Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

Genres: Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

Something strange is happening in Gordath Wood, the old woods surrounding a training stable called Hunter's Chase. The police think Lynn Romano and Kate Mossland have been murdered, but what actually occurred is much stranger. They've gone through a hole between worlds, into a medieval society at war. In a world that doesn't ordinarily have use for women, the danger is great - good thing Lynn and Kate aren't your ordinary women.

Release date: October 10, 2019

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 340

Sample

At the Hunter’s Chase van everyone gathered around Dungiven. The big gray horse fidgeted at the end of his reins, his black nostrils flaring and his tulip-shaped ears cocked with interest at the swirl of activity surrounding him. His saddle and bridle gleamed, and the dark blue yarn braided in his mane and tail set off the black and gray strands.

Lynn shrugged into her black jacket, all the while issuing commands.

“Gina, go find Mrs. Hunt at the owner’s pavilion. Kate, is that the course map? Let me see—” Kate held it out, and Lynn scanned it while she drew on her boots. Nothing Dungiven couldn’t handle, but she hadn’t had time to walk the course. Dungiven’s regular rider had just been carried out in the ambulance after a fall in another class. Nothing serious, a broken collarbone and a cracked rib, but it meant Hunter’s Chase would have to scratch its entry in the Classic.

Not if I can help it, Lynn thought. She felt an unearthly quiver of excitement in her belly. Someone handed her a hairnet and bobby pins, and she stuck her dark hair up haphazardly and crammed her helmet on top, buckling the chin strap. Kate pinned the stock under her chin.

Dungiven snorted as if to laugh at Lynn’s pretensions. Lynn was good, but she was Hunter’s Chase’s manager. She hadn’t ridden a professional show-jumping course in years. The butterflies multiplied. Stop that, she scolded herself. “Time?” she said, and Kate turned her wrist to see her watch.

“Five minutes,” Kate said. “Hold your chin up; I don’t want to stick you.” Lynn obeyed, Kate’s knuckles brushing her throat.

Gina came running up awkwardly in her long boots.

“She says to scratch,” she called out. “She doesn’t want you to ride him—” She faltered to a halt. Lynn felt color flood her cheeks.

Because she doesn’t think I’m good enough.

Kate’s fingers stilled. Everyone looked at Gina, then at Lynn. Lynn opened her mouth and found she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Oh,” she said finally. “Okay. Well. That’s probably for the best.” She stepped back and began undoing from the top down. She took off her hard hat and pulled off the hairnet and the bobby pins, letting her hair fall down to her shoulders. No one met her eyes; somehow that made it hurt worse, that they knew how keenly she felt the disappointment. “All right, strip him and get him ready for the van. He’s done for the day.”

Lynn went around to the cab of the big twelve-horse van and sat down on the running board to take off her boots. It was peaceful there. The late afternoon sun was warm against her face, and the loudspeaker was muted. She could feel muffled hoofbeats through the soles of her boots and let her heartbeat find its own cadence. The headache that had been threatening all afternoon throbbed with the same pulse. Lynn sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. She should have known Mrs. Hunt wouldn’t let her ride.

When she opened them again, she squinted against the sun that gleamed off row after row of vans and trailers in the rough pasture. The outskirts of Gordath Wood inched forward into the grassy space, sending forth saplings and underbrush, but this close to cleared land the woods were sparse, un-threatening. Here and there the foliage gleamed red, heralding an early fall, though it was still only September. Gordath Wood always turned earlier than the rest of the woods in Westchester County, though. One of the strange forest’s quirks, she thought.

As if to emphasize its eerie reputation, a swirl of movement deep in the wood caught her eye. For a moment the trees swayed amid their still brothers, and a handful of birds shot into the sky. Thunder rolled at the edge of her hearing, and she could have sworn that the van shook. The movement subsided, and Lynn shrugged, pulling at her boot.

Another noise interrupted her: Joe, the van driver. He leaned against the side of the van, arms folded across his T-shirt, his brown eyes quizzical.

“What?” she said in the face of his lengthening scrutiny.

“What did she say?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. Just to scratch.”

Joe kept looking at her.

“What!” she snapped.

He said, “It’s just—I ain’t seen you that happy about horse shows for a long time.” She laughed and shook her head, but the sound held very little humor.

“Yeah, well,” she said, and tugged at her long black boot. “Look where it got me.” He came over and knelt down in front of her, taking the boot by the heel and the ankle. He pulled it off with a smooth tug.

“Last I heard, it was still allowed,” he said. He handed her the boot and held her gaze.

She knew that if she let him be kind to her, she would start to cry. She made a disparaging noise. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” She tugged at her other boot.

He stood, and she pretended to be absorbed in her struggle with her boot, all the while aware of him waiting and then walking away. When he was gone, she stopped pulling. The boots were smudged from fingerprints. If she had been allowed to ride out, Kate would have taken a rag and wiped down her boots once she was in the saddle. She and Dungiven would have gleamed in the late-afternoon sun like bright black and silver coins. Lynn sat for a moment longer on the running board, seeing the course in her mind’s eye.

The parking lot was almost empty when the Hunter’s Chase van was fully loaded. The last horse in was Dungiven, wrapped in a white shipping blanket with blue piping, the HC logo fluttering on the bottom corner. Lynn nodded at Gina, and the girl clucked to him and led him up the ramp.

Just then it felt as if the ground slid out from beneath her feet. Lynn caught herself against the trailer. Dungiven threw up his head. “What was that?” she said.

With a rising rumble that came straight out of the woods, the ground rolled violently. Horses whinnied, and the trailers and trucks swayed and shuddered. Lynn fell hard on her butt. Dungiven scrambled backward off the unsteady ramp in a tangle of legs and blankets, lost his balance, and went down. Lynn’s involuntary cry was lost in the bone-shaking tremor. Finally, finally, the quake tapered off and died.

Lynn scrambled to her feet and fell to one knee beside the big horse, fear seizing her heart. Dungiven stayed down, breathing hard, snorting with every breath. Joe squatted next to her. “Is he okay?”

“Don’t know,” Lynn said, her voice taut. She pointed with her chin. “Get behind his haunches and push.”

At first Dungiven resisted, thrashing his head, and then finally he scrambled to his feet, his shipping gear askew. Lynn reached up and straightened his head bumper, looking him over. No scrapes, nothing but grass clinging to his shipping blanket.

“Whoa,” she said under her breath. She handed the lead rope to Kate, who looked shocked and pale. Everyone was doing the same thing they were: checking on horses, making sure the expensive animals were okay. “Here. Trot him out for me. Gina, check on the horses in the van; make sure no one is down.”

Kate trotted the big horse down a ways and back, his gait true and strong. Lynn’s heart slowed. He looked undamaged.

Gina jumped out of the back of the van. “They’re all okay, but a little tense,” she reported. “I handed out carrots.”

“Thanks,” Lynn said. She still felt shaky. An earthquake in Westchester County? She didn’t know that was even possible. “Okay, let’s try this again.”

She took the lead rope and began walking the horse up the ramp. Dungiven took a few steps and then in one move reversed direction and scrambled backward as if the earth were sliding under his feet again. Lynn was dragged along for several heart-stopping seconds before she found her footing again.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Joe catch him on the other side of the halter and help bring the horse to a stop. They stared at each other; he looked pale under his tan. Lynn’s pulse hammered in her head.

“Think it’s the earthquake?” Joe said. He nodded at the van. “After all, he was right there when it happened.”

“It must have been,” Lynn said. “Let’s give him a moment, then try again.”

They waited in the quiet evening. Lynn breathed soft and slow, letting Dungiven pick up on her calm. After a moment, she nodded to Joe. She clucked to the big horse. He planted his forefeet, and then, when she insisted with firm hands and body language, Dungiven rose into the air on his hind legs. When he landed, his thudding hooves just missed her boots.

This time Joe stayed prudently back. “You okay?” he called.

“Think so,” Lynn said with a tight little voice. She looked at the horse. “Your price tag just went down. You know that, don’t you?”

Dungiven snorted, cocking his ears over her shoulder. She turned and saw Mrs. Hunt. Lynn took a deep breath and waited for her employer.

Mrs. Hunt was no horsewoman, but when she came to watch her horses win, she played the part. Today she wore a black hacking jacket and boots, a lovely chignon holding her dark brown hair in place. A gold pin nestled in the folds of the snow-white stock at her throat, and her breeches fit like a second skin. Her outfit was immaculate; she hadn’t spent the day around sweaty horses, dusty rings, greasy hamburgers, and sticky lemonade.

“Is he all right?”

“Doesn’t seem to be harmed, but I think Dr. Cotter should check him out. Are you all right?” Lynn added.

“I rely on you to make sure the horses are safe and sound, Lynn. Please see to it nothing like this happens again.”

As if the earthquake was her fault. Lynn paused until she got herself under control.

Mrs. Hunt stood and waited, her lips pursed. Howard Fleming, owner of the Pennington Stables show grounds, came up behind them, putting his wide hands possessively on Mrs. Hunt’s shoulders. A heavyset man in a ginger houndstooth jacket, his reddened face and bulbous nose rose from his collar as if they had misplaced his neck.

“You can always leave him here, Kathy,” he joked. “I’ve been meaning to get my hands on that stud of yours for a year now. I’ll just throw him in with a couple of my mares.” He leered.

With no hint of annoyance on her face, Mrs. Hunt freed herself from his intrusive grip.

“That is quite kind of you, Howard,” she said. “I’m sure Lynn will be able to bring him home.”

Fleming frowned.

Lynn tried to look absorbed in straightening the horse’s shipping blanket.

“Let me get one of my grooms to take care of this,” he urged. He smiled at Lynn. “We’ll have him taken care of in no time, Liz. A stallion is no horse for a girl to handle.”

Lynn kept from rolling her eyes with pure effort.

“Thank you, again,” Mrs. Hunt said firmly. “I’m sure we will manage just fine.”

“The thing is,” Lynn said, turning to Mrs. Hunt and wishing Fleming were somewhere else, “we need to get the rest of the horses home. They’ve been waiting on the van, and I don’t like them being cooped up and stressed like that.” She took a deep breath. “I could ride him home.”

“What? That horse is worth a fortune! You can’t be seriously thinking to ride him!” exploded Fleming.

“Lynn, it’s light out here, but it’s way dark already in the woods,” said Gina. “I mean, are you sure?”

“It’ll take me forty-five minutes, tops. We could be here all night. We’ve got to get the rest of the horses home. I mean, unless you want to leave him with Mr. Fleming’s mares.”

She held her breath at her own audacity and faced Mrs. Hunt square on, half expecting to be fired in the woman’s next breath. And then she thought, No. She’s lucky I don’t walk out right now.

And on the heels of that thought, She knows it, too.

To her surprise, Mrs. Hunt didn’t seem to be annoyed at Lynn’s maneuver. Instead, she looked out toward the woods and patted a strand of hair back into place. She looked at Lynn and back at the woods.

“I don’t think, that is—I’m not sure …” Her voice trailed off. Lynn was boggled. Mrs. Hunt—flustered? She didn’t think she’d ever seen that.

“Oh come now, Kathy,” Howard said. “Just say the word, and I’ll have Geoff fix a box for him.” He smiled indulgently. “We can drive down to the Continental for dinner. My treat.”

Lynn felt a pang of sympathy for Mrs. Hunt. The woman looked trapped.

Ignoring Fleming’s invitation, Mrs. Hunt said, “At night? Are you sure it’s safe?”

“It’s less than an hour, practically door-to-door. I’ll bring a flashlight, and I won’t jump anything. I promise.”

Mrs. Hunt dutifully acknowledged the little joke with a polite smile, but still she hesitated. “Those stories …”

Lynn stared at her. The stories? The summer camp stories that said Gordath Wood was haunted? Was Mrs. Hunt serious? “Stories, yeah. The summer camp kids get a kick out of them …” She hastily improvised. “It’s really not that far. I ride these trails twice a week or more with clients. I really think we should be getting the horses home.”

“Yes, of course, the stories are nothing but stories. They’re nothing.”

Lynn waited while Mrs. Hunt tried to convince herself.

Finally Mrs. Hunt took a deep breath. “Very well. Ride him home. We will see you back at the barn. Howard, I believe I left my hat at the owner’s pavilion when it collapsed.”

As he escorted her off, remonstrating with her, Lynn let out a silent breath. She and Joe exchanged glances. What have I gotten myself into? She shook her head.

“Well,” she said. “Let’s tack him up.”

While they got busy taking off Dungiven’s shipping blanket and bandages, Lynn got the first aid kit from the van, fished out the aspirin bottle, and shook out two, thought a moment, then shook out one more. She swallowed them dry. They would have to do to stave off the migraine that had been threatening all day.

Lynn went around to the front of the van and slipped out of her hacking jacket, laying it across the passenger seat. The evening was growing chilly; she shrugged into her down vest and checked for her cell phone in the pocket. The reassuring display glowed at her.

Dungiven was ready. He turned to look at her with his ears pricked and gave a low whinny as she took the reins and flipped them over his head. Joe gave her a leg up, and she boosted lightly into the saddle, gathering her reins and settling her feet into the stirrups, trying to hold back the headache. Joe held her ankle for a moment.

“Listen—are you doing this because she didn’t let you ride him in the Classic?”

She leaned down to adjust her stirrups and to whisper in his ear. “All I want is to get these horses home. Are you okay with that?”

He stepped back. “Fine by me, you pull a crazy stunt like this.”

She immediately felt sorry. “Look—I’ll see you in an hour, tops. Okay?”

He accepted it grudgingly. “All right. Go.”

She took the helmet he handed her, strapped it on, and gathered the reins. Before she set off, he called out, “Hey.”

She stopped and turned in the saddle. “What?”

“You’re not going to have one of your damn horse show headaches tonight, are you?”

She felt herself smile, and he smiled in return. She stood in the stirrups and dug her apartment key out of the tiny front pocket in her breeches. She flipped it to him, and he caught it. “See you in an hour, Joe.”

Darkness dropped almost as soon as they entered the woods. “Shoot,” Lynn said under her breath. She had forgotten the flashlight. After the first quiver of uneasiness, though, the peace of the dark woods fell around her. Insects buzzed and twanged, and a breeze fanned her cheeks. The trail was a pale smudge in front of her, the footing solid and even. Dungiven’s walk was strong and quick. He knew he was going home. They’d be at the barn soon, and she’d call the emergency vet out right away to make sure there were no hidden strains or bruises from his fall.

Her headache faded a bit, and she smiled again, thinking of her implicit promise to Joe. They’d been seeing each other for a few months. He had started at the barn last spring doing the general handyman stuff, painting, fixing grain bins, mending kicked doors and downed fences. She found herself drawn to his quiet manner, his polite Texas drawl, his dark eyes and dark hair. All that summer she had tried to treat him with professional courtesy, and all the while she had half her mind on him when she was teaching lessons, supervising the farrier visits, or schooling the young horses.

Now he was a part of her life the way no other boyfriend had ever been. Lynn thought about the last guy, a bartender at the local riders’ hangout. That had been a mistake from the beginning and had ended quickly. Rumor had it Mark had gone back to Colorado. Thank God, she thought, shifting in the saddle. Joe was about as different from Mark as a person could be.

Dungiven flicked an ear, his head a ghostly vision in front of her. She patted his shoulder, letting the reins go slack, and eased her boots from the stirrups for a moment. She couldn’t wait to get home, get out of her tight breeches and boots, and take a shower. She let the peace of the night woods lull her, then picked up contact again.

With a crashing of the underbrush, a deer exploded out of the woods and leaped across the path, disappearing into the trees.

Dungiven bolted. He probably didn’t even see the three-rail fence; she knew she didn’t. He ran straight through it and brought it down in a splintered, crashing wreck. Lynn was launched off his back and landed hard on the forest floor.

She sat up, groaning. Dungiven stood nearby, his head hanging down to his knees. “Oh Christ,” she sobbed. She tried to get to her feet but sank back down; her knee flared with pain, and she was shaking. After a few moments her heart slowed, and she pushed herself to her feet. She hobbled over to the horse. For a moment she just hugged him, his neck damp with patches of sweat, whispering an apology. He was unresponsive. Painfully, she reached down and began to feel his legs. His left foreleg had a warm spot—probably a bruise, she thought. He flinched and yanked his leg away when she ran her fingers down the long bone under his knee. Right where he must have hit the jump, she thought, and looked behind her.

She had to look twice, but it did no good; the jump wasn’t there.

It was dark, yes, but it wasn’t that dark. She could still make out trees and brush. The path had been visible as a slightly paler trail along the ground. Now there was nothing. No path, no fence, no short ride home.

Lynn’s hands shook so hard she could barely hold on to her cell phone as she fumbled it out of her pocket. She punched in the number to the barn phone and pressed Send, imagining what she would say. Not the truth, she thought grimly. She would save that for later. The phone beeped and flashed No Service on the display. “Damn,” she muttered, and canceled the call, trying the main house. Even if the van weren’t quite home yet, Mrs. Hunt surely would be. Once again the phone beeped unhelpfully. Dungiven cocked his ears forward, his nose at her shoulder, his warm, oaty breath misting on her vest. Lynn canceled again and dialed 911.

Nothing. In the middle of a dark forest, she stared with a sinking heart at her useless phone.

The forest is full of gate magic tonight, thought Captain Crae. He looked out over the forest from the walls of Red Gold Bridge, his back to the torches that lined the stronghold’s stone stairs and walkway. The forest was a mass of darkness in the night. He could sense the restlessness that it hid at its heart. Red Gold Bridge may have been carved out of the mountain ridge that backed up against Gordath Wood, but it quivered beneath his boots.

Generations of strongholders had chipped away at the caverns that riddled the mountain, smoothing walls and carving out windows in the stone. Beams of oak and other hardwoods harvested from the forest shored up walls and ceilings. Outside the main stronghold stood a stout, high wall of carven stone, its mortar well-tended against time and war. The wall and the iron and wood gate that buckled it would never be neglected, for even if there were peace in Aeritan, there was still the Wood.

The guardhouse housed his men, and it was hot in the dim, small space. All twelve stood around the walls, leaning against the stone, their arms folded across their chests or one hand held near a sword hilt. They wore green coats, the muted red stone insignia naming them Tharp’s. Lord Tharp himself sat at one end of the long wooden table that took up most of the guardhouse. He sat back in his chair, his coat thrown over the back of it, his rich brown shirt open at the throat, and his sleeves rolled up. Despite the lateness of the hour and the waning of the year, sweat beaded his forehead and darkened his hair. Crae knew he sweated the same, as did all his men. Some days the Wood breathed out hot air like a man with a fever.

At the other end of the table sat Bahard. The stranger man was sulky, annoyed.

“Look, I shouldn’t of shot him, I know that now,” Bahard said, his words heavily accented. “But you wanted the damn thing open, and he was trying to close it. He would have closed it, if I hadn’t done something.” His sulkiness increased. “I was just trying to get his attention.”

Tharp looked at him over laced fingers. “Did he say anything to you before you shot him?”

Bahard threw up his hands. “He was pissed as hell, yeah. I don’t know—I couldn’t begin to tell you what he said. He was mad, though.”

Tharp sat back as if he were holding half-monthly grievances, his mouth a thin line. Crae knew he must be seething. There had always been an uneasy truce between the citizens of Red Gold Bridge and the guardian who kept the gordath quiet. The arrival of Bahard already upset that balance; shooting the guardian—Arrim—could only make it worse.

“Are you sure you didn’t kill him?” Tharp said brusquely.

Bahard lifted his hands. “I told you. I just winged him. He took off into the woods.”

“We followed the blood trail as far as we could,” Crae put in. “The guardian crossed at the stream west of the old morrim, and we lost the trail in the water.” Even wounded, the guardian had shown cunning woodcraft. Crae hoped that’s all it was. He hoped that the Wood hadn’t turned full against them by concealing the guardian. Then again, the Wood’s capricious nature had been sorely tested these past months. The constant earth shakings had made that clear, and earlier that day, the violent shaking of the earth when Bahard shot Arrim had been enough to put cracks in the stronghold’s walls. This night the air fairly hummed with the energy from the gordath.

As if to emphasize its malice, a soft rumbling came out of the heart of the forest, and dust sifted down around Crae’s head. It toys with us.

Tharp pinched the bridge of his nose. “South and west,” he muttered. Crae knew what he was thinking. Arrim’s course would take him to the Council’s army, the one that amassed outside Red Gold Bridge in a show of strength against Lord Tharp. If Arrim reached the Council, told them how Tharp was getting his weapons—Crae had nothing against Arrim, even thought him a good man, but he could do nothing to save him from his treason.

Then again, a guardian gave his allegiance to the Wood and the portal he guarded, not the lords.

Tharp shook his head. “Halfway measures. If you had to be such a fool, Bahard, would that you were one who went all the way to foolhardy without restraint.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bahard retorted, holding his ground. His mottled green jacket and trousers made him look bulkier than he was. “Look, all I want is to be paid for the guns, just like we agreed. You wanted this thing open, and this guy was trying to close it. I took care of that. You want me to kill someone for you, that’s separate, and anyway, I’m not sure I’m gonna do it.” He scowled. “I have to sleep at night, too.”

Tharp ignored him. He turned back to Crae. “What do you think?”

“If he’s still in the Wood,” Crae said carefully, “we’ll find him. I’ve set up scouts around the gordath itself, in case he means to come back and try again.”

Tharp nodded. “All right. Take your men back on the hunt.” He threw another disgusted look at Bahard, but he addressed Crae. “We still need him, Captain, so I expect him returned alive. For now, all goes on as it has been. The gordath remains open. My lord Bahard, take your wagon and meet the weapons merchant at the cottage as planned.”

“Yeah, don’t want to keep Garson waiting. You have the first payment, right?”

Tharp eyed him without comment. The stranger man did not look cowed; Crae had to give him that much credit. Tharp stood. “The wagon has been loaded with goods that should please your merchant. Captain Crae, make haste.”

They bowed except for Bahard. Tharp ducked out the small guardhouse door, followed by the stranger man. Crae gestured to his men, and they filed out as well.

A breeze came from the river, refreshing him and for a moment cooling the night. Crae paused to savor it. Summer always lingered near Gordath Wood, but the promise of fall and winter hung on the winds from the river. In his home country of Wessen, autumn had already come. Or so the wind said when it blew in from the water.

In the dim torchlight the stranger man disappeared down the stairs cut inside the wall. Crae watched him go. He hadn’t looked like much for a bringer of war, Crae thought, but he had carried trouble with him the day he arrived at Red Gold Bridge under heavy guard. He also brought his weapons and the promise of more. It had not taken Tharp long to see their potential. Crae had served Tharp long enough to know how the man chafed under the reins of the Aeritan Council. Red Gold Bridge, by its position on the long banks of the Aeritan, could control trade along the river, and with it most of the country, if the balance of power tilted enough. With Bahard’s strange weapons providing leverage, Lord Tharp stood ready to push.

The wounded guardian had a different view, one that saw not the opportunity for Red Gold Bridge to become a true power in the region, but the danger of arousing the gordath. He might have paid for his dissent with his life, unless Crae could find him, and time was running out.

Crae cast one last look over the wall at the night-dark woods and hurried down the stairs after his men.

It was full dark by the time Joe pulled into the parking lot at Hunter’s Chase. He maneuvered the big van next to the indoor ring and cut the engine and the lights. Night fell around them. He could hear the small grunts and whinnies of the horses, eager to get out of the cramped compartments and into their comfortable loose boxes. From inside the barn another horse neighed a greeting.

Beside him in the cab, Gina stretched. She had been riding shotgun, Lynn’s usual spot.

“What a day,” she said. “I’ll be glad when Lynn gets back and this is over.” She opened the door and hopped out. He heard her talking to Kate, who had ridden in the back, watching over the expensive horses to make sure they didn’t get tangled in their lead ropes or throw a fit out of fear or boredom.

Joe got out a little slower, throwing a look across the fields for a bobbing flashlight coming through the woods. Instead, the trees hulked thick and indistinct, a greater darkness in the night. He had never grown used to the woods. Nothing like them in Texas, and sometimes he felt like they were watching him. He’d be at work in the fields or even behind the main barn, and have to look over his shoulder constantly. God’s earth, my ass, he thought, dropping the ramp with a muffled scrape. That’s what people round here said the name for the woods came from. Maybe, like everything else, God was different in Texas, too.

While the girls unloaded the first horse, he pushed back the big bay doors to the ring and turned on the small lights that illuminated the walkway around the arena as well as the floodlights that beamed down on the parking lot. The thick, warm smell of horses, hay, oats, and manure wafted over him. Joe had seen Lynn breathe it in deep like it was the best smell in the world. All he could smell was shit, but he could allow the peacefulness of it, of drowsy animals, warm and well-fed. One of the barn cats twined around his leg, and he nudged it aside with his boot. It meowed indignantly, and he snorted. Speaking of wellfed—“Go catch a rat, you,” he said.

A car rolled up on the gravel drive. He could hear voices, and Kate answering. Alarm tightened in his belly, and he headed back out, squinting against the outdoor floodlights.

“But Mom,” Kate said. “I can’t go yet. Lynn’s not back. It’s just Gina and me.”

Mrs. Mossland nodded over at Joe coming out of the barn. “What about Joe? It’s just that it’s nine o’clock, Kate. We need to be going.”

Kate’s father frowned. “She’ll be here soon, Kate. I don’t understand why she didn’t drive back with the van. Doesn’t she usually?”

Kate hesitated. “She rode Dungiven back. He didn’t want to load, and she thought it would be quicker to just ride him.”

Kate’s parents exchanged quick glances. Joe hastened forward. They were nice enough folks, but they were clients, even if Kate worked off part of the bill for her little horse, Mojo.

“If Kate needs to go, that’s fine,” he said. “Gina and I got it covered.” Out of the co