Lost Christmas Memories. Dana Mentink

       FIVE

      Tracy hopped out of the truck before Keegan could come around to open the door for her. Her brain screamed that she was crazy to go back into the Mother Lode Equestrian Center. Her father’s favorite saying rang in her ears. There’s no way around the trouble but through it.

      Chin up, she pushed through the door into the lobby, both anticipating and dreading what her memory would dredge up. She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans as two men walked up to greet her. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair, his handsomeness undimmed by his sixty-some years, looked up from his conversation. He wore khakis and a long-sleeved sweater, which evidently meant he wasn’t too hands-on with the horses. He glanced from her to Keegan and his smile flickered for a moment.

      Keegan said, “This is Tracy Wilson.”

      The older man’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in surprise. She caught it then, the resemblance between the two in the unguarded expression. Father and son? “I...well, I’m not sure what to say other than I’m glad you are all right, Miss Wilson.”

      Tracy’s pulse pounded as she searched her brain for any flash of recognition. “Thank you,” she said faintly. “We exchanged emails. I was... I...I intended to come and see Flight of Fancy, the horse my client is interested in.” How could she possibly remember that fact and forget so many other details? She hoped the exasperation didn’t show.

      The other man with Bryce Larraby stepped closer. He had dark, neatly trimmed hair and a close-cut beard, and wore jeans and a long-sleeved work shirt in a soft material. “Mitch Arnold,” he said, extending his hand. He gripped her fingers, one palm covering their joined hands. “Pleased to meet you.”

      Bryce recovered. “He’s the bull breeder, supplying the animals for our rodeo event.”

      “Best bucking bulls in the country,” Mitch said with a grin.

      After another moment he released his grip as a young woman entered from the back room. A mop of curly brown hair framed her full cheeks, gold drop-pearl earrings glinting in the nest of curls. She stopped short when she saw Tracy. “Oh...hi.”

      “This is Regina Parker,” Mitch said. “My fiancée. She works in the stables. Regina, this is Tracy Wilson. She’s evaluating Flight of Fancy.”

      Regina raised an eyebrow. “Oh, the bloodstock agent.”

      “Yes.” Tracy detected something disapproving in Regina’s tone. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

      “No. It’s just...well, my brother got ripped off by a bloodstock agent before. Got him a horse with ligament damage and earned a fat fee from it. Disappeared after, of course.”

      Tracy kept her smile even. “I’m not that kind of agent. You can check my references if you like. I’m here to see Flight of Fancy.”

      Bryce took a step forward. “Of course she’s a quality bloodstock agent, Regina. I love Flight of Fancy. He’s got such personality.” Bryce nodded at Regina. “Bring him to the arena for Miss Wilson now, okay?”

      “Yes, sir,” Regina said and exited the same way she’d entered.

      “This is awkward.” Bryce offered an apologetic smile. “I would rather not bring it up but...” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “The police have been here since Wednesday night and, well, I’m afraid there’s just no sign of any violence.”

      Tracy’s face went hot as she caught the look from both men, a look that said she was some sort of nutcase. “I know I saw a murder.” Even if I can’t remember the killer’s face.

      “And someone shot at both of us,” Keegan added. “Kinda lends credibility to her report.”

      Mitch quirked an eyebrow. “Problem is, we got no body. So who was murdered, exactly?”

      With all eyes locked on her, Tracy wished she could sink into the floor. It brought back her miserable high school year when her father had been released from jail, where he’d served time for assaulting his former business partner. The whispers, the looks, the comments like “her dad’s a criminal,” all came rushing back in a wave of shame that made her legs go wobbly.

      But she’d forgiven her father, even if her mother couldn’t, and he’d accepted his forgiveness from the Lord. That was the past.

      She steeled her spine. “I saw a woman murdered. I can’t remember her face or the killer’s, but I will, and when I do, someone is going to jail.”

      Bryce jerked as his phone buzzed. “That’s Regina. The horse is ready for you to look at.” He glanced at Keegan. “I know you’d be pleased as punch if something shady happened here, anything that would tarnish my reputation and the Mother Lode’s, but nothing did. A lot of folks are counting on this horse show for their livelihoods, for the excitement of it and what it brings to our town.”

      Keegan shook his head. “Spoken like a true politician with plenty of skin in this game, Mr. Mayor.”

      Bryce frowned. “And you, Keegan? Entered into the cutting competition, I noticed.”

      “That a problem?”

      “No.”

      Mitch chuckled. “Family drama. Better than television.”

      Keegan stared at him and Mitch held his gaze.

      “Just joking, man,” Mitch said. “Don’t take it personally. I got a chip on my shoulder about my old man, too. Comes a point you gotta let it go.”

      “This doesn’t concern you.”

      “I’m only concerned about what impacts my paycheck. Just don’t go looking for trouble where there isn’t any, and we’ll all get along fine.”

      Bryce and Mitch left together.

      Trouble where there wasn’t any? Tracy took in the angry pinch to Keegan’s mouth as he stared after his father and Mitch.

      Oh, there’s plenty of trouble here already, she thought—trouble she wanted nothing to do with.

      Tracy strode away a few paces to gather her emotions, Keegan figured. He needed a moment to collect his, as well. Even just being near his father brought it all back: his abandonment of Keegan’s mother, his flat-out accusations that she was a liar until the paternity test proved him to be the father. Keegan had been ten at the time she’d forced the test, the beginning of his mother’s battle against breast cancer. She’d gotten a pittance of child support out of Bryce Larraby by the time she’d lost her life to cancer when Keegan was sixteen. Father Dearest hadn’t even had the decency to attend Keegan’s mother’s funeral.

      He forced his fisted hands to relax and went after Tracy.

      Standing next to a decorated Christmas tree, she looked even smaller. As he came up next to her, she gasped, arms rigid as if she’d received an electric shock. He wondered for a moment if she was about to have a seizure, so he reached out for her, but she grabbed him first, hands clutching his forearms, face stark white.

      “I remember this tree. Keegan, I remember it.”

      He could feel the cold from her fingers seeping through his shirtsleeve. “What exactly? Tell me.”

      “I remember running by it. I was scared. Terrified.” Her mouth was tight with the memory. “He was after me—the killer. I brushed by this tree and an ornament fell off and broke. It was a silver ball with gold beads glued onto it. It shattered on the floor.”

      “Can you remember his face? The guy who was after you?”

      She