He looked at her, soft with empathy. “Your marriage?”
“My life,” she said, voice breaking. “My house, my business, my money, my reputation—it’s all gonepoofthanks to him. Everything I built he’s taken from me.”
Gordon took a step toward her. “Hey, hey. It’s going to be okay.”
She looked up at him, and a laugh burbled up her throat. “God, I’m such a punch line. Aren’t I?”
“I don’t think so,” he told her. “I think you’re hurting, but you’re strong. You’ll get through this. You come from tough stock, after all.”
“We’re going to stay,” she said, knowing there was really no other choice. Eustace had made up her mind already, and Cordelia had nowhere else to go. “I want you to stay too. I’d feel better knowing you were here with us.” She cleared her throat. “Withme.”
The whole world became Gordon in that moment—his whiskey-colored eyes, the dark hair striping his chin, the ink stippling his proud neck, the curling knot of hair. Everything that wasn’t Gordon no longer existed. No trees or grass or sky. And Cordelia could not escape the hammering in her chest or the warming between her legs.
Carefully, he reached out and brushed a flyaway from her face. “We’re here,” he said with a rough voice, breaking the spell.
She looked up to see the brown, rotting husk of an old barn,many years neglected, in the near distance, with the woods creeping up beside it. Taking a step back, she caught her breath, willed the rumble in her body to settle, then turned and walked toward it.
The old door creaked loudly as she pulled it back. A pair of robins nesting in an exposed crossbeam dove toward her on their way out. Sunlight streamed through holes in the roof. The dirt floor bore tracks of wildlife—coons and rabbits—instead of the U-shaped marks of shod horses.
Gordon pointed at a muddy pile long as her forearm. “Bear scat,” he said. “Pretty recent. Must be coming in here to hunt.”
A center aisle separated a handful of stalls and what must have been a tack room at one end. Feed and equipment storage was reserved for the open space at the other end. It was practical enough, but not the equestrian finery one might expect for a facility acquiring so many stud fees. This downtrodden structure with rotting boards and weathered cupola fell short.
Gordon looked around. “I told you this place was a wreck.”
“You weren’t kidding,” she agreed.
“You still haven’t told me what we’re doing here.” He raised his eyebrows.
Cordelia walked the aisle between stalls, peering into each as she went. The rusted shell of an old hay feeder could still be seen in one. “Did our aunt ever mention anything about a family business in horses?” she asked him.
“No. She knew the barn was here, of course. Told me I could use it for storage if needed. Why?”
Having reached the end, Cordelia spun around to face him. “The entry in the ledger I showed you. It’s from the study. There are dozens of them with these entries for stud fees marked in there—many,manystud fees.”
His eyes simmered. “This isn’t a stud barn,” he told her. “These stalls are too small for stallions. And there’s not enoughreinforced fencing in between. There’s no stud shed or place for the breeding to happen—this open end would have been full of hay bales and farm equipment once upon a time. Any paddocks that were once here are long gone, but these stalls don’t open out from the back, which would be necessary for a temperamental stallion full of testosterone, rather than leading him through this narrow channel full of other horses.”
Cordelia whirled on him. “You know an awful lot about the subject.”
Gordon smiled confidently. “My ex. She had a wealthy grandfather who ran a small hobby farm. Quarter horses mostly. We spent a couple of summers there.”
Cordelia bit back the jealousy rising at the mention of this woman twice in one day. She wondered if he felt the same when she talked about John.
He glanced around. “They’d have kept the draft horses for pulling in the carriage house. This was likely a place to keep workhorses and a mare or two for pleasure riding.”
Cordelia took a deep breath. “It’s as I figured then.”
He stepped toward her.
“They were a cover for something else, those entries. Some illegal or at least unsavory line of work.” She hugged herself, distressed by her family’s dishonesty.
“Any theories?” he asked.
She frowned. “Eustace has a couple. They’re not very flattering.”
Gordon looked at the busted roof. When he looked back down, his eyes were edged with cynicism. “Can’t say I’m surprised, considering your reputation in town.”
She ran her fingers along the top of one of the only remaining Dutch doors, several others having rotted off their hinges and lying on the ground. The wood was rougher than a jackfruit rind; a long splinter lodged itself in the pad of her index finger. Cursing, she pulled her hand close.
