Nobody was scooting down the steps. And nobody could have gotten through the padlocked gate down at the bottom.

Turning back to the mansion, Lane got worried he was seeing things. He’d much rather it just be a case of his ancestors returning to haunt their former home than some form of insanity setting in.

And, dear Lord, if that was your data screen? Things really were in the crapper.

“Thanks, Gary,” he said as he re-approached the groundsman.

“What fer. Just doing my job.” The guy took off his hat and repositioned it in exactly the same place on his head. “You go get yourself some rest, there. You look tired.”

“Good advice. Very good advice.”

Not that he had much hope of sleeping.

“And ya should keep something in mind.”

“What’s that?”

“God don’t give ya more than you can handle. That ain’t mean it’s gonna be fun, but I guarantee ya that He knows you better’n you do yourself.”

“I hope that’s right.”

The handyman shrugged and turned away. “Don’t matter whether you hope or not. It’s true. You’ll see.”

THREE

The interrogation room Edward was let into was the same one that he’d been in earlier in the day, when he’d met and fired his public defender. And as with the common area and his cell, the furniture was stainless steel and bolted down, the table and four chairs hard and cold and going nowhere.

He picked the seat facing the door, and as he eased his broken body down, he didn’t bother holding the groan in. That was one nice thing about being around Ramsey. Mitch had seen him in even worse states so there was no need to hide anything.

“Are you going to tell me who it is?” He prayed it wasn’t Lane. His little brother was the last person he wanted to see, even though he loved the guy. “Or are you going to make me guess?”

“Wait here.”

“As if I’m going anywhere?”

The deputy backed out and there was a clank as the door was locked. Left to himself, Edward linked his hands loosely and put them on the tabletop. The air-conditioning was more intense here, the cold air falling like snow, silent and chilly, from the vent over his head. The lower temperature did not mean it was fresh, however. The stuff still smelled of institution, that unique bouquet of metal, astringent, and body odor.

Please, not Lane, he thought.

His little brother was his Achilles’ heel, and he was concerned that Lane was going to spoil everything. Back when they had been growing up, Edward had always been in control—well, except for when Maxwell acted out, and no one was ever in control of that, not even Max. But Edward had always been the voice of authority and reason, and it had been from out of that venerable tradition that he had instructed Lane to accept the reality that their father’s death had come about by Edward’s own hand and no one else’s.

And that Lane now had to take care of everyone.

After all, their mother was in no condition to deal with anything more stressful than getting her hair set and brushed out before her head returned to its silk-covered pillow. And Gin was going to struggle enough with downgrading from private jets to commercial business class. And Max? Not a chance. That vagabond was more likely to leave town on the back of some stranger’s truck than man up and make the hard decisions that were coming soon.

But if this wasn’t Lane, who could it be? Not the psychiatrist Edward had blown off earlier in the clinic. Not a priest for last rites, because although he felt like death, he wasn’t dying. Certainly not anyone at the Red & Black Stables—Moe Brown could run that place with his eyes closed.

Who—

From the recesses of his mind, the image of a tall brunette woman with classically beautiful features and the elegance of European royalty emerged and took over.

Sutton . . . he thought. Would she come to see him?

Sutton Smythe was both his perfect match—and, when he’d been at the Bradford Bourbon Company, also his biggest business rival as the heir to the Sutton Distillery Corporation. Not only had they grown up together in Charlemont, but after they’d returned to work in their families’ businesses, they had seen each other at charity galas, private parties, and as they sat on various boards. They had never been officially together, never dated, never merged their lives in any way—although there had been years of attraction and, most recently, twice when they had made love.

It was right out of Shakespeare, the two of them. Star-crossed lovers following different destinies.

But he loved her. With what little he had to give to anybody.

Just before he had made his confession to the police, he had told Sutton there was no future for them. It had killed him to hurt her as he had, but she must have seen his arrest on the news by now—so maybe this was her, coming to give him hell. After all, Sutton was the sort who would demand to know the why’s and the where’s and the how’s, and she’d be well aware that Ramsey could get her in after hours in order to reduce the risk of the ever-hungry media finding out she was coming to see him—

There was a clank as the door was unlocked, and for a split second, Edward’s heart pounded so hard he got dizzy.

With a jerky shift, he covered his wrist with his hand, even though his sleeve was down—and then the heavy panel swung open. As Ramsey came in, there was no seeing around his huge shoulders and chest, and Edward pushed his palms into the table and tried to stand—

“Oh, no,” he muttered as he let himself fall back down. “No.”

Ramsey stepped aside and indicated the way forward—and the young woman who followed his direction was like a pony walking past a Clydesdale. Shelby Landis was barely five feet tall, and between the no-makeup and that blond hair pulled back in a rubber band, she looked barely legal to drive.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Ramsey murmured as he started to shut them in together.

“Please do not,” Edward said.

“I’ve turned the monitoring equipment off.”

“I want to go back to my cell!” Edward yelled as the door was closed and re-locked.

Shelby stayed where she’d stopped, just inside the room. Her head and eyes were down, and her arms tucked in around her chest, her T-shirt and her blue jeans clean but almost as old as she was. The only expensive thing she had on were her steeled-toed leather barn boots. Other than that, a Target sales rack was a step up from her wardrobe. Then again, when you spent your life working around thoroughbreds, particularly the stallions, you learned that everything you wore was going to need nightly washing, and your feet were among your most vulnerable points thanks to all those shod hooves.

“What.” Edward tried to move backward in his chair, but the damn thing offered about as much flexibility and comfort as a cement block. “Well?”

Shelby’s voice was as soft as her work-honed body was not. “I just was wantin’ to see if you was okay.”

“I’m fine. It’s like Christmas every day in here. Now, if you will excuse me—”

“Neb cut his face open yesterday. In the middle o’ that storm. I couldn’t get the hood on him fast enough.”

In the silence that followed, Edward thought back to just a week or so before, when Shelby had showed up on the doorstep of the Red & Black’s caretaker cottage where he’d been staying. She’d had nothing to her name but an old truck and a directive from her dead father to find a job from one Edward Baldwine. The former had been nothing special, just four tires and a rusted-out shell. The latter had been a debt that Edward had had to honor: Everything he knew about horses, he’d learned from her ornery, brilliant, alcoholic father. And what do you know . . . everything Shelby had learned about ornery, alcoholic men had certainly given her a leg up in dealing with Edward.

“My stallion is an idiot,” he muttered. Then again, so was its owner. “Moe and you get the vet out?”

“Fifteen stitches. I’m padding the stall. The whole thing. He always been like this?”

“A hothead with a temper, who alternates between arrogance and panic? Especially when he can injure himself? Yes, and it’s gotten worse with age.”