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“As in Moon Shadow?” Dustin inquired.
“Yes.” Tiffany glanced at the suckling baby horse. The fluffy stub of a tail twitched happily. “I like it.”
“Isn’t it a little premature for a name like that?”
“I hope not,” Tiffany whispered. “I hope to God, it’s not.”
“Missy,” Mac said gently, touching her sleeve.
“Don’t say it, Mac,” Tiffany said, holding up her hand. “This little filly is going to make it. She’s got to!” Tiffany’s lips pressed together in determination, as if she could will her strength into the little horse.
“I just don’t want you to be too disappointed.”
“I won’t be.” Tiffany’s jaw tensed, and her blue eyes took on the hue of newly forged steel. “This horse is going to live.”
“I’ll stay overnight in the sitting-up room, watching the monitor. If anything goes wrong, I’ll call,” Mac volunteered.
“Good.” Vance washed his hands and removed his bloodied white jacket. “I want this filly babied. I want her to stay inside for a full three days, under the lamps. We’re not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. And as for the mare, make sure she gets bran mash for three days.”
“You got it,” Mac agreed, casting one last worried glance at the filly. “Now, Missy, why don’t you go up to the house and get some sleep? You can take over in the morning.”
Tiffany glanced at the two horses. “Gladly,” she whispered.
As she walked out of the foaling shed and into the windy night, Tiffany felt the sting of grateful tears in her eyes. Large crystalline drops began to run down her cheeks and catch the moon glow.Everything would be perfect,she thought to herself as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and started walking on the path to the house,if only Zane were here to see for himself the strong little daughter of Moon Shadow.
Chapter Nine
Zane cradled his drink in his hands as he stared at the two other men in the office. His attorney, John Morris, sat behind the oiled teak desk. The other fellow, a great bear of a man, had been introduced by John as Walt Griffith. He was staring out the window at the black San Francisco night.
Walt Griffith wasn’t what Zane had expected. When Zane had asked John to hire the best private investigator in California, he’d expected to meet a slick L.A. detective, a man who was street smart as well as college educated. Instead, John had come up with Griffith, a semiretired investigator nearly seventy years old, with thick, gray hair, rotund waistline, clean-shaven jowls and an eye-catching diamond ring on his right hand.
Griffith made Zane slightly uneasy, but he managed to hide his restlessness by quietly sipping his bourbon and water.
“So you want to locate your ex-wife,” Griffith said at last while frowning at the city lights illuminating that particular section of Jackson Square.
“That’s right.” Zane shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and his lips tightened at the corners.
“Maybe she doesn’t want you to know where she is.”
“She probably doesn’t.” Zane cocked his head and studied the large man. What was he getting at?
Griffith clasped his hands behind his back. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone, you know, but John and I—” he looked at the worried attorney “—we go way back. He says you’re straight.”
“Straight?” Zane repeated, turning his eyes to the attorney. John took off his reading glasses and frowned.
“I assume that John knows you well enough,” Griffith continued. “He told me you weren’t a wife-beater or some other kind of psycho.”
Zane cocked a dubious dark brow at his friend. “Thanks,” he said with a trace of sarcasm.
Griffith turned and leaned against a bookcase filled with leather-bound law books. He withdrew an imported cigar from the inside pocket of his suit coat and studied the tip. “Let me tell you, boy,” he said, pointing the cigar in Zane’s direction. “I’ve seen it all, and I’m not about to do anything that smacks of brutality.” His small, brown eyes glittered from deep in their sockets, and Zane had the distinct impression that Griffith had gotten himself into trouble more than once from something “smacking of brutality.” “If I didn’t owe John a favor, I wouldn’t have bothered to take your case at all. You seem to have somewhat of a checkered past yourself.”
Zane forced a severe smile and his gray eyes met Griffith’s intense stare. “I wouldn’t physically abuse a woman, any woman. Including Stasia.”
“Abuse doesn’t have to be physical.”
Zane’s anger got the better of him, and his fingers tightened around his drink. “There’s no love lost between Stasia and me,” he admitted, his eyes sparking furiously. “But I have no intention of hurting her. Actually, the less I have to do with her, the better. The only reason I want to locate her is because I think she’ll be able to help me with some answers I need.” Zane smiled at the irony of it all. “Believe me, Griffith, if there was another way to deal with this problem, I’d be glad to hear it. I don’t relish the thought of confronting my ex-wife any more than you want this assignment.”
Griffith struck a match and lit his cigar. As he puffed, a thick cloud of pungent smoke rose to the ceiling. “Answers?” he asked, rolling Zane’s words over in his mind. “About the other woman?”
