Chapter 14
Fourteen
Who could imagine the outback sky would display such a splendour of watercolour purples and dusty oranges blending into one another, as the last breath of night gave way to dawn. The air was cool and crisp, a fleeting mercy before the sun claimed the day.
In this moment, it was pure perfection.
Amara breathed it all in, stretching out the stiffness from sleep. She loved her mornings now—that quiet time with her horse, and now the prospect of riding before she went to work.
Should she swing by and pick up Finn, in case he’d left his car at the pub again?
Not his babysitter, Montrose. The thought a whisper, as if Porter was standing over her shoulder and saying it himself.
She pushed it aside and focused on the moment—hat in hand, boots on, jodhpurs snug and ready. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped off the verandah to greet the day.
The place still didn’t feel entirely hers, but this—the routine and the promise of time alone with her horse—felt like something familiar. Homely even.
The scent of earth and dry grass rose beneath her boots as she crossed the yard. There was no sign of Porter’s vehicle—who must still be on night shift. Even better. She wasn’t sticking around for his smart-arse comments on her new list of house rules stuck to the fridge, either.
Grinning, with a skip in her step, her boots crunched softly over the dirt as she approached the stables with anticipation curling in her chest.
‘Tempest? Are you ready for a ride before breakfast?’
She slowed down to listen for the horse.
He should have shifted in the yard, or something.
But the silence stretched on for far too long.
Her steps quickened…
Suddenly skidding to a halt as her heart rose to form a heavy lump in her throat.
The yard was empty.
The gate open.
And the boundary fence line… Cut!
She raced over while trying to think of what Cowboy Craig would do with his exceptional tracking skills. She found hoofprints in the dirt—but they were leading away from the stables.
No, no, no.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. This wasn’t an accident or some mistake.
Her horse was gone.
Her legs felt locked in place as a cold, hollow weight pressed against her ribs, making it hard to breathe.
Her horse. Gone. Stolen. Again.
She’d sworn it would never happen again. She’d promised herself, after the last time, that she would never be this careless, this vulnerable. That she would not feel this gut-wrenching loss twice in a lifetime.
But she had—and it was all her fault.
She’d gotten attached.
She’d been so damn foolish when she should have been more vigilant. She should have checked the locks. Should have checked the yards before going to bed.
And she should have never bought that horse in the first place.
Her breath hitched with that raw, aching sting burning the back of her throat as the shame twisted deep to coil inside her stomach like scalding strings of barbed wire. She was supposed to be a police officer. A Stock Squad investigator. A woman who knew better. And yet here she was—failing. Again.
The distant rumble of an engine grabbed her attention.
It was Porter’s work vehicle rolling into the driveway, fresh off night shift. He parked near the back of the house that had no garden or even a lawn. A clear and open space with plenty of spotlights to shine over the house and the stables.
And yet, someone got in—while she was sleeping!
Climbing out of the vehicle, Porter scrubbed a hand over his face, stretching out the exhaustion. Then he spotted her and stopped cold. ‘What’s wrong, Montrose?’
Amara stood by the fence and could only stare at the empty yard, as she fought back the tears, the anger, and all the pathetic excuses for her failure. This was twice!
‘Montrose…’ His boots moved over the gravel, heavy with purpose. ‘Amara?’
She didn’t budge. It shouldn’t have happened. Not again.
He stood beside her, taking in the broken fence, the hoofprints. ‘Oh no…’
He knew.
She just didn’t have the heart to say the words as hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She hated those tears. Hated to cry. And she hated this feeling of loss, of having something stolen from her.
It was the cruel reminder she didn’t need, effectively emphasising why she didn’t get attached to people, animals, places, or even things.
Surprisingly, Porter didn’t ask if she was okay. He simply slid his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her gently. ‘We’ll find your horse.’
Yet, something already told her that Lot 728, the horse she’d called Tempest, was gone for good.