3
Dustin arrived at the Horse Farm. There was a massive sign on the narrow paved road that led to a long dirt drive, a sign announcing that he’d reached the Horse Farm.
It was an impressive place. Acres of rolling fields surrounded it, gorgeous hills crested in the background and rich forests stood beyond the pastures and meadows. When he got there, he saw that to the right of the drive were the massive stables, painted a cheerful bright red. To the left was the office and rec building; it, too, was large, but built ranch-style with only one story. Parking in the dusty drive out front, he headed for the office. Opening the door, he found old western furniture, walls covered with prints, paintings and newspaper clippings of horses, and overstuffed leather sofas. He saw a games room with people playing Ping-Pong and heard the whack, whack, whack of the ball going back and forth. A young woman breezed by him with a quick “Hello!” and hurried on to the back. “I’m challenging the winner!” she called.
A woman in her mid-or late thirties stepped aside to allow the young blonde to move past, to the games room. She shook her head but smiled tolerantly.
“Sorry, Mama Cheever!” the younger woman said.
“It’s fine, Liz. Go save your spot.” There was something both matronly and businesslike about her. She wore western-style boots, jeans and a colorful cotton shirt. She’d seen Dustin arrive and was coming toward him. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Maybe that was it. She had a long, sharp-featured face that rather resembled a giraffe’s.
“Agent Blake?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Sandra, Sandra Cheever. Or Mama Cheever, as you heard, which I still don’t get. I don’t cuddle patients, don’t tuck them in—I don’t even brew tea, for God’s sake. But I do handle the paperwork and the scheduling around here. We have everything we need except your signature for the files. These days—especially working with animals—we have to get waivers. But your office took care of everything else.”
“That’s great. What do I do? Where do I start? I’m ready to sign.”
Hands on her hips, she cast her head at an angle to study him.
“It’s good to hear your enthusiasm,” she told him. “I was afraid you’d be hostile to the situation—that it was a ‘come here or lose your job’ scenario.”
“I’m from Nashville, but you know that. You probably know everything about me,” Dustin said. “And I love horses. This sounded better than any other offer I’ve had, so yep. I’m enthusiastic.”
“Excellent. Then I’ll just bring you in to see Aaron. He’s our managing director.”
She lifted a hand to point at a door with a placard that read Aaron Bentley.
“Just tap and go on in,” Sandra said, grimacing as they heard a loud squeal from the back. “I’m going to go supervise. They’re good kids. When they’re here, anyway. But...they can get a bit crazy.”
Sandra hurried to the back. Dustin watched her go as he tapped on the door.
“Come in, it’s open!”
Dustin stepped into the office. It was old-fashioned, to say the least. While the desk bore a laptop computer and a printer, an old blotter still sat on it, too, along with a memo tray piled high with papers. The room had two big leather-covered chairs in front of the desk and a worn couch to the rear. Windows looked out over one of the pastures.
The man standing behind the desk was about six feet tall, bearded and balding. His beard was neatly clipped; he seemed far better organized in his personal appearance than he did in his office management skills. Thin gold-rimmed glasses sat on his nose. He smiled seeing Dustin and walked around the desk, offering his hand.
“You must be Agent Blake. I’m sorry. One of us should have been out there to greet you.”
“Oh, a nice woman named Sandra did greet me. And yes, I am. But please call me Dustin.”
“We go by first names here, so that’s great. I’m Aaron. Aaron Bentley. We’re glad to have you here, Dustin. We’ve broken ground with many different groups, you know. About ten years ago, we started working with veterans—the physically wounded, and those who have wounded minds. We help children with disabilities, addicts of all ages, you name it—horse therapy can work wonders. But you’re our first law enforcement official. Let’s sit down for a moment.”
Aaron returned to the swivel chair behind his desk, while Dustin sank into one of the old leather armchairs. It was comfortable. As messy as the office might look, that apparent chaos actually contributed to a sense of ease.
“I spoke with your supervisor, a Mr. Jackson Crow,” Aaron said, folding his hands in front of him. He didn’t glance at papers or fiddle with anything on his desk. He gave his absolute attention to Dustin. “He said you were having nightmares and that he believes you’re—”
“Burned out?” Dustin suggested.
“No. Experiencing one of those spells where you’re having trouble weighing the good you’re able to provide against the horrors you have to see. I admit, when I first got the call, I suspected you’d been involved in some dreadful situation where innocents had been killed. But he tells me you’re one of his best agents and that he wants you to take some time off. He also said you don’t do well with traditional psychiatrists or therapy and that he hopes this will work for you.”
“Ah, did he tell you that?” Dustin murmured. He’d had a general idea of what Jackson Crow had planned on saying; he didn’t know how close to home it might be.
“I smoked once, Aaron. Years ago. Cigarettes, I mean. I went to a hypnotist to stop. Thinking about water and staring at a bull’s-eye on the wall did nothing for me. I merely wanted to kill the hypnotist.”
“Well, this isn’t like that, but...we do have group and individual therapy. We also do camping trips to the little brook a couple miles from here. You don’t have to think about the water—you can walk right into it if you choose. Frankly, I’m not sure we’ll be what you’re looking for, but we’re anxious to see if we can help men and women in your situation. If nothing else, a little R & R is always good for someone who is constantly under life-or-death tension.”
“I’m glad to be here. You know I live in northern Virginia—D.C. area, really—and I love it. But Nashville and these hills—well, this is home.”
“Good, good!” Aaron seemed genuinely pleased. “Now I should tell you that we’re in the middle of a real shake-up. We’ve just lost our founder—Marcus Danby. It’s a tough time for all of us. So...your people knew he was dead when they called. The fact that you wanted to go ahead, anyway, is a testament to Marcus. At any rate,” he said briskly, “I put you in with a small group this morning. I understand you met one of the kids, Joey, last night. Young man, acting out. Terrible loss in his family. Anyway, I won’t tell you any more. Come on out. I believe that Liv’s at the stables and the troops are gathering.”
As they went out the front door, another man was coming in. Aaron paused to introduce the two of them. “Dustin, meet Mason Garlano. You met Drew and Mariah Naughton last night, so once you’ve spent your first session with Liv, you’ll know all of us except for Sydney Roux. He takes care of the horses and the stables with Drew.”
Mason Garlano had sleek, curly dark hair and dark eyes. He was in his twenties, with a slightly exotic flair and unmistakable charm. He quickly shook Dustin’s hand. “We’re glad you’re here—and hope you enjoy your visits.”
Dustin thanked him and followed Aaron to the stables.
At first sight, Olivia Gordon was little short of spectacular. He understood immediately why the adolescents he’d met the night before were so crazy about her.
She resembled her cousin, Malachi, except that everything that made Malachi Gordon appear rough and rugged came out as pure beauty in Olivia. They had the same sable hair, a color that was rich and shiny. Hers was long, waving down her back.