The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle. Shelley Peterson

      “Diva! It’s all right!” commanded Joy. The little dog continued, “Yarf! Yarf! Yarf! Yarf!”

      “Diva!” Joy hurried to the door.

      Abby slid her chair back to see Robert Wick at the door, his freshly shaved face split by a smile. He held out a bouquet of colourful spring flowers with one hand, and placed the other behind Joy’s back. They kissed. Abby quickly put her chair back into position and resumed eating.

      Joy bustled to the sink and gaily arranged the flowers into a vase while Robert Wick whistled as he hung up his coat in the hall.

      “Friends, eh?” whispered Abby. She gave Joy a stage wink.

      “None of your business,” Joy whispered back, smiling as she swatted Abby’s head with a dishcloth.

      Robert Wick entered the kitchen.

      “Coffee, Robert?” asked Joy sweetly.

      “Love some, Joy,” he answered.

      “You’re looking more dapper every time I see you, Mr. Wick,” said Abby. “I’d almost guess that you’re in love or something.”

      “Abby!” Joy turned to Abby, shocked.

      Robert smiled at Abby fondly. “I am. I’m in love with Joy Drake Featherstone. There.” He looked at Joy. “I’ve said it. What do you think of that?” For a moment his eyes were vulnerable. Abby’s heart went out to him.

      “I think that’s wonderful,” said Joy softly. “Because I’ve been in love with Robert Wick for years.”

      “Okay,” blurted Abby as she jumped up from the table, “I’m out of here! Time to go. Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Featherstone.”

      Abby didn’t look back. Humming her Sam song she ran out the door to say good morning to the world.

      Samuel Owens drove up his lane cursing under his breath. It galled him that he’d had to pay full market value for the ratty one-acre property next door. He couldn’t see it from his house, but since he had to pass it each time he drove up or down his lane, it had become an irritant. Now he owned it, but he wasn’t happy.

      “I hope Gladys Forsyth chokes on the caviar she’s going to buy now that she thinks she’s rich. That little cat-loving hermit! Thinks she outsmarted me! Me! All because she called that goody-goody broad for a second opinion. Christine James should keep her nose out of other people’s business. That whole family better stay away from me. If they know what’s good for them.”

      He held a burning anger within his chest against all of them. Against Mousie because of Dancer, and Joy Featherstone and Christine James because of the Wick farm. How he longed to get his hands on that property! His jaw tightened and his molars ground against each other as he tried to come up with a way to get that farm. It was central to his plan.

      Helena Casey was making him miserable, too. She hated Christine James with a passion for marrying Rory, which was good. She couldn’t care less what happened to Dancer, also good. She thought that Owens should buy all the surrounding property, again good. But, and this is where the good stopped and the bad began, she didn’t like him lumping her precious son Sandy with the James family in his diatribes. He was engaged to one of them, wasn’t he? That put him firmly in the enemy camp, no doubt about it.

      And, if that wasn’t enough, Helena was having qualms about selling her property. Now she was telling him that it had been in the Casey family for three generations, that maybe Sandy or Rosalyn might want it someday. It was her blanking house, wasn’t it? Rory left her in it when he moved into his little love nest with Christine, didn’t he? Well, get with it, Helena, he’d told her, or get off the bus.

      Owens stopped his new steel-grey Mercedes coupe in front of his house. He’d have a Bloody Caesar with a cigar on the terrace before lunch. The thought cheered him up so much that he actually smiled. The smile disappeared as he began to get out of the car. His ribs hurt badly. All his muscles were stiff. Damned animal! he cursed.

      “Walter! Walter! Get out here!”

      The front door opened to reveal an extremely agitated manservant.

      “A tall Bloody Caesar, on the double!”

      “Mr. Owens, sir,” he began.

      “Did you hear? A Bloody Caesar! Now! On the terrace.”

      Walter went pale. “Yes sir! But Mr. Owens, sir . . .”

      “Mr. Owens, sir,” he mimicked. “Just do as you’re told.” With that, Owens hobbled past him into the house.

      He bumped right into Mack Jones, the Caledon chief of police. “What the?” he bellowed. “Walter!” He struggled to get himself under control. He smiled, showing all his teeth. “Why didn’t you tell me Mack Jones was here, Walter?”

      Walter bowed his head. He tried to disappear into the woodwork.

      “Good morning, Mr. Owens,” said Mack courteously.

      “What can Walter get you, Mack? I was about to have a drink before lunch. Join me?”

      “No, thank you. I have a few questions. Where can we talk in private?”

      “Anywhere we like. Don’t worry about Walter. He’s bought and sold! Ha ha ha.” Owens laughed heartily at his joke, but Mack noticed Walter flinch as he scurried away.

      Since his promotion to chief, Mack had rarely gotten involved in specific cases, but he’d known Christine James for years, and her husband, Rory Casey, was an old friend. Mack had been the officer in charge at Samuel Owens’ trial five years before. There was no love lost between these two men.

      “In that case, let’s begin.” Standing on the polished marble in the spacious front hall, Police Chief Jones started his line of questioning. “Inspector Murski and Detective Bains arrested two men on your property this week. Tell me what these men were doing on your property.”

      Owens smiled, eyes half-shut. “Can a person not hire labourers anymore?”

      “A woman was almost killed. A girl was threatened with a shotgun. A horse was badly injured. Let me remind you, it might interest the court that the injured horse was Dancer. The horse you stabbed.”

      “I never threatened anyone. And let me get this straight. It worries you more that a horse was injured than that a woman was allegedly almost killed?” He spoke through a chilly smile.

      “I repeat, it might interest the court. Need I spell it out?” Owens glared at Mack and shook his head.

      “I thought not. What was your intention in digging the pit?”

      “It’s my property. I have a gun licence and a hunting licence. I can do what I like. But perhaps I was looking for gravel. My land would be worth a fortune as a quarry. Should I call my lawyers?”

      “It would be a good idea.”

      “I don’t owe you an explanation, Mack, but just to set the story straight, I was out with my shotgun, hunting for the rabid coyote that killed my cat.” Owens spoke slowly, thinking out his story. “I heard strange noises. When I investigated, I was savagely attacked by Dancer, bitten in the leg by the Malone girl’s coyote, and injured badly.” He pulled his shirttails out of his pants and unbuttoned his shirt. “Bruises. Note the horseshoe shape.” He lifted up the right leg of his pants. “Teeth marks. Deep. Potential for infection or worse, a horrible disease. I’ve been to the hospital.”

      He looked triumphant as he dropped the pant leg and buttoned up and tucked his shirt back into his pants. “I have pictures, of course. Since this happened on my property, and the girl was trespassing, and the offending animals were under her supervision, my lawyers and I are considering pressing charges.”

      “And you and your lawyers don’t have a problem with a gaping hole with sharp rocks in the bottom, dug on a path where it might become a grave