Had adored him, she told herself. No, she did adore him. All that he’d been and all that he’d taught her would stay with her forever.
He’d lived in a small house on the property, about a quarter mile from the stables, and the staff at the Horse Farm only knew he was gone because Sammy, his golden retriever—another rescue animal—had come to the stables, wet, tail between his legs, anxious. He’d been limping because he’d managed to gash his left leg quite badly.
Aaron Bentley, managing director of the Horse Farm, had tried to believe that Marcus had driven somewhere and Sammy had hurt himself trying to catch up with him.
But Marcus hadn’t driven anywhere—not on his own, anyway. His old Ford pickup was still in the driveway. And Olivia knew Marcus would’ve died before allowing any harm to come to his beloved Sammy.
So they’d all become extremely worried. Aaron had called in the local authorities and they’d set up a search; Olivia had the backwoods acreage, while others had been assigned the pond area, the pastures and the adjoining farms, businesses and residences.
They had now been out searching for hours in their designated areas. She and Aaron, plus the other two therapists from the Horse Farm—Mason Garlano and Mariah Naughton. As well, the stable bosses, Drew Dicksen and Sydney Roux, had joined the search. And so had Deputy Sheriff Vine and his partner, Jimmy Callahan. Only Sandra Cheever—known as Mama Cheever—the house manager for the offices, had remained behind. There were miles of pastureland and forest out there—enough to keep them riding and searching for many more hours. But dusk seemed to be coming on fast.
Twilight. Twilight in these hills.
A dangerous time up here—if you didn’t know your way.
But Marcus hadn’t fallen in the twilight. He’d had his accident, if accident it was, in the brightness of day....
He was cold now, stone cold. Olivia didn’t have many skills in forensics, but she was certain that he’d been here for some time. He hadn’t fallen in the dusk—a time when a tourist might become disoriented among the rolling hills, forested slopes and rocky dips.
This time of day frightened many people here. Kids told scary tales over campfires about the Civil War soldiers who continued to haunt the rugged terrain. Marcus had loved the legends; he’d once told her with a wink that the soldiers were his friends. In fact, he’d confided that Brigadier General Rufus Cunningham had been a big help when he’d decided to clean up—but he’d hoped his conversations with the long-dead man might cease once he was off the rum and heroin.
She was down in a ravine with a dead man who’d been a mentor to her, and it was getting dark. This wasn’t the time to mourn him. Only a few minutes had ticked by since she’d found him. There was no point in wishing him alive. Death was unmistakable.
She dug into her pocket for her cell phone, praying it would work. Satellite communication here wasn’t always the best.
But she called Aaron and he answered on the second ring. She got the words out, hard as they were, and told him she’d found Marcus, explaining that he appeared to have fallen.
“CPR. Do artificial respiration,” Aaron said urgently.
Olivia looked at Marcus. She had truly loved the man.
He was dead. He was cold; he was gone.
There was no way she was attempting artificial respiration.
“He’s dead, Aaron.”
“You can’t be sure!”
“Aaron, I’m sure. I am not trying artificial respiration. Get the officers to this location. Please.”
She hung up. And then she waited.
Full darkness was coming, and coming soon. She felt that she had to keep her hand on Marcus’s shoulder, that she had to be there with him. She hated that he’d been alone when he died.
She hated that she was alone now and that the last mauve of twilight was turning to gray and would soon become black.
She always rode with a flashlight, but it was at the top of the ravine in the bag she’d attached to her saddle.
She looked up as Shiloh whinnied. The horse pranced nervously.
“Don’t you leave me, boy!” she called to him. “It’s all right—”
She broke off in midsentence.
She hadn’t actually grown up here—not right here, about twenty miles west of Nashville off I-40—but she’d grown up in the city. She’d often come out to her uncle’s small ranch during her lifetime. She knew the legends of the area.
Many times, on foggy nights, she’d imagined that she’d seen them and seen him. In the mists that covered the hills, she’d seen the Rebel soldiers, cast from Nashville in 1862, trying to fight their way back, retreating in the darkness of night. She’d imagined the bloodstained battlefields; she’d heard the cries of wounded and dying soldiers.
She’d imagined seeing Brigadier General Rufus Cunningham, tall and straight and ever sorrowful at the death toll of the war as he watched his threadbare and beaten men ride by.