“I’ll double the guards for now,” Jake said.
“We should have a preliminary report in a couple of days. If they find a genetic problem, dozens of owners will worry Galahad passed a defect to his offspring.”
“There’s no win-win here, is there?”
“Not a damn bit.” Elliott shook his head, close to choking with the impatience that had rattled him all morning. “If you learn anything, call me immediately.”
Elliott tossed his phone on the desk and stared out the window. The sun had faded early and holiday lights twinkled beneath the snow. Staying in Scotland seemed pointless now. He removed the spires and the label from his pocket. The crash had blunted the tips but there were no cracks or breaks. The silver label engraved with the
104
th
Run for the Roses
had a few scratches. A jeweler could buff them out. He put the pieces back in his pocket.
The clicking sound of a woman’s heels against the hallway’s marble floor filtered into the library. He turned from the window.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.” Meredith stood in the doorway, one foot in the room, one foot out, frozen in place by a pause button.
He waved. “Come in. I’ve monopolized this room all day.”
She dropped her coat and computer bag on the chair and held up a bottle of wine, her cheeks rosy from the cold. “Can I offer you a drink?’
“Only if it’s scotch, and I need a double right now.” He gave up his post behind the desk and joined her at the bar. “Here, let me open that.” He read the label. “A
Barolo
?”
“Have you changed your mind?”
He picked up the bottle opener. “Not today.”
Louise rushed back into the room, her eyes still holding on to the hurt he’d caused. Elliott’s gut formed a tight noose and dangled the rope in front of him. He deserved whatever punishment she meted out.
“Meredith, would you like to join Elliott, my partner and me for dinner? I made a reservation for four.”
“I appreciate the invitation, but I don’t want to intrude.”
Elliott handed her a glass of wine. “The girls haven’t seen each other in a week. They’ll ignore me.”
She sipped the
Barolo.
“Do you need rescuing?”
“You won’t let me down, will you?”
Her tongue darted across her lower lip. “Blueberries, plum pudding, milk chocolate. Are you sure you don’t want a taste?”
If he wasn’t injured he’d have her against the wall, tasting the damn blueberries. “So, what’s it to be? A rescue? Or are you abandoning me to my fate?”
She swirled the wine and studied the brick-hued liquid. “How could I refuse—” She gazed into his eyes. “–especially at Christmas?”
Louise clapped. “Wonderful. Our reservation is at seven.” She turned and hurried from the room.
“I think I’ll take my wine to my guestroom and relax for a while.” She pressed her thumb and middle finger against her temples. “After reading nineteenth-century handwriting for several hours, my head’s killing me.”
“Do you need something? Louise has a stash of over-the-counter medications.”
“No, but thanks.” She picked up her coat and slung her computer bag over her arm. “What time are we leaving for the restaurant?”
“They car will be here at six-thirty.”
She glanced at her watch, “Two hours.” Saluting him with her glass, she left the room.
Elliott watched her go before heading back to window. The snow fell harder now. If only he could turn the calendar back a year. How had so much happened in twelve months? Galahad’s death would change everything at the farm—again. It might ultimately cost him his job. All he could do now was wait for the necropsy report. He scrolled through the pictures on his cell phone until he found the one Doc had sent.
“Son of a bitch. If someone killed my horse, I swear, I’ll kill the asshole.”
About the Author
KATHERINE LOWRY LOGAN
was born the second of five children to a Presbyterian Pastor and a stay-at-home mom. She came of age in Louisville, Kentucky, during the tumultuous 1960s. Sit-in’s, bra burnings, the sexual revolution, pot, campus unrest, and the Vietnam War were brought vividly to life by Walter Cronkite on the CBS Evening News. While the rest of the world seemed to spin out of control, Katherine spun stories in her head.
College, marriage, and two daughters kept the muse simmering on the back burner. She worked as a real estate and tax paralegal in a law firm in central Kentucky, and was actively involved in the life of her community. It wasn’t until the nest was empty that she sat down to write full-time. Life, as it often does, brought tragedy and a screeching halt to her writing. Her husband, best friend, and lover died unexpectedly. Healing was a slow process, but two weddings and five grandchildren have a way of putting life into perspective. Following the birth of her second grandchild, she found her writer’s voice again.
Katherine lives in Lexington, Kentucky and is blessed with a wonderful and supportive family and circle of friends. They have encouraged her and celebrated each and every step of her journey.
“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you’ve imagined.”
—Henry David Thoreau
Contact information:
Website:
www.katherinellogan.com