Ms. Calculation. Danica Winters
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or more profoundly than a man. The same went for mares and studs, and the proof was the lame horse that had brought Bianca to Dunrovin Ranch in the little town of Mystery, Montana.
The paint had her rear end backed into the corner of her stall, an instinct to protect herself from predators who, if she’d been in the wild, would have already taken advantage of her injury and moved in for the kill.
Bianca snorted slightly at how the instincts between animals and people were the same. When everything was stripped away—the names, the relationships, the social frameworks and the money—humans were nothing more than animals.
According to Mrs. Fitz, the paint mare had been in heat and had gotten into a fight with another mare when they’d turned the paint out. Normally the two mares had gotten along, their hierarchy and roles within their social group well established, but due to the proximity of a buckskin stallion, things had taken a turn for the worse and the mare had injured her foot in the fight. Bianca wasn’t sure if the animal’s leg was sprained or broken; she’d have to get her hands on the horse before she’d know.
“Hey, baby,” Bianca cooed as she slowly opened the stall’s door and moved in closer to the mare.
The horse gave a long huff as it looked over at her. It had the wide eyes of an animal in pain and it was breathing hard. Her left front leg was swollen and angry-looking, and from the state of it, it was easy to see why Mrs. Fitz had been upset when she’d called. If a horse broke a leg, which appeared to be the case here, it sadly often ended with the animal being euthanized.
It was the worst part of her job—making the choice between life and death.
In preparation for the worst, she’d already drawn up the syringe of Beuthanasia and left it in her bag just outside the stall in an attempt to keep from spooking the animal more than necessary. Though the recommended dose was two milliliters for every ten pounds, she’d doubled it. It was always better to have too much of the powerful anesthetic—it was more humane. One little prick of a needle and a squeeze and the numbness would wrap the animal’s world in a shroud of darkness.
The mare moved to paw the ground in agitation, but as she shifted her weight, she stumbled and squealed in pain. The sound made the hairs on Bianca’s arms rise. She personally knew all about pain—though hers was of the emotional kind. The kind no one noticed, until they looked deep in her eyes and then—fearing what they saw would catch—they turned away.
The whites of the mare’s eyes were showing, her chest was flecked with saliva and sweat rolled down her coat. These were just more signs that what Bianca feared doing most may be just the thing she would be forced to do. She already hated herself for the choices she had made in her private life. This would only make her feel worse.
She watched the horse carefully as she approached with metered caution. A hurt animal was a dangerous thing.
“It’s okay, girl,” she whispered.
The mare threw her head and staggered as the motion forced her to catch her body weight on the injured leg.
“No, sweetheart, no, calm down.” Bianca moved closer and gently ran her hand down the mare’s leg. From touch alone, she couldn’t feel a definite break.
Maybe she could save the animal after all. Some of the dread she’d been feeling drifted from her. Perhaps today, instead of taking a life, she could save one.
Bianca stood up and traced her fingers over the star on the mare’s forehead. The horse’s ears flicked to the right, like a finger pointing to something just over her shoulder.
Bianca turned to see what the animal was looking at. The person was small, but they moved fast.
The needle plunged into Bianca’s neck. The anesthetic burned as they forced the syringe’s contents into her.
Bianca’s scream echoed through the stable as she grasped at the empty syringe that protruded from her skin. She fumbled with it, pulling it out and watching in horror as the needle fell onto the hay strewn at their feet.
Red boots... She recognized those horrible boots.
The darkness flooded in from all sides as the anesthetic pumped through her body.
She’d been right. More Beuthanasia had been better.
Death came quick.
Everyone in law enforcement would admit the worst aspect of the job was notifying the next of kin when a loved one died. Today that job fell on Wyatt Fitzgerald’s shoulders... Well, not fell exactly, so much as it was a weight he’d offered to bear. The fact that they were only a few weeks away from Christmas only made it that much harder.
He parked his patrol unit at the end of the Johansens’ driveway, as far from the front door as possible so he would have plenty of time before he would have to face them—and his former high school girlfriend, Gwen. The last time they had spoken, almost a decade ago, she’d made it clear she hated him. What he was about to do would only make her hatred for him worse, and he wouldn’t be able to hold those feelings against her.
Though it was early in December, he was surprised they hadn’t started to decorate for the holidays. When he’d been younger, they’d always had the Widow Maker Ranch decked out, complete with handmade pine-bough wreaths and thousands of lights. From the look of the derelict place, with its shabby siding and in-need-of-new-shingles roof, it was like the Johansens were just waiting for someone to arrive with news like his.
This moment, his coming to the door with the news of the death of their beloved sister and daughter, would be etched in their memories forever. And he would always be remembered as the catalyst for this tragic change in their lives. Without a doubt, they would always blame him for the hurt they were about to experience. In a way, he felt almost responsible for Bianca’s mysterious death.
The snow crunched under his boots as he made the long march up the driveway to the ranch house’s door. Maybe he should have brought along the other officer. They’d always been taught to go in pairs. It made it easier to face what had to be done. But this time, under all the extenuating circumstances, he felt this was one journey he had to make on his own—that was, right up until the door was within his line of sight.
He would make it quick. Like a Band-Aid. One rip and it would all be over—at least for him. Then the real pain would begin for them. He cringed at the thought of how Bianca and Gwen’s mother, Carla, would take the news. Ever since her husband’s accident with the hay tedder at Dunrovin Ranch, she’d never been the same and she’d never forgiven his family or the crew that helped run the place. To her, everything about the accident had been Dunrovin’s fault, and therefore its owners—Wyatt’s parents—were to blame.
His stomach clenched as he realized this moment, his coming to the door with tragic news, was something Carla had gone through once before. Their shared past would amplify everything. He hated having to be a part of her pain once again.
He took a long breath in a failed attempt to calm his anxiety and knocked on the front door. The glass rattled as he tapped, loose thanks to the years of neglect since Mr. Johansen’s death.
The last time Wyatt knocked on this door had been the night of their senior prom. If only he could go back in time to the days when his biggest worries were centered on how much playtime he would get in the Friday-night football game, and whether or not Gwen would be free to watch.
The curtain was drawn back and Carla’s face appeared in the window. Her nose was red and purple and covered with the spider veins indicative of a long-term alcoholic—not that he could blame her after the life she had led. Her wind-burned skin, the mark of all serious ranchers, had more lines than he remembered and her hair had turned gray, but she still had the same dark eyes of a haunted woman.
“What the hell do you want? I’m fresh out of doughnuts,” she said through the glass, her words slowed by booze even though it was early