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“Introduce me around,” Devon said aloud. “Last time I was in here it was to find Chomper. I haven’t met any of your horses.”
“I’ll rectify that now. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to meet five of our best. They’re down in Wellington, competing. But we’ve got two dozen more, ranging from colt and filly to stallion and mare. I’ll introduce you to them, and we’ll do a second round of introductions this spring.” Blake pointed to a portrait hanging just inside the barn. Its subject was an imposing stallion the color of dark chocolate. He was class
ically beautiful, with a thick, glossy tail, long legs, and tiny white markings on each of his hind legs. He stood tall and correct, his carriage as regal as any monarch. “That’s Stolen Thunder. I’m sure James mentioned him.”
“Yes, he did. With glowing praise.” Devon studied the painting. “He’s breathtaking.”
“Stolen Thunder is one subject James and I agree on. He’s extraordinary—truly one of a kind. He’s a German warmblood from a champion lineage. He’s the last in his bloodline. My grandfather paid an obscene amount of money for him. But he was worth it. By the time Grandfather bought him at age five, he’d won a long list of four- and five-year-old championships on national and international levels. Now he’s eight and priming for the World Games and the Olympics.”
“Wow.” Devon was genuinely impressed.
“We’ve got two more stallions down in Wellington. Gentleman, who’s also at the advanced level, and Future, who’s at the intermediate level. He’s Gentleman’s son, and he’s shaping up to be another winner.”
“He’s the stallion your groom was riding in Wednesday’s competition, wasn’t he?”
“Yup. Luckily, he’s got a great temperament. Spooked or not, he was back to himself in no time.”
Devon’s brows knit. “You said he’s Gentleman’s son. What about Stolen Thunder’s legacy? Since he’s last in his bloodline, wouldn’t it make sense to inseminate one of your mares with his sperm?”
“It would, and we’ve tried. So far none of his sperm has resulted in conception.”
While Blake spoke, he and Devon scrutinized the stables, trying to assess whether Vista was inside. There was no sign of him. They strained their ears, but all they heard was the whinnying and stomping associated with horses.
Expanding their search, Blake led Devon from one stall to the next, introducing her to the Pierson warmbloods. They were exquisite animals, and Devon enjoyed the diversion of seeing them, stroking their necks and muzzles, and speaking softly to them—all the while checking to see if there was any telltale evidence of foul play.
“Do you know what you’re looking for?” Blake murmured.
“Not yet,” Devon replied softly. “But I will when I find it.”
The last stall on the left was the one where Devon had found Chomper two Sundays ago. At the time, it had been empty. Today, there was a beautiful chestnut mare inside, standing in the corner.
“Who’s this?” Devon asked, leaning forward to caress the mare’s neck.
“That’s Sunrise,” Blake said. “She was scheduled to compete at Wellington. My grandfather changed his mind and withdrew her. I’m not sure why.”
“Because she’s ill,” Devon supplied.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then no one’s filled you in.” Devon pushed open the stall gate and stepped inside. “Poor baby,” she said soothingly, continuing to stroke the mare’s neck. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right.” She turned toward Blake. “She’s definitely ill. She’s standing in the corner. Her head is hanging, and she’s lethargic. And look—her water’s low. She’s been drinking a lot. I’ll bet if I took her temperature, she’d have a fever.” Devon stooped down, studying Sunrise’s limbs. “She’s favoring her right front leg.”
“Why?” Blake demanded.
“Her hock is badly swollen. She’s had some injections.” A frown. “More than some. A lot. It had to have been in order to produce this much swelling. The entire region from stifle to hock is inflamed. The tendon area’s been injected repeatedly.” Devon rose. “I don’t like this. Why would she be undergoing this kind of veterinary treatment?”
Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Not a clue.”
“Well, Dr. Vista better have one.” Anger glinted in Devon’s eyes. “I’m going to speak with him.”
She blew by Blake and out the stable door. This time she didn’t try to muffle her approach. This time she wanted to be heard.
She tromped up to the trailer door and knocked.
“Just a minute.” There were shuffling sounds, followed by a couple of thuds—cabinet doors closing. Then footsteps. “Is that you, Mr. Pierson?” Vista called out.
Devon had opened her mouth to reply when Blake’s voice resounded from behind her. “Yes, it’s me.” He gave Devon a tight smile when she spun around to face him. “He didn’t specify which Mr. Pierson he was expecting,” he told her in a low, hard tone. Obviously, he was as angry as she was.
A lock turned, and Vista pushed open the door. His eyes widened when he saw Devon, and anxiety flashed across his face. He looked only slightly mollified when he realized Blake was with her.
