Ring of Fear

6

When I woke up, I was lying on my stomach, my head at the edge of the bed, so the first thing I saw were the dappled splotches of sunlight on the wide-planked floor. Along my left side was the comfortable warmth of a… husband. Rafe. I wanted to turn and look at him, catch him unawares, and satisfy a nagging uncertainty within me. And I also wanted to remain so comfortably content.

Unfortunately, I’ve got this habit, and once awake, I can’t stay still. My back muscles were crying to be stretched. At my first tentative move, I felt Rafe stir.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” I turned, penitent, to find him watching me, the slightest smile on his lips, and a dark, odd warmth in his eyes.

He slid one arm under my body, as if to pull me to him; in fact, I could feel myself leaning compliantly. Instead he stroked my face with his fingertips (lovingly, I told myself), as the smile deepened. “I’ve been awake awhile.”

Neither of us had a watch on, but I could tell from the slant of the sunlight that it must be early hours.

“And, no, Nialla, you haven’t kept me abed with your sloth,” he went on teasingly, still stroking my face. Then his fingers trailed down my neck, tracing the outline of my shoulder before transferring, ever so delicately, to my breast. As he did finally pull me against him, my head on his chest, he sighed. “I was enjoying the sight of you, curled up in my bed like a trusting Eurydice.” And his chuckle echoed rustily in his rib cage under my ears. (I had the fleeting notion that Rafe, for all his self-assurance, didn’t quite trust me: surprising under the circumstances. I wondered how I compared to his other wives in bed. If they couldn’t cook and didn’t like his way of living, why had he married them?)

I felt his lips on my forehead.

“A daunting sight, I assure you,” he added in an in consequential tone.

I was desperate to stretch, but I could scarcely offend him by breaking his affectionate embrace.

“Do you wake up fast or slow, Nialla?”

“I’m one of those awful ones, up with the sun, and usually to bed with it.” I’d better be candid and get us both off the hook.

“Thank God.” And he released me, swinging himself off the other side of the bed, to stand and stretch until every muscle in his back was fully extended and his joints began to pop. I’d the incredible urge to run my hands freely over his body, for the touch of his skin on mine, to test the firmness of that musculature.

“Shower or bath? Milady has first choice.” And he made a courtly bow toward the bathroom, destroying the image by a boyish smirk. “I’ll use the John down the hall.”‘

The speed with which I untangled myself from the sheet made him burst out laughing, head back, fists rammed against his narrow waist.

“You’re no slugabed, I see, not with your background,” and he was definitely pleased. But as he snagged a seersucker bathrobe from a hook of the dressing-room door, again I was reminded of Bess Tomlinson’s flippant remark. Had he really married me for the horses? And because I was a horsewoman?

Well, if that were the case, I thought as I closed the stall-shower door, there would be many compensations, and I could make the most of them, while I could. For if he’d divorced two women already for cause unknown, I might not last long either. After all, he could marry someone better than a horse trainer’s daughter. I turned the water on full force; the shower head, for once, was the right height for me, fringe benefit number one. I soaped myself thoroughly, aware that my breasts were sore-fringe benefits numbers two, three, four, five, ad infinitum.

Rafe had included a pair of Levis in his purchases for me, and a thin cotton sleeveless shirt. The day promised to be fair, and probably hot. The new Levis were stiff, but the slight flair in the leg kept pressure off my healing burns.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Rafe was just fastening the belt of his Levis-they must have been tailored for him, they fit so well-and his torso showed to advantage in the cotton knit pullover. He was a fast dresser, for he’d also shaved in the time it had taken me just to shower, dress, and stare at my reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror.

He grinned at me and took my hand, tucking it under his arm as we went downstairs.

“Levis aren’t too tight on those leg burns, are they?” I shook my head, because somehow he was too much for me. He was my husband, yes. He’d married despite my objections, my past, the knowledge that I was in trouble; he’d made passionate love to me, given me jewelry and clothes, shown me favor and approval in many small ways: if he had married me for my two horses-and he did have money enough to buy any beast he fancied without necessarily marrying its owner-then I should be glad I’d a dowry to bestow on him.

If Rafe noticed my withdrawal, my watery eyes, he paid no attention, cheerfully outlining his plans for our morning.

“I’d like to show you the place and my string after breakfast. I’ll put in a call for MacNeil, the vet, to check Orfeo over. Then we can get to the shops and see what the local places might have for you to wear.” He pushed open the door between dining-room ell and the kitchen, “Hi, Garry,” he greeted the woman in a neat non-uniform cotton dress and apron who was standing by the table, coffee pot poised over the cup of the single place setting, “This is my wife, Nialla Donnelly Clery. Nialla, this is Mrs. Barbara Garrison.”

“Mr. Rafe!” Her eyes went wide, but there was nothing but surprise and pleasure in her broad smile. Or was she used to Rafe introducing new wives? “And no One telling me you got yourself married while you were away! You could have left me a note for the morning, you bad boy,” she said in a good-natured scold. “Then I could at least have set two places and made Mrs. Clery feel to home here in her own house!” She was quickly remedying this negligence as she spoke.

Rafe, however, handed me into the place originally set for him, giving Mrs. Garrison an affectionate kiss on the cheek as she arranged silver for him.

“Oh, get on with you, Mr. Rafe. What will Mrs. Clery think?”

“That I’m smart to keep on good terms with the best cook in Nassau County.”

“Oh, Mr. Rafe!” She poured coffee for both of us, smiling warmly at me as she filled mine. “Just wait till I see that Jerry. I’ll tell him a thing or two, not tipping me off. Do you favor a big breakfast like Mr. Rafe, ma’am?” And her scrutiny was a little close.

“Yes, she does,” Rafe answered for me. “She likes a big breakfast, and she needs feeding up. Look at her, Garry. No better than a rail. We’ve got to get her back in form. She’s a rider, Garry, and she’s going to ride with me.” I’d never heard that particular ring in his voice, and evidently, neither had Garry, for she looked at him with surprise. “You remember when I was jockeying…”

Her expression turned to one of disapproval, although I sensed it was not the occupation she disapproved.

“I used to ride for Agnes du Maurier, and Russ Donnelly was her trainer. Well, Nialla’s his daughter. I’ve been waiting for her to grow up.”

His hand tightened on mine, and I wondered why he felt obliged to perpetuate that fiction with Mrs. Garrison, who so obviously adored him.

“Well, I never! Though I expect it’s a good thing around here that you do ride, Mrs. Clery. Never hear anything else except horses, horses, horses. Would you prefer grapefruit instead of orange juice, Mrs. Clery? Someone”-and her tone underscored the pronoun in which that meant she knew the culprit-”ate all the strawberries last night.”

“We did,” I said, like a penitent child. Then we grinned at each other. “Grapefruit will be just fine.”

“Two eggs? Ham or bacon? Toast or muffins?”

She was sectioning the grapefruit as she queried me, and in a remarkably short time, I thought, had prepared and served beautifully cooked platters of eggs and bacon, with a pile of buttered toast.

“Where’s your cup, Garry?” Rafe demanded as she started to leave. “Well, I…”

“Nonsense, sit down. Got to catch up on my gossip.” And Rafe leaned over, pulling out the chair opposite me and giving her no alternative.

Still reluctant, for she nodded apologetically at me, she picked up an outsize mug from the sideboard.

“Garry always has her ninetieth cup of coffee with me,” Rafe explained. I could only nod to indicate I had no wish to change the custom.

She settled herself then; she wasn’t a heavy woman, but old enough to be deliberate in her movements. She gave me a second apologetic glance as she filled her cup.

“Well, now,” she said, clearing her throat as she spooned sugar into her cup and stirred vigorously, shedding the last of her scruples, “there’s been some to-dos in the big house with Madam back way ahead of when she told staff. Does she know you’re here, or do I…”

“She knows I’m here.” I’d hate to have that flat tone directed at me.

“Does she have this place wired for sound?” Mrs. Garrison asked. “Well, there’s been quite a bit of partying -I’ve been helping Mrs. Palchi, of course-but no publicity!” She pursed her lips and nodded her head to indicate the novelty of that. “You know how she likes to have her picture in the paper, Mrs. Wendy Madison entertaining the chairman of the board of this and the so and so of that, and how many of the jet set came. First I thought maybe she’s ashamed of this new man of hers, but no, he’s society. And horses, too, come to think of it. Then I understood he wasn’t feeling well, but all those parties? Mrs. Palchi says he hails from the West Coast. Maybe you know him? Fella by the name of Marchmount.” Her recital broke off as she saw the sudden stillness of Rafe’s face.

“Is he at the house now?”

“Well, no, come to think of it, he isn’t. Though they all went off together this past weekend to see the Marshalls upstate. Took the Hammonds with them, Mrs. Palchi said.”

“Is he expected back?”

“I can’t rightly say, but do you want I should find out?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t like him none either, do you, Mr. Rafe?”

“You don’t miss much, do you, Garry?”

“Not much,” she assured him cheerfully, and I wondered if she’d noticed my reaction to the mention of Marchmount. “He’s no gentleman, either, for all his pleases and thank-yous. You’d think a man his age would know how to behave in someone’s house. Pinched that nice Marrone girl on the you-know-where, and she didn’t know what to do about him. So Mrs. Palchi’s been keeping her in the kitchen and lets Sam do the upstairs work. By the way, Albert did not want to let him into the stables, but Madam was along, and Albert didn’t dare refuse with her staring at him that way.”

“How long was Marchmount here?”

“Now, let’s see. You’ve been gone since two weeks Tuesday, and Madam came back unexpected from the Laurentians then with him and that friend of his in tow. And then not near as much entertaining as you’d expect.”

“And no photographers? Maybe her last face job is weakening,” Rafe said, and his laugh was nasty.

Mrs. Garrison shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Mr. Rafe.”

“What don’t you know, Garry?”

“Can’t say. A feeling I have. A trouble feeling. My right hand has been so itchy, I’d swear I’d touched poison ivy.”

Rafe laughed tolerantly and turned to me.

“Garry’s often troubled by ‘feelings.’“ And he patted my hand encouragingly.

“ ‘Feelings’ are what you trust when logic isn’t worth a hoot,” I said glumly, because I could feel “trouble” too. Just knowing Marchmount had been here depressed me. Because Galvano was usually his shadow.

Mrs. Garrison gave me a sharp approving nod and rose to clear away our empty dishes. “More coffee?” And she filled our cups without waiting for an answer. “If you could spare me a few minutes this morning, Mrs. Clery, I’d appreciate going over household matters.” I looked at her, startled. “I…”

Rafe leaned toward me, grinning. “All you have to do is listen, nod your head, and agree completely. Garry will do what she’s always done anyhow.”

“Now, Mr. Rafe, I’ll do no such thing. I just want to know what Mrs. Clery prefers.”

“Like no broccoli or French dressing, and starch in your shirts, and untucked bed sheets.”

I nodded dumbly, feeling horribly inadequate, until I remembered Agnes du Maurier and snatches of conversations overheard.

“First let me go along with your routine, Mrs. Garrison, before I make any suggestions.”

“Well, I don’t know as what a few sensible ones wouldn’t be welcome, Mrs. Clery,” the housekeeper said, glaring at Rafe before she rose. “I’ll just see to the beds while you finish your coffee.”

“Madam entertaining Marchmount on the quiet, huh?” Rafe murmured as the door swung after her. His tone was pure distilled hatred. “What a pair!” I couldn’t look at him, not when he sounded that way.

“Dear heart!” His fingers lightly but firmly turned my face so I had to look at him, but he was himself again. “Forget Marchmount. He was here before we came. He’s probably still with the Hammonds in Sunbury. He couldn’t possibly know I was going to marry you and bring you home with me. He needn’t know you’re here now, even if he should reappear. Although that seems unlikely, if she’s back alone.” He sounded very positive about that.

The realization that Marchmount had been here-where I’d thought I’d be safe, where Rafe had told me I’d be safe-was unnerving.

“Nialla, knock it off.” And his voice was sharp. “We’ve got other things to worry about. Worth worrying about, like Orfeo.” He pushed back his chair, tipped it until he could lift the one-piece phone from its wall hook. “Damn thing fascinates me.” And he screwed his face up a la mad scientist as he punched buttons deftly. “Hello, Glen? Haven’t you paid your answering service this month? Yes. Yes, I did. Got a gelding I want you to check over.

Burned sole and frog. Yes, I’ve been soaking it, you bastard. Got it in a barn fire. No, not here, thank God. But I want him jumping in two weeks. Yeah, I know, but you’re the local miracle worker, and I believe in giving my trade in the neighborhood. Yes, like what else is new? Around ten? Fine. No, nothing sensational in the ring, but just wait till you see what I brought home.”

He hung up, beaming impishly at me. “Gives me a hard time, and always ends up doing what I want. You’ll see. C’mon, time’s a-wasting.”

He knocked his chair back, catching it expertly before it reached the point of overbalancing. I rose hastily and reached for the coffee cups.

“And that’s the biggest no-no, Nialla. No dishes for you.” And he led me to the side door. “Although you may wish you were back with just dishes when I’ve finished with you.” His voice was so dark and direful that I glanced back at him, and he was smirking like an old-time villain. “I’ve been trying to find a rider good enough to ride with me in a jump Pairs Class, and you might just qualify.”

He was so outrageous that I laughed.

“Wait’ll you see ‘em, Nialla.” And his teasing turned into enthusiasm. “A pair of matched grays, half-sisters, not a bit of difference in height and conformation, might as well be twins. Broke and trained ‘em myself, though Starrett in Lexington bred ‘em. But I haven’t been able to use ‘em in competition.” He put his arm around my waist and absently matched step with me. “You can do it. Knew it the moment I watched you riding Phi Bete at Sunbury.”

He went on, though I listened with half an ear, telling me about the nervy five-gaited bay mare who only needed a really sure rider to show her properly, about his plans for the bay colt. I was seeing much more that I ought to have realized before-the prosperity of the well-kept lawn, the gardens, a housekeeper, two men in the stable, all of which added up to money. And suddenly I realized why I had unconsciously compared his manner to Agnes du Maurier’s-it was the same self-confidence of several generations of wealth and position; the knowledge of family and background, of enough money to satisfy need and afford luxuries. It explained his English and his classical references; his handling of people and… What was he doing marrying a trainer’s daughter? Certainly not for her -horses, I could set my mind at ease on that score. We had reached the stables, and I saw Jerry grooming a long-legged bay mare who was cross-haltered and dancing nervously as he brushed her. She must be the five-gaited that Rafe meant. Beyond her, a rawboned youngster in very tight jeans and a tie-dyed jersey was carefully wiping Orfeo down under the close inspection of Dice. Someone else was forking manure out of a stall, and I saw Albert coming out of the tack room, a bridle on each shoulder and balancing two jumping saddles precariously.

I managed to answer Jerry’s cheerful greeting, his assurances that Phi Bete had already been attended, and he was making sure Denny did a good job on the gelding.

I acknowledged that, realizing Jerry meant that no one had told this Dennis of Orfeo’s reputation. He was whistling as he ran the cloth over the black’s pockmarked hide.

“He sure is big and black,” Denny said, glancing from me to Rafe for approval.

“MacNeil’ll be over to check this hoof,” Rafe said, lifting it. Orfeo glanced around with mild curiosity. “He’s taking notice today,” I said, chirping to him. “Over the worst of the affair then. Albert? Saddling the grays?”

“You told me to.” Albert’s reply was more an accusation than an affirmative, but evidently that was his way, for Rafe only grinned after the figure stumping to the far side of the stable quadrangle.

Then, instead of showing me the other horses, Rafe took me by the hand and led me through the low passageway to the pastures, out of sight and hearing of the stable yards.

“Now what’s the matter, Nialla?” he asked in a level, impersonal voice.

I stared at him, unable to answer, because it wasn’t one matter, it was a psychedelic composite of impressions and pressures, of a nebulous fear not even his presence and flip assurances could disperse.

“The house, the horses, Mrs. Garrison, Jerry and Albert and… and… all this. I’m… it’s too much for me. I don’t belong here.”

“That, dear heart, is for me to say!” Rafe put his hands on my waist to draw me to him. I tried to lean away, but his hands flattened on my buttocks, pressing our hips together. I could feel him against me. He didn’t fight fair. “I think you’ll find you do belong here, Nialla. There’s no question in my mind that your life is horses.” His eyes compelled me to give some sign, and I nodded. “And you’re certainly a horsewoman. The way you ride that black!” There was no escape from those searching blue eyes, from that strong will. (Was this how he trained his horses-sheer strength of will?) “You evidently want to make a go of it in the show business. So why not do it with me instead of eking out a peanut-butter-and-jelly existence on the fringe?” Still no leavening by the tolerant amusement that had forced me to concede folly before. “I admit I took an ungentlemanly advantage of your situation at Sunbury to forge a legal tie between us, but that, too, can be altered as circumstances warrant.”

Only because we were touching so intimately was I aware of the sudden tenseness of the warm body against me and the fleeting shadow in those steady blue eyes. It wasn’t regret; it was… I couldn’t put a tag on it, but again I caught a glimpse of a crack in this man’s apparently invulnerable self-assurance. I didn’t want him ever to be vulnerable. My hands tightened unconsciously on his arms, and with my response, his eyes began to lose their impersonality.

“It’s just that I didn’t realize you were so… rich,” I blurted out.

His eyebrows shot up, and his eyes began to gleam with an amusement that faded into a sardonic glance across the meadows.

“Rich? Well, I’ve money enough to run the place the way I like to, but the acres are, in effect, mortgaged, my dear, and the interest is high, very high.” He kept one arm around my waist and turned me toward those mortgaged fields. His expression was bleak and unsettling. I hated that look and felt guilty. I should have suppressed my dismay and coped. After all, I had been raised in such an environment; I knew pretty much what would be expected of the. wife of a horse breeder and trainer, and I could learn to- manage the graces required. Anything to keep that horrible emptiness out of his eyes, his face.

Suddenly a horse squealed, high and piercing. It snapped him out of the mood, and his head came around to the stables, his body taut with another kind of tension.

“That goddamned mare!” He looked to me, all trace of the Strangeness gone. “She needs to be worked. She needs a good rider on her back.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” I demanded. “She’s a rough one, Nialla. Are you up to a real tussle today?” He glanced at my legs, and I remembered the burns.

“I wasn’t burned where I grip a saddle-any kind of saddle.”

“God love the girl.” And he wrapped me in a hard embrace.

So I was atop Rocking Lady in a matter of moments, and she took my mind off anything else. That was all to the good, because fighting a fractious mare was something I could do. I made her sweat, and I made her obey me, my hands and my knees. I rode her right up to the bridle, and we were both sweating freely when I finally pulled her to a halt.

On Rafe’s face was the same delighted smile he’d had in the bleachers at Sunbury the first day I’d seen him. As I wiped the sweat from my face, I saw Albert watching from the shadow of the stables, and I knew from his stillness that I’d done better than he’d expected.

“Mrs. Clery, you sure can ride,” Jerry said, shaking his head respectfully as he took the weary mare’s bridle and led her away.

Rafe grinned at me. “Not bad for a first session. Not bad.”

“Not bad? I like that!” I rotated my shoulder blades to ease the strain across my back. “Why, she’s been allowed to get away with murder.”

Rafe chuckled, turning me slightly and kneading the muscles at the base of my neck. Did the man know people as well as he knew horses?

“You want the grays now?” Albert’s words were not exactly a question, and not really a statement. Rafe caught my eye. “Game?” “I’m not ready for the dishes yet.”

Albert came trotting up with the two mares.

Rafe had every right to be proud of them, for they were perfectly matched-probably right down to the position of each dapple on their sleek hides. They were dainty fillies, about 15.2 hands high, with good clean lines.

“Maisie and Sadie, born and bred here,” Rafe said. “That’s short for Masochist and Sadist, of course,” he added with a reprehensible grin. “You’ll find out why.” He nodded to the left-hand mare and took the right-hand reins from Albert.

“How can you tell them apart?”

“You’ll know, miz,” Albert said as he gave me a knee up, “soon’s he’s up.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Rafe had mounted his mare, and she began to back, head tossing, hooves striking sparks on the cobbles. Rafe had her in hand and spurred her abreast of Sadie, who regarded her sister’s display of temper with calm forbearance. Maisie resisted the maneuver with an ill-tempered fit of bucking, which Rafe sat out. Then, with a snort for her failure, Maisie agreed to move back to her sister, and Rafe led me toward the jumping ring.

Their opprobrious names made sense during that session, for time and again Masochist would attempt to get away with some maneuver to be hauled up, and patient Sadist would compensate. I got so I could anticipate Maisie’s lunges and attempts to balk, and at the last we managed to take four of the six fences simultaneously. I didn’t envy Rafe his jarring ride on Maisie at all, but sitting Sadie was a pure joy.

“Shall we switch?” I asked as we drew the horses to a walk.

“Switch?” Rafe was astonished. “No, we’ll quit. We’ve had a good session on the twins. No sense souring Sadie, and I’m worried about opening those burns.”

“Hey, boss, the doc’s here,” Jerry called from the ringside, gesturing to a tall figure standing in the shade cast by the stable.

“About time,” Rafe muttered, and signaled Jerry to open the ring gate.

As if she had despaired of her freedom, Maisie made a dash and was pulled up sharply by Rafe. She squealed in bad temper and reared, coming down in a series of stiff-legged bucks. I’d not’ve thought she had the energy left. Evidently that was her final effort, for her head hung down in weariness, and she made no more fuss as Rafe trotted her out of the ring and around to the stable yard, Sadie following sedately.. She was just beginning to sweat.

Glen MacNeil was the long, bony type, with the “angry” face with which some Scotsmen are endowed. Actually he rarely lost his temper, but his features were clustered in the middle of a narrow face with so little space that his deep-set eyes appeared to frown, his brow was perpetually wrinkled where his sharp nose jutted out from his forehead. There were deep lines from his nostrils to the corners of his wide mouth, and between that and the cleft of his strong chin, one did have an overall impression of “anger” except when, as now, his face was wreathed by a broad smile.

“Show me the beastie I’ve got to miracleize.” “Nialla, come meet the MacNeil,” said Rafe, gesturing me forward on the gray mare.

“Nialla, is it?” And Dr. MacNeil’s smile threatened to break his face apart as he shook my hand. “That’s not a common name.”

“Russ Donnelly’s daughter, Glen… and my wife.” There was such a ring in his voice that I wondered if he was used to the notion of having a wife again.

“Wife, is it now?” Glen MacNeil boomed out, his eyes almost popping at me from under his heavy brows. “Wife, is it?” He rolled his eyes sympathetically. “Well, now, I wish you luck with him. Or is it Rafe I must console when he’s wed to a girl who looks as if she can outride him?”

“Oh, Rafe’s some hampered by his effect on the female of the species,” I said very sweetly, and slid down the mare’s side. Then I had to crick my neck to look up at the Scot.

“My charm was effective with you, at any rate, m’girl.” And Rafe slipped a possessive arm around my waist as he shook hands with the veterinarian. “Heard about the barn fire- at Sunbury?”

Glen drew in his breath and then stared at us. “You had horses in that? I thought they got all the stock out?”

“Nialla’s dowry is two leapers, and one of them got a frog singed and enough hide gone to make him look like an Appaloosa. Give me your opinion.”

“Of what? The wife or the horse?”

He had the lower half of the stall door part open when he got a good look at Orfeo. He backed hastily out and closed the hatch. “Are you kidding, Rafe Clery? That’s…”

“That’s Orfeo’’ I said, more sharply than I meant to, and brushed past the vet into the stall.

“Orfeo, is it? Orfeo!”

“Orfeo!” Rafe’s eyes danced at the man’s confusion and hesitation.

Glen took a deep breath and cautiously entered. Orfeo slowly regarded the newcomer.

“Christ, what’s that now?” Glen demanded as Dice suddenly uncoiled himself from the shadows of the corner.

“The cat is Eurydice,” Rafe said, his face straight.

Dice wove his way through Orfeo’s legs and sniffed at the doctor, backing off as he smelled the antiseptics and aromatics clinging to the man’s Levis. However, he did not raise his hackles, although he voiced a mild complaint about the disturbance. Orfeo swung his head down, whiffling at Dice, who made one further cryptic comment before retiring to his corner, where he observed the proceedings quietly.

“Coon cat, huh? Well, it oughn’t to surprise me this black devil has an uncommon familiar.”

MacNeil had mastered his reluctance, and crooning softly to the gelding, hoisted the damaged hoof, tapping at it carefully and then angling it so he wasn’t standing in the shadow of the stall light.

“Another week might just heal it,” he remarked, checking the hoof itself, mumbling approval that someone had stripped off the shoe. He ran gentle fingers over the other evidences of the fire. “You’d’ve thought fire wouldn’t mark one of its own.”

“Orfeo was horribly mistreated,” I said, stung to speech.

“Never seen him look better or calmer, Mrs. Clery. How’d you tame him?” Glen glowered at me, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes that disclaimed his appearance.

Rafe cleared his throat as if he didn’t want the conversation to take that turn. “Soaks, Glen?”

“You bet. What was the Sunbury man giving him by way of tranquilizers and medication? And, by the way, put the quietus on any brush or refuse fires for a bit. We don’t need to stir up unpleasant memories in this boy, do we?”

The two men exchanged a glance of past experience which I knew neither would explain to me. I’d seen my father look that way at another man-a closed, men-only, questions-unsolicited look.

The vet gave Orfeo a thorough check, grunting occasionally as the horse submitted without resistance. He was shaking his head as he signaled us out of the stall.

“I know it’s the same horse, Mrs. Clery, but I’d swear it wasn’t.” Then he snorted, rather like a restive horse himself, as he eyed Rafe’s arm around my waist. “Seems your soothing influence extends to more than horses and cats!” His perpetual frown lifted in another of his beamish grins. “You brought him two horses?” he asked pointedly.

Rafe laughed and gestured toward Phi Bete’s stall. She, coquette that she is, put her head out and farruped at her visitors. She looked inordinately pleased with herself, her hide shining like dark amber, her eyes rolling as she tossed her head against MacNeil’s caress. “Fine mare. Fine girl! Going to breed her?”

“Not with that crowbait stallion of yours, Mac,” Rafe replied.

“I was talking to your wife, Clery. She’s got a mind of her own as well as an eye for horseflesh.”

“I bred her myself, but I want to jump her for a while.” I glanced at Rafe, not really sure what my plans were for Phi Bete.

“Don’t mind him, Mrs. Clery, he’s just miffed because I bought Galliard right out from under his nose at an auction. What’s her blood?”

“Professor D out of Smart Set.”

“Say, you know Marchmount’s been staying at the big house. You aren’t going back to jockeying to give him a hand, are you? Seems his colors haven’t been doing so well lately.”

“I’m out of racing.”

“Except steeple racing,” MacNeil said in a sour tone of disapproval. “Well, I’ll send over some more tranquilizers for the black.” And he left.

“You’d like to steeplechase Orfeo?”

“The notion has certainly entered my mind since I won your hand in marriage, ma’am.” And Rafe’s accent was pure Kaintuck. “That is, if you really need an ulterior motive or two.” His eyes dared me to challenge him.

“Boss?” Jerry leaned out of a nearby box stall. “You going to ride the bay?”

Rafe gave me a squeeze. “Your turn to watch me work… and marvel.”

He gave the bay gelding a bruising workout in the jump ring, the big animal fighting him at every jump approach, standing his jumps occasionally in an effort to-thwart Rafe. Jerry and the two boys drifted to the ringside and off again, watching the fray, Jerry occasionally using body English along with Rafe’s efforts to curb the bay’s tendency to run out of the jump. (The gelding had a particular dislike for the brush fences.) The young Dennis blew only two bubbles on his gum, and then forgot to chew as he watched, and the other boy never dragged on the cigarette he was smoking. For when Rafe said he was a horseman, he had every right to capitalize the H. He was. The bay jumper stood seventeen hands in the shoulder or I’d lost my ability to judge; the gelding was nearly as broad in the chest as Orfeo, and certainly as well sprung, but the bay was rebellious. If he’d been Rafe’s previous candidate for any steeple chasing, no wonder the man had hesitated. You couldn’t expect to win on a horse that fought every direction of hand or knee; you needed one that would swerve pile-ups, take off-center jumps without shenanigans about when or how. Though the bay obviously had bottom enough for the arduous jump racing. No, Orfeo was the horse for Rafe. With my blessing now I’d seen him handle the bay. In spite of the amount of frustration, Rafe had rarely used his spurs, relying more on the crack of his riding bat to dissuade the gelding’s notions. His hands on the bridle were firm, not rough, and despite the swearing phrases in which he addressed the horse, there was no hint of anger or impatience; sound but no fury.

Both horse and rider were wringing wet at the end of the session, but I felt better. Rafe had no sooner given the lathered bay to Jerry to walk than a gong sounded mellowly from the direction of the house.

“Good, I’m starved. Damned gelding pulls like a dredger,” he added, slapping the flank of the bay in a “well-done.” “We’ve time to shower. That was the warning gong. I hate to sit down sweaty if I’m not riding again, and we’re going shopping this afternoon.”

Actually we showered together, which was a unique experience for me, Rafe barking like a seal and making like a porpoise. I’d never thought showering could be sexy, too. Then he suddenly “turned off’ and began kneading the muscles along my shoulders. With a slap on my fanny, he pushed me toward my clothes and strode off to get dressed.

I wondered how he’d learned to departmentalize the various facets of his personality. It must be a gift. Would I ever learn every side of the man? Much less know the appropriate response to each of his moods. Please God I never hear him address me as he had his mother… his mother? It must be his stepmother. I naturally dressed in green, a sheath that unfortunately showed the splotchy burns, but I couldn’t stand anything over the ones that had opened during the morning.

Rafe came out of the dressing room, his heavy hair still shining wetly, but neatly combed and parted. He had on another of his elegant pairs of pants and an electric-blue Italian knit pullover which enhanced his tan as well as his eyes. He looked disgustingly vigorous considering his exertions.

He tucked my arm under his. It had come to my notice that Rafe always kept in touch with me. And he wasn’t being possessive, exactly. Hadn’t one of the therapy groups stressed the point that tactile communications were as important as verbal ones? I’d rather thought we’d established communication on several levels rather satisfactorily. The habit, however, was nice, a sort of “Hey, here I am!”

Succulent aromas dominated the hot-water/soap/clean-clothes odors in the room, and I felt downright starved. We were halfway down the stairs when the second gong rang.

Mrs. Garrison served us a tasty casserole of vegetables and sausages, hearty food for hard-working people, with a salad and a lemon meringue pie that stood six inches from the pan. Peanut butter and jelly, fare thee well! We talked of horses and MacNeil, of how to school Maisie, and we decided I’d ride her next, as horses” respond differently to each rider. I told Rafe I’d like him to exercise Phi Bete. I didn’t want to make her a one-rider horse.

We took off for the shopping tour in the Austin-Healey. The stores were grouped around the railway-station plaza in Locust Valley, which was not much of a town-actually a village, in the way western settlements never are. The architecture was consistent, just missing the cutesy, and the merchandise appropriately priced for the clientele-high. So were the antique stores and the specialty shops. Unused to being able to buy something that wasn’t absolutely essential, it took Rafe’s good-natured prodding, and sometimes high-handed manner, to get me to make up my mind. And then he’d add the gaudy sandals I’d hesitated over or the medallioned belt I’d fingered. The Austin-Healey’s back was jammed with packages by the time we’d finished. I had not only the underclothes I’d really needed, but five nightgowns and three wild muu-muus (for “schlepping around in”-Rafe had grinned lewdly), enough sandals and shoes for a different pair every day, four bathing suits (no caps, because Rafe didn’t care if my hair got into his pool’s filters). I didn’t remember seeing a pool, but I also didn’t cavil. Wonderful what unlimited funds will do to a gal’s notions of shopping. There were five shirtwaist dresses, Villager and Norwich-Rafe said they suited the country image of me.

“There’s a pretty good tailor nearby at Le Shack; he’ll do some things for you in good fabric,” Rafe said, “but that can wait a day or so.”

The very idea of having clothes tailor-made for me was utterly fascinating.

“Right now, I want to get over to the saddle maker in East Norwich and get you some proper boots, a couple of pair of breeks, and a jumping saddle.”

We were pulling out of the parking space when a deep blue Cadillac convertible came within an ace of removing the rear half of the Austin. I’d been half-turned in that direction, as one does in a passenger seat when one’s used to being the driver, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the Caddy’s wide front just as the brakes shrieked.

Before the Austin had stopped bucking, Rafe had jumped out and was striding angrily toward the Caddy, mouthing oaths.

“Only you would pull such a half-assed trick, Madam. If you’re high again, I swear I’ll take steps.”

Even before I had had a chance to twist around, I knew by the tone of his voice who the driver was.

I did not expect to see the bubble-haired blonde woman from the Charcoal Grill, and I certainly didn’t expect to see Louis Marchmount sitting beside her, swallowing nervously and pale beneath his cultivated tan.

Equally evident was the fact that the woman was Rafe’s mother, not his stepmother, for the facial resemblance was marked: the same set of the same blue eyes, the same straight nose and squared chin. But with the similarity of feature the resemblance ended. She looked young enough to be his sister. I’d’ve been happier if she were: a mother isn’t supposed to hate a son that way.

“Well, Ralph, is that the new wife I understand you married out of hand in Sunbury? You might at least have had the courtesy to forewarn me. Particularly with Bess Tomlinson as matron of honor. The Hammonds must be enjoying a good laugh at my expense.” Her voice carried clearly. She meant it to. “Present her to me.” She turned her head to Louis Marchmount and added, “I shall have to have a reception for the girl, and I only hope she’s at least presentable this time.”

There was no expression on Rafe’s face as he handed me out of the car.

“Madam, may I present my wife, Nialla?” She raked me with a searching stare, stripping me of any confidence, as she perceptibly sneered at the marks on my arms and legs. Then her eyes narrowed angrily. “Well?” she demanded, rattling her fingers on the steering wheel in a peremptory fashion. “Surely you see Lou and remember how to make formal introductions.” “My wife already knows Lou.”

“I do?” and to my utter astonishment, Louis Marchmount stared at me without a trace of recognition. He recovered himself and elevated his body a few inches from the car seat. Always the gentleman. “I apologize, m’dear. Can’t think where we could have met.”

“Nialla’s father was your trainer for five years, Lou. Russ Donnelly.”

Oh-why did Rafe have to say that? But for the steely grip of his hand around my elbow, I think I would have slid to the ground.

Louis Marchmount’s hand went to his forehead, his eyes blinked rapidly. He was plainly disconcerted with this information, and peered at me again, frowning, trying to correlate fact with memory.

“I’m terribly sorry, m’dear. Haven’t been well, you know. Awfully embarrassing. Really. Wendy?” There was a plaintive note in his voice.

“How could you, Ralph? I won’t have Lou upset. He’s not well.” She stepped on the gas, and the Cadillac took off like a drag-racer, one tire scraping against the high curbing of the exit, leaving a touch of burned rubber in the air.

“It’s to be hoped she’ll drive herself to death one day,” Rafe remarked as the car vanished.

I leaned against the Austin, taking a deep breath, trying to assimilate the impacts of that encounter. Wendy Madison hated her son: she loathed and despised him, and evidently took any and every opportunity to belittle and humiliate him. And Louis Marchmount did not remember a girl he’d raped less than a year ago. He couldn’t have been feigning it; he actually didn’t remember me.

“Well, will wonders never cease?”

I stared at Rafe, amazed at his reaction, at the laughter in his eyes. He laughed outright, for I guess I looked my astonishment.

“Marchmount didn’t recognize you, and she was remarkably polite. You know, I wonder if Garry isn’t right, and she’s after Lou. ‘I won’t have Lou upset.’ “ His mimicry was appallingly accurate. He had seated me back in the Austin, and as he closed the door, planted a kiss on my head. “Otherwise, I can assure you, Nialla, she would have tried to reduce the pair of us to sniveling, groveling impotence. Which is one of her favorite pastimes. But if she’s bemused by Marchmount…”

I caught his hand as he reached for the ignition switch.

“But don’t you see, Rafe, if Marchmount doesn’t recognize me, then who…?”

“Who what?” He’d been following his own line of thinking while I was off on the tangent most vital to me. “Hmmm. We need a drink, and home’s too far. Caminari’s is close by.”

Caminari’s turned out to be a large Tudorish restaurant, complete with ivy, on the corner of the main intersection (if you could call it that) of Locust Valley. But the maitre d’ was obviously well acquainted with Rafe Clery, and we were ushered to a small table by the wide windows that overlooked an attractively landscaped parking lot.

I certainly wasn’t the least bit interested in the damned parking lot, but the speed with which the daiquiris appeared at Rafe’s command was therapeutic. And he was in command again. For one brief moment there, with his mother, I had felt insecure in his presence. Silly, on reflection. He was wary of his mother, not cowed or awed. Though why he felt obligated to return courtesy for brickbats, I don’t know.

“I had hoped,” Rafe began after the waiter had retired, “that we could avoid an engagement with Madam, my mother, for a while.”

“She doesn’t look old enough to be your mother,” I blurted out, startled that that was the dominant impression.

Rafe gave a snort. “Madam can afford the best surgeons, m’dear.”

Face-lifting, of course. But her figure… “She can also afford a masseuse and anything else her heart desires, up to and including Louis Marchmount.” There was a world of disgust in Ms voice now, and his eyes, gazing past my left shoulder, reflected a cynicism I hated to see in him.

“I hate to see the way she affects you.”

Rafe looked at me in surprise. “She doesn’t affect me.”

“You’ve never heard your voice when you’re talking to her.”

He gave me a very level look, apparently digesting a novel thought. “I guess she does affect me… up to a certain point. I let her strictly alone, but she doesn’t always return the courtesy. She’s big on courtesy!”

He was off again, in some… some purgatory of her making. Then his eyes snapped back to mine, as if he’d arrived at a decision. He leaned toward me and began to speak in that cold emotionless tone he always used when discussing anything connected with his mother.

“Sordid biography, Chapter Two. Wendy Herrington has been, in order of their appearance, Mrs. Michael Clery, Countess Milanesi, Lady Branegg, Mrs. Horvath, and Mrs. Madison. Widowed honorably twice, Mexico three times. I have a full younger brother, Michael, half-brothers John Milanesi and Presby Branegg. Mick is a partner in a good corporation law firm. He and his wife-they’ve five kids-rarely come to the island. Pres has just finished Yale and is ‘looking for a job,’ and Giovanni has some position with the American branch of his father’s textile firm. Mother always married more money.

“Strangely enough, I think my mother really loved Michael Clery. If he’d lived, she’d be a much different person. But he didn’t. And she isn’t. I was rising six when he died, and I’ve only a few memories of him. Unfortunately.” The dead light in his eyes altered slightly. “I keep to the Dower House because I found you can’t combine her sort of ‘fun’”-his opprobrium was scathing-”with serious riding. I put up the Cyclone fence to limit social intercourse.” He looked at me again. “She’s mucked up my life too often, so that I limit the association to those occasions which are unavoidable in view of our unfortunate blood relationship. You need only accord her such civility as convention requires. And if she ever singles you out for her attentions, any attention, I want to know if I’m not present. Do I make our position clear in regard to Mrs. Wendy Madison?”

I nodded, because my tongue was very dry. Even the way he outlined his relations with his mother upset me.

“Good!” He raised his glass, and I hurriedly sipped mine to wet my throat. “Now,” he went on, “about Marchmount’s failure to recognize you. Had he seen much of you when your father worked for him?”

I thought that was an odd question. After all, the man.., “No, actually, he hadn’t seen that much of me. Dad usually went up to the house if he had anything to discuss with Mr. Marchmount. He rarely came to the stables the way Mrs. du Maurier had.”

“Hmmm. And with your hair that stupid shade”-he gave me a look of affectionate disgust-”he’d not be as likely to recognize you… particularly in his condition.”

Louis Marchmount hadn’t seemed drunk to me. He was the kind of man who was a very boisterous drunk: I used to hear his whinny of a laugh when he gave pool parties. No, he’d seemed… sort of dissociated.

Rafe drummed his fingers on the table, just the way his mother had tapped the steering wheel.

“But, Rafe, he…”

There was just a shade of amused condescension in Rafe’s grin.

“I think you have been refining too much upon that unfortunate incident, Nialla. I can’t remember the face of every girl I’ve slept with, and Lou Marchmount is way ahead of me. Only because he’s been around longer.”

Shock battled with outraged humor, and I ended up giggling.

“It’s not a trifling matter, Rafe.”

He pretended remorse. “For him, it was.” He grabbed my hands. “Honest, dear heart”-and his expression became serious-”I’m not being heartless: I’m realistic. I couldn’t care less that your virginity was gone when I married you. I only regret you lost it under such circumstances and that it affected you so adversely. But if you thought you were branded, Lou Marchmount’s lack of recognition ought to ease your mind.”

“It doesn’t, because now he knows who I am. And he’ll surely remember that he raped Russ Donnelly’s daughter because she needed money to clear her father’s name.”

“As I gather you were a scared virgin. I’d say with confidence he’s not likely to want to remember that attempt under any circumstances. Particularly if he’s courting my mother… Did you ever get the money? You never told me.”

“Oh, you’re impossible!”

“Well, did you take your ill-gotten gains?”

“No. I’d never touch it in a million years.”

Rafe frowned. “Then you never saw Caps Galvano again?”

“I left that night, bag, baggage, and mare.”

“Curiouser and curiouser. But you’re sure you saw Caps Galvano at Sunbury?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly when?”

“The first night you took me out. He was standing by the exhibitor’s entrance to the grounds. He didn’t look at me.”

“But you passed close enough to him so that there’s no doubt in your mind that you saw Caps Galvano?”

“Have you met him? Well, then, you know that no two people could stand like that. Sort of S-shaped. And he was wearing a cap.”

Rafe grinned sourly. “Not that same houndstooth monstrosity?”

“No, it was gray, but the same style. I’ve never seen him without a cap.”

“Are you sure that Galvano didn’t recognize you?”

“Positive. His eyes sort of slid across my face and immediately away like… he couldn’t care less. I should have been warned then.”

Rafe turned the daiquiri glass around and around. “That complicates things, doesn’t it? Actually, Galvano always had a memory for money owed him and horses. Did he ever see your mare?”

“He must have. He was always hanging around the stables when Dad wasn’t there. He knew every horse Marchmount owned, and Phi Bete was stabled with them.”

“He’s one helluva long way from the West Coast, and there isn’t a racetrack near Sunbury. Unless he’s still running Marchmount’s errands for him.” Rafe sighed. “And while I don’t put it past Galvano to slit the girth or honk the horn, why the fire? Unless it’s not Galvano behind it. I certainly don’t see him as a murderer. He’s a sneak, a pimp, a bet welcher, and a stoolie-but a murderer? For what motive? Your father never had anything to do with him?”

“Of course not.”

He patted my hand reassuringly. “Michaels may be right, then-that you know something you don’t think you know.”

“And Marchmount is the murderer?”

Rafe brushed that notion aside with an impatient gesture. “Their appearance at Sunbury may just be a coincidence. Marchmount hasn’t had enough grip on reality to murder a fly; lechery is his style. Sorry. Now, look, Nialla, take a swig of your drink and let’s do some objective reviewing. Forget it was your father who was killed. Pretend you’re describing a TV play, one of those fraught with symbolism and allegory, so that every bit of the scenery is relevant to the script.”

I wanted to say that I’d been over every detail of that day with the police; I’d relived its horror a hundred sleepless nights, but I had no more chance of refusing Rafe’s request than the bay had of refusing a fence with him riding.

“Dad had been down at Tijuana with the racers. I was at college…”

“Marchmount hadn’t been winning much, had he?”

“No, but I know he wasn’t dissatisfied with Dad. He knew his previous man hadn’t been all that good. I don’t mean to say that Dad was so fabulous…”

“Russ Donnelly knew his flat racers, Nialla, and better still, he knew who to put on ‘em to win.”

“Honestly, he hadn’t much winner material in Mr. Marchmount’s stables when we got there. But there were four very promising three-year-olds, and Mr. Marchmount certainly acted pleased. I mean, I know he was backing his own colors heavily.”

“Hmmm, Too heavily?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Rafe. You know, Dad never talked much about the betting end of racing. You weren’t thinking that maybe it was a quarrel between Mr. Marchmount and Dad? It couldn’t’ve been, because Mr. Marchmount didn’t come back from Tijuana until the next afternoon. He couldn’t get a flight out.”

“And Galvano?”

“I don’t know when he got back. I didn’t see him until that night… that night I fell for his con game.”

“We digress. Let’s go back to your father returning from Tijuana.”

“Well, he called me just after I got back from my eleven-o’clock class and told me to come home. He wanted to talk to me right away.”

“You said he was furious.”

“He was absolutely seething with anger.”

“And Russ had a very high boiling point. But when he did get mad… What did he say?”

“That he wanted to talk to me and to come right home.”

“Nothing more?”

I shook my head. “There didn’t seem to be any need for more. I thought I’d be seeing him… in an hour, tops.”

“Of course, dear heart. Take a drink and go on. You drove home. How long did it take you?”

“At that time of day, just under an hour.”

“Then?”

“I got to the house.”

“How’d your father get from Tijuana? Train? Plane? Car?”

“He had the stable station wagon. He usually took that with him.”

“He’d driven that home? Where was it?”

“Pardon?”

“Where was it when you got home? In the driveway?”

“No, it was down by the stable. That’s why I went there when I realized Dad wasn’t in the house.”

“Notice anything about it?”

“Should I have?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I gather the police never uncovered a motive?”

I shook my head. “Not for lack of trying, though.”

“And now three attempts to injure you suggest that someone thinks you know something you don’t know you know.”

“They’ve had over a year to kill me.”

“But you hightailed it out of San Fernando, my dear, dyed your hair, and changed your name. It would take time to find you… and recognize you. And”-he pointed a short stubby forefinger at me-”neither Louis nor Galvano did at Sunbury. Ergo, I don’t think they were after you. Now, you’ve discovered the station wagon. Describe it.”

I tried to picture that scene in my mind. It wasn’t easy, because I had so deliberately blotted out that whole period. Rafe let me think, not even touching me, though I was conscious of him, a bulwark against the terror and insecurity of those awful days.

“The station wagon was parked by his office. And the

tailgate was down.”

“Anything in the load bed?”

“Nothing except some loose hay. Dad always took his own hay to Tijuana, you know. He got sold some moldy timothy once.”

“Then why was he bringing hay back to San Fernando?”

“It was just loose stuff.”

“Go on.”

“I looked into his office.”

“Anything out of place?”

I shook my head. The office had looked undisturbed. I’d been sure of that, because the police had questioned me over and over about his files. Was something missing? Would I know? Where had Dad kept records of his bets? Did he have an off-track bookie? They simply hadn’t believed at first that Dad did not bet on horses. He didn’t believe in it. Superstition. Once in a great while he’d place a carefully considered fiver on a promising yearling if he’d no horses in the race. Or he’d tell me to if I liked, but according to Dad, you just didn’t bet on your own entries.

“The police questioned you about it, I gather?”

“Endlessly. They were sure that was the motive for Dad’s murder, and, Rafe, they said the most awful things.

They insisted he must be fingered by the Mafia. They tried insisting that Dad had doctored the Marchmount entry to win.”

“That would have made your father seethe.”

“If you think for one moment my father…”

“Christ, Nialla, I’m not even remotely suggesting he did. Remember, I rode for Donnelly. Don’t waste your bristle on me. But you said that your father was livid with rage. If someone suggested he’d fixed a horse, he would be, and rightly so. Now, did a Marchmount entry win at Tijuana about then?”

“Yes, the one three-year-old Dad had ready. But he hadn’t been doctored!”

“Don’t overreact, dear heart. Only a fool would try that stunt, particularly so close to the Dr. Fagin nonsense. But something must have prompted that line of inquiry? Anyone strange hanging around the stables?”

“Honest, Rafe, I don’t know. I lived at college during the week, and came home weekends only if Dad was there.”

He patted my hands and then signaled the hovering waiter for another round. Abruptly I remembered that we were, after all, in a public place, however deserted it might be at this unfashionable hour.

“Okay, now let’s abandon that tangent and go back. You looked into the office, and nothing was amiss. So then what did you do?”

“I went into the stables.”

“And,..?” I could no more escape Rafe’s insistent questioning than I could now escape total recall of that strangely distorted hour.

The stable had been cool and dark after the blazing California sun in the yard. The stable had smelled of sweat, grass, and horses. I’d called Dad. I’d called again, louder, when I didn’t get an immediate answer. I’d even gone to the pasture door, to see if he was out there. It was then I’d heard the scuffling above, in the hayloft.

“I couldn’t imagine what Dad was doing up there.”

“But there was hay in the wagon bed?”

“Oh, you mean, someone had sold him bad hay at home?”

Rafe shrugged.

“That wouldn’t have made him leave racers at Tijuana.”

“So?”

“Then I climbed the ladder to the. loft.”

“More than one way up?”

“Yes.” And I grimaced, because if I’d kept my wits about me instead of having hysterics when I discovered Dad was dead, I might have seen and identified his killer leaving by one of the other exits. “It’s a big loft. Three ladders up, and the main loft door.”

“Go on.”

This was the hard part. I swallowed. “The loft door was open: I remember that. And there was hay scattered all over. And Dad was spread across three bales, the pitchfork going up and down…”

Rafe’s grip hurt me, but I needed the pain. Just then the waiter set two more drinks in front of us. I drank almost half of mine.

“So,” Rafe said in a quiet voice, “whoever had killed your father had managed to wipe his fingerprints from the handle and leave by any one of three ways, eliminating the ladder you’d used.”

Rafe shook his head angrily, as if he was annoyed with himself. He frowned deeply again, his eyes dark with shifting thought.

“Now, a slit girth wouldn’t necessarily have resulted in a fatal accident,” he said at last. “A horn might have put your horse off, possibly resulting in your falling and injuring yourself.”

“And a barn burning around my head?” I instantly regretted my sarcasm.

“Meant to frighten you, Nialla, not kill you.”

“The difference is slight.”

“True, but vital. And blackmail is not outside Caps Galvano’s talents.”

“I don’t understand.”

Rafe’s expression was patient. “He extorted money from you the first time…”

“But, Rafe, I was down to peanut-butter sandwiches.”

“That’s true.” Then he glanced severely at me. “You mean Russ didn’t have any insurance?”

“Yes, but…” I felt so foolish I wanted to sink into the ground. “I never thought about it when I left. They’d told me something about probate.”

“Russ did have a will?”

“Yes. It was in the safe-deposit box, but that was all sealed and things because of the murder.”

“And you’ve never written to the lawyer or bank, claiming your inheritance?”

I flushed and mumbled that I hadn’t. I couldn’t bear Rafe grinning like that.

“We’ll get on to that first thing. I rather think you’d feel more comfortable if you did have some money of your own, Nialla, though God knows you’re welcome to all I have, dear heart.”

His fingers stroked my palms gently until I finally could look him in the face. Oh, God, how I loved him.

“And Caps knew there was money?” I asked instead.

“I wouldn’t put it past him. The theory makes more sense than a murderer seeking you out, particularly when none of those incidents could have proved fatal.”

“One did. Pete Sankey’s dead.”

“And if that is Caps Galvano’s work, we still don’t have to worry. It’s in the capable hands of Lieutenant Michaels now.” He drained his glass and motioned me to do likewise.

“It’s all so sordid, Rafe. So vile. Louis Marchmount and Caps Galvano are alive, and good, decent men like my father and Pete Sankey, who was only doing me a favor…”

“Easy, Nialla. Let’s go home now.”

“And you.” I resisted his attempt to pull me from the chair. “You’ve done me a favor, too, Rafe Clery. What’s going to be your reward?”

He raised his eyebrows in that sardonic way of his when he’s amused with the antics of someone.

“Dear heart, Rafe Clery does favors for no one. And I can take care of myself… and you!”

He set his jaw, and bowing, offered his hand to me again.

“Sure, Mr. Clery,” echoed, unsaid, in my ears.