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“You?” she said in mock horror, glints of light in her gray eyes. “No way. The not-trusting thing, it goes double for you!”
Maeve was tired of waiting.
She was freezing in the stall, and Omen, the big black gelding, wasn’t happy that she was there. He’d even pissed near her, the smell so acrid and disgusting she was about to retch.
She tried to hang on to her sense of hope. Ethan would be here any minute, as soon as he was off patrol. Then the wait would be worth it.
But right now, hugging the manger in a huge animal’s smelly stall, freezing her butt off, didn’t seem like such a great idea.
She checked her watch, the illuminated dial showing that she’d been waiting only twenty minutes.
Give him time. He’ll be here!
Still she was jumpy, her nerves on edge and that stupid hymn running in circles through her mind. She tried thinking of something newer, a song by Fergie coming to mind, but always, no matter what, the refrain of “A Mighty Fortress” came back to haunt her.
She wiggled her toes in her boots, hoping to get the blood flowing, as her toes were beginning to turn to ice. Maybe she should get up and walk around. She’d been afraid to move, because she’d thought she’d seen the bogeyman in the shadows, Nona and Drew’s killer hiding between the bags of oats and bales of hay.
Which was ridiculous.
No bloodthirsty maniac had jumped out at her.
She wasn’t in a Scream movie, for God’s sake.
She slid up along the wall to a standing position and plucked the straw from her jacket, hoping none of it had been fouled by the horse. Wouldn’t that be great? When Ethan finally got here, she’d smell like horse pee.
Giving the big black animal a wide berth, she eased her way to the gate. Over the sound of the rustling straw, she heard something else. Footsteps? Or one of the horses shuffling in his stall?
Don’t freak yourself out! Come on, Maeve, you’ve been down this road before. You’re alone.
Still … Didn’t she feel a hidden set of eyes watching her, squinting at her through the gloom of the stall?
Cut it out! No! There’s no one. Got it?
But she stopped. Squinted into the darkness, held her breath and listened. Hard.
Did she hear footsteps near the door? She swung her head in that direction. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight on end.
“Ethan?” she whispered nervously.
Click!
A flame shot up in front of her eyes.
Gold, with a blue base, the flame from a barbecue lighter nearly singed her nose.
Maeve screamed, jumping back.
The horse snorted nervously. Hot breath streamed down her back.
“Ethan, this isn’t fun—”
But the cruel, gleeful eyes behind the flame didn’t belong to Ethan Slade.
Maeve whispered, “Oh, God. What the hell are you doing here?” Her heart beating like a drum, panic shot through her.
“Guess.” A hiss.
Oh, Jesus. Fear curdled Maeve’s insides. She scrambled for the latch to the stall, fingers scraping the smooth wood, but the gate was jammed tight.
