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Imperfect Lies

By Elizabeth Noyes

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CHAPTER ONE

“Yes!”

Mallory clapped a hand over her mouth, startled by how loud her shout sounded in the empty house. Still, she wanted to giggle and jump up and down, shout to the world. The New York Times had read her article. They knew her name. They’d invited her for a job interview.

A dozen twirls around the kitchen left her a little breathless, but did nothing to slow the adrenalin rush. She flopped onto one of the tall barstools, jumped up again, and paced the kitchen. Of all the times for her family to disappear on her. Here she’d just received the biggest news of her life and had no one to share it with.

Well, there was TJ, but her brand new sister-in-law wouldn’t be free to talk until late in the afternoon. The principal of the elementary school where she taught frowned on cell phone use during class hours.

Or she could talk to Jonas, but he wouldn’t be home until dark. Of course, she could always run over to the barn and …

Nope. The youngest of her brothers was already distracted with the foaling mare. If he took the time to listen, all he would offer was a caveman grunt and then go back to work.

Her thoughts turned outside the family. Maybe Shea would have some time to chat.
A quick glance at her watch nixed that idea. By the time she took care of the horses, changed, and drove into town, the lunch rush would be in full swing. Shea wouldn’t have time to breathe between customers, much less sit down and talk.

Mallory tapped her lips with an index finger and then smiled. One person she knew was always available. Hazel eyes and thoughts of the town sheriff filled her head. She’d fallen hard for James more than two years ago, on the day her oldest brother, Garrett, had hauled him home to the ranch to recuperate. The memory of the ragged gunshot wound brought a soft shudder.

“James, it is.”

Even sheriffs had to eat sometimes, right? And regardless of whether he reciprocated her feelings, James would always be her friend. She tapped out a quick text and hit send.

YOU FREE FOR LUNCH? GOT SOME NEWS TO SHARE.

His reply came back seconds later.

SURE. COME BY THE OFFICE.

Her stomach lurched. Would he be upset she might move away, or wish her well and forget about her? She’d soon find out soon enough.

BE THERE AT 11.

Animals first. She’d promised Rascal to feed and water the horses and Edwina, the cranky old goat, this morning. As foreman, he usually took care of them, but Jonas needed him at the big barn in case things with the mare went sour.

In the mud room off the kitchen, Mallory slipped her cell phone in her jeans pocket, donned a heavy jacket, stomped her feet into well-worn boots, and stepped outside into the brisk morning air.

A flock of birds drew her attention as she walked to the barn. The black mass swooped and wheeled in complete synchronization, until they lit among the treetops behind the barn. Bare limbs swayed in the light breeze. Denuded branches coated with hoarfrost glistened in the weak sunlight and framed the dark clump against the gray sky.

A moment later, the birds erupted from the branches in a furious cloud, and disappeared beyond the forest.

Uneasiness made her skin crawl. Ravens had long been considered harbingers of bad luck, probably because of their glossy black plumage.

She shoved the superstitious thoughts away. Anything could startle a flock of birds—rustles in the underbrush, a glint of sunlight on metal, a sudden wind … or the primal instinct all animals possessed when danger loomed.

Unnerved by where her imagination led, she left that train of thought and entered the heated barn through the small door on the side. The big sliding doors stayed closed in the winter months, opened only when the horses were taken out for riding or exercise.

Soft whinnies greeted her. The horses knew breakfast was late.

Mallory chattered, knowing her voice would soothe the restless animals. “I know, I know. I’m late. Bet you guys are hungry, huh? Well, hold your horses.” A laugh burst out at the pun Rascal always used.

Using the scoop in the barrel, she measured oats in one pail and fortified feed in another, enough for all seven horses. Let feeding frenzy begin.

She started at far end, with Honey, the small, elegant palomino Wade had gifted to Lucy. Drain the water trough in the stall, and use the hose to rinse it out. While it refilled, measure out the oats and feed into the feed trough, and strew a large armful of hay. Thank goodness, one of the hands would muck out the stalls later.

Diablo, Jonas’s jet black quarter horse, came next and then Shoofly. The big roan had taken a shine to TJ and unofficially claimed her.

Siggy, Garrett’s wild beast of a stallion, snorted and paced until his turn arrived. He settled down quick enough once when the food appeared.

The empty stall between Siggy and Rusty, her dad’s big rangy horse, made her throat constrict. Buffy’s loss still hurt.

She finished up with her horse, Rhubarb, and her mom’s paint, Jigsaw, and last, but not least, the well-mannered Lancelot. In her opinion, of all the horses, Wade had done the best job training the big dun stallion.

After feeding Edwina, Mallory stored the implements away headed back to the house and a much-needed shower. Three steps outside the barn, the odd silence struck her. The wind had died down, but the everyday sounds should still remain—bird titters, rustling branches, small animals in the underbrush, whinnies from the pastured horses. All she heard was silence, as though all of nature held its breath.

That same awareness she’d felt on the way out here returned, a sense that if she turned at just the right moment …

She put a clamp on her imagination, but paused for a slow, three-sixty sweep of the surroundings, before hurrying on to the safety of the house.

Inside, the deadbolt on the kitchen door complained from lack of use. The family seldom locked up given the distance of the ranch from town and the gate at the entrance to the property. They’d also given up on the state-of-the-art security system Wade installed two years past.

Mallory considered rearming it as she shrugged out of her coat. Garrett always said you should trust your gut. She pulled off her boots, patted her pocket to make sure she had her phone, and started toward the front of the house. Whether imagined or real, she would feel better with locked doors and windows between her and whatever lurked out there.

The quiet snick of the front door lock and chain fed her uneasiness. She finished a sweep of the first-floor entry points, windows included, and then rearmed the security system.

Jonas would probably set the alarm off, and then make fun of her. Tough. She headed upstairs.

The grandfather clock in the foyer struck a double four-count of Westminster quarter chimes. Half past ten. The horses had taken longer than expected.

She made short work of checking all the upstairs windows and headed for the shower. Time to don her battle gear. The black skinny jeans should get the job done, the ones Dad called ‘vacuum-sealed.’ Paired with her new Lively boots and the zaffre-blue cashmere sweater that made her eyes pop, a little mascara should do the trick. James, after all, was a man.

Fifteen minutes later, Mallory pulled on her new Shearling jacket and a pair of leather gloves, and headed for the barn again. Alert and wary, her eyes stayed in constant motion, but the uneasiness didn’t return. What did surprise her, though, was the big F-150 Super Crew Raptor in all its shiny black and chrome Ford beauty parked next to her truck. Jonas must have driven in while she showered.

She changed directions and stepped inside the barn. “Jo?”

No answer.

“Jonas?”

Her footsteps slowed. Diablo’s stall stood empty. Jonas had taken his horse and ridden into the mountains again.

Wade claimed Jonas had nightmares and sometimes just needed peace and quiet. Curious that the two oldest brothers had seen a ton of deadly action in the Middle East, but didn’t feel the same need for solitude. Even more strange for him to leave while the mare … Oh, no. Something must have gone wrong with the birth.

Concern for her brother filled her heart. These solitary jaunts of his had picked up in frequency. His jokester nature made fewer and fewer appearances. How long would he stay away this time? Two days? Three? He knew how much she hated staying alone in the house.

She whipped her cell phone out and dialed #5, the speed dial number for Jonas.
The call went straight to voice mail.

Of course, it did. She dialed #8 next.

Rascal answered on the first ring. “H’lo.”

“Rascal, why is Jonas’s truck parked at the house?”

A long silence. “We lost them both.”

Both? The dam and the foal? The news crushed her. How much worse for her brother. Jonas put his heart and soul into the Triple C breeding program. He must be devastated. “He took Diablo.”

“Figured he would. Let him be, honey. If he’s not back in a couple of days, I’ll go check on him.”

“Thanks, Rascal. I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too, little girl. Me, too.”

The thrill of the phone call she’d received that morning, along with the other two job offers from earlier in the week, disappeared. Her eagerness to see James receded. She almost sent him a text to cancel, but then wondered … why? It wouldn’t bring the mare or the goal back, wouldn’t change a thing. And she still wanted badly to share her news.

Mallory climbed in her truck and turned the key.

Nothing happened.

Unbelieving, she tried it again.

Not even a click.

Great. She’d taken it in for the 60,000-mile service last month, and gotten a stellar report. Now what?

James would come get her, but she wanted her own way home if things didn’t turn out the right way. If the weather was warmer, she’d saddle up Rhubarb and ride into town. Not today. Not only was it too cold, it would take too long, and she doubted James cared for the smell of eau de horse sweat.

She turned her head … and stared at Jonas’s truck.

He’d kill her. Jonas had named the darned thing, for Pete’s sake. He didn’t let anyone, not even Dad, drive Darcie.

But he wouldn’t know.

With a silent promise to be uber-careful, Mallory entered the small office inside the barn and twisted the combination on the lock box. An array of keychains hung from hooks inside, one for each of the family vehicles—a horsehead for Dad, a tiny BMW logo for Mom, and giant letters for the rest of them. She grabbed the “J” and hurried back outside. One click and … beepbeep.
It took several minutes to readjust the seat and mirrors for her more diminutive five-feet-five height. Jonas took after their dad and the other brothers. At well over six feet, they all had legs that stretched into tomorrow. “Please, Lord, help me remember all the settings so I can put everything back the way it was.”

Darcie’s roar made her little Ranger sound like a sewing machine. Mallory reached for the gearshift … and hesitated. What if Jonas came back?

An old gas receipt nestled in the cup holder between the seats. A pen that had teeth marks in it lay on the floor. She scribbled a quick note and made a mad dash to secure the paper under the Ranger’s windshield wiper.

Guilt assuaged, she climbed back inside and shoved it into gear. Time to go.
The drive from the house to the main gate spanned not quite two miles. She slowed as the entrance neared, and punched every button on the visor until one triggered the opening.

The gate on the left jerked a couple of times, out of sync with the other. She made a mental note to tell Rascal, their foreman, and then drove down the middle.

A thump and a crunch sent a shockwave through the truck.

“No, no, no.” Mallory glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the funky gate rebound off the rear of Jonas’s truck.

Once clear of the entry, she hopped out to check the damage. The glass bulb of the taillight remained intact, thank goodness, but a pile of red plastic shards lay on the ground, all that remained of the cover.

“Jonas will kill me.”

Her mind jumped into problem-solving mode. Toby down at Wrangler’s Auto Parts and Service could order a replacement. She would pay to have it overnighted. He could come out tomorrow and replace. And maybe take a look at her truck, too.

Behind her the faulty gate closed, flush with the other one, but then drifted ajar by a good two-feet. A swift kick wouldn’t accomplish anything, except maybe bruise her foot. She squatted and gathered up the plastic fragments instead, knowing she would be late. And that Mr. Punctual, a.k.a., Sheriff James Evers, would give her grief for it.

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