Smoketree - By Jennifer Roberson Page 0,47

doing at Preacher’s pen?”

“My first thought was he’d come to steal the horse. Or set him loose again away from the ranch, like before. But now you say he’s your manager…”

“He is.” I stared at him. “He was. My God, he’s not a thief!”

Harper looked unhappy. “All right, then, he’s no thief. Which means something else entirely.”

“What?” I demanded.

He rubbed a hand across his face. “It means Preacher was set loose—by someone—and this friend of yours came across the horse. Preacher didn’t have a halter on—I put it on him when I tied him inside the pen. It would have been difficult for someone to put him where they wanted.”

“I don’t understand.” I felt numb and confused, unable to comprehend the simplest thing.

“It means,” Harper said quietly, “it’s possible that in trying to put the horse back in the pen, he might have antagonized him somehow.”

I frowned at him. “Drew couldn’t have done that. He knew nothing about horses. Oh, I suppose he might have waved his hands at him or something, hoping he’d go back into the pen, but he wouldn’t have done much more. What are you trying to say?”

Harper sighed. “This isn’t easy. But if he came along after someone had tried to steal the horse, it’s possible Preacher was scared enough to react badly.”

He paused. “I found your friend inside the pen, Kelly. Preacher wasn’t.”

It sank in slowly, by degrees. “Oh my God—are you telling me the horse—”

“It has happened,” he said softly. “Not real often, but it does.”

The image swam up before my eyes. I recalled the indentation behind Drew’s ear. It was the proper size for an iron-shod hoof descending from above.

I took an unbalanced step back and felt the edge of a saddle press into my spine. The tack room was suddenly oppressive with the overwhelming smell of sweat and horsehair; my eyes were filling with tears. I leaned against the saddle on its bracket and put my face into my hands.

“Not Drew,” I said. “Not Drew too—”

I heard the thump of his boots against the wooden floor. Thump, thump, thump, beating in time with my heart. And then he touched my hands, encircling my wrists with his fingers, and he pulled my hands away from my face. In doing so he also pulled me against his chest, so that I could cry into his shoulder. Yet again.

He smelled of tobacco, aftershave, liniment and leather. And horses. The pervasive smell of horses.

I don’t know what he said. He just talked. It was nothing more than sound, a gentle, soothing sound. It took the sharp edges off the grief, an emery board filing away the pain, until it didn’t hurt quite so much. His moustache caught in my hair as he talked, and one hand smoothed the back of my head. Gentling me again.

“Listen to me,” he said softly. “I know you’re upset, but you have to listen. It’s about time we set the record straight.” I heard the serious note in his voice, and suddenly I recalled all my suspicions about him. How my horse had been shot at, and how I might have been killed.

His hands tightened on me as I started to move away. He held my wrists firmly, though he didn’t hurt me. “Listen,” he said again, “I’m not the one behind these accidents.”

“I don’t want to think about that right now. My God, Drew is lying out there dead—”

“I know that,” he said steadily. “But it’s time you heard me out—especially before the police get here.”

“What are you afraid of?” I demanded, standing stiffly with his hands on my wrists.

He smiled a little. “I’m not afraid of the police, if that’s what you mean. No. I just want you to believe me, for once, when I say I’m innocent. I thought it was you.”

“Are you serious?” I gaped at him. “You said that earlier; did you mean it? You thought—”

“Yes,” he said simply. “It’s been known to work before. I thought the developers had sent you in here to soften me up; to use your feminine wiles on me so I might be willing to sell. Looks like we were talking at cross-purposes most of the time—each time I told you flat out it wouldn’t work, that you might as well give it up, you thought I was talking about escaping your boyfriend’s death. Do you see? I’ve been rude because I thought you were trying to get under my skin.” He sighed. “It worked, too—which only made me