The Night is Forever. Heather Graham
And, hell, what was not to like about an airport that had a coffee stand and the welcoming sound of good music the minute he arrived?
He paused for a minute, listening, feeling the buzz of activity around him. In the past decade he’d lived in a number of different places but there was nothing like Nashville and nothing like coming home.
He picked up the paperwork for his rental car, then walked out of the airport and over to the multistoried garage to pick up the SUV he’d rented. A few minutes later, he was following the signs for I-40. Soon he was headed off the highway to a Tennessee state road, passing ranches, acreages with herds of grazing cows and pastures where horses kicked up their heels and ran or nibbled at the blue-green grass.
A little while later, he was on the dirt path that led to Willis House—the “retreat” where he had reservations. Willis House catered to those attending therapy at the Horse Farm and other nearby facilities. It wasn’t a specialized facility, but advertisements for the inn stated that it was a “clean” environment in the “exquisite and serene” Tennessee hills. People didn’t just come here because it was a “clean-living facility,” though. They also chose it because the area was so beautiful, or because they were visiting family or friends who were in therapy nearby.
The gravel drive was huge; there was certainly no problem with parking out here. He slid between a big truck and a small one and noted that the other cars in the lot included a nice new Jag, a Volvo, a BMW and a sad-looking twenty-year-old van.
Willis House was...a house. There was a broad porch with rockers, and he noted an old-timer sitting in one of them, staring as he approached.
“Hello,” Dustin said. The man wore denim overalls and a plaid flannel shirt. His face showed deep grooves of a life gone past.
The man nodded to him. “You the cop?” he asked.
“Agent, now,” Dustin replied. He shifted his bag onto his shoulder and came forward to shake the old man’s hand. “Dustin Blake, sir. How do you do?”
The man took his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Jeremy Myers—but they call me Coot. Welcome. You don’t look like someone who needs much help.”
“We all need help,” Dustin said.
That brought a slight smile to Coot’s lips. “Burned out on the job? Or did you go wacko and beat up on some piece of scum that deserved it? Young man, that’s the thing today. No respect. Kids spit in teachers’ faces and the poor teachers can’t do a thing—less’n it gets called child abuse. So, you did your job too well?”
Dustin grinned. “Something like that.”
“No need to explain to me. You’ll have plenty of time to talk. Hell, all people ’round here want you to do is talk. Don’t let me keep you, though. That bag must be heavy.”
“Nice to meet you, Coot,” Dustin said.
“Just open the door and go on in. The main house is open until sunset, and after that you’ll need your key.”
“Thanks.” Dustin went in. It might have been any bed-and-breakfast in any rural section of the South. The entry led to a bright, cheerful parlor with the check-in desk being a bar, behind which was an equally bright and cheerful kitchen. He walked up and the young woman at the desk smiled.
“You must be Agent Blake,” she said.
“I am.”
“Hi, I’m Ellie Villiers. And you’re wondering how I knew who you are. Well, we don’t take in that many guests and we don’t take anyone without a reservation,” she explained. She was on a wheeled chair and she swung down to the end of the bar, where she plucked a set of keys off the wall. “We have you in the Andrew Jackson suite.” She was a gamine of a young woman, tiny with short dark hair and a perky manner. She gave him a warm smile as she rolled back to him and leaned close. “It’s not much of a suite, really. It’s just a big room—a ballroom in the old days. But it has the only private bath in the house and a door to the back porch. We’re careful who we give it to. Not that we have strict rules or regulations, but we do cater to those fighting their own demons, whether they come from a booze bottle, a pill bottle, stress, what have you.” She smiled at him. “You sound pretty cool. I heard that the bosses at the bureau think you need some downtime, that’s all.”
“Talking about me, huh?” he teased.
She shrugged. “This is rural Tennessee, Agent Blake. All we’ve got to do around here is talk. Oh, that’s not really true. There’s a gorgeous stream and cliffs and historic trails. You’ll love it out here. But wait—you’re from Nashville, right?”
“Born in the heart of the city,” he told her.
“Well, then you kind of know the area? I mean, you must have driven out of the city now and then. Of course, some people just get on the highway and keep going. They miss out on all this beauty, and so close to the city, too. Sad, although I guess that’s just the way life is.”
He laughed at her philosophy. “Sad, but true. And my first name is Dustin, okay?”
“Sure, thanks, Dustin. So the one key opens the main door in front. We try to remember to lock it at sunset. The other is to your room, which is just down the hall and to the left. There’s a continental breakfast every morning from six to nine. It’s right behind me in the dining room. If you need anything, give me a holler.”
“I will, and thank you, Ellie.” He started to turn away, but then paused. “Hey, are there any hack ranches around here?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “Why would you want to go to a hack ranch when you’re going to the Horse Farm? They don’t do trail rides, but you’ll be working with horses, so— None of my business! Sorry, the question just surprised me.”
“I used to come to this area when I was a kid. My folks are historians, so we did the Civil War trails around here, national parks, all that. In fact, we often did them on horseback, and I love to ride. I was just wondering...”
“There’s a place—Hooper Ridge Stables. Just go back on that road and down a ways. You’ll see a sign. There’s not much else out here besides private property, the old chapel that’s just outside the national park and...and a few therapy centers and lots and lots of cows. But it’s too late tonight because they don’t rent after five. When you want it, though, it’s there. Still, once you’re been to the Horse Farm...”
“I thought most of their animals were rescues,” Dustin said.
“Oh, they are rescues. And if they’re old or hurt, they don’t do much, just get fawned over by the staff and the patients. Clients. Whatever. But when they’re healthy, well, at the Horse Farm they become really healthy and they’re beautifully trained.” She swung the chair closer to the counter. “In fact, the owner—Marcus Danby—used to go by the local farms, and the owners all knew that if they had a broken-down horse or they brought in a wild one or a kicker, they could sell it to Marcus. Saved a lot of the poor bastards that way. I wonder what’ll happen now that he’s gone.”
“Who’d he leave it to? Did Marcus have any family?”
Her eyes became very wide and she shook her head. “No. The only reason Marcus inherited the property was the fact that he was the very last member of his family. I mean, when he was a kid—way before I was born—he was a total black sheep. Then he straightened out, and I don’t know if he made peace with his people, but...he was the last.”
“So who inherits his property?” Dustin asked again.
Ellie shrugged dramatically. “I guess Aaron. Aaron’s managed the place for him for a long time. He’s a good guy. But who knows if he’ll be as good as Marcus. Although...”
“Although?”
She couldn’t have gotten any closer to him, not with the counter between them. But she tried.
“There’s a rumor out