Maybe. I know I lost a lot of sleep over Ava.”
Case sat back in his chair, the springs protesting, and told Deke about Mr. Cummings’ weathered face crumpling when Case took his horses.
“I feel bad about it, Deke. He just lost his wife.”
“You had no way of knowing that, Case. You did your job.” Deke leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Doesn’t feel like it.” Case stared at the coffee, black as oil.
“Look, you’ve been an agent almost twenty years. You know how it is.” Deke’s voice was gentle but firm. “We can’t know what everyone is going through. I agree, it’s heartbreaking, but you had no way of knowing he didn’t mistreat those horses before.”
“Not at first, but I knew when I got to the barn and saw how the horses were around him.” Case’s fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the desk.
“It was too late then. You can’t change your mind until you do all the investigating you can. You know this.” Deke’s shadow stretched long across the desk, reaching toward his brother.
“He has no record.” Case pressed his palms against the edge of his desk, rubbing the smooth wood where years of paperwork had worn it dull. “I ran his name through every database last night. He’s clean, no arrests, no disputes, nothing.”
Deke propped one boot on a chair, the worn leather creaking. The hum of the copy machine ran in the background. “So, now what?”
Case exhaled slowly. “I’m going to talk to him in person, see if he wants those horses back. He told me he didn’t, but I’d wager a year’s salary he does. One of them has got to belong to his wife. Both must be pushing twenty years old. I bet they’ve been in his barn since they were foals.”
Deke shook his head, sliding his foot off the chair. “Man, you can’t let this eat you alive. Maybe a fac e‐ t o‐ face will settle your nerves. How’s the stolen Paint case going?”
Case’s fingers drummed a staccato on the desktop. “Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. The kid lawyered up. I have nothing to go on if no one talks.”
Deke folded his arms. “Handle that first.”
“I know. I’ll get back to it in a few minutes.”
Deke grabbed his jacket from the coat rack. “Alright. I have to head out to Hartland. Talk later.”
Case nodded absently and powered up his computer, fingers already searching auctio n‐ house records. Somewhere out there, someone knew where that Paint was.
By noon, his stomach was growling. He grabbed his gloves and stepped outside. The wind off the courthouse steps was crisp, snow falling in fat flakes. Across the street, he saw Sydney walk out of her bookstore.
He jogged down the concrete steps and crossed the street, the clack of his boots echoing behind him. “Sydney,” he called, voice trailing on the chilly air. She paused by the door, her red hair covered by a green beanie with a ball on top.
He slowed to a stop. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, the corners of her mouth twitching in a hal f‐ smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey.” She folded her arms, the hem of her jacket brushing her hips. He could see she still felt bruised.
He pressed his lips together, fighting a grin, he always found a stubborn temper in women strangely attractive. “I’m sorry.”
She blew out a breath that hovered in white swirls. “Are you? I didn’t mean it the way you took it, Caysen.”