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The high desert and towering green Wallowa Mountains gave way to rolling hills of tall grass as we traveled north. Peter hadn’t uttered a word, and I hadn’t either. I recognized the crossed arms, clamped jaw. I had been that same kid more than a decade ago.

I wouldn’t earn his trust with small talk. I also knew that I could outlast his stubbornness.

I’d called Cheryl the day before and gotten the business address of the association president, Stuart Davis, who was an accountant in the small rodeo town of Pendleton. The town looked a lot like Baker with stone and brick storefronts, tall windows, and expansive sidewalks. Small houses dotted the neighborhoods around the main strip of town, leading to the large railway and lumberyards.

I pulled into a parking space outside the office building that matched the address. “Let’s go,” I said as I shut off the engine.

Peter made no effort to move. “Why?”

I smiled. “We’re going to set the record straight for Eva.”

Peter’s eyebrows knit together, and he followed wordlessly, seeming unsure of our exact intent but intrigued nonetheless.

Inside, I asked the secretary at the front desk for Stuart Davis, and the short-haired, bespeckled woman nodded and walked back into an office to fetch him.

A short, round man in a dapper suit emerged and put his reading glasses in the breast pocket of his shirt. “May I help you?”

I held out a hand. “I’m Warren Hayes, a former captain of the 42nd and the owner of the purebred Janów horse Phantom.”

Stuart blinked. “Oh, Captain Hayes. I’ve heard your name, yes.”

I smiled more broadly and motioned to the teen beside me. “This is my associate, Peter Moore.”

Peter’s shoulders straightened at the formal introduction, and he gave Stuart a cool, impassive nod.

“To what do I owe this visit?” Stuart asked, his voice hesitant as he led us back to his office.

“I’m confident that you know exactly why we’re here,” I said as Stuart closed the door behind us. His office was lined with mahogany shelves and leather-bound books, trophies and ornate Arabian horse statues.

Stuart cleared his throat. “Is this something we should discuss in front of your associate?” He looked at Peter, who had his hands shoved in his pants pockets and wandered around with the air of a menacing, defiant teenager.

I liked that Peter’s presence threw off Stuart. Not many people went against Victor Merrick, let alone a former soldier who brought a grumpy teenager along.

“There’s nothing sinister or secretive about our discussion,” I said, sitting in a chair and casually crossing my legs. “I’m concerned by the rumors I’ve heard, because they’re false.”

“Well, a member brought a concern to us.” Stuart sat at his desk, shifting his weight uneasily. “We feel it is our responsibility to hear out such concerns.”

“And did this member have any evidence or substantial reason for his concern?”

The man’s thick cheeks flushed. “Well, no.”

“I’d be concerned if the association took any action without due diligence.”

“Of course not,” Stuart hurried to say. He waved his hands reassuringly. “Rest assured, we don’t intend to take any action in this matter.”

“Excellent.” I sighed. “I’d hate to call on Colonel Kenneth Roland, who might have some opinion on how the association is running.”

His eyes went wide. Roland’s name was well-known among equestrians, and his reputation in the industry carried weight.

“That doesn’t feel necessary, Captain.”

“Great,” I said, clapping my hands and standing up. “In the future, if there are questions about my moral character or Miss Bryant’s, I expect you to speak with us both in person and immediately.”

Stuart stood, smiled, and let out a relieved breath. “Of course.”

“Wonderful. Shall we go, Peter?”

Peter was staring at a bronze statue on the bookshelf across the room and glared at Stuart with intensity. He was playing the role well. Skeptical. He followed me out of the office.