Chapter 18
Eighteen
‘brEE!’ The word rolled down the corridor like a megaphone’s cry.
‘Finally, we can get some answers,’ said Finn, getting to his feet.
Filled with curiosity, Amara followed. She had to see the woman who had once been married to Finn Wilde.
In the foyer stood a redhead with thick curls and shiny green eyes.
She was a lot prettier than Amara had pictured, with a generous bust and womanly curves highlighted in her summery cotton dress, and cowboy boots.
The redhead’s eyes quickly read the room as Tanisha let her past the security barrier.
‘I’ve never had that kind of reception in my life. Who cried, died, or is in need of some fairy-godmotherly rescuing? Cupcakes are the going rate, you know.’ Bree slid a large box onto the table, the aroma of hot food rising in the air.
Finn leaned his shoulder against the wall. ‘Please tell me you got something, babe?’
Bree’s expression flickered, but she still reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘Look here, lollipop, you can’t call me that anymore.’ Then she wrinkled her nose. ‘What the hell, Finn?’ She grabbed his chin, tilting his face to hers. ‘You reek worse than a brewery on a bad batching day.’
‘Leave off,’ Finn grumbled, yanking his head back. ‘You’re not my wife anymore.’
‘Want me to embroider that on a pillow for you? And then another one that says We’re not perfect, but we’re family!’ Bree’s glare softened before flicking towards Amara. ‘Oh, hello. Who are you?’
‘Constable Amara Montrose.’ She thrust out her hand like a robot at a business meeting.
‘Montrose? You’re the one Porter’s been—’ Bree cut herself off, clearing her throat, with her eyes all sparkly, and the smile somewhat devious. ‘Bree Riggs.’
Amara could feel the strength of Bree’s hand and the calluses on her fingers as they shook. ‘Not Wilde?’
‘Was. Now it’s Riggs.’
For just a second, Finn’s eyes flared as fast as it took him to wipe a rough hand over his mouth and nose.
Porter gave Bree a friendly peck on her cheek. ‘Good to see you, Bree.’
‘You do remember the way to the station, right?’
‘I’ve just been busy.’
‘Me too, ironing the walls and mopping the grass.’ She flashed a quick grin, her eye sparkly, firing off one-liners the way a person orders a meal through the drive thru.
‘But I bring sausage rolls and cupcakes. We can all eat while we talk. But you,’ she said, passing a large takeaway coffee cup to Finn, ‘can take that.’
‘There’s my favourite redhead.’ Craig pushed his way through the others to scoop up Bree into a quick hug. ‘How’s the baby doing?’
Finn tensed with his hand flexed at his side.
‘Well, now we know what’s triggered the binge drinking,’ Porter muttered to Amara, just under his breath.
But Amara didn’t get it. What was Finn worried about? He’d divorced Bree and she’d remarried.
Although, as she watched Bree get the royal welcome from everyone—a kiss on the cheek, a quick teasing greeting, some talk about the pregnancy, before she turned and scooped up the box of food—Amara noted there was no wedding ring on Bree’s finger.
‘Right, where’s the Batcave? I bring news.’
‘Batcave?’ Amara expected Finn to say something to protect the Stock Squad’s office.
‘Let me take that for you.’ Stone swooped in, beating Porter to the food. It wasn’t the first time those two had fought for the last sandwich, scone, or cake crumb with their station’s morning teas.
‘I’ll grab the napkins and plates.’ Amara opened the cupboards in the small kitchenette to grab supplies then followed the party back to their office—the Batcave. Great, she could see that nickname sticking.
Although, she had heard Bree call Stone—Pebbles? Hmm…
Inside, everyone crowded around the large round table that could easily fit a dozen people. Finn’s vast collection of paper maps was shoved aside and in its place were large cake boxes holding an assortment of mini meat pies, pasties, sausage rolls, and cupcakes.
Finn hovered, helping Bree into her seat like a queen. ‘Do you need a drink? Something else? A cushion? Cookies?’
Amara had never seen her boss so attentive, and so human like this.
Bree dragged her laptop out of her sack-like leather bag. ‘I’m good. I’ll need the toilet shortly. This pregnancy is already playing havoc with my bladder.’ Bree rubbed her hand over her belly, then shot Finn a warning glare. ‘But first, this. Lecture second.’
Finn groaned as he scrubbed his hands over his face, before plonking heavily into the chair beside Bree.
‘Can I show you guys what I have on that?’ Bree pointed to the wide screen that took up the wall.
‘Amara knows how.’ Stone—usually the first to taunt her—gave Amara an encouraging nod, and didn’t call her Duchess, either.
‘Um, yeah.’ Within moments, the wide screen flickered to life, and everyone gathered in tight as Bree zoomed in on the photo.
It was him. Her horse, Tempest. Her second chance splashed across the big screen, making her chest tighten and the air feel thinner. Her fingers curled around her pen as if to get a grip, literally.
‘It’s a cattle brand, right?’ After all, they’d been scouring the brand register all morning.
‘Not quite.’ Bree tapped the image and cleverly pulled up a side-by-side comparison of two brands—one fresh, one faded, all from Amara’s photo. ‘It’s a mashup. Someone burned a cattle brand over an existing brand. Sloppy, but effective at first glance.’
Finn grunted. ‘Smart. Whoever did this was banking on no one looking too closely.’
‘And we both know how I love a challenge.’ Bree clicked on a registration file, dragging the branded image to the centre of the screen to show a combination of the letters CDP. ‘The original brand is from Copper Downs Performance Horses.’
Amara’s posture stiffened. ‘Copper Downs.’
Bree arched a brow. ‘You know it?’
‘They breed specialised horses for international polo tournaments. Bloodlines that would never end up out here by accident.’ Amara grabbed her tablet, her fingers flying over the screen as she typed in the search.
The impatience had her tapping the side of her tablet, willing it to hurry with the results—even if her guts were already telling her the answer.
Hell’s bells.
‘You got a hit, didn’t you?’ Porter’s look was filled with concern as she struggled to answer him.
‘Well do share, Duchess.’
She didn’t expect Porter to scowl at Stone as he scoffed down a sausage roll.
Amara streamed her results to the big screen for everyone to see:
STOLEN HORSE REPORT:
Registered Name: Imperial Prince
Stable Name: Rogue-1
Stolen From: Copper Downs Performance Horses
Estimated Value: $220,000
Insured For: $250,000
‘Imperial Prince? Rogue-1?’ Stone crinkled his nose at the screen. ‘Either his breeder was a Star Wars nut, or they had a real problem with the Empire.’
‘I see it.’ Porter nodded beside him, both brushing the crumbs from their hands as they dove for more of the fast-disappearing food. ‘At least they didn’t name him Vader.’
‘But the force is strong with the young Jedi.’ Stone and Porter grinned like boys.
Great, they were both Star Wars nerds.
‘Can we get back to the bigger issue at hand, please?’ It was Marcus, leaning a beefy shoulder against the open door at the back of the room, sipping from his coffee mug. ‘How long has that horse been missing?’
Amara stared at the screen, her voice clipped. ‘Missing four months now.’
That was it, then. Confirmation.
Tempest wasn’t hers. He’d never been hers.
She kept her shoulders square, her gaze fixed on the interstate police report. This wasn’t personal anymore. It was a case—one she was now committed to seeing through, all the way. That horse, Lot 728, deserved to go home…
Just not with her.
From the edge of her vision, she caught Porter watching her—but she didn’t look his way.
Instead, she rolled her shoulders and lifted her chin. She wasn’t going to explain it to him, because this was her job. And Lot 728 was now simply stolen livestock.
Surprisingly, Porter let out a low whistle like a pressure cooker releasing steam, while rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Quarter of a million for a polo horse? That’s wild.’
Craig leaned in as he plucked up a small meat pie and drowned it in sauce. ‘Mate, the right bloodline of any livestock is worth more than a house deposit.’
‘As the master brand maker,’ Porter asked, ‘I’m sure you’d have a theory, Bree. How long ago do you think they rebranded that horse?’
‘Just under four months. The healing pattern’s too fresh. It takes a year for the hair to fully grow back, and then the original markings wouldn’t be as visible.’
Craig blew out a breath. ‘Damn, that means someone sat on a quarter of a million-dollar horse for months before moving him. Who does that?’
Finn, who’d spent most of his time slouched over his desk these past two weeks, fighting one hangover or another, straightened in his chair, with some of the old sharpness returning. ‘Good work, team. We now have some answers and a few leads to follow.’ His voice had more weight now. More Finn.
And that gave Amara hope.
‘Is this the part where I ask what everyone’s thinking?
’ Bree pointed to the big screen displaying the Queensland Police stolen horse report.
‘How does a pedigree polo horse, from a high-end breeding farm in Warwick, end up in a Northern Territory livestock auction, with a fake cattle brand burned over the top?’
‘None of it adds up,’ muttered Stone, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘You’re a livestock inspector, Craig, aren’t there processes that a beast goes through before it gets into the livestock auctions?’