Page 80 of Mistletoe All the Way

If I can get concrete evidence Stephen’s trying to pawn off the horses, then Noah can go to his grandfather and warn him that Stephen’s the wrong man to run the farm.

My heart rate is spiking, but I stride like a badass rich woman who buys equines. I stride past the saddles and bridles, and the gently used harnesses, straight to the bulletin board. I give a quick scan for any new sale notices. An Appaloosa, an American paint, and a few more, but none of the horses belong to Silver Bells. That’s okay. Stephen probably didn’t hang a flyer. Too early. More likely, Stephen’s trying to engineer a deal with a middle person. I march straight to the pretty blonde behind the counter. Freckles dance across her pale skin. Her hair is pulled back in a braid, and she wears riding boots. She’s definitely the same woman I glimpsed Stephen talking to when we followed him.

“Hello. I’m Cassandra Cartwright,” I say, then immediately want to kick myself. Who introduces themselves by their full name in a store?

Oh, right. A fancy rich lady.

“Hi. How can I help you?” the woman asks, friendly-ish in that customer-service way.

“I’m interested in buying horses.”

She arches a brow. “Okay.”

“Do you sell them?”

“No, we sell saddles.” She gestures to the racks behind me, in an In case you didn’t notice way.

“Right. But I thought you might know where I could—”

The look she deals me reeks of skepticism. “We have a bulletin board. You were literally just looking at it.”

And I really hope my deodorant holds up tonight because I’m sweating buckets. I flip the ends of my hair, then laugh lightly. “Yes, of course. And the Appaloosa looks so cute,” I say, then glance around, lowering my voice. “But I’m more keen on potential horses coming on the market. I like to stay ahead of things.”

As if that makes any sense in the horse market, but here’s hoping.

She tilts her head, perhaps assessing me. I hope she’s not recognizing me as the woman who spied in her window yesterday. After a few seconds where I fear my deodorant is going to throw me under the bus, she says, “What kind of horses?”

Oh, that’s good. She’s going fishing. “Older horses,” I say. “Nearing retirement. Maybe about seventeen hands.”

“That’s specific.” She sounds suspicious.

Think fast. I square my shoulders and go full rich lady. “I’m a woman who knows what she wants.”

“Okaaaay. Any particular breed?”

You can do this. You can keep up the ruse. “A strong horse. Maybe a workhorse. A draft horse,” I say, since I am on a roll now as I rattle off Honey’s vital stats. I don’t want to make it too obvious though, so I don’t say Belgian draft horse.

She nods, her brow furrowed, like she’s recording all these details. “And you want it for your own use?”

It’s asked pointedly. “I do,” I reply, and I’m not entirely sure what else to say. But I take a shot in the dark. “I’d like to rescue an older horse.”

She’s silent for a long beat that makes me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. “Okay, then,” she says and I must have passed her assessment, since she adds, “we had someone coming in yesterday asking about selling some retired horses.”

Jackpot!

“How serendipitous,” I say, trying my best to tamp down my excitement. But inside I’m jumping for joy. “Do you happen to have that person’s name?”

“I don’t,” she says, shaking her head. “But if he comes back, I’ll get more info.”

I’m a balloon popped. But maybe Stephen will return, so I take the offer. “Lovely. I’d love to be in touch with him.”

She snaps her fingers. “Chad. His name was Chad. I’ll try to get his info if he returns.”

Chad? No! His name should be Stephen. I’m a limp, saggy, totally useless balloon now, but I can’t let on so I paste on a PR smile. “I’d be so grateful.”

“Want to leave a card, and I can keep you in mind if I hear from Chad again?”

I don’t have a card. As if I’m sharing a delicious secret, I smile, and say, “Just take my number, darling. You can text me anytime when you hear from Chad. And I’d be willing to pay top dollar to rescue a horse,” I say, rattling off my number, when a new possibility hits me—Stephen might be using a fake name. Yes, Chad seems like exactly the name he’d choose.