Chapter 10
Madeline
Madeline looks through the wall of windows at what once was her beautiful backyard. A black hole sits in the middle of the
meadow with the gnarled remains of the old Dodge strewn throughout the tall grass and soot-covered wildflowers. It’s unbelievable,
she thinks, that just yesterday, Johanna was here, reassuring Madeline that all would be well.
She presses her fingers to her mouth, trying to hold in the sobs that racked her body all the way home from the hospital.
Then there was the shock of finding her sister standing in her living room. Madeline still can’t believe she slapped Lucy.
That was definitely out of character. If anyone was going to throw punches, it was Lucy. She still has a few scars from their
childhood tiffs.
The lawn is littered with traces of yesterday’s party, and there’s little left of the old barn. Crime-scene technicians and
law enforcement have descended across the property, and yellow crime tape is stretched tautly around the yard, a flimsy barrier
but somehow more intimidating than any electric or barbwire fence. There is a sudden flurry of activity at the foundation
of the burned-down barn. She watches as the ATF agent from yesterday and several others rush toward one of the investigators.
They’ve found something. The cause of the fire? Another body? Madeline shudders, fights the bile that rises in her throat.
A strange whap-whap sound fills the air, like a thousand bird wings beating.
Madeline presses her face to the glass trying to get a better look.
A helicopter hovers high above the meadow, the rotor blades a blurry swirl against the blue sky.
Emblazoned across the side of the helicopter is the logo for the news station out of Cheyenne.
The media is here. Another spasm of panic runs through Madeline.
Of course this would be big news—over-the-top gender reveal turns deadly.
The media will have a field day, and Madeline knows that one helicopter is probably only the beginning.
The Drake family is high-profile, and everyone likes to see the wealthy and privileged fall hard and spectacularly.
Madeline tries to push the thought aside. She thinks of the tense interaction Wes and Dalton had in the hospital last night,
and she needs to talk to her husband about it today. Madeline feels like she should reach out to Dalton—he must be in agony—but
Wes told her under no circumstances was she to call him. He also told her that she needed to rest, but she’s too keyed-up,
beyond exhausted. Instead, she passes quietly by the kitchen where Wes is still talking with the sheriff and into the mudroom
where she keeps a barn jacket and a pair of tall rubber muck boots. The morning air is cool but holds the promise of a warm,
pleasant day. Once outside, she registers her mistake. The news helicopter that has retreated to a far end of the property
is returning and would get the money shots they were looking for. Her pregnant belly and the stitches in her lower back make
it impossible to move quickly, but Madeline keeps her head down until she reaches the stables. Wes will be irritated with
her for going outside, will say that it will be her own fault if her face ends up plastered all over the news.
Once inside, Madeline is met with the familiar scent of sweet hay, dust, leather, sweat, and the wet-dog smell of Pip who, tail wagging, comes to her side.
Madeline pauses to rub her head and then moves directly to Blackjack’s stall, where he snicks and stomps at her arrival.
A twelve-year-old ebony Arabian with a white comma in the middle of his forehead, Blackjack is the horse that helped her win the gold in dressage at the Pan American Games before she gave up competition and married Wes.
“Hey, sweet boy,” Madeline says, running a hand along Blackjack’s muzzle and offering him a sugar cube.
“You know Dad would say you are spoiling him,” comes Lucy’s voice from behind.
Madeline’s spine stiffens, but she keeps her gaze firmly on Blackjack. “I can’t deal with you right now, Lucy,” Madeline says,
her voice shaking. “My best friend died, I could have lost the baby, and my yard is crawling with police. I thought we agreed
the last time we were together that it was best if we didn’t see each other for a while.” Blackjack’s muscles are tense beneath
her fingertips. He can sense when she’s stressed out, has always been able to read her.
“We need to talk,” Lucy says. “You know we do.”
Intent on ignoring her sister, Madeline makes her rounds in the stable, stopping at each stall, while Lucy lingers next to
Mathilda, one of the dozen horses that Lucy’s father left to Madeline when he died. He also left Madeline half his estate
and put the other half in a trust for Lucy. Lucy wasn’t known for her financial acumen and went ballistic when she learned
that her stepsister held the purse strings and controlled the money.
Madeline didn’t have to take the horses when she left after the funeral; she and Wes had plenty of their own.
If she’d had access to the money, Lucy would have continued to expertly care for them all as she had throughout their father’s illness, but if Madeline is being honest, at the time it felt good to take the herd from her sister.
Lucy’s father, who Madeline came to think of as her father too, was a practical man and must have understood that Lucy was in no position to care for them.
Taking the horses was almost the only thing that seemed to crack a piece of Lucy’s notoriously hard heart.
“This is just so like you,” Lucy says, moving next to her stepsister and leaning her elbows atop the stable gate. “You’ll
do anything to avoid a fight.”
“And you’ll do anything to provoke one!” Madeline cries. “You shouldn’t be here right now, and you know it.”
“Mathilda is looking a little on the thin side,” Lucy says, sidestepping Madeline’s comment. “Is she eating okay?”
“She’s fine,” Madeline insists. She’s about ready to tell Lucy to go home and say she can’t deal with all this right now and
maybe they can try again in a few months, when Trent opens the stable door.
“Just grabbing a rake,” Trent mutters and moves off to the far end of the stables. Lucy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
“And really?” Madeline says. “You really think I need your input on how to take care of horses?” She turns her back on her
sister and returns her attention to Mathilda.
The horses do seem fine, if a little antsy to get out of their stalls and into the paddock where they can stretch their legs,
but that won’t happen until the sheriff says it’s okay. Outside, the hum of the helicopter has disappeared, and Madeline thinks
she can make the trek back to the house without being filmed. Her back hurts, and she’s in desperate need of a shower or sponge
bath, something to get the stink of smoke from her skin.
“You know why I’m here, Madeline,” Lucy says crossing her arms and giving Madeline an infuriatingly serene smile.
“Lucy . . .” Madeline says, her voice a warning.
“Okay, okay,” Lucy says and laughs. “I’ll shut up. I wouldn’t want another one of your right hooks.”
“It was a slap, not a right hook, and I shouldn’t have done that,” Madeline says, giving Mathilda one final pat and moving to the next stall.
“No, no, it’s good,” Lucy says, shadowing Madeline. “At least there’s a little personality left in you.”
“My best friend is dead, Lucy.” Madeline is yelling now, and it unsettles the horses who begin stomping their feet. “I’m seven
months pregnant, and I had a piece of shrapnel removed from my back. So, yes, it’s fair to say I’ve had a rough twenty-four
hours.”
Lucy crosses her arms across her chest, her jaw set at a defiant angle. “I’m here because I’m trying to be a good sister.”
“Hey,” comes a voice. “Sorry to interrupt.” Madeline whirls around. It’s the ATF agent from the hospital. He’s looking at
them with concern. “Everything okay here?”
“Yes, we’re fine,” Madeline says. Pip gets up from her spot in the corner and comes over to sniff the new arrival. Today the
agent has swapped out his Vans for a pair of sturdy boots.
Lucy steps forward and holds out her hand. “Lucy Quaid,” she says. “Madeline’s sister, and for the record, I did not blow
up the barn.”
“Stepsister,” Madeline interrupts.
“My sister,” Lucy says, casting a pointed look at Madeline, “still blames me for cutting the hair off her Barbie doll—and
for the record I didn’t do that either.”
The corners of the agent’s mouth go up. Damn Lucy. She somehow always finds a way to slither into people’s good graces, and
today she’s putting on a good show. Typically, Lucy is the first one to point out how they are related or, to be more accurate,
how they aren’t.
“Jamie Saldano, ATF,” the agent says, taking Lucy’s hand and shaking it.
“Do you have any news?” Madeline asks. “Do you know what happened?”
“Not yet. We are still gathering information,” Agent Saldano says, turning his attention to Sonnet, the Dutch Warmblood that Lucy raised. “She’s a beauty. Can I touch her?”
“Of course,” Madeline says, distractedly. “It had to be an accident, right? Johanna smoked once in a while. When she was stressed.
Could she have dropped a cigarette and accidently started the fire?”
Agent Saldano runs a tentative hand over Sonnet’s stormy gray flank, and the horse jerks her head away. “Whoa,” he says, with
a nervous laugh. “I guess it’s obvious I’m not a horseman.” He’s not giving them anything. No information at all. But isn’t
that the way investigations go? They’ll probably be the last ones to know what really happened, and until then they will be
expected to answer all the questions and be patient. She tries to tamp down her frustration.
“She’s a little skittish,” Lucy says. “You need to rub her here, on her withers.” Lucy demonstrates by stroking Sonnet firmly
between her shoulder blades.