A Message for Abby. Janice Johnson Kay

trainer.”

      “Jim Cronin.” The younger guy couldn’t be much over twenty-five. Stocky and strong, he wore the ranch uniform: dusty denim, worn cowboy boots, white T-shirt and buff-brown Stetson. “I just work here.”

      Ben nodded. “You two fellows know about the break-in at Mrs. Barnard’s?”

      “You mean, her garage?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Hell of a thing.” The trainer shook his head. “Shirley wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why would someone go picking on her like that?”

      “Maybe just to show he could.” Ben watched the two carefully; saw nothing but perplexity and mild curiosity about why a Butte County detective was out here questioning them about such a minor crime. “I just thought I’d find out whether someone could go right on down there without being noticed.”

      “Not in a car.” LaRoche sounded sure. “We don’t get much traffic out here. Someone’s coming right now.” He nodded past Ben toward the main road leading from Butte Road and the Triple B gates onto the ranch.

      Ben turned. A plume of lava red dust rose like the spray behind a hydroplane. That nice shiny 4x4 was going to need a bath.

      Like his own car, he realized ruefully.

      LaRoche continued. “Especially at this time of year, we have plenty of warning. Somebody always pokes a head out to see who’s come calling.”

      “What about at night? With Mrs. Barnard away?”

      “I live there.” The lanky older man pointed to a small white-painted cottage in the cottonwoods beside the creek. “Some of the hands have places in town, but a couple room in the bunkhouse. Cronin here’s one of ‘em.”

      The young ranch hand scratched his chin. “Well, I won’t say if we’d heard a car we would have fallen over our feet rushing out to see who was here. But we’d have most likely glanced out. Mrs. Barnard don’t get that many folks coming by, and Lee’s place is the only other one on down the road.”

      “But he could have parked a ways back and walked.”

      Lee LaRoche slowly took off his hat and ran a hand through sweat-streaked hair. “Well, now. Sure. I suppose so. ’Course, if someone had come along he wouldn’t have had anyplace to hide. With no trees till you get down to the creek. And his car would’ve stuck out like a palomino in a herd of bays. Say, if Daniel or Renee had come or gone. But at, oh, three, four in the morning... Sure.”

      He sent Cronin with Ben to check out the garage itself. The structure was detached from the original farmhouse where Daniel Barnard’s mother still lived. Through a small dusty window, Ben could see the blue sedan. The lock on the side door was one of those push-button models, not a dead bolt. Anyone good with a paperclip could have gotten in. The main door, the cowboy told him, had an automatic opener.

      “So Mrs. Barnard can drive straight on in, like in the winter. Daniel installed it himself.”

      “How long have you worked here?” Ben asked idly.

      “Only about a year.” Jim Cronin’s face was boyish, despite the beginnings of lines at the corners of his hazel eyes. “I like to move around. See the country.”

      Not so different from the ski bums who operated lifts up at Juanita Butte, or the temporary crews that fought fires in the dry woods every summer.

      “Barnard good to work for?” Ben asked.

      “The best,” the man said simply. “Cutting horses bred and taught their tricks here are in the top ten every year. I’d like to train horses, not just ride ‘em and muck up after ’em. This is the place to learn.”

      The two men walked back to the barn where Ben had left his car. Ben thanked Jim Cronin for his time and watched him disappear into the barn. Well down the aisle, Lee LaRoche appeared briefly, looking Ben’s way. When his gaze met Ben’s, he tipped his hat and faded back into the shadowy interior of the huge barn. Had he been watching for Ben? Making sure Cronin went right back to work?

      Ben paused before getting behind the wheel of his car. He liked to take in his surroundings, soak them up as he did the sun’s midday warmth in winter. It never paid to be hasty, he’d found; he learned things on a subliminal level if he allowed time.

      Giving him curious glances and civil nods, a man and a woman rode by. The horses ambled, heads down, sweat darkening shoulders and flanks. Tiny puffs of dust bloomed beneath their hooves. Reins lay slack against the dark shiny necks.

      Car door open, Ben watched them go, the horses both possessing the powerful, chunky hindquarters of the quarter horse breed, the two riders swaying easily in the Western saddles. Two barns away, a mare and foal were being loaded into a fancy-looking trailer. The foal didn’t want to go, and kept shying away at the last minute, skinny legs flying. The men doing the loading were patient, giving the skittish colt time to settle down. In the arena, a different horse was being worked now. A gray-haired man with a skinny butt sat on the fence watching, heels hooked over a rail.

      Busy place, this. An unlikely choice to burglarize. No, someone had wanted to send a message: I can get at you anywhere.

      More than the blood or the stolen pickup truck, the license plates lifted from Shirley Barnard’s car were what worried Ben. The message was not a comforting one.

      And he had to believe, it wouldn’t be the last.

      Ben slid in behind the wheel and slammed his car door. Time to be getting up to Daniel Barnard’s place, before Abby started to worry about his absence.

      

      In your dreams, he jeered, and started the car.

      

      THE LAST TO SIT DOWN, Abby scooted her chair forward and braced herself for an in-depth analysis of the arson fire set in the pickup truck.

      In his paternalistic mode, Daniel Barnard looked around the table with an air of quiet satisfaction. The troops were gathered. Even Will, Meg’s sixteen-year-old son, had been allowed to stay. Only Emily, Meg’s three-year-old adopted daughter wasn’t at the table; Meg had settled her in the living room where she was out of earshot but in sight, happily occupied with a pile of blocks and half a dozen puzzles.

      Meg had even wanted to invite Jack Murray, her former lover and Will’s father. “This concerns Will,” she’d said. “Which means it concerns Jack.”

      Abby had gently discouraged her sister. There were things Meg didn’t know. Jack was just as uncomfortable with Abby as she was around him.

      Both did their best to encounter each other as seldom as possible.

      Now, Daniel’s survey of the family complete, Abby’s brother-in-law nodded toward Shea. “Good of you to come, Ben.”

      The detective inclined his head. “Abby suggested it.”

      Beside him, Abby said nothing. She wasn’t about to admit that she hadn’t invited him as the investigating officer, that in fact this was a trial run for a real date. That she was trying to decide whether her original assessment of Ben Shea was accurate.

      Could she have a good time with the guy? Or would he be getting serious before he broke off the first kiss?

      Really, it would be too bad if she had to tell him to get lost before that kiss. Darned if he didn’t look even better out of uniform than he did in. Faded jeans hugged long, powerful muscles in his thighs. A sage-green T-shirt got just as familiar with the planes of his chest and solid biceps. Nice neck, too, Abby thought, sneaking a glance. Tanned, smooth, strong without being bullish. Assertive jaw, sexy mouth, icy clear eyes, and cheekbones prominent enough to cast shadows on his clean-shaven cheeks.

      Kissing him would be fine. Better than fine, she suspected. Maybe too fine, which was her biggest fear. Only once had she come close to falling in love, and what a mistake that had been! Jack Murray had been using her. She’d