Two Ways Home

By E. S. Burton

The old MacNeill mansion, located in the heart of thoroughbred horse country outside Englishton, Kentucky, has recently been converted to a senior citizens home. Janice Harmon, a resident of GlenMary House, is happy that life has finally returned back to normal after the murder of John Carpenter. But what Janice does not know is that tragedy is about to strike again.

When fellow resident Annabel Douglas passes away, the last thing Janice suspects is that shes been murdered. But when the sheriff tells her that Annabel was drugged and asphyxiated, she soon realizes they are all suspects. It seems impossible that one of the senior citizens could have committed the crime, and even more unlikely that her young friend and mansion inheritress, Emily Carpenter, is guilty. Yet, they all had a motiveand an opportunity. As the list of suspects grows to include Winifred Peale, her best friend and mistress of Carrie Creek Farm, Janice must rely on Chief Inspector Simon Hollingsworth to help her come up with the answer before GlenMary House is forced to close its doors forever.

In this gripping tale, an amateur sleuth must solve yet another complex mystery after a fellow resident in her senior citizen home is murdered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532048876

E. S. Burton

E. S. Burton was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky, graduated from the University of Kentucky, and was an investment advisor. Now retired, she lives on a farm with her two rescue dogs in the beautiful hills of Southern Indiana where she divides her time between writing and volunteering with the local Humane Society. This is the third book in her GlenMary Farm mystery series.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 E. S. BURTON.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4888-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4889-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4887-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018905882

iUniverse rev. date: 05/10/2018

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

For my granddaughter

Shelby Elizabeth

GlenMary%20House%201st%20Floor%20cropped.JPGGlenMary%20House%202nd%20Floor%20cropped.JPG

O ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road,

And I’ll be in Scotland a’fore ye’

Traditional Scottish Song Loch Lomond

PROLOGUE

T he guest room in GlenMary House, the one located on the second floor, had a southern exposure that gave a perfect view over the front drive. Annabel Douglas had rolled her chair up to its single window, in order to watch the scene about to play out there. As she bent forward, the persistent haggardness that hung about her, that made her face seem thin and rather gaunt, lifted to be replaced by a look that was at first anxious and then eager. It was imperative she not miss a single moment. Rather strange, this role of Peeping Tom, since she could have easily been a part of it. During the noisy breakfast, in front of all the old ladies and their token male, Mr. Flowers, Margaret had invited her to join them. Margaret, she must concede, was considerate to a fault, but she would have her hands full with Emily, not to mention the horse. The last thing she needed was an invalid in a wheelchair.

Being a burden, however, wasn’t the only reason to refuse. The greater culprit was fear—that gnawing, ridiculous dread of something as intangible as a memory. Silly, really, but there it was. If one was to overcome it, one must meet it head on, before the memory hardened into obsession, an obsession that would be as difficult to control as an addict’s desire for cocaine or an arsonists fixation with fire. This eavesdropping, this joining in without actually joining in, was, Annabel knew, only fanning the very flames of that fire she was trying so hard to suppress.

Emily was not Eileen. The waters must not be muddied by useless comparisons of things that would never be—like the times before in that other life lived here, in those soft, sweet days when Eileen was the one venturing out with her horse; when she, Annabel, not Margaret, was the one at the barn helping Malcolm load Razz into the horse box, making a frantic last minute search for the lost bridle or the misplaced helmet, and all the while calming Eileen’s ever escalating case of nerves. At the time she’d thought it hard going but, rather than begrudging, she should have savored the precious moments. Beneath it all, however, there was a sense of justice served. The old British pride would allow her no mercy°…you’ve made your bed Annabel Douglas°…

Unfortunately, the years of self-pity had etched themselves into her psyche, years spent in Scotland, in exile, longing to come home. It had been a singular goal, to be here with her daughter, Emily. Unfortunately, the regrets had followed, as well. She’d been naïve to think they would not. Regrets over one’s actions rarely disappear, especially when they resulted in the devastation of so many lives. Under such conditions, forgiving one’s self becomes a monumental task.

It was her penance, Annabel supposed, for the misguided greed that had attempted to gain for her own child all that Eileen had possessed. And yet, how was she to have known John was unbalanced, using his training as a psychologist to bend and persuade her child. Watching him shot to death before her very eyes had barely touched her, certainly not the way it had touched Janice and Winifred. Oh, she’d been shocked, but with the shock had come relief. Emily and GlenMary Farm were safe.

It had been a pyrrhic victory, for the life she’d dreamed of living wasn’t like the dream at all. How long before she could embrace this new existence separately from the old? Eileen had not been blood of her blood. Emily was. Had that decade of missing years rendered her unable to love her own child with the kind of love she’d so freely given Eileen? How such a thing could be seemed appalling, and yet, it was a question as ruthless as it was honest. Hampered by her lameness, hampered by the missing years, Margaret had slipped in and usurped her place. She was Emily’s mother now. It was odd she felt no jealousy for the young woman. Rather she felt a strange gratitude that enabled her to keep company with her dreams and with this deep and abiding sadness.

Through the breaks in the line of maples, she caught a glimpse of the horse trailer as it pulled away from the barn and started down the lane. As they veered right, onto the main drive, her eyes glazed over, and the rig became a lovely blur. It was the same dove grey with a hint of silver, the same and yet not the same, but what harm in pretending? What harm, as long as no one knew? Eileen and Emily. Will’s daughters. She owed it to Will to put things back the way they were. He would want that for Emily. A tear slid down the crevice of her nose. With a quick, hard swipe, she jerked the wheels of her chair downward, and the scene below disappeared.

GLENMARY HOUSE

1969

CHAPTER 1

M argaret Carpenter eased the rig down GlenMary’s winding drive, gripping the wheel as if she were in downtown Brighton steering a semi instead of a horse trailer. Busy with her own starting out jitters, Janice Harmon hardly noticed. The van was too tall for the canopy of maples that lined the laneway in what had always seemed to her such a delightful manner. Surely, they wouldn’t tear a hole in the top of the new trailer. Junior responded to the minor, overhead disturbance by adjusting his position in the van, the rat-a-tat of his front feet setting up a rhythm that gently rocked the Suburban.

The trailer’s taller than I thought, Margaret said.

The limbs are awfully low, Janice replied, thinking either way we’re doomed.

The two women shared a nervous laugh as they lumbered past the grotto, the backdrop for Janice’s little flower garden, then down the gently curving hill and across the stone bridge. The willows, their branches spilling over the rocky creek bed; the sun creating diamonds that danced on the water, all seemed to have a cathartic effect. Janice felt the tension ease. Whether it was a case of nerves or merely excitement she couldn’t be sure. The result amounted to much the same thing. After all, she’d never experienced trailering a horse before!

As if reading her mind, Margaret added her own disclaimer. It’s been a while since I’ve done this, Mrs. Harmon. It’ll take a few minutes to get back in the groove.

Oh, it’s not you, Janice fibbed. "It just seems so°… so unnatural."

Emily, lounging in the back seat, perked up at the provocative word.

What’s unnatural?

Why, a horse locked up in a little tiny van.

No worries, Emily assured her. He’s been trailered a million times.

Janice smiled, although the assurance didn’t quite erase the picture of a little grey gelding suddenly developing claustrophobia.

And so, the silver Suburban and matching trailer, with the logo GlenMary Farm painted in maroon on its side, made the turn onto Highway 235 to begin its maiden voyage to Paris, Kentucky, and Carrie Creek Farm.

Quiet reigned for the better part of an hour until Emily, scooting up to straddle the front seat with her arms, asked the age-old question, How much farther?

Not much, Margaret assured her. The rig began the less than gentle descent into Frankfort. Look, hon, at the bird’s eye view of the capital building.

It’s too far, Emily announced, giving the dome only a cursory glance. I can’t leave Junior in a place it takes forever to get to.

I doubt he’ll be at Carrie Creek long, hon. She attempted to make eye contact with her stepdaughter via the rearview mirror. Dressage comes naturally to Arabians, and the jumps sure won’t be anything new—will they now? She gave Janice a knowing wink.

Emily emitted a sarcastic ha-ha and, folding her arms across her chest, flopped back in the seat.

Janice hoped Margaret would remain quiet and let Emily get over the little snit on her own. That she was having one was somewhat of a surprise—though maybe not. She’d been on a high for the last two weeks over this trip to Carrie Creek—to a point where down was the only direction left.

Oh, look! Emily cried, coming out of the snit rather nicely. Behind a white board fence, a half-dozen mares nibbled at the new spring grass. Their foals darted in and out of the small herd like minnows in a pond, occasionally adding an awkward, practice buck.

I bet Mrs. Peale has foals, Margaret said.

I’m sure she does! Janice exclaimed.

Doesn’t matter. It’s still too far, Emily announced, applying a pin to the anticipatory balloon.

After all the weeks of planning and work, Janice wondered how Margaret managed to hold her tongue. For Emily, to ease the trauma of losing John Carpenter, the man she once thought was her father, Junior’s training and the subsequent riding lessons were to be an integral part of her rehabilitation. She’d wanted it as much as they’d wanted it for her. This recent trend toward flip flopping was testing everyone’s patience. Dr. Dishman said it was simply Emily’s way of taking charge of her life, and it was important they respect the process, never mind it drove them all up the wall.

If you want to show him, Janice said, ignoring Margaret’s warning look, you and Junior will need some guidance.

Maybe, maybe not.

Emily gave her a saucy smile, which she ignored.

I’m sure Margaret and I will be happy to bring you over to see him as much as you like.

It won’t make any difference. It still takes too long.

Not when you don’t have to pull a horse trailer, Janice countered, wondering why she couldn’t just let it go. It was obvious Emily held the winning hand.

She physically held back a sigh, pressing her lips tightly together, as Margaret added her take to the blatant pandering. Dr. Dishman would have a hissy.

You could squeeze in a few more lessons that way, too, giving her stepdaughter a bright smile via the rearview mirror.

Yeah, but what good are lessons if I don’t have a horse to practice on?

You have The Rogue, Margaret reminded her.

Janice thought she heard a subdued big whoopee, from the back seat, and, in an effort to change the subject, suggested it was time they renamed the poor horse.

Stanley or Steamer, take your pick, Emily replied. But I like The Rogue. It’s what Eileen called him.

Eileen. The line in the sand. The girl who had entered the realm of sacrosanct.

Well, I’ll admit Stanley or Steamer isn’t much to work with, Janice replied, but it seems unfair to call such a gentle giant a rogue.

You forget, Mrs. Harmon, he almost killed a girl!

It was an accident, Em, Margaret interjected. Malcolm said he was young and newly trained, and the girl who rode him didn’t ride all that well.

Well, he’s old and well-trained now, Emily replied, apparently determined to be obstinate even if it meant switching sides.

He does upper level dressage, too, which makes him a good teacher.

We’re here! Janice trilled, saved by the stone columns that marked the entrance to Carrie Creek. She smiled as she remembered the description Winifred had given her on her first visit. We stuffed a thoroughbred into each pillar, and they’ve been scrambling to get out ever since. Although the artist who’d sculpted the bronze busts intended they should look like rearing, pawing steeds, they did look very much like a pair of Jack-in-the-boxes.

All I see are woods and more woods.

Which means they have extensive bridle paths, which they use to retrain the horses rescued from the track. Margret countered, apparently determined not to give in.

All thoroughbreds, no Arabs, I bet, Emily sniffed.

In the very pregnant silence that followed, there was only the sound of tires crunching on the gravel drive. A narrow strip of grass on either side separated the lane from the woods that, after following parallel to the highway, gradually turned inward. As they approached Carrie Creek, named for Winifred’s family and subsequently the farm, Janice could almost feel the change taking place within the vehicle. It would be all right. No one, who loved horses as much as Emily, could resist Carrie Creek Farm.

After crossing the stone bridge, a replica from a Dickensian novel, the lane made another turn, angling deeper into the farm while steadily rising. As it curved past a forest of white oak, the topography leveled off, opening up into a wide expanse of lawn surrounded by pastures.

Good grief! Margaret exclaimed, effectively bringing Janice back to earth. Is that Winifred’s house?

Looks like a hotel, Emily remarked.

Or a castle!

Janice instructed Margaret to veer to the right onto a lane that would take them past the house. Margaret immediately applied the brakes.

I better stick to that loop, Mrs. Harmon. She indicated the horse shoe turn by the front entrance. Backing up has never been my strong point.

You won’t have to, dear. Besides, Mattie doesn’t like answering the front door. It puts her in a bad humor.

Who’s Mattie? Emily piped up.

The housekeeper. She’s supposedly retired, only I think she and Winifred have been together so long it’ll never come about. Anyway, the door weighs more than she does, and it has a tendency to stick.

Margaret made the right turn and almost at once the lane ended at a crossroad that joined both ends of the farm. Again, she applied the brakes.

Which way?

Let’s park here for a bit, Janice suggested. It’s time we announced ourselves.

And so, with Janice in the lead, they trooped across the stretch of grass that surrounded the side and back of the mansion, Margaret, an arm draped across Emily’s shoulders, not far behind.

What d’you think, Em?

I think all the cocoons in my stomach just hatched.

Mine, too. She laughed.

They looked up just as the back door flew open, and a small black woman with a frizz of white hair burst out of it. Her ancient face was scrunched into a smile. It was a greeting so far removed from her first encounter Janice wondered if Winifred had put the fear of God in the woman. She dismissed the idea with a bubble of amusement. The reverse would more likely be the case.

My, oh my! Slightly breathless, Mattie hurried across the lawn, talking all the way. Dis mus’ be the gal Win’fred been talkin’ ’bout nonstop.

Emily glanced uncertainly at her stepmother.

I see you brung yer hoss. What’s he called?

Sur Abhan. Emily gave her a tentative smile.

Sir, like in Sir Winston Church’ll?

No. It’s S-U-R. He’s Egyptian, straight Egyptian.

’Gyptian, you say. The old woman’s face puckered until the wrinkles formed deep gullies. This I gots to see.

Junior took the intrusion in stride, sparing a curious glance at the strange woman before snatching a mouthful of hay from the nearly depleted net in front of him.

Why, he looks jes’ lack the hoss in ’at picture o’ George Washin’ton Win’fred’s got hung in the livin’ room. Look at dem big eyes buggin’ out. Then running her fingers down his cheek, she crooned, Mavis gonna have a fit over you, you perty ole thing.

In the middle of this cantillating, Winifred arrived, halting her army surplus jeep in front of the Suburban. A pair of booted legs were then thrown over the door in a perfect dismount.

"Wellwellwell! She shouted, and a moment later Janice found herself enveloped in a bear hug that was quickly repeated with Margaret. I thought I’d never see the day. Then, turning to Emily, she said, And you, miss, are hopefully going to give our Mavis something besides me to pick on. I warn you she’s a regular terrorist in the dressage ring. And, taking her by the shoulders, ended up giving her a bear hug as well.

Mattie, what in the hell°… oops°… heck, are you doing in that trailer. You haven’t taken up horse training I hope.

I’m lookin’ at dis ’Gyptian hoss. Straight from Egyp’.

I believe, my good woman, that’s an Arab straight from GlenMary Farm, she said, giving Emily a wink. Emily stifled a giggle.

Uh uh, Mattie argued. This here’s a ’Gyptian hoss.

Well, yes and no, Winifred conceded. He’s an Arab out of all-Egyptian lines, closest thing to the original desert horse as you can get. And helping the old woman out of the horse trailer, she hopped in for a look. After expounding on all his visible good points, she rejoined the small group.

Mavis will meet us for lunch when she’s finished schooling her morning horses. Meanwhile we might as well take Junior to the arena. Then turning to Mattie, she said, That is unless you want to do the honors, and I’ll see to lunch.

You stay outta my kitchen, an’ I’ll stay outta yer barn, Mattie grumbled. Lunch’ll be ready in a ’ower. And without a backward glance, she hitched up the belt of her dress and trundled off to the house.

I’ll lead the way, Winifred told Margaret. Emily, you can ride with me.

The morning had warmed up considerably and, as they as they sped along the graveled lane, Emily felt the breeze loosening the hair from the French braid Nunny had taken such pains with. As the freed strands whipped across her face, the excitement began to build. Closing her eyes, she let the sensation wash over her. It was like galloping across the Sexton field. But then the husky voice of her benefactor, the voice that was such a surprise coming from the small, wiry body, forced her back into the present.

Winifred was pointing out some rescues grazing in a pasture, then, with a jerk of her thumb, explained the maternity barn and racing barns were in the opposite direction.

The lane dipped sharply before bending around a spinney of hemlock mixed with dogwood. Winifred edged the jeep through a cut in the shrubbery that opened up into a parking lot. Emily swallowed hard. Flanked on one side by a jump course and on the other a dressage ring, the building before her was enormous. Large double doors stood open, taking full advantage of the spring day.

Winifred pulled into a spot marked ‘Staff Only’ and performed the dismount of a few minutes earlier. Emily followed suit, luckily landing on her feet, then jogged to catch up. As she stepped into the building, her heart quickened. Double doors, similar to the ones on the front, gave access to the outdoor arenas on either side while, at the far end, separated by a board fence, were a dozen or more stalls.

So, Winifred said, think your Junior’s ready for the big time?

Emily, attempting to take in everything at once, frowned.

I’m not sure. Probably more than me.

I was kidding, Winifred smiled. This is hardly the big time.

Emily pulled her eyes away from the door that revealed the awesome jump course and gave her hostess an endearing smile.

Oh, but it is.

Winifred threw back her head and laughed.

You and I are going to get along just fine.

Emily had a quick peek at the dressage ring and jump course on their way back to have a look at the stalls.

Some of these horses are rescues, Winifred explained, and some are boarders.

Emily stared at the string of faces that stared back at her, equally curious.

It’s where your horse will be while he’s here.

Up to now there’d been an unreality surrounding the idea of actually leaving Junior that Winifred’s words seemed to whisk away. How to tell this tiny but powerful woman she hadn’t decided if he would stay or not.

And, Winifred continued, since both you and Junior are in training, Mavis will work him in your stead. You’ll ride one of our experienced horses.

I°… I don’t think I want to do that, Emily stammered, finally finding her voice.

I didn’t expect you would, but it’s the only way it’ll work. You can’t expect Junior to obey signals he doesn’t understand and you don’t know how to properly give.

Emily was saved responding, as Margaret pulled into the parking lot with the trailer. She hurried away to take charge of her horse. After letting down the ramp and unhitching the butt bar, she slipped through the empty stall and clipped the lead rope to Junior’s new leather halter, giving the brass nameplate a quick shine with the cuff of her windbreaker.

Back, Emily whispered and Junior obediently stepped back, using his rear hoof to feel for the pavement at the end of the ramp.

Once on firm ground, he raised his head, sniffed the air, and let out a bellow that was answered and repeated until Emily gave the rope several small jerks. She looked up with pride at her beautiful grey gelding and smiled.

Now there’s a picture for the magazines, Winifred whispered to Janice and Margaret, then stepped over to speak with Emily. His markings are perfect. I always did like a dappled rump. I assume Malcolm shod him.

Emily nodded.

He did a good job on angles—typical Arab, one up, one down. He’s a looker all right. Let’s get him saddled and see how he moves.

Suddenly everyone was pressed into service at the rear of the Suburban as Margaret and Janice began handing out tack. Winifred looked at the saddle and frowned.

It’ll fit our lesson horse just fine. He’s high withered. No way should it be on the back of that little Arab.

She’s particularly fond of it, Janice said.

Don’t worry. Mavis’ll handle her. She knows how to deal with stubborn little girls.

"Well, I hardly think Emily fits into that category."

She has a running martingale in here somewhere. Margaret rummaged through the mound of tack.

No martingale today, Winifred said. I want to see how they get along without crutches.

Janice could tell the announcement didn’t sit well with Margaret, although, in true Margaret fashion, she didn’t say anything. Instead, she took the rest of the equipment and headed into the arena.

Will you quit fretting, Janice, Winifred smiled.

It’s just this is so important, and taking her favorite saddle away°…

It’s not going to be taken away. She can use it on the lesson horse.

Well, I’m sure you’re going to correct just about everything she does when you see her ride, Janice replied stiffly. If you aren’t careful, you’ll destroy the confidence that we’ve spent almost a year building up.

She’s a delicate case. Is that what you’re saying?

You know what she’s been through.

I know, and no one’s gonna apply the sledge hammer, but no one’s gonna coddle and cater either, least of all Mavis. I won’t ask her to. In fact, I won’t interfere in any way.

Janice listened, lips pursed. Beneath the silvery white Dutch bob, her turquoise eyes flashed indignantly.

No one’s asking you to cater or coddle, but Mavis must understand°…

Janice, my dear, the best thing Mavis can do for that child is not understand a single thing. You know as well as I do, if you start treating her like some sort of psychotic wonder, she’ll begin to adapt to the role. Leave her be. Let her work it out on her own. I don’t know what you and all her other mothers have on your agenda, but here at Carrie Creek she’s a young girl with a horse. She goes on her own merit or she doesn’t go at all.

Janice took in a deep breath, and although her eyes still flashed, she kept her mouth shut.

Emily has to want it bad enough to overcome whatever negative feelings she encounters, Winifred continued. It won’t work any other way.

I s’pose, Janice conceded. It’s just°…

I know, I know, Winifred broke in. Have a little faith in Emily and in Mavis. She’s been handling all kinds of rescues for a lotta years now—most of ’em pretty well beaten up in one way or another. They all have one thing in common, though. They love her to death.

Speaking of Mavis, I thought she’d at least want to see Emily ride.

Oh, she does—after lunch. We thought it best if Emily only had to perform for one of us at a time. She plans to take Emily out on a trail ride this afternoon—you know, laid back, fun stuff.

Oh? I was under the impression Emily was to have a lesson?

Now who’s being pushy, Winifred grinned. The child is a basket case, or hadn’t you noticed? Not that I’m going in for any coddling.

Before Janice could respond, she added, "And be prepared for a replay of The Yearling when it’s time to leave Junior."

How°… did she°…

She hasn’t said anything, but you’d have to be blind not to see.

Oh dear! She was rather nervous on the trip over°…

And she brought the tack room with her for support°…

Janice broke down and smiled.

Girls her age all have a crying jag when they leave their horse for the first time. Leave it up to Mavis, but, I guarantee you, after the trail ride, Junior will remain.

But Emily’s expecting a lesson!

She’ll get it on the ride only she won’t realize it until°… uh oh, we’re being summoned.

Well, I don’t know, Janice grumbled, as Winifred hurried away. Mavis sounds a little too good to be true.

Emily was already up on Junior when Winifred entered the arena. She put them through the normal paces—walk, trot, and canter—and, although she inwardly cringed, she refrained from criticism, commenting only if something was executed well. With that completed, she suggested they let Junior ‘have a peek’ at the jump course.

We’re not jumping today, Winifred warned her. Under no circumstances are you to point him at anything. Understood?

Understood, Emily called back.

In this second field of action, Junior exhibited more than a few traits not necessarily reserved for his breed i.e. he shied at a bucket of plastic geraniums; skittered sideways at the brick wall; and refused to get near the water at the base of the water jump.

We go through all kinds of streams at home, Emily assured Winifred.

That was home. This is here. Water there, water here, totally different from a horse’s point of view.

Finally, Winifred announced it was time for lunch and Emily dismounted. A girl about Emily’s age appeared from nowhere to take Junior.

Robin’s our head groom, Winifred explained, and sensing Emily’s reluctance to give up her horse, asked Robin to show Margaret where she could park the trailer. She then pointed at one of the empty stalls.

Let’s put Junior in that one. He’ll have a clear view of the arena, and maybe, just maybe, something’ll sink in while he’s watching the other horses work. At the very least he’ll find it entertaining.

Without a word, Emily led her horse into the cubicle. Winifred followed and together they removed his tack.

Since we’re short on time, I think we can skip the brushing. Doesn’t look as if he broke a sweat.

Emily agreed and, with a last pat on the velvety nose, they headed across the arena to the jeep.

I kept your session short on purpose, Winifred said. I didn’t want to wear the two of you out.

"We don’t wear out that easy," Emily replied.

I hope not ’cause Mavis plans to take you out after lunch and introduce you to some of our trails. You’re collective heinies may be dragging a bit by the time you get back.

A trail ride!

We do a lot of that around here. Except for the track, most of our rescues have never seen much more than the inside of a stall.

They freak out in the woods?

That’s one way of putting it. Winifred smiled at the wide-eyed response. Mavis has the horses divided into two groups. She schools one group in the morning and trail rides the other in the afternoon, then flip flops the next day. It’s a lot of work, so she snags whoever’s hanging around to help out.

It wouldn’t be work to me! Emily exclaimed.

Then you ought to consider coming over for a week or two, after school’s out. Robin’s about your age. She lives in Frankfort so she’s here every weekend. In the summer she’s a permanent fixture. The two of you could exercise horses all day long if you wanted.

She glanced over at her young charge with a feeling of smug satisfaction. The young girl looked everything but cross-eyed. The trail ride would cinch the deal.

Lunch was served in small dining room just off the kitchen. It was a particularly pleasant room with a curving wall of windows on one end that gave a panoramic view of the farm. Despite the Tudor facade, it was done in French country, the furniture a mixture of antique white and cherry wood, all liberally distressed. Mavis, having finished with the vet, was perusing what appeared to be a racing form. It quickly disappeared into her back pocket, as she stood to greet the group.

So good to see you again, Mrs. Harmon, she said and extended her hand.

It’s Janice. She smiled. And it’s good to see you as well.

After introducing her to Margaret and Emily, they settled into their places around the table. A spate of chitchat ensued, whereby Margaret remarked on the bridge and the stand of oaks, the latter just visible from the window.

Grandfather Carrie planted the oaks some seventy-five years ago, Winifred explained. He believed in trees for future generations. The bridge didn’t happen until recently. We always relied on the ford, a few yards east of it, as a crossing. Unfortunately, too many of our clients complained or downright refused to get their wheels wet."

It’s beautiful, like something from an old English painting with that hump in the middle and the gas lights. I can’t believe it’s new.

That’s, the whole point. Winifred grinned.

Mattie brought in the lunch, and Janice looked hungrily at the tomato stuffed with tuna salad. The early breakfast had run out sometime ago. When she glanced around the table, however, she saw Margaret and Emily were only picking at their food while Winifred and Mavis were digging in like a pair of sumo wrestlers. A side benefit of an active lifestyle, she decided.

When second helpings were offered and politely declined, Mavis looked at Emily.

I believe we have a date with a couple of four legged fellows.

Emily shot out of the chair only remembering, as she reached the door, to thank Winifred for the lovely meal.

Robin will be joining us, and anyone else who’d like to come along is welcome, Mavis said.

Please come, Margaret, Emily begged. It’ll be fun.

Oh Em, it’s been years°…

No it hasn’t. You rode with me last week.

I know, hon, but these horses are a little more challenging than Freedom and Razz.

Mavis insisted she had the perfect mount, leaving Margaret no choice but to give in.

Left to their own devices, Winifred and Janice took a short trip down memory lane, eventually catching up on the intervening months since Winifred’s last visit to GlenMary Farm.

As Margaret steered the Suburban, sans horse trailer, across the bridge over Carrie Creek, Margaret turned to her stepdaughter.

You were right, Em, the ride was fun, and the trails are unbelievable.

Emily looked out the window, chewing rather mercilessly on her lower lip, as the activities of the day danced through her mind. ‘Unbelievable’ was certainly the right word. It was all way better than she’d ever dreamed. It was awful leaving Junior behind, but it couldn’t be helped. She had a goal now. If she wanted to be like Robin, Junior would have to stay at Carrie Creek.

CHAPTER 2

I n the Commonwealth of Kentucky, the first Saturday in May is always celebrated with a horse race, and that horse race is the Kentucky Derby. Derby mania begins weeks in advance of the event so that every eye not fortunate enough to be at Churchill Downs on the famous day, is glued to a TV screen where every last tidbit of information from hats to horses, trainers to jockeys, is thoroughly dissected. For those few whose interest leans more toward horticulture, this day also marks the beginning of the gardening season. Threats of frost are over, and it’s safe to plant spring flowers. Janice Harmon, a lover of both horses and flowers, juggled the two events quite nicely, spending the morning in her little grotto garden and the afternoon watching the signature race. By post time, she’d made significant progress with the former, and the following Sunday saw her back to finish the job. The soft spring breeze made the task of snuggling ageratum and marigold (her old school colors) among the decorative stones. It was a pleasant task that left her free to think of all kinds of agreeable things. Uppermost in her mind was how nice her first year at GlenMary House had been—despite the rocky start. After the murder of John Carpenter, life, it seemed, had finally returned to normal. She couldn’t have hoped for a lovelier place to spend her retirement years. The large white, clapboard mansion surrounded by seven hundred acres of rolling fields and woods, had a definite Gone With The Wind feel about