Her breath hitched with that raw, aching sting burning the back of her throat as the shame twisted deep to coil inside her stomach like scalding strings of barbed wire.She was supposed to be a police officer.A Stock Squad investigator.A woman who knew better.And yet here she was—failing.Again.
The distant rumble of an engine grabbed her attention.
It was Porter’s work vehicle rolling into the driveway, fresh off night shift.He parked near the back of the house that had no garden or even a lawn.A clear and open space with plenty of spotlights to shine over the house and the stables.
And yet, someone got in—while she was sleeping!
Climbing out of the vehicle, Porter scrubbed a hand over his face, stretching out the exhaustion.Then he spotted her and stopped cold.‘What’s wrong, Montrose?’
Amara stood by the fence and could only stare at the empty yard, as she fought back the tears, the anger, and all the pathetic excuses for her failure.This was twice!
‘Montrose…’ His boots moved over the gravel, heavy with purpose.‘Amara?’
She didn’t budge.It shouldn’t have happened.Not again.
He stood beside her, taking in the broken fence, the hoofprints.‘Oh no…’
He knew.
She just didn’t have the heart to say the words as hot tears spilled down her cheeks.She hated those tears.Hated to cry.And she hated this feeling of loss, of having something stolen from her.
It was the cruel reminder she didn’t need, effectively emphasising why she didn’t get attached to people, animals, places, or even things.
Surprisingly, Porter didn’t ask if she was okay.He simply slid his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her gently.‘We’ll find your horse.’
Yet, something already told her that Lot 728, the horse she’d called Tempest, was gone for good.
Fifteen
The scene was chaotic with people everywhere, creating a low hum of scattered conversation, as assorted boots crunched over dirt, along with the occasional radio squawk from comms, pretty much destroyed the early morning quiet.
Every local cop car and Finn’s troopy were parked in a loose cluster near the stables.No sirens, no flashing lights, just the efficiency of the police doing their job like ants spilling over a disturbed nest.
Except this wasn’t just any investigation—the Stock Squad were in charge.
And this was Porter’s property.His home.
Standing at the edge of the mess, hands on his hips, with his jaw locked tight, trying to swallow the irritation rising in his throat, Porter was used to seeing crime scenes like this.Normally, he’d take notes, give out orders, and control the flow.
But standing here as a victim?
That ticked him off way more than he cared to admit.Because this wasn’t just about him, either…
Poor Amara.
The frustration in his chest twisted into something else—something heavier.Sure, Amara was on the case, moving like a machine, methodically gathering up evidence like she wasn’t personally bleeding from this loss.
But he knew this was Amara’s worst nightmare playing out all over again.Which sucked big-time, especially when she’d been so happy about riding again.He’d seen her smile of pure joy—that had dazzled him only yesterday—which was now long gone.
Montrose was doing a stellar job of burying her emotions.Deadset, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was unaffected, distancing herself from everything and everyone as usual.He could see it in the tightness of her jaw.The way her hands curled into fists when she thought no one was looking.The flicker of something raw in her eyes before she buried it beneath duty and professionalism.
And that burned.
Poor Montrose was standing in her own crime scene, where it looked like the last of her happiness was scattered in a trail of hoofprints that had long left the yard.
And all he could do was watch her pretend that it didn’t matter.
Screw that.
