Hot on the Trail. Vicki Tharp

one of the horses? You promised me the horses were safe, that the—”

      “You’re not listening. He didn’t fall from a horse, Quinn. He killed himself.”

      Suicide?

      Fucking bastard.

      Fury hijacked anger. His phone slipped from his sweaty hand, glanced off a dumbbell, and clattered at his feet. The screen shattered.

      Jenna’s voice came from far away, tinny, the words unintelligible, but it didn’t matter what she said.

      Kurt was dead.

      Red, scalding rage—at Kurt, at fate, at the world—steamed through his system. Blood beat against his eardrums, louder, louder, louder still.

      He picked up the fifteen-pound dumbbell, cocked his elbow, but Gym Rat caught his arm mid-pitch, stripping the weight from his hand.

      Gym Rat picked up Quinn’s cell phone and slapped it into Quinn’s hand. “Take it outside, dude.”

      Quinn grunted at the man, bumping him as he shouldered his way past, and ignoring the “asshole” comment as he stalked toward the front doors.

      “Hello? Quinn, are you there?”

      “I’m here.” Quinn shoved his way outside into a pissing rain, and jogged to his vintage Harley. “I’m on the way.”

      “You don’t have to come.”

      “Yeah, Jenna, I do.”

      “Seriously. They have to do an autopsy, and the sheriff has no idea when the body will be released.”

      “Hang on a sec…” At his bike, Quinn activated the Bluetooth headset on his helmet, pocketed his phone to keep it out of the rain, and slipped the helmet over his head. “You there?” he said into the mic boom.

      “Yeah, but there’s no reason to come. Kurt’s mother will probably want to have his memorial service closer to home, anyway.”

      Putting his foot on the kick-starter, he brought the bike to life. The engine purred, the vibration rumbled through his system, calming his nerves better than a shot of whiskey or any drug ever could.

      “Yeah, but…” He pulled out of the parking lot, headed toward his apartment, the road ahead of him blurry, but not because of the rain sheeting down his face shield.

      “But what?”

      “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. Kurt had a problem with drugs, with alcohol, but he’d kicked that. And even when he was using, he wasn’t suicidal. He leave a note?”

      “Not that we’ve found.”

      “Talk about harming himself?”

      “No.”

      “Act in any way that made you think he was a danger to himself?”

      “No. Nothing.” Her voice shook. “Nothing like that.”

      Tailing the slow-moving car in front of him, Quinn laid on his horn. The driver slammed on his brakes, and Quinn stomped on his, his rear tire skidding on the slick road, the rear end of his bike overtaking the front. His heart revved; his pulse pounded at his temples.

      At the last second, the lane next to him cleared and he released the brakes and slid clear of the bumper with inches to spare.

      Jesus, that was close. He swallowed a couple of deep breaths and said, “Then, what makes the sheriff think he killed himself?”

      “He was using again. They found a syringe.”

      Shit. The stupid, stupid bastard.

      “I’m coming.”

      “Ok. Fine.” The dismissive way she said it, him going back to Wyoming was most definitely not fine, and he doubted it had anything to do with the fact that Kurt was dead.

      “I can stay at my parents’ place. You don’t have to see me.” Quinn turned into the parking lot of his complex. The rain had stopped, but his clothes were soaked through and clung to his body. That wasn’t a problem, because the fire in his belly kept him plenty warm.

      “You can stay in Kurt’s cabin if you want. Might give us a chance to talk about…to talk…”

      “Talk about what?”

      The line went silent again. Quinn took the stairs up to his apartment two at a time.

      “Us. We never—”

      He opened his front door, his heart tripping as he crossed the threshold. He coughed out a laugh as bitter as the base’s twice-burned coffee beans.

      “Sweetheart,” the cold, clear way he said it, she’d never mistake his “sweetheart” for a term of endearment. “There is no us. There is no we.”

      * * * *

      Jenna sat on a stool in the sun in front of the barn, cleaning saddles and bridles that didn’t need it. She caught a whiff of leather cleaner every time the breeze kicked up.

      The scent was one of her favorites, but today it didn’t bring back memories of the early years with her dad. The good years before he’d left her behind with her grandparents for a life on the rodeo circuit.

      Now there was this chasm in her chest where her heart used to reside. Her dream of helping veterans, which she’d been so close to realizing, struggled to stay alive.

      Behind her came the clomp of horse hooves. Boomer led her blue roan horse, Angel, by the reins, Sidney with him, astride a sorrel paint mustang she had in for training. Her foster daughter, Pepita, brought up the rear on Sidney’s buckskin gelding, Eli. Though the way that horse had taken to the fourteen-year-old, you couldn’t call him “Sidney’s horse” any longer.

      “You sure you don’t want to come?” Boomer said, “I could saddle up another horse. Beautiful day to blow off some steam.”

      Jenna glanced at Angel, tempted to hop on her horse, head for the hills, and never come back, but that wouldn’t solve anything. Or bring Kurt back.

      “I have two more saddles to clean.”

      “Pepita cleaned them last week,” Sidney said. “They’re not even dirty yet.”

      Pepita stopped Eli in front of Jenna. “Come on, prima.” “Cousin,” Pepita had nicknamed her. “Race you to the stock pond.”

      Pepita put on a too-big smile and batted her brown eyes—an I-know-you-can’t-resist-the-cute-kid kind of face.

      Jenna tossed the cleaning rag and stood to go find a horse to ride as the deep rumble of the motorcycle came up the long drive.

      “Quinn?” Sidney asked.

      Jenna nodded.

      “We can stay,” Boomer offered.

      “No.” The word was more squeak than substance. Jenna cleared the tension from her throat. “I think I need to do this alone.”

      “If you’re sure,” Sidney said as Boomer swung up into the saddle.

      “Positive.”

      The engine grew louder, and the roar settled in her chest like a hard-rock bass line. Boomer held her gaze, waiting for her to change her mind. When she didn’t, he reined Angel around, and the three of them trotted off toward the range gate. Sidney stopped to open it, but Pepita and Eli sailed over the top.

      Pepita might not have been born on the back of a horse, but she’d made up for the lost time since she’d come to live at the ranch.

      Quinn pulled up to the barn and killed the engine, and her eardrums rattled from the vibration. He sat there unmoving for the longest time, as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay or go back to California. She hadn’t expected him so soon. He’d had a fifteen-hour drive without stops. By her calculation, he’d made