"I think so." Marston inhaled deeply, touching her chest. "I just . . . It was all so fast."
"What happened?"
"A bird spooked him. Flew into his face. It might've hit him in the eyes."
A close examination. "Looks okay to me. You might want to have a vet look at him. But I don't see any cuts."
"What'd you do?" she asked. "Are you . . . ?"
"A horse whisperer?" he replied, laughing, glancing away from her shyly. He seemed more comfortable looking into the horse's eyes. "Not hardly. But I ride a lot. I have this calming effect, I guess."
"I thought he was going down."
He gave her a tentative smile. "Wish I could think of something to say that'd calm you down."
"What's good for my horse is good for me. I don't know how to thank you."
Another rider approached and the bearded man led Donny Boy off the path to let the chestnut by.
He was examining the horse closely. "What's his name?"
"Don Juan."
"You rent from Hammerstead? Or is he yours?"
"Hammerstead. But I feel like he's mine. I ride him every week."
"I rent there too sometimes. What a beautiful animal."
Calm now, Marston examined him more closely. He was a handsome man in his early fifties. He had a trim beard and thick eyebrows that met above the bridge of his nose. On his neck--and chest too--she could see what looked like bad scarring and his left hand was deformed. Though none of that mattered to her, considering his most important trait: he liked horses. Cheryl Marston, divorced for the last four of her thirty-eight years, realized that they were both sizing each other up.
He gave a faint laugh and looked away. "I was . . ." His voice faded and he filled the silence by patting Donny Boy's rippled shoulder.
Marston lifted an eyebrow. "What's that?" she encouraged.
"Well, since you're about to ride off into the sunset and I may never see you again . . ." He tromped on the shyness and continued boldly, "I was just wondering if it'd be out of line to ask if you want to get some coffee."
"Not out of line at all," she responded, pleased by his straightforward attitude. But she added, to let him know something about her, "I'm going to finish my hour. I've got about twenty minutes left. . . . Got to get back up on the horse, so to speak. How's that fit with your schedule?"
"Twenty minutes is perfect. I'll meet you at the stable."
"Good," Cheryl said. "Oh, I never asked: You ride English or Western?"
"Bareback mostly. I used to be a pro."
"Really? Where?"
"Believe it or not," he answered shyly, "I rode in the circus."
Chapter Fourteen
A faint ding resounded from Cooper's computer, indicating he'd received an email.
"A note from our friends on Ninth and Pennsylvania." He proceeded to decrypt the message from the FBI lab and a moment later he said, "The results from the oil. It's commercially available. Brand name Tack-Pure. Used to condition saddles, reins, leather feeding bags, equestrian-related products."
Horses . . .
Rhyme spun his Storm Arrow around and looked at the evidence board.