Kit Ehrman: At Risk

Behind me, Nick chuckled. "You sure know how to make friends."

"I wouldn't want him for a friend," I said quietly.

"No. He's a creepy bastard. Mean too, what with that incident a while back."

"What incident?"

"You didn't hear about that?"

I shook my head.

He slid the hoof knife into its slot on his leather apron and picked up a rasp. "Well, about a year ago, there was a stink about him beating a horse-"

"He has horses?"

"Yep. Owns a farm west of here. Can't remember the name right now. Anyway, some horse did somethin' that pissed 'im off, so he tied it to a post and beat it with a whip. Cut the animal up good, so they say. Blood everywhere. Somebody reported him to the Humane Society. Course, by the time they showed, the horse was nowhere to be found." He spit a glob of chewing tobacco into an open stall. "Nothin' ever came of it."

"What kind of farm's he run?"

"Hunter/jumpers, lessons, sales, anything, I imagine… Got his hand in everything. Makes 'im feel important."

"You shoe for him?" I said and wondered whether Harrison would have the nerve to continue supplying us.

"Yep. For 'bout a year now. But I'm thinkin' of droppin' him."

"Why's that?"

"Guy's got a major cash flow problem." Nick flipped the rasp over in his hand. "Ol' Steel use to board at his farm?"

"You mean Mr. Sanders' horse?"

"Yep."

"He's one of the horses that was stolen," I said.

"I know. Sanders had him insured for twenty grand while he was at Harrison's."

"You're kidding?"

"Nope. My sister works for the insurance company that issued the claim. Agent who sold 'im the policy had a couple of tense minutes over it, 'cause in retrospect, it appears the horse ain't worth as much as all that."

"I wouldn't have thought so."

By the time Nick's truck disappeared down the road, my side was throbbing, and I was beat. Thinking about Mr. Sanders' little insurance policy, I left a message for Detective Ralston and headed home. As I climbed the steps to the loft, a trace of light lingered in the west, conclusive evidence that the days were getting longer.

I closed the kitchen door behind me and dropped my mail on the counter. The loft was oppressively quiet, the air stale. I dumped everything I'd been wearing onto the floor in the closet. Nothing smelled worse than burnt horse hoof. Even I couldn't stand myself. I took a long, hot shower, sloshed some Jack Daniels' over ice, and downed a Percodan. Between the two of them, the rib pain didn't stand a chance.

Wednesday morning, I could have done without. The combination of whiskey and pain medication that had successfully obliterated feeling of any sort the night before had mutated into a sledgehammer of a headache between my temples. And it didn't help that the first person I ran into was Brian.

"What'n the hell'd you tell that cop?" he asked before I'd even unlocked the feed room door.

"What cop?"

"That cop that was here, Ran…"

"Ralston?"

"Yeah, him."

"What about it?" I said. "He's investigating the horse theft."

"I know that," he snapped. "He was here again Monday, day you was off. Questions he was asking, you'd of thought I was guilty or somethin'."

I shook my head. "Brian, I didn't say anything about you."

"You must of said something."

"No," I said and knew I was wasting my breath. "I didn't."

Brian sulked off, and I wondered if he'd ever see that he created his own reality. And I was impressed with Ralston. He'd pegged Brian pretty quick, and I wondered how he had classified me.

The morning dragged on. Boarders came and went. Horses were shifted from stall to paddock or paddock to stall. A third of the stalls had been mucked out by lunch time, and the headache had disappeared without my being aware of it. I walked into the lounge, got my lunch out of the fridge, and checked the office. Mrs. Hill had gone home to eat, and everyone else had gone out. For something to do, I switched on the TV, sank into the sofa cushions, and flipped through the channels. The news was a repeat of the day before; only the names had changed. The soaps were a farce. The talk shows worse. I hit the play button. Someone had left an instructional video in the machine, and though it didn't much interest me, it was better than nothing.

I had almost finished my lunch when the door to the lounge opened. I looked over my shoulder.

Mrs. Elsa Timbrook walked into the room. Well, she hadn't walked, not really. I doubted she walked anywhere. More accurately, she strode with long lithe legs, like a cat. Or a tigress. She stood just inside the doorway and surveyed the room as the door swung shut behind her. Satisfied that we were alone, she looked at me and smiled, and I felt my pulse pick up.

She had long blond hair that tended to frizz when it rained, stunning green eyes, and a body so sensual in design and proportion, she ought to be illegal. I looked back at the television and tried to ignore her. She crossed the room and sat next to me. I glanced at her and managed a weak smile, then looked at the apple in my hand and couldn't imagine finishing my lunch.

She wriggled around on the sofa and slid her leg onto the cushion, like she was going to sit Indian-style, but she left the other leg where it was so that her knees were spread apart. She made sure her shin was pressing into my leg. My gaze drifted downward. Her skin-tight breeches left little to the imagination, and I felt frozen, sitting there like some damn idiot, completely under her control.

"Hi, Steve," she said in that husky voice of hers that always got me wondering what she sounded like when she wasn't putting on an act. Or maybe she'd played it for so long, the act was the only thing that was real.

"Hello, Mrs. Timbrook."

"Elsa."

I cleared my throat. "Elsa."

"Oooh, you've hurt your face." She leaned forward and brushed my cheek with her fingertips. "What happened?"

I was surprised she hadn't heard, but the rest of the boarders, the majority being female, left her strictly alone. "I, eh… got hurt."

She leaned closer, and the scent of her perfume filled my nostrils. "Poor honey."

Elsa put her hand on my knee, and it was then that I noticed her ring. I'd often wondered what her husband was like, though she probably never did it with him-the thrill for her was the chase. The more you resisted, the more determined she became. The woman liked control as long as she was the one who had it, and I almost felt sorry for him.

She looked at the TV. "What are you watching?"

"'Rider Position and Technique,'" I mumbled.

"You don't need to watch that." She slid her hand farther up my leg. "I can teach you everything you need to know about position and technique."

Christ. I bet she could. I felt my face flush, and it was getting damn uncomfortable sitting there like that. I needed to adjust myself in the worst sort of way. Maybe she'd do it for me, and imagining that made it worse.

I shifted on the cushion just as she slid her hand off my leg in a slow upward movement. Her fingers brushed across my crotch. I exhaled sharply.

Elsa's eyes were strangely unfocused under heavy lids, and she was breathing through her mouth. She straightened and unzipped her coat, then reached up with both hands and shifted it off her shoulders. It tumbled onto the cushion behind her and slid to the floor in slow motion. Her sweater was softly luminescent under the florescent lights, the swell of her breasts pressing against the fabric.

She reached over and stroked her fingers across the top of my hand. Her touch sent a jolt through my body, like electricity was coursing through my veins instead of blood.

Elsa moved her hand beneath mine and took hold of the apple I had forgotten was there. My grip was so tight, I had to force my fingers to relax as she pried it from my grasp. As she turned it in her hands, I noticed that her nail polish was the same deep red. She had great hands. Long slender fingers, long nails, a light touch. I bet she was good with her hands. Practiced anyway.