“But?” Joey asked, puzzled.

“But Marcus heard about Trickster, and he bought her—offering her owner more money than the glue factory. He brought her out here, cared for her, and now she’s beautiful, as you can see.”

“They were going to make glue out of her?” Joey demanded, horrified.

“What matters is that she’s here now. And she knows we love her. It took a while, because she was just thrown out in a pasture and allowed to starve, living in constant pain, before Marcus rescued her.”

“But Marcus didn’t stay with her,” Joey pointed out.

“Marcus died, Joey. But he left her in the care of people who would continue to love her.”

Joey took a deep breath and ripped out a strand of grass to chew on. He looked across the landscape and said, “I shouldn’t have made life so miserable for my uncle, huh?”

“He was only miserable because he loves you. And I don’t think he’s miserable anymore because he knows you really do want to live a productive life. You just need to come to terms with what happened.”

He shrugged. At sixteen, he was a tall boy, a good-looking kid in great physical condition. He turned to her with one of his rakish smiles. “You like me, huh?”

“Of course I like you,” she told him.

His grin broadened. “I like you, too. But how I know you like me is that you’ve forgotten the time.”

Olivia glanced quickly at her watch. His hour was up; it had been for the past ten minutes. He’d been a tough case to crack and she’d felt deeply for him. “Don’t get ideas, kid,” she said. “I’m your therapist.”

“But you’re cute, too.”

“Great. Now let’s head back.”

“I can come and see Trickster when I’m older. Old enough to be a lot cooler in your eyes.”

“Joey! Cut it out. You’re just saying that to get a reaction out of me and you’re not going to. I’m your therapist. And you’re never going to be older than I am and we’re never going to date.”

“Wow. That life-not-being-fair thing is harsh!” he said. But he was still grinning. Then his grin faded. “They’re talking about Marcus, you know. There’s a rumor that he went back on drugs. That they found heroin in his system when they did the autopsy.”

Olivia felt her back stiffen. “Marcus wasn’t doing drugs,” she said.

“So, it’s a lie?”

She winced. It wasn’t a lie. But it was something that, so far, wasn’t common knowledge, even though the medical examiner had informed the staff at the Horse Farm. She’d assumed that unless an investigative reporter actually looked into Marcus’s death, no one would know it was true. And yet, rumors were obviously running rampant.

“I heard there were drugs in his system,” Joey said again.

“I knew Marcus, Joey. If there were drugs in his system, they weren’t there because he voluntarily took them.”

“You think he was tricked?” Joey asked.

“I don’t know what to think yet.”

“Wow. The plot thickens!” Joey said excitedly. “What if...wow. What if someone did drug him because they wanted him to die? Or what if he was pushed?”

“Joey, you’re talking about someone who meant a lot to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Liv, really.” Joey spoke with sincerity and she believed him. “It’s just that...well, we don’t have radios or TVs or the internet where I’m living right now. I’m embarrassed. I heard about this, and it was more interesting to think about that than...well, my own recovery, I guess,” he finished lamely.

“It’s okay. I’m not angry with you.”

“Scary, though, huh? I mean, this place is here for therapy. Supposedly, working with animals saved Marcus Danby’s life. If he wound up going back on drugs...well, it doesn’t say much for therapy.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Olivia agreed.

She looked toward the pastures at the Horse Farm. She hadn’t seen Marcus again—or rather, hadn’t seen his ghost. Had she imagined that she’d seen him? Did they—she and her cousin, Malachi—share a real gift? Or did they just imagine things, see them in their minds?

Uncertain, and unhappy with the official explanation, she’d called Malachi. But the results of the autopsy had just arrived that morning. She needed to call him again. He’d promised her he’d try to arrange an investigation, but explained that he had to tread carefully; he couldn’t come in officially unless invited. And because people knew he was her cousin, his arrival might give the appearance that the feds were intruding—or that she and the Horse Farm were receiving special treatment. But he’d said he’d figure something out.

Apparently, there was a government agent coming in as a client. A “burnout,” someone had called him. Was he Malachi’s answer to her request?

“Olivia?” Joey said.

“Yeah?” She tried to smile, realizing she’d been deep in thought and that he’d been watching her.

“I’m really, really sorry. I think this place is wonderful,” Joey told her earnestly.

“Thanks, Joey.”

“You all might have saved my life,” he said. “It works if you work it. You’re worth it, so work it!”

“Exactly,” she said.

He nodded. She really did like the kid. Especially when he realized, as he occasionally did, that he was a kid.

“Tell Trickster we’re going in,” Olivia instructed him.

Joey turned and stroked the horse’s forehead. “You are beautiful, Trickster,” he whispered, then gazed up at Olivia. “Do I get to ride?” he asked.

“Next session,” she said. “As you reminded me, we’re already over our hour. But next time, we’ll definitely ride.”

They returned to the Horse Farm. She watched as Joey brushed Trickster, brought her to her stall and fed her.

She didn’t have the heart to go and wave goodbye to the others who were leaving.

In fact, she didn’t even go back to the office. Aaron and the rest of the staff would be worrying, trying to figure out how to handle it if the news got out about Marcus’s autopsy. It was probably too late if a kid like Joey had already heard. Next step would be deciding how they were going to spin the information about his death.

When Joey left with his group, she quickly checked on the horses. She was the only one in the stables and assumed everyone else had either gone into the office for further anxious discussions—or hurried home. She headed straight to her car and left, driving the 4.5 miles to the little ranch house she’d visited so many times as a child. She’d purchased the place from her uncle once she’d accepted the job at the Horse Farm.

Her home was old, dating from the 1830s. She loved the house, always had. A huge fireplace took up most of the parlor, the ladies’ sitting room had been turned into a handsome kitchen with shiny new appliances and off the hallway was a computer/game/what-have-you room. There were two bedrooms upstairs, along with a sitting room, modern additions when they were built on in the late 1850s. They were all comfortable and charming. Her uncle told her that the house had always been in their family; a cousin, son, daughter, niece or nephew had taken it over every time. He’d given her a great price and held the mortgage himself. She’d paid it off last year on her twenty-sixth birthday.

As she stood at the door, she heard Sammy whining.

The dog could have stayed at the Horse Farm; God knew, there were enough rescue pets there! But Sammy had belonged to Marcus, and his leg was just beginning to heal. No one had objected when Olivia had said she was bringing him home.

She opened the door and there he was, tail wagging as he greeted her. Olivia didn’t have to bend far to greet him in return. Sammy was a big old dog who appeared to be a mix of many breeds. He had the coat of a golden retriever, the head of rottweiler and paws that might have belonged to a wolf. He had one blue eye and one half blue, half brown—it was a freckle on the eye, she’d been told.

He gazed up at her expectantly and sat back on his haunches. His hope and simple trust just about broke her heart. “He’s not coming back, Sammy. I’m sorry.”

Sammy barked in response. She wondered just what dogs did and didn’t understand.

Olivia threw her keys on the buffet at the entrance and walked to the kitchen to give Sammy a treat. As he gobbled up the “tasty niblet of beef and pork,” she promised him that she’d be back downstairs in a minute. He couldn’t go running out into the yard because he was still recovering from the gash on his hind leg.

She dashed upstairs, stripping as she went. She breezed through her bedroom to the bath and stepped into the shower, adjusting the water temperature until it was as hot as it could get. She stood there, feeling it rush over her, for a long time.

She wished she could turn off her mind.

Leaning against the tile, she wondered about Marcus. “You didn’t!” she whispered aloud.

It was easy to believe that an addict had fallen back into drugs. It happened. Some relapsed and returned to therapy or recovered through their own determination and resolve.

But not Marcus! Marcus couldn’t have relapsed.

She began to feel saturated by the heat and decided she was about to wrinkle for life. Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, drying herself before slipping into her terry robe. Hurrying downstairs, she went back to the kitchen, ready to make a cup of tea. Rounding the stairs, she noticed that Sammy was quiet, just sitting there, staring at the front door.

“At last!”

Stunned and terrified, her heart pounding, she whirled toward the door. Her hand flew to her throat as she desperately wondered what weapon she might grab to defend herself.

But no one had come to attack her.

The speaker was Marcus Danby.

Or the ghost of Marcus Danby.

“Good Lord, woman! What were you doing up there? I mean, just how clean can someone be?” Marcus demanded. He moved toward her as he spoke. “Oh, come on! You saw me before. You see me quite well right now, just like you’ve always been able to see General Cunningham and Loki. You think I didn’t know? Of course I do! You’re like a ghost magnet, my dear girl. Close your mouth—your lower jaw’s going to fall off. Please, Olivia,” he said in a gentler voice. “I need your help. The Horse Farm needs your help.”