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“What’re you doing here?” she asked him.
“Same as you. I was riding. Exercising Benson. I saw the light and checked with the housekeeper who lives in the guest house.” He pointed a gloved finger toward the back of the main house and she saw a spur off the lane where there was a widening in a copse of pines. “She said she must’ve left on a lamp when she cleaned yesterday. I double-checked.”
She swept her gaze over the snowy terrain. “But there are no tracks.”
“I’m careful, didn’t want to disturb anything or give myself away, just in case the housekeeper was wrong and someone was holed up in there. I wanted to catch him in the act.”
“And Benson is where?”
“A quarter of a mile up the ridge.” He hitched his chin toward the surrounding hills to the west.
She was calming down. “So what did you find?”
“Nothing. Everything clean as a whistle. Ellen must’ve just left the lamp in the den lit.”
It all made sense, she supposed. Santana didn’t seem worried at all. And it was his job to take care of the place, so she’d let her imagination run wild.
“Come on, let’s go home. My guess is your mom is going to be worried about you.”
“What else is new? It’s because of her job, you know. Because she’s a cop.”
“And because you’ve been in danger before.”
Their gazes locked and she remembered last summer when she’d been kidnapped. Santana was remembering as well.
“She freaks out.” But she climbed into the saddle and looked down at him.
“So do I.”
“Not so much.”
“Enough,” he admitted. “I worry enough.” He was thoughtful for a second, then looked up at her and pushed the rim of his Stetson back from his forehead to see her better in the darkness. “Race you back to the house?”
“You’ll lose,” she said. “My horse is right here. And I’m already on it. You said yours was up on the ridge.” She pointed to the spot he’d mentioned and felt the bite of January against the back of her neck as the wind kicked up.
“Five bucks says I’ll win anyway.”
Really? He seemed sincere. “No way.”
“Way.” His grin was a slash of white. “Unless you just admit defeat now.”
He knew she couldn’t resist a dare. “Okay,” she said, picking up the reins and whistling for Sturgis. “You’re on!” With that, she took off, leaning forward and sending Sinbad into a quick trot and then a lope. From the corner of her eye she spied Sturgis, no rabbit, thank God, but Nikita was matching him stride for stride as they all ran along the path toward the lake.
She knew she’d beat Santana back to the house, but it wasn’t until she was halfway home that she wondered if he’d made the bet to get rid of her, that something was going on at the Long house that he didn’t want her to know about. Was that even possible?
Sinbad broke from the trees, galloping along the shore of the lake again. The wind ripped at her stocking cap, so she grabbed it with one hand and let her hair stream behind her as she felt the horse’s strides lengthen, saw his neck stretch with each stride. The air was cold on her face and drawn into her lungs, but she felt better, freer than she had in weeks, and when their own house came into view, she was a little disappointed that the ride was over. She brought the gelding down to a trot, then walked him, letting him cool down internally. As cold as it was outside, he’d still heated with the run. Santana was nowhere in sight and, even after she’d seen to Sinbad, taking off the saddle and bridle and making certain he had water and feed, her stepfather had failed to return.
“I think we were snookered,” she told the horse, but didn’t care. The exhilarating ride and scare at the Long house had brought her back to center, at least for now. And really, she could always use an extra five bucks. Her father had always quoted a line from an old movie. The Color of Money. One of Lucky’s favorites. The quote was: “Money won is twice as sweet as money earned.” One of the characters, Fast Eddie, had said the line, and Luke Pescoli had attempted to live his life by that premise. It hadn’t worked out all that well for him, she thought, then pushed Lucky Pescoli out of her mind.
Hopefully forever.
Chapter 21
At the dinner table, Pescoli pointed at her husband with her fork. “If this horse-training thing for you doesn’t work out, Santana, maybe you could become a chef.” His meal of pasta e fagioli, compliments of the slow-cooker, bread from the local bakery, and a tossed salad, had been spectacular.
No one seated with her seemed to find her joke funny. Jeremy and Ivy, sitting next to each other, were caught in their own conversation.
Bianca, though she’d taken one of the horses out for a ride and that usually improved her mood, seemed lost in her own thoughts, and they didn’t appear happy ones. Even Santana kept one eye on the muted television where the news was playing throughout the meal.
