“I asked you a question, Mace.’’
“The raccoon,’’ I whispered, sidestepping my way along Rebel’s body. Tilton moved with me, close enough now so I felt his hot breath on my cheek. It smelled rancid, like rotten onions mixed with stale whiskey.
“What about it?’’ he asked, pressing his body against my side.
I scanned the pasture. It was empty. We were alone. My eyes darted around for something to use as a weapon. The mane comb! My fingers tightened around one end. If I slammed it into his face hard enough, maybe the shock or the pain would give me the upper hand.
“What about the raccoon?’’ he asked again. “Is there something wrong with your hearing? Maybe I should stand a little closer.’’
I felt him push, his hip pressed against mine. He lifted a hand and cupped my left breast. That was the moment I needed. I spun, catching him across the bridge of the nose with the pointy teeth of the metal comb.
“Oh, my God! My face!’’ He reeled back, clutching at his nose with both hands. “What is wrong with you?’’
“You killed the raccoon!’’ I yelled. “You killed Norman Sydney!’’
He stopped howling. When he lowered his hands to look at me, his face registered pure puzzlement. That, and an imprint in the shape of a comb.
“What the hell?’’ he asked.
“Exactly right,’’ I said. “What the hell were you thinking? Did you really imagine you could get away with it?”
“No, I meant what the hell kind of psycho bitch are you?’’
“Me?’’ I said, insulted.
“Yeah, you. You smack me in the face for no reason …”
“No reason? You were about to try to rape me.”
“You’re insane. I was copping a feel. Big deal. I thought maybe you’d reconsidered about getting it on. I thought you were sending signals that you were interested.’’ He pumped his lower region, back and forth, making combing motions at the same time. “That whole horse-grooming thing? Very sensual.’’
Now, I was certain my face looked as bewildered as his had. “You need to work on your signal-reading. Do you really think I’d be turned on by a murderer?’’
“Murderer?’’ He barked out a laugh. “Jesus, you are a psycho. Where’d you come up with that?’’
“The raccoon,’’ I said, a bit hesitant now. “I thought you poisoned it to make it look like you were a target. If you were the target, you couldn’t be the murderer.’’
“I’m not the murderer. The person who killed Norman tried to kill me, too.’’
I circled to the other side of the Percheron, putting the big horse between us. Tilton and I glared at each other over the creature’s broad back.
“How do I know you’re not the killer?’’ He pointed at me. “You made no secret of how much you hated all our ‘Hollywood crap.’ Maybe you wanted to sabotage the movie so we’d shut it down and just go away.’’
“Now you’re the psycho,’’ I said. “I don’t do the murders, I find the murderers. I’ve gotten kind of famous for it, actually.’’
“Really? Then how come you haven’t found this one?’’
I didn’t want to say, ‘Because my boyfriend dumped me, and I’ve been feeling really bad,’ so I just kept my mouth shut.
Tilton rested a hand on the big horse’s withers. “Well, we’ll all be out of your hair after today. You can have your heat and humidity, your mosquitoes and pounding rainstorms all to yourself again. God, I can’t wait to get back to LA.’’
Like a curtain descending, an awkward silence fell over us.
“I’m …’’ I finally blurted out.
“… Sorry,’’ he said at the same time, averting his eyes from mine. “I misread you again, and I’m sorry. I really do want to change, Mace. I just can’t seem to do it.’’
Studying his face, I saw some tiny dots of blood at the bridge of his nose where the comb broke the skin.
“I think you can change, if you want it bad enough. Get yourself some help,’’ I said. “Listen, I apologize for smacking you. The murder and all on this movie set has me as skittish as a weanling filly.’’
“Forget it. I was out of line. Again.’’ He gently touched his nose and winced. “I better get some ice on this.’’
I reached across the Percheron. Tilton jumped back. “Jeez, I wasn’t going to hit you,’’ I said. “I just wanted to shake hands and tell you goodbye.’’
“You mean good riddance, don’t you?’’
He offered his hand and a tiny smirk. We shook.
“See you in the movies,’’ I said.
Thunder growled, an angry rumble in the distance. The sky to the south was a sheet of black, a sure sign a storm was brewing over Lake Okeechobee. I climbed to the top rail of the horse corral, rotated my phone, and checked the signal. I wanted to call my tardy sisters, but I still couldn’t get anything. The movie carpenters had built the corrals at the lowest point in the pasture. If these had been real Florida cowmen, instead of a cast of Hollywood actors, they would have had to wade through standing water three months of the year to get to their stock.
There was still work to do with the horses. After my encounter with Tilton, though, I was too wound up, not to mention embarrassed, to enjoy the easy rhythm I had before. All I wanted now was to finish up, see my sisters arrive, and get the animals loaded and on their way. If the storm broke first, the movie company would just have to pay the rental fee to keep the horses another night. I wasn’t about to try to get storm-spooked creatures onto metal trailers as lightning flashed across a wide-open field.
Florida is the most dangerous spot in the country for lightning strikes. I didn’t feel like tempting fate; not with the way my luck had been running. I was about to review in my mind all the things I felt bad about—Carlos being at the top of that list—when the slam of a car door put a stop to my self-pity parade.
That had to be my sisters. Finally! A cheerful whistle pierced the muggy air. Neither of my sisters is a whistler.
Squinting across the pasture, I saw Savannah lean in to retrieve something from the back seat of a small SUV. That door slammed, too. She strolled the short distance toward me, holding a beribboned gift bag in one hand. Her bobbed hair swung with each step. A straw sunhat was pushed off her head, no longer needed in the fading afternoon light. It bounced against her back as she closed in on the corral.
There was one more reason I liked Savannah: Instead of mincing her way around cow chips and horse patties in girly-girl footwear, she strode confidently over the rough ground. Her feet were clad in well worn, ranch-style work boots.
“Hey you!’’ she shouted. “Need some help?’’
“Do I ever!’’ I called back. “C’mon in and grab a horse.’’
I quickly outlined for Savannah what needed to be done. We immediately set to work in the dwindling daylight. She didn’t waste a motion. When she went to the trailer to get horse feed, she came back with halters slung over one shoulder, lead ropes coiled in the crook of an arm.
“I can tell you’ve done this kind of work a time or two,’’ I said.
She began filling twenty-quart buckets with feed, big enough for the horses to poke in their heads and eat when the buckets are hung on the fence. “Yep, we’ve got a dozen horses on the Jackson ranch,’’ she said. “I love to ride, and I’ve never been afraid of hard work.’’
Within fifteen minutes, we were in pretty good shape. The small herd was groomed, tied at the corral, and munching away happily at a late afternoon supper. Savannah had been a godsend.
“Hey, would you mind if we saddle up one of the horses for me to get in a quick ride before the light goes? I’ve got a long drive ahead of me, and I could really use some exercise first.’’
I glanced at the sky. “Looks like it’s going to storm.’’
She looked up, too. “Nah, it should hold off long enough for a quick ride. Besides, these are Florida horses, right? I know they’re used to the rain!’’