His Partner's Wife (34 page)

Stuart could easily have decided in a couple of months that
the horse was too much for her. Or pled poverty and admitted that he shouldn't
have spent so much. What could she have done?

The idea had been niggling at her for a day or two, with her
trying to dismiss it. How silly to think the horse she'd taken trail riding
just yesterday was a blue blood worth that kind of money!

If he was, she would lose him. Of course he would have to be
sold. Probably he should be, because his value was at stud. But the desolation
that gripped her even at thinking of kissing him on his soft muzzle and
watching as he was loaded into a trailer was enough to make her reject the
notion out of hand.

Foxfire couldn't possibly be more than he seemed.

The trouble was, she knew in her heart that he wasn't. He
was exactly what he seemed. She had always known that he was magnificent,
ridiculously beyond the kind of horse she'd even dared to dream of owning. He
had never quite belonged in Port Dare, Washington.

Now, after hanging up the phone from her conversation with
John, Natalie moved restlessly through the house checking locks and wondering
how on earth she would ever sleep.

She was torn between exhilaration and depression. He loved
her! But only long-distance, it seemed. Or was she being absurd?

Maybe
she
was the one who caused the strain when they were together. A
telephone friendship wasn't real. It could be as intimate as she chose, because
it didn't have consequences. In person, though, that was different.

But then there had been times when she felt wonderfully
comfortable with him. She remembered once when he had been rebuilding her
fence. Drinking lemonade, they sat on her tiny deck in the sun. He'd had his
back to the house wall, his jean-clad legs stretched out on the planking.
Sawdust clung to the denim and to the fine hairs on his powerful forearms.
Natalie even remembered what they'd said. Debbie's diagnosis had been followed
with shocking rapidity by her move into a nursing home. The kids had just moved
in with him, and he'd talked about his shock and guilt. Hours somehow passed.
The ice melted in their glasses and the late afternoon sun sank toward the
west, casting long shadows.

That wasn't the only time. There had been others. She wished
now that she had talked as much as she'd listened. Why had she left him with
the illusion that her marriage to Stuart had been perfect? That she felt the
grief a widow was supposed to feel?

Had she not wanted to admit her secret shame, the certainty
that
she
was to blame for the failure of the marriage, for Stuart's
disinterest? Or had she felt safe because John assumed she still loved her dead
husband? Did being a widow, with all it implied, give her an excuse not to
examine why her heart leaped when she heard John's voice on the phone or knew
he was coming over?

Even while she was staying at his house, she admitted,
they'd had good talks. That one night, for example, when she was in her
bathrobe, or even when she finally did confess what a mistake her marriage had
been.

She wished he'd told her in person that he loved her; but
then he would have had to wait another day, or two days, or three, depending on
how sick Evan was and whether another major case descended on his shoulders.
Given a couple of days, she would have been certain he was using her, that he
had only had sex with her because she was available.

And now she knew, even if she still wanted to see the truth
in his eyes.

Natalie hugged herself and did a quick two-step, her
stockinged feet thudding on the kitchen floor.

He loves me!

If only she were still staying at his house. She could have
offered to take a shift with Evan. They could have stolen a few kisses in the
hall. She could have seen him sleeping, his face younger.

She wanted to stay home tomorrow with Evan, not go to work
and wonder how John was coping. She wanted to be entwined in his life.

Would he ask her to marry him? Natalie hugged herself again.
Please, please, let him ask.
Could fate possibly be that kind to her?

Oh, it was going to be a long night.

Her wanderings had brought her to Stuart's study. Natalie
stood uneasily in the doorway. She'd come in here this past year because he'd
always paid bills here, and so she did. Obedient to the last, she thought
ruefully. The records and spare checks and whatnot were all in his ugly desk
and the metal filing cabinets. She'd put the manila envelope with Foxfire's
registration papers in the cabinet after she'd brought it home on impulse that
day from the bank.

She didn't know what looking at them would tell her. Foxfire
was only the short form of his name. His full registered name was on them. But
how did you research a horse's career?

Perhaps she could call the Arabian Horse Association. They
must keep records. Or at least somebody there could tell her how to find out
about a particular horse. Couldn't they?

Weighted by the quiet of the house, she went to the filing
cabinet and opened the drawer, grabbing the manila envelope. Hairs on her arms
stood up. The study was downright creepy. Last night she'd tried to feel
Stuart's ghost, but she'd been in the wrong place.

In here, in this room stamped with his personality, he'd
left more tangible traces. Or perhaps Stuart wasn't the one haunting the study.
A man had, after all, died violently here.

Natalie scuttled into her bedroom. She didn't lock the door.
After all, she still had to turn lights out, and it wasn't as though anyone
would break in. She just didn't like Stuart's study.

The phone rang as she was pulling the papers from the
envelope. Her heart leaped. John might be calling again if Evan had fallen
asleep.

"Natalie," Geoff Baxter said. "I hope this
isn't too late for you."

She was a little ashamed of her disappointment. Geoff had
been a good friend this past year, too.

"No, of course not. I heard about your big arrest
yesterday."

"Yeah, that was an ugly one." He paused.
"Hey, how are you?"

With her finger, she found Foxfire's registered name: Al
Nahr's Foxfire. His dam and sire were listed, as were
their
dams
and sires. The dam sounded Polish, and Natalie vaguely recalled that Egyptian
and Polish strains had their own distinctive characteristics.

"I'm good," she said in answer to Geoff. She
thumbed through the papers, found nothing—like the names of former owners—that
seemed helpful. Foxfire was registered in Stuart's name, she'd noticed the day
she took the papers from the bank, not hers. "I really appreciate
everything you did to try to find out who broke in here."

"We'll catch him yet," he assured her.

"John doesn't sound so sure."

"Ah, hell. He's a half-empty kind of guy. Me, I'm an
optimist. Some son of a bitch knows that money is sitting around somewhere.
He'll make another move."

Anxiety quivered in her. "But he must know you've
searched for it."

He grunted. "What scares me is that he isn't going to
believe
you
don't know where it is." When she didn't respond
immediately, Geoff said, "Oh, hell. I shouldn't have said that. I might be
wrong. I'd just feel better if we caught the bastard. Or, at the very least,
found the damn drugs or money and publicized the fact that we have." He
sighed. "You haven't come up with anything, I assume."

"Actually…" How crazy would it sound out loud?

"Actually?" he prompted her, an electric quality
of excitement changing the timbre of his voice.

"Well, I did have an idea." Okay, she'd sound
crazy, but Geoff would appreciate the fact that she was thinking about the
problem, at least.

Natalie explained.

"A four-legged animal can be worth that much
money?" He was incredulous. Before she could answer, he said, sounding
thoughtful, "Yeah, of course they can be. I know racehorses are. Is that
what you're thinking? He won something like the Triple Crown?"

"If he'd won the Triple Crown," she told him,
"Foxfire would be worth more like thirty million. Arabians don't
race—well, they do, but it's smaller time. Mainly, they're showed. I'm thinking
… well, even a top ten stallion in the National Championship should be worth quite
a bit. It's what people will pay in stud fees that makes them valuable."

He got right to the point. "How are you going to find
out what this horse is worth?"

Natalie picked up the manila envelope and peered inside.
"Well, I was thinking that tomorrow…" Her breath caught when she saw
that a sheet of manila, probably cut from another envelope, was taped inside.
She never would have seen it if she hadn't nearly stuck her nose inside the
envelope.

"What are you going to do tomorrow?" Geoff asked
with an edge of impatience.

"I … hold on." Natalie set down the phone on the
bed so she could use both hands. With her thumbnail she carefully peeled off
the tape. It took her a moment to remove enough to see a folded sheet of paper
tucked inside. She tugged it out and opened it.

"Natalie?" Geoff's voice was muffled and tiny.

The invoice dropped from her shaking hand. "Oh, my
God," she whispered.

"Natalie?"

Staring in dismay at the piece of paper that would take her
beloved horse from her, she picked up the phone. "Geoff?"

"You've found something."

"The receipt." Her voice squeaked. "He did,
Geoff. He paid over half a million for Foxfire."

"A horse."

"He
used
me," she said bitterly. "No wonder he smirked that
way."

"Smirked?"

She was raging now. "It would have served him right if I'd
had Foxfire gelded without consulting him! I wish I had! I wish…"

Alarm sharpened Geoff's voice. "You didn't, did
you?"

"No." Depression struck. "Oh, I wish I had.
Because then he wouldn't be worth that much, and I could keep him."

"Can he be sold for as much?"

"Oh, probably. I don't know. Maybe not. Stuart didn't
know anything about horses. Maybe he overpaid. But then…"

"He must have researched this before he bought. He must
have been planning it for a long time." Geoff sounded steamed.

"And I was pleased and flattered, and I've loved
Foxfire so much—"

He interrupted. "You know John and I are going to need
to take a look at those papers and the horse both."

"Yes," she agreed dully.

"Have you said anything to him?"

"No." She'd tried, but he wasn't listening.

"Okay. Here's what we'll do. I'll rouse John in the
morning, and we'll meet you at the stables. Better make it early. Eight-thirty.
No, damn it. We're supposed to have breakfast with the mayor. Lucky us. Can you
get there as early as seven-thirty?"

"I suppose so." John hadn't said anything about
the breakfast. Natalie supposed he'd forgotten, as worried as he was about
Evan.

"Bring everything with you."

"Yes," she agreed again. Maybe she should burn
this envelope. Why hadn't she kept her mouth shut?

Dumb question. Because, if she had, Stuart's missing drug
money would have hung over her head forever. At least now they knew. Whoever
had killed Ronald Floyd and searched Stuart's study would hear, and she'd be
safe.

It wasn't as though Foxfire would be killed, or even hurt.
He would be sold back into the world he'd come from, a fancy stable with his
own groom and a swimming pool for horses and white-boarded pastures full of
shining, dainty mares there just for him. He did like mares.

After saying good-night to Geoff, Natalie turned out the
lights, found Sasha and went to bed. For once the cat was willing to cuddle
when Natalie needed the company instead of the other way around. Sleep was
elusive, however. If her mood had been tumultuous earlier, now it was such a
complex jumble, she didn't know if she was happy or sad or angry or all three
at once.